New Year's Resolutions

It has been many years since I've done this: I'm making some New Year's Resolutions:
1) I will blog every day possible.
2) I will read one non-fiction book for every five fiction books I read.
3) I will add at least a half hour of stretching and/or yoga to my daily excercise routine.
4) I will really, really try to lose ten pounds by the end of May and another ten by the end of October.
5) I will drink my first cup of morning coffee on the patio when weather permits.
6) I will enjoy a beverage on the deck each afternoon weather permitting.
7) I will attempt container gardening.
8) I will do something special with Bud to mark our Silver Anniversary.
9) I will get back into the habit of using my C-Pap.
10)I will sort through the boxes in the garage.
11) I will ride my new bike more than I did last year.

That seems like enough for someone who hasn't resolved for a long time. After yesterday's marathon, I should probably add "not watch so much HGTV", but I don't want to break one before January 2nd!

"Getting Back Up On The Horse"

Hi, Fans of the "Chances R..." blog. My name is Les Lynam... you might know me as the younger brother, or little brother, or (my favorite) the baby whose head got whacked against the door when a ten year old Ramona was babysitting (if you've been faithful in reading these blogs).

Anyway, since my sister might be having a writer's block moment, I thought I'd offer to do a guest blog.

Family who read this blog already know of my recent adventure. For those who don't, I've just experienced my first ever auto accident. Forty-some years of driving without even a minor fender bender, and then I hit the jackpot. I was smacked nearly head-on at highway speeds by a pickup towing a vehicle that came across a grass median. I'm sure he was already breaking, but he definitely had the mass/weight advantage even if I had the greater forward motion.

It was rather odd. I was in the left lane looking to get back into the right line when my peripheral vision detected motion to my left. I remember thinking, "that's not right", and then it was a series of wham, crunch, crash, wham, crumple crumple, wham (there may have been a few more whams and the crumples might have been in a slightly different order, but I hope you get the idea). The odd part was that the physical impact seemed very much like my memory of county fair bumper cars. Very jarring, and momentarily disorienting, but not what I would have assumed a high speed crash to be like. I then followed that with another first. My first ride in an ambulance. These are two "firsts" that I would have been happy to never experienced, but I guess any experience that one can walk away from must be some kind of learning experience. (Isn't there some quote like, "that which does not kill you can only make you stronger"?) To shorten the story, after several x-rays and CT scans they declared me "very lucky" and said my neck and bones were all normal. Because of the battering and bruising, I didn't feel too normal, but who am I to argue with a Doctor?

So I'm on the road to recovery, still moving very slowly and I have a few muscle spasms that remind me of where the seat belt and shoulder harness restrained me. (BTW, if anyone reading this still doesn't buckle up every time you get into a car, then I proclaim you a fool).

I could go on about mundane recovery and even the adventure of shopping for a new car, but if you recall, the title of this entry had a horse in it. Not a literal horse, of course, but the old adage of getting back up on the horse that just threw you. One couldn't be a decent cowboy in the 19th Century if he didn't know how to to dust himself off when thrown from a horse, and get right back in the saddle. There is one element of that eluding to showing the horse who's boss, but the other element is learning to not let a setback defeat you. It has to be scary to be thrown from a horse, not to mention painful. I was never thrown, but did have a horse lay down and roll over me... but since I never got shook loose from the saddle, I guess I didn't have to face getting back up on the horse.

When I recently talked with my brother (that would be the fellow mentioned here in an earlier blog that is never going to take Ramona to a show again), he warned me that I'd be a little "goosie"when driving for awhile, and that I'd see motion off to the side and wince. He was right. What he failed to tell me was that there would be ten times as many pickups on the road now, and that they would all sneer at me as they passed. Not only are there ten times more pickups on the road now, it seems there is a much higher frequency of pickups pulling something or other. So the first long trip I took out on the road was fraught with little butterflies in my tummy whenever one of those pickups appeared.

I know that there aren't really more pickups on the road now, it's just that there was no reason to notice them before. They'd never harmed me before, so they were just part of traffic. Now, at least temporarily, they are evil emissaries of the devil who shout at me each time I meet one, "we'll get you next time, my pretty, and your little dog, too". (OK, yes, I recently moved to Kansas, but NO, I don't wear ruby slippers... or have a little dog).

Each trip "back up on the horse" has been a little easier, but I have to wonder how long it will be before I don't think about the time I was thrown.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed the guest blog... and perhaps we will soon get back to Ramona's tales that I (and I believe others) have come to enjoy each day.

Bye for now,

The Baby Brother

Les sent the above guest blog to me the 18th - 10 days after his accident. I did not know how to move it from my e-mail to my blog until he helped me with it tonight. Likewise the pictures of his demolished car were on Facebook for 10 days before I saw them. But once I saw them I realized how lucky I am to still have my baby brother. What an autumn it has been for him!

Ghosts of Christmas Past

"It's the most wonderful time of the year..." That's what the song says. For me, it is the worst time of the year. The only thing good about the time is the winter solstice which means the days will once again become longer - more daylight.
I do not know why I dislike xmas so much. Perhaps if I visit the ghosts of xmas past, I will discover the reason:
As a child I looked forward to xmas to see what Santa had left under the tree. I don't remember any specific xmas as being the most memorable. Our tree was always one we had cut out of the pasture or along the road. Stockings always held an apple an orange some nuts and a bit of candy.
Christmas dinner at Grandpa & Grandma Ridnour's were the most fun. By the time we all packed into their little house there were 24 of us - 8 adults and 16 kids. We drew names for the gift exchange plus the gift from the grandparents. One year Grandma sent away for pencils with our names printed on them. Another time we got Lifesaver Books - they looked like a book on the outside, when opened each side held five rolls of lifesaver candy. That was something I had always wanted.
I don't even remember any special christmases with my own children. Once again it seems like it was more fun when we got together at Mom & Dad's with my siblings and their families. We drew names for several years then finally settled on playing "the game". Each one brought a wrapped gift, numbers were drawn, #1 went first, chose and opened a gift. #2 could choose a gift or steal from #1 and so on. Really good gifts could be stolen up to 3 times. Some years it made for a lot of fun. Some years it made for "cheating" to get a certain gift which resulted in bad feelings for another year.
One year which was special was the one when my ex-daughter-in-law allowed my oldest grandson to come for xmas. We hadn't seen Brock for six or seven years. I didn't tell his Dad he was going to be there. The look on Doug's face was all the present I needed. It was a good day.
Maybe the reason I dislike the season has to do with unmet expectations. I was never in a position financially to give my kids a lot for xmas. That may not have hurt them, but it hurt me.
Have I hardened my heart against disappointment for so long that I can't let myself enjoy xmas?
It does not seem the ghosts of christmas past hold the answer.

Grandma's Feather Bed

"The best darn thing about Grandma's house was her great big feather bed. We didn't get much sleep but we had a lot of fun on Grandma's feather bed." John Denver

One of our presents to ourselves arrived yesterday just in time for the start of winter. I had been thinking of getting a down comforter for several years but put off purchasing one because of the cost. This year when the weather turned cold and I added another blanket, it seemed like I was achier upon arising. Could it be the weight of the covers? Then Kohls made me an offer I couldn't refuse - they marked their comforters half off then gave me a 30% off coupon and free shipping. (Plus $20 Kohl's Cash on a future purchase.) Other than the times we have stayed at hotels, I hadn't slept on or under a feather bed since childhood. Ah-h-h-h.

The old farmhouse I grew up in did not have central heat until after I was grown and gone. Even then, only the downstairs rooms had heat ducts run to them. The two upstairs bedrooms still had their original registers; their only heat what rose up the stairway and through the small grills in the floors.

As a kid, you wanted the west room in the winter and the east room in the summer. The west room register was directly above the old oil burner stove. We would leave the warmth of bed and sprint over to stand on the register to dress for school. In summer the west room was stifling from the heat of the sun and no breeze. The east room was shaded plus had windows on the south and east sides.

The feather beds came out after fall cleaning was done. They went on top of the mattress. We slept in the feather ticks rather than having them over us. Over us we had umpteen blankets. Those old farmhouses weren't insulated and the windows didn't fit very tight. You could actually feel cold drafts wafting through.

