A Bertie Wooster Day

"As I sat in the bathtub soaping a meditative foot and singing, if I remember correctly, 'Pale Hands I Loved Beside the Shalimar', it would be deceiving my public to say that I was feeling a boomps-a-daisy."   -P.G. Wodehouse 

....it would be deceiving my public to say that everything is swell, so I am going to remind myself that I have had an incredible life (and the story isn't even over yet) by doing a random wordy free fall bungee jump...right on the threshold of....something....new? It came out just like this, in this order. My life, it's so big. I forget sometimes to be awed and grateful.



I’ve lived in California, Idaho, Florida, Colorado, North Dakota, Washington and Alaska. I’ve seen

Petra, the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Med, the Red, the Dead, DC, Ohio, Iowa, Florida, Kansas,

Nevada, Arkansas, Georgia, Tennessee, Arizona, New Mexico, Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi,

California, Alaska, Minnesota, South Dakota, Nevada, Idaho, Hawaii - Maui, Big Island, Kauai,

 Oregon, Montana, Maryland, Jordon, Israel, Germany, Scotland, Ireland, Austria, Wales, Australia,

 Tasmania, British Columbia, Alberta. I’d like to see Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, Maine,

Pennsylvania, Virginia, Wisconsin, South Africa, isle of wight, Cornwall, The Hebrides. I’d like to

bicycle around Lake Michigan, the Great River Road, Paddle parts of the Missouri, the Snake, the

Columbia, and the Colorado Rivers.I can cut hair, cook for crowds, build with wood, weave baskets,

sculpt, weave, embroidery, crochet, make paper flowers, draw, paint, give affection, have amazing

orgasms, take pictures, edit, write poetry, write, I’ve been obscurely published 3 times, I’ve met

Kathleen Norris, Nigel Goodwin, Gregory Wolfe, Jeff Overstreet, Scott Cairns, Lucy Shaw, John

 Hoyte, Gregory Orr, Patricia Hampl, Warren Farha, Michael Card, David and Karen Nee, David

Dark, Sarah Masen, Charlie and Andi Ashworth, Over The Rhine, Steve Laube, Jerry Root, Earl

 Palmer, Dick Staub, and Eugene and Jan Peterson which means I might as well have met Bono. I

had a beautiful garden and a hospitable home. I’ve served thousands of people food. I have 2

daughters who love me and husband who’s been faithful, undeservedly. I have seen nuns ride horses

 in full habit. I’ve seen the northern lights. I’ve heard rocks roar and felt the ground tremble in

Hawaii. I’ve heard the rocks sing in Yelapa, Mexico. I’ve watched a young man shoot heroin. I heard

God laugh - twice. He danced with me once. He teased me on the beach twice. I’ve watched a

silversmith engrave, a cowboy braid leather in the round for a whip, a potter wrestle 15 pounds of

clay into a bread  bowl for me. I’ve seen a horse trained and a donkey pack. I’ve milked a cow and

collected eggs, I’ve butchered chickens and cried for my butchered lamb. I’ve seen had a lamb and

 dog put down. I’ve picked corn, hoed beets, planted beans, stacked hay, and dug potatoes. I’ve

harvested berries and filled a freezer. I’ve said “maybe next year for years. I intimately know the

mystery of sourdough and am still fascinated, after 35 years. I yearn for an outdoor stone hearth oven,

a place by the salt water, a whitehall slide seat row boat, an ocean kayak, I think horse toots are the

sweetest perfume. I have given thanks because He asked me to. I’ve hiked Tasmania’s Overland

Track I’ve wept more tears than I knew I had. I’ve seen, picked up, saved, and given away thousand

of heart shaped rocks. I feel blessed when I see rainbows, shooting stars, and pennies. I have gambled

with a quarter doing heads or tails with God. It didn’t turn out well. He didn’t want me addicted to

knowing for sure. I have crossed latitudes and divides, great rivers and oceans. I have seen old man’s

beard dripping to the ground and gravestones resting beside the sea. I have seen mill stones used for

gates keeping happy sheep. I saw a wallaby stretch her pocket out for her joey. I’ve laid down new

flooring and painted a 2 story house. I think I felt an angel correct me at the wheel. I believed I heard

God’s audible voice once as a child. But it must not have been. I’ve imagined myself into Little

House on the Prairie as well as Pride and Prejudice. I feel the punch or cut or birth pangs in movies.

 Blood makes me faint. I get motion sick on merry go rounds and swings -now that I’m old - which

makes me sad. I crave avocados, roasted vegetables, filberts, peanut butter and raw milk. I play piano

badly only in the key of C. I used to play accordion. I can pick up an harmonica and make music. I

wish I played the banjo. I want to learn more about stone boats, stone soup and hearthstones -

anchoring hospitality to safe harbors where people commune together. I love to garden with my

 daughter. I’ve seen opium poppy fields. Moab’s Arches is my favorite National Park. My favorite

 childish memory was watching my father fell and chop trees. I come from a formidable family of pie

 snobs. Everyday I pray to notice and learn how to love. I've tried to incubate eggs in between my

 breasts. I read several books simultaneously. I have a compulsion to read every word I see and can't

stop myself. I used to suck my thumb as a child. I'm currently homeless. I just found out there was

another child like me long ago. Her name was Catherine. Laura Riding wrote her four letters. I read

them on Brainpickin's and now know I'm not alone.