I don't remember when nor why we quit using the feather beds. I believe the last of them was used to make pillows. I might complain about the heating bills in winter and the cooling bills in summer, but I am grateful for central heat and air conditioning. And after only one night, I already love the lightness and warmth of our new down comforter.

Solstice Spirituality

LET THERE BE LIGHT

The Old Neighborhood

Osil Steadman Mitchell's funeral is today, December 16, 2009, the sixth anniversary of Mom's death. Osil and Mom were neighbors east of Guss when they were teens. The Ridnour's lived in a big house on the west side of the road. (Where Walter Johnson's later live(d) for many years.) Steadman's lived south about 3/4's of a mile. North of Ridnour's on the east side of the road was the farm of Lee and Ruth Mitchell. They had two boys, Alvin and Paul. Mom's sister, Lois, married Alvin and Osil married Paul. Eventually Osil's brother, Byron, moved to the same neighborhood as my parents. (Byron & son, Bryan farmed Mom's land after Dad died.) Paul and Osil moved to Iveyville half a mile from where Joe & Delphia Ridnour had moved to in the 40's.

Further North on the west side of the road was where Firkins lived. One of their girls, Verlene, and Mom were lifelong friends. I took Mom and Aunt Lois to Sharpsburg for Verlene's 80th birthday celebration ten years ago.

George and Bessie Lynam and their 12 yr old son, Louis, and 4 yr old daughter, Leona, moved to the Ralph Harvey farm in 1929. That was about four or five miles NW of the Ridnour's. Louis attended Spaulding School 3/4's mile west of the Lynam farm. Ruth went to Mt. Pleasant school a mile north and a mile east of the Ridnour farm. The Ridnour's and Lynam's had lived in close proximity in Adams County. I'm sure they knew each other.

One of Dad's lifelong friends from his neighborhood was Art Kapple. They ended up living in the same neighborhood after their marriages in Jasper Twp. back in Adams Co. Art's brother, Roy, was also a friend and neighbor for awhile, moving to Council Bluffs in the early 50's.

One of the entertainments of my parent's teen years was putting on plays at the school houses on the weekends. Or they might have a visiting speaker. That would draw attendance from other school districts as well as their own. That might be where Mom & Dad met. Or maybe they met at one of the many "house parties" in the neighborhood. A family would host an evening of card playing and or music and dancing.

However they met, Ruth had at least two dates with Alvin Mitchell before she started dating Louis. From her diary of those years, it seems that once she and Louis started dating, that was it for both of them.

(You can see I did not finish this post when I started it. It wasn't going where I wanted it to go. I'm still not happy with it. But I will go ahead and publish and move on. I did not attend Osil's funeral, but noticed they used a picture of her from her younger years on the funeral program as we did on Mom's.)

"What You Don't Know.......

Can't Hurt You." That was one of my sweet Mama's sayings. I'm trying and failing to remember an instance when she used it.
I can think of times when that is true, though - the worst being when you hear someone you love has died. One minute your world is hunky-dory; the next it is spinning out of control.
I had a double whammy when Dad died. I wasn't home when Mom called with the news. Doug talked to her then called me. When he said Mom had called and that Grandpa had died. I assumed he misunderstood. Dad's Mother, my Grandma, had been in ill health and expected to die. I just thought he heard wrong. I waited awhile before calling my Mom back - thinking about my Grandma Lynam and her long life and how I would miss her.
Finally I called Mom, told her the kids had called me to let me know, asked her how Dad was taking the death of his Mother. "Ramona. It was your Dad that died." Suddenly what I knew hurt very much.
I think about famous people - how their lives are scrutinized every minute; how the paparazzi hounds them looking for that perfect shot worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to a tabloid - all the better if the photo can be misconstrued and used to make it look like the subject is involved in something sleazy. I would not want to be famous.
Or the politicians who the minute they announce they are running for an office are vetted by the dirt diggers. (Nor would I run for office.) Or the performers who are trashed by the media if they sing one wrong note or forget a line. No wonder so many of them say, "I don't read the reviews."
Mom had another saying about the only ones who can really hurt you are the ones you care about. And isn't that true? It can even be done thoughtlessly; innocently. Early in my relationship with my new sister-in-law, Ruthie, she asked if I had seen something funny on the Johhny Carson show. My reply was something like, "No, I never watch that crap, fool, idiot" --insert your own epithet.
I didn't know it until years later but I had hurt her very much. By criticizing something she enjoyed, I had inadvertently criticized her intelligence in choosing what to watch. She got even though in the same way - innocently - when she made some remark about how OLD one of the guys I dated was. I think she simply said he was the same age as my Mother. I took it wrong; got so mad at her I was heading for my car; probably would never have talked to her again. Bless her for grabbing my arm, actually restraining me, and saying, "You're not leaving! We are going to talk this out."
It used to be easy not to be hurt by things we didn't know, we never heard them. Now, in this instant communication age we live in, it is almost impossible to not know everything - from the local and national news to what appears on Facebook or is Tweeted or Blogged. One person's unintentionally hurtful remarks can cause someone else pain.
From the time I was little and teased by the other kids my way of dealing has been to withdraw back into my comfortable shell. I have always appreciated my own company. Only caring about others do I get hurt.
There were times in my life when I felt as though I was smarter than my Mom. I had more education. I had been out there in the world where reality occurred. Deep down I always knew though that by far she was the wisest.

"It's A Wonder, Joe"

My grandpa Joe Ridnour died when I was 16, so Bud never knew him. Grandma Delphia lived into her 90's, so Bud did know her. He sometimes refers to her as "Delphia the Destroyer". That's when he is comparing me to her. Grandma did have a reputation for being mean and outspoken.
One of the things I didn't like about staying with Grandpa & Grandma during the summer when I was a kid was the way they would bicker back and forth. One day as we drove down their lane on the way to town, Grandma looked over into the pasture. "Joe, that windmill is a wonder." I imagine Grandpa thought, "Now what?" "What do you mean it's a wonder?" he asked her. "Well, it is. It's a wonder." This went on back and forth for awhile each one getting a little more petty. He thought she was belittling his windmill. Finally after a few miles Grandma said, "It's a Wonder, Joe. That's the brand name on the rudder".
This is one of the Joe & Delphia stories I've related to Bud. Now sometimes when he and I get into a peevish argument, he will say to me, "It's a wonder." That's usually all it takes for me to realize I'm acting like my Grandma Delphia. Often I'll say, "Yes, Joe" and our bickering will cease.
Wonder windmills were first manufactured in 1912 by the Elgin Wind Power and Pump Co. "It's a wonder that you don't have to climb up and grease it every week," was one of it's advertising quotes. The Wonder was the first successful widely distributed of the self-oiling windmills.
Windmills were essential to farmers and ranchers before electricity was available. The windmill business was extremely competitive between 1890 and 1920. There was a 'windmill war' between three companies. One of those companies was Aermotor. Of the nearly 100 different companies, it is the brand I remember seeing the most.
Grandpa & Grandma Ridnour had lived on their farm more than ten years at the time of their Wonder Windmill exchange. I can't believe they hadn't noticed the brand of their windmill before that day. I think they just liked to bicker; kind'a like Bud and I.

"A Date Which Will Live In Infamy"

Sixty-eight years have passed since the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the United States entrance into WWII. My Dad did not serve in that war. I think the only time I asked why I was told he was deferred because of being in a necessary occupation (farming). I'm sure he could have enlisted. I'm glad he didn't.

A few years ago my older brother and I were looking at some old photos and talking about some of Dad's cousins who were in WWII. The pictures were of young men in Army uniforms. Ron said, "Who was the one in the Navy? The one Grandma Lynam always kept an 8x10 picture of on her dresser"? It took us awhile to figure out it was Harley Dean Figgins - the youngest son of Grandma's sister, Agnes.

Aunt Agnes (they called her Babe because she was the baby of the family), died young in 1935. We never knew her. We didn't remember Harley, though we both knew his brother, Ronald. It wasn't hard to figure out he must not have come home from the war, but we did not know any details.

A while after that, Bud and I watched a documentary on the Discovery Channel about the USS Indianapolis and the tragedy surrounding its sinking by a Japanese submarine July 30, 1945. The ship sank in less than 15 minutes, taking approximately 300 of the 1,196 lives aboard down with it. The remaining nearly 900 men faced exposure, dehydration and shark attacks as they waited for assistance floating in the water.

The real tragedy occurred when a series of errors left the knowledge of the sinking unreported. All but about 300 of the sailers died during the four days afterwards. It was only when pilots on a routine patrol flight August 2nd spotted the survivors floating in the water that help was dispatched.

I was putting flowers on my grandparents' graves at the Quincy cemetery Memorial Day weekend after I had watched the documentary. I remembered the conversation my brother and I had about Harley and decided to walk over to where his parents were buried to see if he was buried there, too. That was when I learned that no, he isn't buried there. But there is a stone and a bronze plaque with his name and birth and death years. And the fact that he served aboard the USS Indianapolis.

I doubt I will ever know if he was one of the lucky ones who went down with the ship or one of the ones eaten by sharks as he awaited saving by help that did not come in time. It is another thing I think about during those wee hours of the morning when I can't go back to sleep.

Books, Books, Books, Etc.

Great-grandson, Rodney, is finally going home today. I am so happy for him and his mama. He was born Nov. 15, seemingly healthy at 7 1/2 lbs. Within two days he went into the NICU with suspected Hirschsprung's Disease.

That was confirmed. It was a matter of waiting until surgery could be performed. Last Wednesday the Dr. performed "pull through" surgery. Katrina & Brad were told if all went well - if he started eating and pooping on his own - he could go home in 7 to 10 days. Little wonder man; it's day 5. Can't wait to see you in person, Rodney.

Yesterday I mentioned that I had never gone to college except for a few courses at the community colleges. I think I've done o.k. without a college education, but I'll always wonder what I could have been/done with one. Many times I have been embarrassed about admitting to no degree. It always made me feel "less than".

The worst of those times was probably when I belonged to PRSA (Public Relations Society of America) and we had joint meetings with PRSSA members. (Extra S for Student) Invariably two or three students would ask my alma mater. Cringe.

I was signed up to go to college after h.s. graduation. In July I became affianced to Doug's dad. Kenny did not want me to go to college. He was afraid I would meet someone else and break up with him. He was probably right - not because I met someone else - but because my eyes would have been opened to a wider world.

I cancelled my plans for college, but not because of Kenny. I was signed up for a secretarial course. I had gotten a full time bookkeeping/receptionist/secretary job right out of highschool. I reasoned it was silly to spend money to go to college to learn to do what I was already earning money to do. Goodbye college.

Those were the etc's. Now, the books, books, books. I read alot. It is what I always said I'd do when I retired. Mostly I read fiction - but well-written, entertaining fiction. I used to like those period romances. The ones set in the 1700-1800's. I hadn't read any for a long time until this week. One of my reading weaknesses is feeling as though I have to finish a book just because I start it. I kept reading the 'bodice ripper' (isn't that what they're called?) even though it was the same drivel all the way through. I really dislike myself for wasting the time to read it to the end.

Now I'm on to Kathleen O'Neal Gear's "Thin Moon And Cold Mist" about a woman who fought in the Civil War and then moved west to Colorado to work a gold mine claim on her own. A novel, yes, but a well-researched one based on historically accurate stories of women who lived in the American West before 1880.

I've read most of the "People of the ...." novels written by O'Neal and her husband Michael Gear. They are always entertaining and educational. I've just begun this book. Already I feel better.

Gamma Delta Phi?

You know how when you wake up in the middle of the night and you can't go back to sleep your mind wanders all over the place?
Sometime between 2 and 3:30 this morning I thought about this Gamma Delta Phi (if I'm reading my Greek letters correctly) necklace. When I'm dead and the kids are going through my jewelry boxes, won't they wonder about this necklace? They know I never went to college, except for some courses at three Iowa area community colleges. (Kirkwood, DMACC and SWCC)
Well kiddies, the necklace is from a sale I attended in Brooks many years ago. The possessions being auctioned that day belonged to a former school teacher. I don't know where she went to college, but I can't find anything on the net about Gamma Delta Phi. Delta Gamma Phi, yes, so maybe I am reading the symbols incorrectly.
The closest I got to any society was being inducted into the National Honor Society as a senior at CHS. The Library pin and the Quill and Scroll are also mine.
Kari & Preston's Dad did join a Greek society when he got his Master's at Northeast Missouri State in Kirksville. I don't remember which one or if he had a pin. Maybe one of them has it now if he did have one.
Do you ever wonder what will happen to all your stuff when you're gone? Not that it will matter to you. Maybe instead of leaving things to be divided and perhaps squabbled over, we should take them out and bury them somewhere. Let someone a hundred years from now dig them up and wonder about why they were buried there and who they belonged to. I love a mystery.

Charybdis and Scylla

Daughter Kari's car turned over 100,000 miles on her way to work this morning. She Tweeted about it and posted the proof on Twitpic, which involved the following exchange via Twitter:

Me to her: "Congrats. 11,000 more miles and you catch up with Scilla." (The name of my little Ford Escort Wagon.)

Kari to Lynamri: "PLEASE remind me to name my next car Charybdis. (Hee hee -- CARybdis)"

Naturally I had no idea who/what Charybdis is/was. Thank goodness for Google and Wiki. After reading about Charybdis and Scylla, I caught on. (Scilla (my car) is so named because her previous owner was a Priscilla plus I like the flowers. Not because I misspelled Scylla.)

Kari always did love her myths. When she was in grade school at Corning, she joined the 4-H club a couple of her friends belonged to. At one of the first meetings, the leader asked Kari to present a report at the next meeting "on anything you are interested in".

Kari wrote up a comprehensive report on some of her favourite mythological characters. I suggested to her that I didn't think that was what her 4-H leader had in mind. That perhaps she should do a report on cooking or sewing or her pet. "No, Mom, she said I could do it on ANYTHING I was interested in."

Kari presented her report at the next meeting. It was way over the heads of the other members. I've forgotten just what the leader said to Kari, but my daughter decided 4-H wasn't the club for her.

Having misunderstandings over verbal communications is an everyday occurance, I'm sure. I have made an arrangement with the daughter of my former next door neighbor to use her carport this winter unless the property gets sold. (We can't park on the street due to snow removal.) Rather than send the nominal monthly rent each month, she said to figure it from when I start using the carport until when I'm done and just send one check.

I'm not planning on parking in the carport until we have our first plowable snow. So, if we get this forecasted snow and I start parking there the 6th, I'm figuring on using the carport Dec 6-Jan 6 -- Jan 6-Feb 6 -- Feb 6-Mar 6. Hopefully by then the snow will be over, if not, then til Apr 6. Three, possibly four months.

Bud thinks of the rent being on a calendar month basis, so, assuming it will snow sometime in December I should already be parking there since I am going to be paying for the month anyway.

Isn't it interesting? I have no idea whether Deb thinks as I do or more as Bud does. It isn't a big deal either way. Just another example of errors due to communication. No wonder we have courts jammed with lawsuits. And wars.

From Massage Parlor to Massage Therapy

Remember when "having a massage" made you think of dirty old men visiting massage parlors? (If not, you're too young.)

When I worked as an information specialist for the engineering firm doing the SE Beltway study (now Hwy 5 By-pass) for IDOT years ago in Des Moines, my office was in a building where in front there was a travel agency and in back a massage parlor.

My office was next to the massage parlor. It was not unusual to see scantily clad young women in the hallway. The back door of the building led to the massage parlor door. Men came and went all day long. One day I saw a man from my hometown of Corning going into the massage parlor. (He didn't see me.)

What a long way we have come from those days. Now when you see massage advertised it is for legitimate massage therapy. I had my first massage in the late '80's in West Des Moines. It was wonderful. The therapist (Judy?) had offered some special rates to help get established and build her clientele. The room was dim, new age music played in the background and a scented candle burned. Relaxation was practically guaranteed.