Why I Love Sally Hansen

God, Sally Hansen, Google, Craig, my family, my friends, my home, Puget Sound. 

That's my priority list in the order in which I'm most grateful. You wonder who Sally Hansen is? I'll tell you why she's very high on my list. 

I secretly started shaving more than my legs and arm pits… at about 20 years of age. This was after I tried hair bleach, which turned my upper lip fuzz a disturbing color of yellow. My mustache was presenting thick, dark fuzz like a pubescent boy's. Embarrassing, but not worth wearing a bag over my head for.

After I birthed children, the fuzz turned course and black. The hair on my head started turning grey, but not on my lip, unfortunately. I started dreaming of electrolysis and laser treatments. We didn't have money for such luxuries. 

My kind and generous husband graciously handed me his razor after he used it. He comforted me the first time he did by saying he was sure Christy Brinkley must have facial hair she had to deal with. 

When our girls grew older and money wasn't quite as scarce, I started pampering myself with a pedicure once every couple of months. I couldn't help but notice the posters and menus for this foreign thing called waxing. I wasn't quite sure what some of the items meant, but they made me blush. 

I got the courage to ask my pedicurist to shape my eyebrows. It felt as awkward as ordering my first  latte in a strange town. Looking back, she probably itched to get at the obvious whisker shadow on my top lip and chin while she was at it. 

Graciously, she waited till I was ready. When I found the courage to ask for an upper lip wax, she told me she had a special going that day and would do everything above my neck for a fixed rate and let me see how I liked it. She proceeded to rip my face apart with zeal and gusto. 

She defined the hairline on my forehead. A soul patch I didn't know I had was removed post haste. The inside of my nose, my unsuspecting sideburns, the moles, and the offending fuzz between my eyebrows was zipped off. I was slick and smooth as a newborn baby's bottom. The oil did not help my traumatized skin as much as she promised it would. Waxing treatments should last for 6-8 weeks. 

My hair must be fertilized by all the coffee I drink  because within 3 weeks, I needed help. I couldn't find time or didn't have the money - so I started shaving again. The fuzz turned to whiskers once more. 

If you aren't hairy, you need to know that going to the eye Doctor or the Dentist is exposing. They wear magnifying glasses and get up close enough to count blackheads on your nose. Before your appointment a shave is the last thing one does after flossing and using mouthwash. 

Occasionally, I went back to have a professional wax for weddings or special events so I could feel confident and unconcerned about the time I returned home before the shadow returned. I imagine Cinderella felt the same trauma and time constraints about her pumpkin? 

My daughter just left home. Before she went, she persuaded me to go to a beauty supply store for some waxing equipment and education. Mom, you should learn to wax on a regular basis because shaving takes its toll -- it is demoralizing for a woman. The soft fuzz supposedly diminishes with every wax, coming in thinner and thinner over time - unlike shaving which causes whiskers and 5 o'clock shadows. Ok, no more giving kisses, hugs, and whisker rubs for me. 

We agonized over the warmer, the type and brand of wax, the strips, the sticks. Nobody informed us we needed a collar for the warmer. It took a long time to figure out what it was or why we needed one. 

The first time did not work out like the directions or pictures. Strings of sticky wax dripped everywhere -- our clothes, the sink, the floor, our skin. My skin turned bright red because the temperature was too hot. The damage made my face sag anew with melted wrinkles.  

Curses upon Pinterest and YouTube. They lie. I saw an 'easy recipe' for sugaring. No mess, no fuss, no sticky wax, easy clean up. Not only did the video show how to make it, but how to deplete your hairy legs. 

Because my mom was fun when I was young, when I got to the part where you have to play with the ball of cooling sugar I remembered taffy pulling parties as a kid. Oh boy, this was fun. And familiar. I had some previous skill to put to use. I kept the hot ball of sugar going like a hot potato from one hand to the other until I could stretch it and fold it together again. 

When we pulled taffy, we buttered our hands. I couldn't use butter as it might ruin the recipe. The ball started sticking. I didn't remember it sticking to the girl's hands in the video but I couldn't replay it to see without washing my hands. I forgot to take my rings and bracelets off. Before my hands turned into boxing glove sculptures made with cement-like sugar, I turned the faucet on with my elbow and washed and washed until it dissolved. Shaving seemed like a serene experience. Who cares about whiskers? 

Then I met Sally Hansen. She makes these sticky strips on some tidy, clear plastic. You warm them in your hands, peel them apart and apply to the area you want hair free. And rip or zip as the professionals call it - against the way the hair lays. Simple and economical. They don't mention the involuntary scream that accompanies the zipping part. 