Unfortunately, affording regular massages was not part of my world at that time. Not until I moved back home in the mid '90's was that possible. One of the hair salons in Corning began offering massages. A young woman originally from Corning had trained and worked in Kansas City and decided to move back. Stephanie is a wonderful person. I don't think she would mind if I describe her as an Amazon. She is six feet tall, muscular and gorgeous. Her theory of massage was that if it didn't hurt a bit, it wasn't effective. She was my therapist until a pickup vs. gravel truck accident smashed her left arm. She tried to go back to MT after her arm healed, but was unable to.

The young woman who took her place at the salon was her antithesis - petite, quiet, (but also gorgeous), [and the daughter of one of my cousins]. At first the differences in massage style seemed too great. I did without for a while. Neeley left the salon and opened her own business 20 miles away in her hometown of Massena. Eventually I began making the journey north. I became a regular. We became friends as well as client/provider and relatives.

After moving to Creston, the commute for a massage got a bit further. I tried one therapist in town but she didn't work out. A new combo chiropractic/massage therapy clinic opened - a husband-wife team. The wife joined the book club I belong to. I decided to try a massage at their clinic expecting a masseuse. I think I masked my surprise well when it turned out I was going to have a massage with a masseur.

Gabe is wonderful. I no longer have to drive 70 miles round trip for a massage. My only problem now is telling Neeley. I can't just stop going to her with no explanation. I know she will understand. But I will miss her and keeping up with what is going on in her life. Perhaps there will be a way to have a masseuse and a masseur. I wish I were rich.

(P.S. I just realized I attended both Stephanie's & Neeley's wedding showers and weddings. That is how much a part of my life they became.)

Chop Wood, Carry Water

"Before enlightenment, chop wood and carry water.
After enlightenment, chop wood and carry water."
--Wu Li
At the Y this morning George Washington was chopping down a cherry tree. OK, it was Mike Richardson chopping down the apple tree at the front entrance of the Y. The pieces were going into the back of his pickup which made me wonder if he was going to perhaps burn them in his fireplace. (If he has one.)
Which is what led me to remembering when I used to burn wood. Apple wood was said to be one of the most fragrant woods to burn. I didn't come across too many apple trees needing to be cut down, but if I did get any I saved it for 'special' occasions.
I still remember how thrilled I was the first fall after we moved back home in '78. I purchased an old pickup truck and a new chain saw and wood burning stove. Doug was still living at home then and helped me cut some wood. Then a neighbor gave a friend and me permission to cut some dead trees in his timber. My co-cutter swore by Red Elm as the best burning wood. I had never heard of Red Elm - Elm, yes; Red Elm, no. (And I thought I knew my trees!) A large dead elm gave us both plenty of wood.
Burning wood helped cut down the cost of heating our big old farm house with fuel oil. It also gave me a great sense of being self-sufficient. I wanted to be more attune with nature by raising my own food and braving the elements to obtain a source of heat. For me, cutting and hauling the wood was the easy part - splitting it was something else. Even with wedges and a large maul, it was hard to do. I longed for a log splitting machine but never got one.

I was also searching for a spiritual connection which is what "Chop Wood, Carry Water" is about. (Subtitled: "A Guide To Finding Spiritual Fulfillment in Everyday Life") While the book suggests we find joy and honour in the everyday chores of life - washing dishes, cooking, cleaning as well as chopping wood - I always found more of a spiritual connection while in the woods. True, the noise of the chain saws was distracting. When they fell silent, so did the woods. Sitting on a log, drinking hot coffee, soaking in the silence, worshiping the trees, filled me with an all encompassing reverence.
When Grandma Ridnour was in her 90's, she wanted a small wood burning stove like the one she once had put back in her kitchen. Mom kept talking her out of it. She was afraid Grandma might set the house on fire. Grandma said she wanted it so she could get warm enough - nothing like wood heat to warm a person. I wonder if she wanted it to remind her of when she was able to chop wood and carry water.
I wonder if that is why I am feeling nostalgic about burning wood and wishing I was headed to the timber lay in a winter's supply?

Miss Manners

Growing up on a farm was a wonderful childhood. The fact that our closest shopping area was a small town was also a plus. Once we were old enough to know our way around, be careful crossing streets and mind our Mom, we were allowed to do some things on our own.

Before we were old enough to earn an allowance, Mom might give us a nickel. I remember her tying the coins in the corner of our handkerchiefs so we wouldn't lose the money. Often we would go into the drugstore, climb up on a stool and order a small cherry coke.

There were two drugstores in the same block on the west side of Main Street - McClelland's and Dunham's. McClelland's was where the big kids hung out. Dunham's was quieter; safer for little kids. If we wanted an ice cream cone for our nickel though, McClelland's was the store of choice because they had more flavors.

One summer afternoon Mom stopped to talk to someone. Betty and I asked if we could go on ahead to get our ice cream cones. Up the sidewalk we went. Outside McClelland's we met up with another little girl we knew slightly. She went into the drugstore with us and we got our cones. Back out on the sidewalk Betty and I were licking and enjoying our ice cream while the other little girl gazed at our cones longingly.

Mother came up and saw us eating in front of the other girl. She didn't bawl us out in front of her. She hustled us back to the car. "You never, never order ice cream and eat it in front of your little friends again. If you don't have enough money to buy them something, too, then you don't buy anything for yourself", she warned us.

That was one of our early lessons in manners. It is one I have never forgotten.

"Makin' A List; Checkin' It Twice"

There are some ads running promoting the Coaches' Toy Drive benefiting Children and Families of Iowa. They show some Iowa coaches remembering their favourite toys from each one's youth.

The ads started me wondering if I could remember some of my favourite toys from childhood. There was the big metal doll house my sister and I had wanted which I found hidden under a blanket in Mom's closet before Christmas. (Snoopy little brat.)

Before that were the dolls with 'real' hair. I had the ability to awaken before my siblings xmas morning. Around 4 a.m. I would quietly sneak down the stairs to see what was under the tree. There was just enough light from the glow of the oil burner through the isinglass front that I could read the names on the packages to see which were mine. Then I would shake them, feel them, try to guess what was inside.

The year Betty and I got the dolls, they were just sitting under the tree without "To" name tags. One was blond with a pink dress, the other auburn tressed in a yellow dress. I don't know what possessed me to want the blond (today I would fight for the auburn redhead) but I did so I hid her back behind the tree insuring that my little sis would see the one I didn't want and go for her while I had to 'settle' for the one I wanted all along.

I also remember the year brother Ron received a coveted bow and arrow set. It was just a small bow and the arrows had suction cups over the ends. Ron had me hold up the Sunday funnies so he could shoot the arrows at them. Unfortunately he took the suction cups off first. He fired from across the living room at the paper I was holding up in front of my face. The arrow went through the comics and hit near my eye. I cried, of course. Dad came into the room, took the bow and arrows and broke them across his knee and threw them into the fire of the old coal burner stove we had at the time. Ronald was crushed about losing his toys and being upbraided by our Dad. I quit crying because I really wasn't hurt but started feeling terrible because my brother had lost his prized bow and arrows.

Mostly I remember the things I wanted for Christmas that I never got: the Tom Thumb Typewriter pictured above; a baton and majorette boots; a double-holstered gun set with a cowboy hat and fringed vest and skirt to complete the outfit; when a bit older an artist's box and a camera. Bud has said he always wanted a mad scientist's chemistry set.

It must be human nature to remember the things we didn't get, just as it now is to want what we can't have. We don't appreciate what we have until it is gone.

The Last Rose of Summer

"'Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone.

All her lovely companions have faded and gone.

No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh

To reflect back her blushes and give her sigh for sigh....Thomas Moore

No, it's not a rose, but some petunias still blooming outside in my flower bed. There are other pots of flowers protected under the roof of the patio still blooming, too, even though we've had below freezing temps. It has been a lovely month.

Mom used the phrases: "You look like the last rose of summer" and "you look like something the cat drug in". I think they both meant about the same thing: I didn't look my best.

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet and balladeer. If you don't recognize The Last Rose of Summer you might remember his Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms which was used in Warners Brothers Bugs Bunny cartoons.

When I think of Thomas Moore, I think of The Meeting of the Waters which he wrote at The Vale of Avoca, part of Devils Glen in County Wicklow, Ireland. The Vale of Avoca is where the Avonmore and Beg Rivers meet to form the Avoca River.