I don't know if you look in the toilet when you're done, or look at your kleenex when you're finished -- but do look at Sally Hansen's wax strip when you can breathe again. Nothing equals the pleasure or intense gratification of a patch of hairs imbedded permanently in thin wax with their follicles still quivering in shock. 

Cultural Surprises

I found a unique thing today in the equivalent of a Japanese dollar store. When I saw the vast variety of a never before seen item on the shelf, it piqued my interest. Shellacked. Bamboo. Plastic. Disposable. Fancy. Simple. They all had tops to fit the style.

If the back of the package hadn't explained their usage, it would have been a lifelong mystery.

• Use only for intended purpose
• Never let children use alone and keep away from reach of children
• Avoid picking too deep and giving too much stimulus or impact to an ear 
• Should you feel any discomfort during use, please consult a doctor. 

I could not believe what I saw in tiny English. Un earpick. There were two in each package. Isn't un singular? Somehow it tickled my funny bone - I couldn't stop laughing. Very bad of me. When I could breathe and see again, I picked out two packages of two. Great stocking stuffers for $2.00....

They look like miniature back scratchers - only instead of a tiny claw it has a tiny spoonish end. Just google it, won't you? A picture IS worth a thousand words. :) 

Who needs to keep buying and wasting those trees and cotton in Q-tips anyways? I'm going green. Finally. 

Just think how it would take care of itchy ear syndrome? Or worse. Happy ear picking thoughts aren't coming as quickly as I thought they would. I think Jane's gorillas would be fascinated by this tool. They would probably eat the treasure they mined....even consider it a delicacy. 

I'd better stop now, it will only go downhill from here. As @katdish says, "I crack myself up".    

Upon Waking

Last night I ran out of gas on the way to a wedding. A rodent of a man offered me three pepsis and one 7up. He said it would be a good substitute for gas. As he spun away I heard an evil laugh. This gave me red flags. 


I knew before I started the motor I had to wake up - to wake Loverby up - to ask him his opinion. He said, "Don't start the car!" 


He recommended me going back to sleep to siphon it all out. 


He couldn't do it for me. I hated that. He always rescues me. 


Loverby went back to sleep mumbling, "It might have worked if it had been coke." 

Blue Hair

Did you know going gray is becoming a popular style option in sophisticated cities? The keeping up with the roots problem must be exhausting. Wow, for once in my life, I'm in style, and maybe even ahead of my time?

Mine has never been colored. Lately, the girls have commented that I need to shampoo with the purple shampoo for silver hair. I tried to find some without any success.

In our current culture, wild colored hues of hair are normal. We hardly take a second glance at the burgundy wisp of bang, the skunk stripe on the temple, the platinum mop laying atop the shadow underneath.

When I was little, colored hair was a big deal. A brazen few dared the copper penny red, or the sun bleached looking frost. It was the old ladies that were a source of surprise. Once in a while they would show up with blue hair. It usually faded within a short time, but it was out of character for these matronly
souls who looked like every speck of adventure had dried up long ago. What extreme daring do!

They would show up at church with this strange shade of blue hair. Looking sheepish. No eye contact was made, nor was it mentioned in polite company.

It wasn't until I was an adult and lived next door to grandma that I found out the secret. When her hair started turning yellow or rusty, she would get out the bottle of Mrs. Stewart's Bluing from the behind the laundry supplies. It was a bleach alternative. She didn't know it was safe and green and better for the environment. It worked to whiten whites, that's all.

Guess what I bought yesterday? And washed my hair with today? Mrs. Stewart's Bluing. A few drops were added to shampoo. My hair is still wet and in a towel at the moment, but hopefully it won't be blue when it dries. I only added a few drops. If the results are a stunning, shimmering silver - I'll charge you to use this information.

On the back of the bottle is a recipe for a magic salt crystal garden. Dang, I wish we were still home schooling - I forgot to do this one! I don't want strapped down and diagnosed with dementia before I grow my garden; I need to find a kid to borrow to legitimize the endeavor.

This garden is made for Washington, it doesn't need sun. Hallelujah.

Camping 101

Growing up in them thar' hills, we camped, rustically and primitively. We didn't bring much. It was bliss~ frequent, habitual, and filled the summer with countless memories. The cooking was done outside. Food was substantial, but plain. Mom, did we have such a thing as a cooler back then?

Tess was two weeks old the first time she went camping. We invited her, welcomed her into the tradition when she was born. When Brita came along we did the same for her.

Craig hadn't grown up camping like I had, so we followed my family's way of simple and rustic. We left the primitive out, because the only places we could camp were campgrounds. This felt a little 'anthill' to me, but getting out was a pleasure. Running water was nice. :)

We camped with groups of friends who brought everything but the kitchen sink and a stunning array of entertainment, food, cooking gear, outdoor gear, etc.

We went through three tents by the time the girls were in their teens. By that time, they were doing camp outs with friends in a group setting. Sleeping on the ground became unbearable for a time for me, because of pain.