Moore is said to have perched on the limb of a tree as he wrote "There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet, As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet..."

If you visit County Wicklow - The Garden County of Ireland - you can see a bust of Moore and the tree (now dead). I would like to go back to this spot again to see how my memories of it have stood up over the past fifteen years.

Black Friday Part Two

It seems as though Black Friday - the BIG shopping day after Thanksgiving - has been around for a long time. I know there were big sales that day when I lived in Des Moines from '84 until '95. I don't remember them from when I lived there the first time - '68 to '78. But that could be because I didn't have money to take advantage of them.
When the kids were little my xmas shopping usually didn't occur until the week before or even Christmas Eve day. By then retailers were marking down merchandise. I remember one Christmas Eve afternoon getting a great deal on a doll for Kari at Younkers.
Then there was the year of Secret Santas. I can't remember who sponsored them, but you were supposed to ask people, "Are you a secret Santa?" If they were, you received anywhere between $10 and $100. I was working at the recording studio then. A few days before Christmas one of the ad salesmen for WHO came in. I don't even know what made me ask, but I did. And he was. I received $50. That was a good Christmas year.
I don't remember getting up early to go shopping on Black Friday when Bud & I lived in Des Moines. That day was not a day off for me unless I used a vacation day. Generally we thought people were crazy to stand in line and fight the crowds. It wasn't until we moved back home that we started shopping on Black Friday. At first Bud thought I was kidding. But there was a semi truck set on sale for half price at Orschlen's in Red Oak that I wanted for Ki. I wanted to be there when they opened at 6:00 a.m. so I would be certain of getting one. From there we went on to the Mall in Council Bluffs and got some more good deals. After that first year it became something of a tradition for awhile.
Now we are back to the "People are crazy to go out on Black Friday" mentality. Each year the stores open earlier than the year before. 35,000 people waiting to get into Jordan Creek Mall at 12:01 a.m.? Really? Crazy.
I did however drive to Des Moines today for day two of Black Friday deals. Bud wouldn't go along. He said he would wait until some day during the week when it was less crowded. But I was pleasantly surprised - got some good deals and the crowds weren't too bad.
Now, let's see...Cyber Monday???

Iowa - Beautiful Land

I love being an Iowan. I'm proud of being from Iowa. I've never lived anyplace else. I'm not sure I would want to. I expect most people are partial to their home state for one reason or another.

What makes me so proud of Iowa? People from Iowa are considered to be: Honest. Intelligent. Friendly. Caring. Educated. Helpful. Hard working. Reliable. I always felt we were special when Iowa students still rated at the top compared to the other states.

My love of Iowa goes back to the study of her history when I was in sixth grade. There were two definitions of the Indian word from whence came our state name. One was that Iowa meant "Beautiful Land" the other that it meant "Land Between the Rivers". I like that two of our borders are made up by rivers - the "Mighty Mississippi" on the east and the Big Sioux and "Muddy Missouri" on the west.

It used to irritate me when I heard people say there was nothing to see in Iowa but cornfields - or that our state was flat. Why couldn't they see the beauty of the gently rolling hills or of the patchwork quilt effect of our fields? Didn't they ever notice the ethereal mists along the river valleys or wonder about the cat steps of the Loess Hills?

When I learned more men from Iowa fought in the Civil War than from any other state (on a per capita basis) it gave new meaning to our State Motto: "Our Liberties We Prize And Our Rights We Will Maintain." And I didn't have to know Latin to understand it.

Planning for retirement brought discussions of "Where do we want to retire?" We talked of moving a little further south - Arkansas or Missouri; possibly New Mexico. Without having actually experienced living in any of those states, it is impossible to know whether I would have been content.

I just know I'm happy where I am. I love looking out at the changing surface of the pond, the now leafless silhouettes of the trees and the gentle hill to the west. I love seeing the deer, fox and turkeys out that same window and wondering where their dens and nests are.

I look forward to more visits to other locales. My heart is Iowa bound.

First Thanksgiving

There was a first Thanksgiving in Creston today. It was at my niece's house. The turkey looked much like this one and was very good.

Today was the first time Kristi had hosted Thanksgiving. She did a fine job. There were 18 people there for dinner but we could probably have fed 48.

Most of us were related or quasi-related with the exception of one family included because they didn't have anywhere else to go.

It was an eclectic group. Perhaps that is what made it so much fun because in addition to eating a lot, we laughed a lot. We looked at my brother-in-law's pictures from his recent trip to the Grand Canyon and Kristi's photos from their October vacation to Cancun.

Kristi is at the top of my list of reasons why I'm glad we moved to Creston. Seeing her more often, getting to know this amazing young woman better, has been a bonus I hadn't expected.

I hope everyone had as nice a Thanksgiving as did I.

Thanksgiving Preparations

I started making salads today in preparation for tomorrow's Thanksgiving dinner. One of those salads is a raspberry cranberry jello concoction. That is what made me think of my favourite sister-in-law, Ruth A. Nicolaisen Lynam.

There were two Ruth Lynams in our family after 1968, my mother, Ruth Voneta and Ron's wife, Ruth Anne; known in our family as Ruthie to differentiate. (Ironically they both died within six weeks of each other - Mom Dec 16, 2003 and Ruthie Jan 29, 2004.)

Ronald met Ruth in Denver where she had returned to work after nurses training in Chicago. If I remember correctly they met at a church youth group softball game when Ron slid into base, knocking Ruth over and breaking or spraining her ankle.

When Ron brought Ruth home to meet his family I was a nervous wreck. She was a professional woman; I was only a high school graduate working in an office. I wanted so much for her to like me. Years later when we talked about this, she admitted how nervous she was and how much she wanted me to like her.

Our friendship grew after they moved back to SW Iowa from Colorado and we were together more often. When I was pregnant with Preston, she was also pregnant. We were really looking forward to sharing our pregnancies and having babies almost the same age. Then she miscarried. Not only did I feel sorry for her, I felt guilty.

When Preston was 16 months old, Ron and Ruthie had their first baby, a little girl they named Jennifer. She died three days later. We mourned their loss and then celebrated a little over a year later when their twins, Lorrie and Andrew were born in January 1974. Their daughter, Christine, was born in September of '76.

Ruth was so easy to get along with; she had many friends. After my only sister died, Ruthie became more a sister than a sister-in-law. We both liked antiques. We loved going to garage sales and delighted in our "treasures". Family dinners weren't complete without her homemade rolls and Swedish cardamom bread. Not only did she introduce our family to some new foods, her sense of humour enlivened all our times together.

Which brings me back to the jello salad. Once Ruthie discovered another of the in-laws did not like cranberries - wouldn't eat anything with cranberries - it became her mission to get the other person to eat cranberries. She was successful with her raspberry cranberry jello salad. The one who disliked cranberries ate the jello and liked it until being told it contained cranberries. From then on that person was extremely skeptical and would not eat anything red at our family dinners.

My daughter Kari now uses her Aunt Ruthie's Swedish Cardamom Bread recipe to take to family dinners in Portland, OR and I continue taking Raspberry Cranberry Jello salads to Thanksgiving dinners here in Iowa. It is one way we remember the woman who was my favourite sister-in-law.

The Smoke Signal

Before it became politically incorrect, the Corning High School teams were the "Red Raiders". The school mascot was an Indian Chief. The school newspaper was The Smoke Signal.

I'm uncertain which came first, wanting to be a writer or writing for the school paper. Journalism was a senior elective. The journalism class edited the school paper each month during the school year.

Lawrence LaChappelle was my junior English (literature and composition) teacher. He was also the journalism teacher. We had an assignment to write about "Home". He liked my paper so much he wanted to have it published in The Smoke Signal. I was afraid some of the things I had written might peeve some fellow students. I agreed to having it printed as long as I could use a nom de plume. "My Home Is Devoured" by Paula Shane appeared in the next issue. Naturally everyone knew whose story it was and I took some teasing about being "Paula", but I was a published writer; heady stuff for a 16 year old.

There was no question about signing up for Journalism my senior year. My older brother had been editor of the school paper his senior year. I wanted to follow in his footsteps. The first semester I was a co-editor. The second semester I was editor-in-chief. Editorials and feature articles were my bailiwicks. I wrote news stories and solicited the downtown businesses for ads if I had to. I (think) I also wrote a sometime column; "Drum Beats", though I don't remember that for certain.