Camping became extinct after we threw out our last tent. We became hotel/cabin campers.

Three years ago some friends with a motorcycle asked us to go camping. Our motorcycles looked like pack mules heading to the Yukon for the gold rush. Arkansas or Bust should have been hanging from the back. We were able to take very little. Think back packing. It was a blast. We felt young and free.

Until we woke up the next morning. On sale floaties are vacuum packed. Small addition. Two uses. Float in the lake. Sleep on it.

No matter how we tried, we kept sliding off the thing until morning when it had deflated. I was cranky because Craig spent most the night steer wrestling with his pillow, the floatie, and the blankets. From the outside, the rumblings going on inside must have looked like we had all night sexual stamina. The thrashing to get comfortable in our little pup tent might have earned some snickers from our neighbors? Getting dressed was a challenge. The tent almost collapsed at the strain, along with me.

We are going on our third annual motorcycle camping trip the end of the month. Someone loaned us a trailer. A new hitch is behind the bike. We will NOT have pans dangling and a lawn chair tied to the sissy bar. We will look less like hillbillies, and miss the amused looks of those passing by.

We bought a bigger tent this week and will try it out camping with some friends this week by the river. Things aren't as tight financially as when the girls were small. We splurged on some gear, as we have a pick up that it will fit in. It has a five star feel. Uptown.

We both decided we didn't want to be done camping. Yes, it is some trouble. It can be messy; but oh ~ the stars at night. The sound of water close by. The brisk shivering air when you crawl out of the warm cocoon to unzip the day ~ I'm not ready to be done with making these memories. Yet.

Outdoor cooking makes me wriggle with delight. Camp coffee makes me almost swoon with contentment. Poking the fire is free therapy.

If the tent is rocking, don't come knocking ~ we have upgraded our air mattress. Being new and all, we might try to manage a christening of some sort.

When you get tired and weary from learning about God, stop everything and go be with God. He's a camper, I'm sure of it.

Bookstore Vikings

Strange things happen to me at Barnes and Noble. Perhaps it's because I stay so long the plot catches up? Yesterday I drove to Seattle. The U district had invited Anne Lamott for a reading/book signing for her new book Imperfect Birds. Maureen saw her last week on the east coast. I won't try to capture quotes like she did in her awesome post. I'll be "telling it slant" as Eugene Peterson says. But before I get to her talk, picture this.

A table with a sturdy captain's chair was available. I had a pile of Wendell Berry, because Glynn had piqued my interest a few days ago. Bright Star, a book about a movie made of Keat's love letters to Fanny. A tragedy. Kathleen Norris' Acedia and Me. Eugene Peterson's Tell it Slant. Donald Miller's A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. And three Ambrose Bierce dictionaries; because they were next to Wendell.

I read several books simultaneously. Three books were turned upside down at the place I had stopped reading. A very stern, serious employee came up and asked me if I was done with any of the pile. I told her which she could take away. Huffing, she came back with a handfull of bookmarks. Pointing to the open, face down books she told me to please use bookmarks. The look on her face spoke volumes about my neglect. I apologized, feeling like a naughty four year old.

Anne wasn't scheduled until seven. About five o'clock, a big viking with long blond curly hair and a stuffed backpack pulled up a chair to my table - uninvited. I scooted my piles towards my side. After grooming himself thoroughly, Hagar proceeded to unpack and methodically set up a shrine. Iconic art cards were placed across the halfway mark of the table. Mostly of the Madonna. One looked like Frida. Rosary beads. A thick book on Augustine. And a mystery item on the corner still in its bag.

Hagar fiddled and fussed.  It took quite some time to arrange all of his worn out shrine accroutements. He had a system. It was obvious this was a ritual he had engaged in many times before. Part of me understood. A bookstore is somehow sacred space. But I had never seen it taken to this extreme before. The only thing missing was a candle. The mystery item hadn't shown itself yet. It wasn't time.

I looked him full in the eye with a serious face and said, "Now don't go and take up more than your share of the table buddy, there's the line." He looked startled and timid, for a viking. It made me laugh. Outloud. Finally, when I could breathe, I told him I was teasing him. He looked relieved. I asked if he remembered fighting for space with his siblings. He looked blank as he fiddled with his rosary.

Suddenly, loudly, he started giving me the full history of the Vatican. He expressed concern over the lack of latin services; they were straying from their true beginnings. He tries to find Greek Orthodox services now. They know how to keep it beautiful.

I felt the group of people behind me getting annoyed at this boisterous  monologue. Monologue means only one person is talking. He finally stayed quiet except for the rattling of the mystery bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him eating something with a silver spoon. He would lay it down after a bit and pick up his book. Often, he shuckled. At Augustine? Hmmm. Pretty soon he would repeat the sequence. Rosary. Eat. Read. Rosary. Eat. Read. Fiddle, fiddle. Rearrange things. Repeat.

I couldn't concentrate any longer. As I packed up and left, I looked into the bag. I had to know. It was a half gallon of chocolate ice cream. A different kind of communion, for sure.  He didn't offer me any.

This needs to be continued tomorrow. I still have to tell you about Anne.

Parfume

This gift of my favorite OLD parfume and bath powder (with a puff) came from my little sister last week. She was excited to have found it online, as it isn't sold in fine stores any longer. She probably spent a small fortune on it. Parfume vs. cologne. The result and the prices match. 

When she was young and impressionable, it was the only scent I wore. It was a signature thing. I felt elegant and sophisticated. It bedazzled her when I would allow her to take out the glass stopper from the  bottle to dab on a drop. She would smell delicious for days if she didn't bathe or wash it off. Real parfume has staying power that blends with your body's natural chemistry and oil. This mingling creates a signature scent, unique, yours alone.

I haven't looked for it, seen it, or thought about it for twenty years or more. Opening it was delightful at first. The box, bottle, and container were familiar, bringing back many memories. Some a bit provocative. 

Gingerly, I dabbed some here and there. Immediately, I felt like throwing up. The memory wasn't matching the reality. My chemistry has changed since way back when! I smelled like an ancient woman trying to conceal some horrible body odor behind the wretched stench of dime store cologne. 

It was scrubbed off with soap as soon as I could manage. The high quality parfume had penetrated my skin like a tattoo. A full sleeve tattoo. I felt pregnant with morning sickness ALL day. Couldn't shake it off. Car sick. Sea sick. 

My little sis called wondering if I was surprised and delighted. Lying wasn't going to work. She is so generous, she would have kept me supplied for the rest of our lives. I would want to be the first to die. Seriously. 

The only thing to do was confess. 

We laughed till tears ran, and changed our minds ~ tainting the memory a smidge. This will be my first and only give away on this blog. You can have the boxed set. I'll pay shipping. I will even pay you to take it. 

I am unable to throw such delicious memories in the trash or thrift store. Save them from such a tragic end? It would be like giving grandma to Goodwill.

Would you like me to send you a sprayed paper sample? [evil grin]

Cook Kills Cat

Ann Kroeker has a Food on Fridays blog post, inviting anyone to link up and share a story about food.
This is it:

Whether this story is true or not, I'm not sure. It was told to me 30 years ago before anyone had PC's. The woman who shared it, told it like it was true about someone she knew. It would be considered urban legend now. But truth is stranger than fiction.

One Sunday afternoon, Martha had made plans for company. As she prepared the meal, she left the lasagna out to pop in the oven at the last minute. Between dealing with the children, setting the table and cleaning herself up, the lasagna was left alone on the counter too long. When she came back in the kitchen, she saw the cat up on the counter, licking its lips. Mad at the cat, she tossed him out on his ear. Desperate, without a backup plan, she smoothed over the top and added more cheese before cooking it.

The afternoon was a great success, the meal wonderful and fellowship rich. As the last guest left, out of the corner of her eye Martha saw the cat laying limp on the porch. Wondering why it was so still, she went to pick it up, only to find it stiff. Dead.

Horrified, she figured it had been food poisoned from the lasagna. Feeling ashamed and embarrassed, Martha called each guest, confessing the fiasco, apologizing and advising each one to go to the hospital, to ward off imminent death.  

In the middle of these teary phone calls, the doorbell rang. Irritated and not in the mood, she answered it. Her neighbor is standing there crying. Gulping, she tells about running over the cat on accident. The neighbor didn't want to disturb the gathering, so placed the dead cat on the porch until everyone had gone home.

The Love Stomp

Many of the things on my bucket list are checked off. Not completely, but many. Some things, like stomping grapes in Italy with my skirt hitched up, barefoot with other women of all ages, laughing  and  dancing with abandon; probably won't happen. Only in movies...progress, you know.

Last winter we visited the folks in North Dakota. My mother in law was in the later stages of Alzheimer's, still being cared for at home by Gordy. His hands were full with those legendary 36 hour days.

He was quite adept and efficient in caregiving, chores, housekeeping and cooking. Quite a thing for a farmer who had spent most his life outdoors. Noble man. Tired man.

Craig and Gordon took off for some manly time together, letting me enjoy sitting with Myrtle. She napped most the time, causing me to look around for something, anything to do. Something constructive.

I decided upon changing the sheets and washing their bedspread. I forgot they had a mini sized washer and dryer. The sheets fit one at a time, but the bedspread would have broken the thing and not come clean.

They live out in the country in a tiny prairie town. The closest laundry mat is at least 22 miles away. Determined to think creatively, like a pioneer woman, I put it in the bath tub with soap and hot water. Mistakenly, I thought I could swish it around like the women down at the river do... in movies?

Wet, it weighed a ton. Wouldn't budge. My back almost went out trying to swish it. Any desperate woman would do the same; I hitched my skirt up around my hips and climbed in. I stomped that thing silly. Stomped it clean. Sudsy laughter with tears came when mom curiously stepped around the corner to have a look at the commotion.