"Getting out the paper" was my number one priority. I know I felt as though I was doing it single-handedly because in December I was hospitalized for a week with pneumonia followed by a week of recuperation at home. How on earth would the paper get published without me? Much to my chagrin, it did.

Mr. LaChappelle encouraged me to go on to college and major in journalism. I might have done had my roll model been Lois Lane instead of Della Street. That plus his words of encouragement included this line: "I can just see you as editor of the women's page someday." I cared not a whit about the women's pages. I wanted to right (write) the world with my editorials.

"Shaken, Not Stirred"

"Dislocated, not broken." Or, to be more precise, "nearly dislocated".
(This blog has nothing to do with martinis other than I like them and James Bond.)
I was born in the old Creston Hospital 66 years ago. Olin Barrett Hawley, M.D. delivered me. But Bernard J. Fry, D.O. of Corning was the Dr. I remember going to for shots, sore throats and other childhood traumas.
One of those traumas occurred when I was almost eleven. I had seen my older brother, Ron, go after the cows for milking. I had seen him walk down after them and ride one of the cows back up to the barn. Hm-m-m-m. If he could do that, why couldn't I? (Yes, we had a horse to ride, but that was beside the point.)
My only problem was figuring out how to get on the cow's back. One afternoon the cows were in the lot. Some of them were lying down. Perfect. All I had to do was climb on the back of one and then it would stand up and move and I could ride it.
The cow stood up with me on its back but it just stood there. I told my little sister, Betty, to "make her go". Sis did as instructed. She twisted the cow's tail around a couple times. The cow took off running across the lot with me on her back. That is I was on her back until she took a sharp right turn and I kept going straight, landing hard on my left shoulder.
I started screaming and bawling. Betty ran to the house to get help. Mom said I was lying in the dirt screaming, "I'm killed. I'm killed". Somehow she got me up, out of the cow lot and to the house. She realized I really was hurt, so into town to Dr. Fry we went. He made my shoulder hurt even more while moving it around and examining it. I don't remember him taking x-rays; he may have used a fluoroscope. He told us my shoulder wasn't dislocated but it was nearly dislocated. He said to keep it in a sling for ten days to two weeks and I should be fine. I don't think I even got pain pills!
Dr. Fry said to me, "Look on the bright side. This will get you out of doing dishes for two weeks". We went home and Mom made me a sling out of a dish towel. I didn't have to wash the dishes which was my usual job, but I still had to dry them after I had a couple days off to recuperate. Mom figured a way for me to hold the dishes against my dish-toweled left arm and dry them with my right.
I also got a lot of attention when we went to town. Everyone thought I had a broken arm. I would explain how it was only a "nearly" dislocated shoulder. Then they would laugh when told how it had happened.
I never again tried to ride a cow. But I am once again suffering from that childhood attempt; arthritis has settled in that shoulder, limiting my range of motion and lifting capacity with my left arm.
Mm-mmm, one of those shaken, not stirred martinis would numb the pain for awhile.

Sunday Night Popcorn

We may not have watched Sunday night football growing up, but we did eat a lot of Sunday night popcorn. Maybe it was because we had large Sunday dinners at noon or maybe it was to give Mom a break from cooking, but often popcorn was our supper on Sundays.
Our "Earl May Popcorn Popper" looked just like this one. We didn't use a thermometer to tell us when the oil was hot though. We just tried a kernal or two when we thought it was hot enough. If it popped right away, in went the cup of popcorn kernals. Then we twisted the little red knobbed stirrer around and around until the popping stopped.
There were years when we raised our own popcorn or when Grandpa & Grandma Ridnour would raise popcorn and give us some. It was fun to shell the kernals from the cob, then take it outside in the wind to winnow it back and forth between two containers, letting the wind blow away the chaff.
There were times we ate the popcorn in bowls of milk and sugar just like cereal. Other times we ate popcorn and apples. When Mom made fudge to go along with the popcorn and apples we really feasted.
I can still hear Earl May on KMA radio saying, "It's a good night for Earl May popcorn." He was the Orville Redenbacher of our childhood - his popcorn was "the best". It supposedly popped better than other brands; fewer 'old maids' (the kernals that didn't pop and were left behind). Sometimes we had yellow popcorn, other times Mom thought white popcorn was better. It was all good, especially with melted butter poured over it.
Popcorn is thought to have originated in Mexico and is over 5,000 years old. Native Americans greeted Columbus with popcorn. It was brought by Indians to the first Thanksgiving. It was a staple food during the depression. Once you smell it popping, it is nearly impossible to resist.
Microwave popcorn and an apple was my supper tonight as I watched Sunday night football. Gee I wish I could have had a piece or two of Mom's fudge to go with it.

Keystone, Colorado

One of the Y regulars mentioned skiing this morning which reminded me of Keystone, CO.
It was in '72 or '73 when my boss at the advertising agency and a friend of his decided to partner in the purchase of a condo in one of the new developments at Keystone. For my boss it was an investment, but for the other partner it was that plus a chance for his four teenagers to enjoy skiing vacations.
The purchase price of their condo was $25,000. I remember that so well because I was afraid they would lose their money on such a chancey investment and $25,000 was a heckuva lot of money!
The first time I visited their condo was in the winter. I am not a skier. Even if I had wanted to try, I was so ill with altitude sickness I couldn't wait to get out of there. The cold air made breathing even harder and the headaches were terrible.
The second time we went there Mom & the kids & I went out during the summer. We had visited a friend of my Mother's in Longmont four days then drove up to Keystone for a couple days. The summer weather made dealing with the altitude much easier. We enjoyed wading in the icy cold Snake River; driving up an old mining trail and exploring a delapidated mining cabin; and driving over Loveland Pass. At nearly 12,000 ft., there was still some snow at Loveland Pass. I made Kari & Preston get out in their shorts and t-shirts and play in the snow just so I could take some pictures. (I think they still hold that against me.)
The last time I went there was to celebrate either my 35th or 36th birthday. A stop was made to visit friends in Denver and attend a Broncos football game before going on up to the condo. It wasn't bitterly cold that trip. I remember coming home across Kansas and running into freezing rain. I didn't realize how icy it was when I got out of the car. I fell and severely sprained my wrist.
Sometime after that the owners decided to sell their condo. By then units were selling for more than $100,000. I needn't have worried about them losing their investment after all.

My Cousin, Randy Duncan

Grandma Bessie Duncan Lynam had an interesting sense of humour. Sometimes I think I'm a bit like her. (I think that because my siblings, kids and grandkids [sometimes even my spouse] don't know when I'm kidding. It has to do with saying something with a straight face when in reality, you're putting someone on or "pulling their leg".

The other humour Grandma enjoyed was akin to slapstick. Not exactly the Three Stooges, more in the realm of an ice cube down another's neck resulting in retaliation, resulting in.....? which is kinda what happened around here yesterday which is what reminded me of Grandma. (Luckily my arm isn't broken, it's just bruised.)

The year was 1958. We were celebrating Thanksgiving at my Aunt Leona's. She was Dad's younger sister (and a lifetime roll model for me). Her husband, Al, loved a good time. He was always up to something. That particular day involved mashed potatoes thrown, a chase through the house and mashed potatoes down someone's pants.

So, train of thought.....ice down my back; retaliation; flashback to mashed potato episode at Aunt Leona's one November; thusly to Grandma's sense of humour.

The 1958 Iowa Hawkeyes had lost tackle Alex Karras and end Jim Gibbons, but they still had Randy Duncan as quarterback. The team was headed to another Rose Bowl. Once the mashed potatoes were cleaned up and the dishes done, we settled in to watch the football game which Iowa was winning. We were all cheering.

Somewhat as an aside; perhaps not even heard by everyone, Grandma Bessie Duncan Lynam made a remark about Randy Duncan being our cousin. No big deal.

The following Monday I went to school and told one of my girlfriends, (a huge Iowa fan) that Randy Duncan was a cousin of mine. She went bananas; couldn't believe he was my cousin; how great is that? etc. etc. For a few days I was someone. Exactly just how were we related?