For once, the confused, uncomprehending look on her face wasn't there. Stomping grapes for the Italian wine harvest did not surprise her at all. Her smile was priceless, like we were having fun, doing my dream together.

It has been crossed off...the love stomp. This is as good as it will ever need to be.

This is dedicated to Russell also known as @LuvStomp on twitter. His username actually tweeked my memory for this post and gave it a title. Thanks brother for letting me use it.

Tying One On

Many Christmases ago, we took the girls out for our new family tradition of picking a tree to cut down from Farmer Brown's Christmas Tree Farm.

It is a friendly family atmosphere that makes for happy memories. We munched on our warm bags of popcorn and sipped the hot cider they offered while we went up and down the rows.

Craig became the hero of the hour when the final cut toppled The Tree. We all helped drag it to the car to heave on top. Standing back, we watched in admiration while Craig tied it securely to the roof of our little car.

He took the saw and twine back after paying for our fragrant, freshly cut treasure.

When we tried to get in the car, all the doors were firmly tied shut. Craig looked confused. He looked over the top of the car at me, tried the door again in disbelief, then stood there scratching his head.

When he realized what he had done, he quickly started untying all the mess of knots, or trying to. He was desperately wishing for a knife. I can't remember, but think he had to go get the saw again. Never was a tree untied as fast as that one, while he looked around sheepishly, hoping none of the other dads were looking.

It is the only time I have seen him flustered enough to blush. As much as we tried not to, we laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more. We could not help it. It was the 'what on earth' look on his face when he tried the door that did it.

Gooey House

A friend of mine went to help her son move. He was moving to a duplex he owned. His previous, troublesome renters were off the charts in the messiness realm. He wondered if they ever took their dogs out to the bathroom. Then he wondered if any person ever used the bathroom. My friend helped him clean, prep and paint after the carpet was hauled away and the hardwood floors redone.

With big eyes and her gag reflex almost taking over, she regaled me with the horrid details. Not only were the burner linings on the stove hopeless, but there was at least an inch of gore under the top when lifted. The oven after 3 hours hadn't improved. Cooked on slime, melted cheese, drips, gross sides and a thick layer on the bottom made the decision to just get a new stove easy.

When she tackled the fridge, she said she didn't know how some of the food could have arrived in that location. BBQ sauce, mold, stickiness and rot everywhere. Fridges being spendy, she plugged away till it was presentable. It took hours. Every piece had to be taken apart and soaked.

As she talked about it, I was trying to capture how my stove and fridge looked at the moment. What I imagined, scared me! Seeing it through her eyes terrified me!

I have a serious handicap. I don't see the broken fence, I see the flowers. I don't see the sock on the floor, but the candlelight. The clothes piled on the love seat hide behind the lovely pictures of my children covering the wall. Dishes in the sink are camouflaged by the cuttings rooting in the window. The kitchen table is unusable because of a creative moment. Many times in the garden I simply don't see the weeds, as the flowers dazzle me. I see the dewdrops on the pines out my window, instead of the streaks on the window.

It is a blessing and a curse. I never usually apologize when someone comes unexpectedly; however, I do warn them as I clear a trail, offer them a blankie and a cup of something hot. It's a curse because I love neat and tidy and organized, but just don't notice the mess! My mother is a neat freak and has never understood why I want to live like this. I don't! The blessing is that there have been years and years of beautiful messes at our house. People with magazine picture houses don't let 30 kids pull taffy, make gingerbread houses, have hair dying parties, etc. Being creative, letting others be creative, having fun and easy fellowship means you can't worry too much about how pretty your house is before, during or after. I want people to leave feeling like they have been well loved, full and with a memory or something in their hand as we wave them off from the porch.

I do hope no one gets food poisoning, diphtheria or typhoid at our house though!

No Fleas

This morning was one of those days. Morning is never prime for me, but this day, well...........hope it makes someone laugh.

We went on vacation a couple weeks ago. Before we left, along with other chores, I gave Maggie a good scrubbing with her special oatmeal flea shampoo so she would look and smell pretty for our friends who were keeping her.

Blinded by sleep and the shower, I reached for shampoo this morning. After thoroughly working up a thick suds, I noticed it felt different and smelled different than usual. Realizing it was Maggie's flea shampoo, I frantically rinsed and rinsed. I'm officially without fleas today. I hope my brains haven't been compromised!

After my shower adventure, I went to the pile of unfolded laundry on the couch and pulled out my jeans. Uh-Oh~ eating well and relaxing sure put some pounds on me. EEEEEK, I couldn't get them up properly and instinctively knew they weren't going to be buttoning. The gap was too far apart. Laying down was not going to help. Huffing and puffing, I untangled from them and disgustedly looked at the tag. They were my daughter's. Can you imagine my relief? You know that commercial, 'These aren't your daughter's jeans" It's a lie. They were!

Today is good. No fleas, ticks or lice and I'm not any fatter than I was before. What joy. And my hair is really soft with a nice sprightly sheen.........

Schitzophrenic Smell

• Sometimes Kathleen knows she stinks and doesn't need reminded.
• Sometimes Kathleen gets told she stinks when she didn't know it.
• Sometimes Kathleen wants loved and accepted even though she stinks.
• Sometimes Kathleen thinks others hear her accusing them of stinking when all she is really saying is ouch, that hurt when you told me I stink.
• Sometimes the enemy of her soul uses other people's voices and words to remind her often that she stinks.
• Sometimes people who really stink think the stink is coming from Kathleen instead of them.
• Kathleen loves being in a family where everyone else stinks from time to time and gets to grow and get loved on anyways, just as if they smelled really good.
• Kathleen wants to abstain from ever telling anyone else they stink.
• Kathleen wants to put balm and band aids on people who believe they stink, because someone told them so.
• Just because a few people think she stinks, not everyone else agrees.
• It might not be true that Kathleen stinks and it might not matter even if she does.
• There is a time for shoveling shit and it can stick; Kathleen stinks when she stays stuck in ick.
• Kathleen is reveling in the fact that Jesus never thinks she stinks.
• Kathleen got the epiphany, but wants others to know that they're also bound to stink once in a while, on some front, but it certainly won't prevent them from being effective, loved, respected, used, accepted, valuable, worthwhile, influential and generous in spite of it. Anyways. :) YAY!

• (dedicated to KWS and the body of believers at CE, bringing a sweet aroma in spite of ourselves to our city)

Easy Street Shopping

Binford, North Dakota has a population of about 200 or less. This is the town where Craig's relatives have lived and died for a long while. We lived there for a few years when Tessa and Brita were little. It has a post office, bank, bar, restaurant and grocery store. Shopping is stress free. When we were back home last week-it was painless to shop and cook. If they had watermelon that's what I bought. Sure, I needed to add sugar and lemon juice to give it some umph, but it worked. The cucumber's were like limp biscuits, but when you need a cucumber, a limp one works. There might be steak, perhaps not. She could have ordered nectorines, they could be gone. You are thankful to purchase what is ordered. There are 3 kinds of cookies. They all taste the same. You can be done going up and down the 3 short rows in record time and the clerk carries your bag or bags out to the car. It is SOOOOOOO simple and uncomplicated. You have to go to plan 'Q' sometimes, but I like adventure.

Shopping here isn't an adventure, it is starting to be an ordeal. Maybe I'm getting senile, or aging or am phobic about going out or something. The thing is, I really don't want to play this game anymore. Should I order everything from Amazon?

Saturday, I needed to replenish some toiletries and basic staples. I stood in Rite-Aid's lotion row for what seemed like hours. The foot, face, hand, tinted, non-tinted, glowing, sun-block, oil-free, organic, botanicals, brand name and generic options and decisions to make, made me dizzy. I finally shut my eyes and grabbed, hoping Brita would approve.

If you see me all bed headed and greased up next time, know it has all been too complicated and overwhelming, and I caved in to mayonnaise for conditioner, olive oil for lotion and dish soap for shampoo.

In the toilet paper isle, I go straight to the Scott 4 roll pack. NEVER vary! I know exactly where it is, along with everything else, which makes me a repeat customer at our local Safeway because of this.

I'd rather take a whipping than go shopping, for anything! Can I go to the river yet?

Unwilling Spectator

When Sister Erdman licked her lips, which was frequently, it obviously didn't satisfy her lips' natural need for moisture. Her tongue dryly scraped and rasped futilely over her thirsty lips, clicking desperately to quench the craving. When I finally found courage to ask her why, she explained it was a side effect of the medicine she had to take. It was a disturbingly fascinating habit to observe. I wanted her to do it often. Willed it silently. Water gave no relief at all. I've had 'dry mouth' a few times, but it wasn't even a close relative compared to her suffering.

In the small, strict, rule loving church I grew up in, every adult's name was prefaced with 'Sister or Brother'. The older people would be respectfully addressed with their last name, the younger adults with their first name.

Sister Erdman's first name was Edith, which no one dared to use. Brother Erdman and she looked a lot like the models for Grant Wood's American Gothic painting of the severe Midwest couple holding a pitchfork, except they weren't dressed like farmers, hungry looking or poor.

He always sported suspenders, a starched white shirt tucked into dress slacks riding loosely up over his stomach. She wore belted jersey dresses modestly covering her neck, knees and elbows along with thumping, sturdy shoes from what looked like an antique store. Her feet and legs were stuffed like sausages into long, thick, flesh colored cotton stockings, held up by a garter. For the longest time, I imagined she was hiding wooden legs. (That was before the trip.) He wore little round eyeglasses with delicate curved ear pieces, she wore plain, outdated cateyes....professor/librarian style.

Books and scholarly study along with letter writing were their orderly passions. We were invited into their prim home when mom offered to cut Brother Erdman's slick, brylcreemed hair. Sister Erdman's thin, long hair was skinned tightly and severely back in a flimsy, flat pancake on the back of her neck. Her one concession to decoration was the tip of a lace hanky peeking out of a pocket and one very disciplined wave pushed in above her forehead, held in place with plain pins.