Grandma's house was close to the school, so as soon as I could I went up to see her and ask the big question: "Grandma, how are we related to Randy Duncan?" It didn't take her long to burst my balloon: "I was just kidding. We aren't really related to him." Going back to school and admitting to my friend that I wasn't related to Randy Duncan was one of the hardest things I had to do. I could have made up a story and let her go on thinking he was a cousin. But Grandma was honest with me and I had to be honest, too.

So kids, next time Grandma R makes some remark with a straight face, you might want to question if it's really true or if she is just having some fun.

"Time In A Bottle"

"If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I'd like to do

Is to save every day till eternity passes away just to spend them with you.

If I could make days last forever, if words could make wishes come true, I'd save every day like a treasure and then, again I would spend them with you.

But there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them. I've looked around enough to know you're the one I want to go through time with.

If I had a box just for wishes, and dreams that had never come true, the box would be empty except for the memory of how they were answered by you." Jim Croce

Jim Croce wrote and recorded so many memorable songs in his short lifetime. I have always wondered how much more he would have achieved if he hadn't been killed in a plane crash when he was only 30.

"Time In A Bottle" was the song Bud & I decided was "our song" way back when. Today, as we celebrate our 24th anniversary, it seems more meaningful than ever.....

"But there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them. I've looked around enough to know you're the one I want to go through time with."

Happy anniversary Budbo. I love you.

"Get Your Kicks....."

"If you ever plan to motor west, travel my way, take the highway that is best. Get your kicks on route 66." Bobby Troup
Gee, if I'd done any planning ahead, I might have opted to celebrate my 66th going west on Route 66. It is a route Bud & I have taken several times, getting off I-40 and driving some of the original highway where it is still possible. We both appreciate the history associated with the mother road.
But I'm celebrating my 66th at home and instead of a birthday cake, I'm taking a page from my daughter-in-law's book and having a piece of coconut cream pie.
I don't remember any particular birthday cake, though Mom always made one for our birthdays; often an angel food. My 13th birthday cake was "white cake, yellow frosting with colored candies on top." My 14th was "green cake, frosting and decorations". Mom had one of those cake decorating utensils where you could change the tip to make different designs, flowers, etc. When I could, I would talk her into buying the fancy decorations you had to dampen and peel off the paper. Those seemed prettier and more professional to me.
There are a few birthdays that stand out: my 18th because Kenny & I were married that night. It was a Saturday. My 21st: Kenny & Doug & I went to Kansas City to visit Kenny's sister & family. Marjo had a babysitter for our kids so we could go out to celebrate. I was really looking forward to legally ordering a drink. The server asked for my i.d. I showed my driver's license and he said, "Sorry we can't serve you unless you have a birth certificate." What? Whoever heard of such a thing?
My 30th was celebrated with dinner and dancing in the rotating restaurant atop the Holiday Inn in Des Moines. I also celebrated it by having all my long hair cut off. I think it was called a pixie cut.
I remember my 34th as being one of my best birthdays. I don't remember why, specifically, just that it was fun.
Birthdays have often been a time of reflection for me. On both my 50th and 60th I took weekend retreats by myself to meditate and journal. My 50th retreat was at Camp Wesley Woods near Indianola. It was a great place to hike and be alone. My 60th was at Lake Icaria in one of their new cabins. Again, it was a good place for communing with nature. Being around water has always been important to me. Maybe because of Scorpio being a water sign.
This year my best birthday gift will be having my great grandson out of NICU and holding him for the first time. I hope I don't have to wait too long.

"Great" Grandma or Merely Adequate?

Granddaughter Katrina gave birth to a beautiful baby boy Sunday afternoon. That makes me a great grandmother. Wow! I've been trying to decide how I feel about that.
First of all, I'm very proud to be a great grandma. Second, I'm lucky that I am relatively young and will be able to thoroughly enjoy this new little one. (My youngest grandchild will be 12 next month. I haven't had a little one to cuddle for many years.) Third, I'm happy that my granddaughter will experience the joys of motherhood.
Two of my great grandmothers were still living when I was born. I don't really remember Great grandma Matilda Means. I was less than two when she died. Great grandma Kate Ridnour had seven new great grandchildren the year she died. (My little brother was one of the seven.) Her funeral was the first funeral I remember attending. I was ten and a half.
My great, great Grandma Aggie Richardson died just a few months before I was born. She was Grandma Bessie Lynam's grandmother - her English grandmother. They were very close.

I know my kids remember their great grandmas Lynam and Ridnour. And my grandkids remember their great grandmas, Ruth, Clara and Lena. I don't know what part their great grandmas played in their lives. I'm unsure of the part I will play in this new little one's life. I hope I'm more than just the oldest in a four generation picture.
Continuum has long been a favourite word of mine. My little great grandson, Rodney, is the newest member of my family's continuum.

Soup and Sandwich

Some of those raindrops out there just changed to snowflakes. Yeah, it is that kind of day - a day for soup and sandwiches, a good book and a blankie.

I still feel inadequate when I make soup and sandwiches for a meal. It's only been 48 years, so you would think I would get over it. Kenny and I were married on my 18th birthday in 1961. I've mentioned before what a good cook my Mom was and how I never did much cooking growing up. Our first home was an apartment over a body repair shop and the Pepsi warehouse on Bottle Row in Corning. It was a three-room, shared bathroom down the hall kind of place. (Imagine a young couple of today living in something like that.)
We both worked nearby; Kenny at the Chevy garage and I at an insurance agency. Naturally, we came home for lunch. Naturally, being the little woman, I was expected to prepare lunch for both of us. What else do you make on a cold day and in a short time? Soup and sandwiches, of course. Apparently I made that too many times. I can still hear Kenny say, "Is that all you know how to cook!?" Those words were seared into my young romantic soul.

I still like soup and sandwiches. Luckily, Bud does too. There are so many different kinds of canned soups now. We could eat them all winter and seldom have the same kind unless we wanted to.

Here's to Soup and Sandwiches and Snowy Days!

Vital Statistics

Births. Deaths. Marriages. The components of vital statistics. In one week we've had all three. Last weekend my brother got married. Thursday, Bud's last surviving uncle died. Today my great-grandson was born.
Adoption is another vital statistic for a lot of people. It may be one my eldest has a problem with as he applies for a passport so he can go sailing in the Carribean this winter. He was legally adopted by his step-father, but wanted to go back to his birth name after his natural father died. I had a lawyer file the necessary papers. At least I think I did. I never received a bill from the lawyer and when I tried to get a copy of the updated birth certificate at the county courthouse, I was told I would have to get it from the state. Something I never followed up on.
My son may have an interesting time trying to get a certified copy of his birth certificate, especially with the changes since 911. Hopefully it was all handled as it was supposed to be and there won't be any problems.
I have long been a reader of obituaries. They are about the first things I read online every morning. I think I read them as much to learn family connections as I do to know who has died. I wrote the obituaries for both my parents and one of my grandmothers. I'm going to write my own one of these days. Control person that I am, I want to make sure it's right. I can have it all written down except for that last vital statistic.

Happy 25th Birthday Bud

Each year of a recovering alcoholic's sobriety is celebrated as a birthday (for their spiritual rebirth). Today I gave Bud this AA chip for his 25th birthday. This is another reason I am so proud of him.
According to Shakespeare, "The course of true love never did run smooth." That was certainly true with Bud and me. There were so many ups and downs, break ups and getting back together, I lost count. Even after I moved back to West Des Moines we still saw each other once in awhile. He spent Halloween weekend with us then told me the following week he was moving to Arizona. I accepted I would never see him again.
I went to Corning the weekend before my birthday. When I saw a friend of Bud's I asked him if Bud had left for Arizona. He said, "No, he's still around." So I called him to talk but he didn't want to talk and hung up on me. Later in the day he called back and apologized. He told me he was checking into the Veterans Hospital in Knoxville the next day for substance abuse treatment.
Suddenly all those fights, misunderstandings and breakups began to make sense.
The following Tuesday I drove to Knoxville to see him for his 39th birthday. I was elated; couldn't wait to see him; thought everything would work out for us now. I remember he was doing his laundry. We talked there until he was done, then went outside and sat on some bleachers. He was painfully honest with me, telling me that while he still cared for me, he couldn't promise anything. "All I can be is your friend. If you can be my friend, that is what I need."
I drove home with a heavy heart. I wanted him to love me and not in a platonic way. I gave a lot of thought that week to whether or not I could see him only as "a friend". On Saturday I drove back to Knoxville and told him I wanted to be his friend. I believed my love for him was strong enough to help me see him that way than not at all.
The path of our true love began to run more smoothly after that. A year later we married. Only once in our 24 years was I afraid he was going to begin using again. We had a fight and he walked out of the house. I just knew he was going to come home drunk. I wondered what I would do if he did. I needn't have worried.

Today I wish my best friend happy 25th birthday!

Henny Penny Or Chicken Little?

Oh, those cute little fluffy yellow baby chicks! I loved the month of April. Not only did it mean winter was over, it meant baby animals on the farm - calves and pigs and kittens and chickens.
Once in awhile a broody hen would hide her nest and hatch her brood of little ones, though Mom would try to find the nests before that happened. She would let the banty chickens nest though and raise their young. It was fascinating to watch the chicks peck their way out of the egg shells. And the banties were so much more colorful.

As soon as we were old enough to help the first job was to ready the brooder house. That meant shoveling out the crap from the year before, spraying some kind of disinfectant (I can still smell it, but don't know what it was), putting down a deep layer of peat or ground corncobs, hanging the heat lamps and checking their bulbs, putting chick starter in the little feeders and washing the waterers before filling them. There was some type of medicine we put in the water. It was a yellow tablet; again, I don't know what it was.
Once that was all done, we could drive to Clarinda and get our chicks. The magical date for this was the 21st of April. At least that is the way I remember it. There was a hatchery in Corning but for whatever reason, we always got our chicks from the Berry Hatchery in Clarinda. Perhaps it had to do with cost. Berry's gave 25 free rooster chicks for every 100 pullets. Our order was 200 pullets. I think there were years we bought extra roosters besides the 50 free ones.
Once we got them home, the chicks were taken out of the boxes one by one. Mom had us dip their beaks into the water before we gently placed them on the floor. By the time we had 250 to 300 chicks running around, we had to be careful where we stepped. There was nothing worse than accidently killing a baby chick. I remember when Leslie wanted to help when he was two. He picked a chick out of the box by the neck and held it up. I don't think he hurt it, but he was quickly shown how to hold one and told not to help anymore.
The chicks lived in the brooder house until the fall of the year. The previous year's hens were culled; those not laying were sold or became stewing hens. (Nothing better than chicken and noodles or chicken and dumplings.) As long as the old hens were laying well, we kept them.
Feeding the chickens and gathering eggs was one of the chores Betty and I had. I hated gathering and cleaning eggs. The worst was when a hen wanted to set and wouldn't get off the nest. When I tried to reach under her to get the eggs, she would peck me. I HATED gathering eggs. Each night we would count the eggs as we gathered them so we would know how well the hens were laying. We also knew as soon as the pullets started laying because their eggs were smaller. (Many of my diary entries noted how many eggs we got that day.)
I tried raising chickens a few times over the years. I know we had some when we lived on Tuck Corner. I ordered them through the mail. When they arrived at the post office, the postmaster called and said, "Come in and pick up your chickens!" I could hear them cheeping noisily in the background.
When we moved back to the home place in '95, we made one unsuccessful attempt at having chickens. Everything went o.k. until the chickens were about half grown and a predator started taking two every night. It was probably a fox. No matter how much we tried to keep it out of the old chicken house, it still got in.

During the time we lived there, I had many recurring dreams about forgetting to take care of the chickens in the brooder house. I would forget to feed and water them until they were all almost dead. I never understood those dreams. Did it have something to do with our trailer house being in the same location as where the brooder house once was?
Maybe I'm being nostalgic, but I would still like to raise chickens again. I don't know what Creston's ordinance is, but several towns/cities are now dealing with passing laws regarding Urban Chickens.
Oh, Henny Penny or Chicken Little? Definitely Henny Penny.

Hathaway Hill

A Sunday Driver is defined as a slow and leisurely driver who appears to be sightseeing and enjoying the view, holding up traffic in the process. Dad was definitely NOT a Sunday Driver six days a week. He definitely WAS one on Sunday.
We took a lot of Sunday drives when I was a kid. If there had been any kind of happening in the area, we drove to see it. I swear I remember seeing the crashed plane NW of Corning during WWII. But when I look up the old Adams County Free Press online and see that it happened in June of 1944, I doubt that I remember it as I was only seven months old.
I do have a memory of coming over a hill and seeing a flooded river going over the road and a bridge. Mom told me in later years that I was just old enough to talk because I said, "Somabitch. Let's get outta' here!" (My fear of crossing bridges might come from then.)
I absolutely remember driving near Clarinda to view tornado damage. Also a Sunday drive in northern Missouri when Dad decided to follow an old dirt road for miles even after Mom told him not to. The road ended at someone's farm home and we had to backtrack all those miles. (I just realized why I love taking off on dirt roads.)
Many of our Sunday drives took us to the same areas - places where my Dad lived as a child. We would drive slowly along as he pointed out Uncle Jim's place and where Ikey Arbuckle's lived and the Day Place where he had lived, even though those two homesteads were long gone. We would follow the road north to where it crossed the Middle Nodaway River and curved west. Dad always commented about the good farm ground along the bottom and then we came to Hathaway Hill.
It was many years before I learned the correct name was Hathaway Hill. I always heard it as Halfway Hill. That may even be what Dad called it. Curious child that I was, I wanted to know why it was called Halfway Hill. One of the explanations was that it was so steep, Model A's could only get halfway up it before the gas ran back in the tank and the cars stalled. Supposedly the only way they could get to the top was to back up the hill.
There were a lot of coal mines in the area. Mom would point to a barely discernible track back through the trees and tell us her cousin, Delmar Haley, had worked in a mine back there when he was only 14 years old. He was the eldest of nine children and had to work to help out the family. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be a kid underground in the dark digging out coal. It was awful.
I did learn in later years that there was a coal mine known as the Hathaway Mine for the owner, Robert Hathaway. The hill was west of the mine which could explain its name or perhaps the family's home was near there, too.
It has been awhile since I was last on Hathaway Hill. The road was still dirt. It was a great place to hunt rocks, which is what I was doing. The hill isn't as steep now or maybe my perception has changed from that of a child.
Hathaway Hill doesn't appear on any maps, but if you want to find it, drive north on Chestnut in Douglas Twp; cross the Middle Nodaway River and hang a left; west about three-fourths a mile you'll find yourself on Hathaway Hill.

Thanking a Veteran

Thank you, Bud, for your service to your country during the war in Vietnam. I am proud of you for many reasons. That you are a Vietnam Vet is just one of them.
A year ago, I realized one of the dreams I had held for many years - getting Bud to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. It is a moving experience for anyone, but most especially for the veterans of that conflict.
America has been celebrating Veterans Day on November 11 since 1954. Before that, November 11 was known as Armistice Day in recognition of the end of WWI in 1918. It wasn't until after WWII and the Korean Conflict that the name was changed to honor all veterans.
It has only been since the Persian Gulf War and the War in Iraq that thanking veterans for their service has become widespread. Vietnam Vets never experienced welcome home celebrations. They were spat upon and called 'baby killers'. They received aid for physical battle wounds, but not psychological ones. Civilians wanted to forget those years and so did the vets.
When Bud's cobra health insurance ran out earlier this year his pre-existing conditions meant he was going to have to obtain very expensive coverage through HIP-IOWA. His only other option was to try getting health coverage through the Veterans Hospital. What we thought might be a bad experience has turned out to be a very good experience.
He chose to go to the Veterans' Hospital in Des Moines rather than Omaha. I remembered the horror stories about the DM facility from the 70's & 80's so I wasn't expecting much. He was immediately impressed by the way the clinics are run: appointments kept on time, the professionalism of the staff and the "thanks for your service" from everyone.
Bud has never talked very much about his army experiences. But I could see it at the Wall in DC and at the Vets Hospital in DM, when he is around those other vets of a certain age, he is a member of a band of brothers.