One summer, after her husband died, she invited me to be her companion during the annual camp meeting. It was an adventure, a free ride and a comfortable place to stay. The novelty being this; she was pulling their travel trailer, and I had never camped in such style. She helped me feel like I was doing her a favor. Three hours later as she manhandled the trailer into it's predetermined spot, I was wondering what I had agreed to. Her vision wasn't so good!

She slept on the bed. I pulled out the kitchen benches and slept soundly until I woke to unfamiliar noises - her attending to her morning 'toilet'. It took an excruciatingly long time for this procedure. I stayed as still as ice with my eyes clamped shut. I did not want to see what I could imagine and hear all too clearly and close by. The trailer was small~

She first filled a bowl with water, dunked a cloth, then slowly lathered it with soap, the bar rolling over and over. She started from the top, heading downwards underneath her tent like flannel nightgown. Her face must have been heavily whiskered as my eyes popped open to try and figure out what the rasping sound of sandpaper was. It was both horrifying and fascinating to listen to the cloth getting rinsed, re-lathered and applied to her sagging, loose underarms. The suds gurgled in the unshaven atmosphere. That poor cloth disappeared for a long time, drowning quietly underneath her heavy chest.

When she lifted her nightie to wash 'down there' the sudsy cloth squished and flapped energetically underneath the modest covering. I tried my hardest to think up something distracting. There weren't any ipods with earbuds at this time. Unfortunately.

When she finished washing her feet, she dried everywhere, brushed her teeth and dressed piece by piece underneath her tent. Since she didn't have a full beard or mustache by the end of the week, I'm assuming she shaved when I was out. She didn't shave her underarms or legs. I came to the conclusion that wooden legs didn't sprout hairs.

This was a ritual I didn't want to be a spectator for, but somehow couldn't wake up early enough to escape the trap of the trailer in time to miss it. She must have really believed that old saying, 'cleanliness is next to Godliness', because her thoroughness was lengthy, legendary and unforgettable.

Having just gotten back from North Dakota, where pioneer living is still quite fresh in every one's memory, it makes me wonder if they just looked away, closed their eyes and ears to all the personal human activities and bodily functions taking place inside a 10x10 soddy or shack? It was common for families to have 6-10 children all co-habitating in a cramped space! None of the children seem scarred for life................ neither am I. It is easy to imagine the woodshed, wagon or haystack being put to good use once in a while, huh? :)

Frog Favorites

Frogs were a staple in my young life when we lived in Glenwood. Catching polliwogs and watching the different stages of their becoming a frog was riveting. Most of the day was spent finding water, then finding frogs. It was a never ending fascination how their muscles flexed, the way their tongue scooped out like a New Year's Eve squeaker, how they laid in the water with nothing but their nose and eyes exposed, their silky skin, the webbing between their toes and my favorite - the way they croaked making a chorus of amazing note ranges with rhythm.

Up close and personal, my daily dose of frog made them the one thing in nature that I adored, studied and knew. Intimately. I never tired of watching them, feeling them, squeezing them, making them have jumping contests, finding frog eggs or listening to them.

My older sisters were in biology one year. Dissecting frogs was part of the semester's lab. After days of hearing them recount each procedure and how interesting it was, I decided it was necessary for me also. It was curiosity that drove me to the dark insides of my favorite creature.

The doomed frog was captured and confined until I found a wood block and my only tool. A butter knife from the kitchen.

Remember, I was only about 4-5 years old, had not seen surgery performed on anything, the one piece of information was that frogs were getting cut open and it was so intriguing. A rubbery formaldehyde soaked frog and a fresh, live one are different objects altogether, but I hadn't heard that part.

I laid him out on the block and with all my strength started to saw off his back leg first. It seemed like a good place to begin. Not much happened with the dull, rounded edge of that butter knife except that frog started kicking and bucking and thrashed so hard that I almost lost him. Determined to be successful, I kept at it with tears streaming down my cheeks as I realized he was hurting. I had gone too far to stop now. As soon as the leg separated and his bodily liquid came gushing out, I could not go on.

Can't remember the rest, but think I would have tried to bandage him up. Frogs can't hop on one leg. My remorse, lack of understanding, failure to satisfy my curiosity and the incongruities of my experience with my sisters puzzled me for days.

It passed.

Mom would often ask someone to say a simple grace before supper. When she thought I was old enough, maybe 5, it was finally time. We had company, so it needed to be my best. I bowed my head, folded my hands and spoke these fatal words, "God, thank you for the birds that sing and the frogs that croak, amen" The whole table broke out in an instant spontaneous roar, laughing till their sides ached, then, every time they looked at each other would split up again.

I cried and cried and cried. Couldn't eat. Wouldn't be comforted. The more mom tried to explain it, soothing me, a laugh would erupt and off they'd go.

The only thing that did comfort me is I felt God liking me and my prayer a lot. I'm still unashamedly, unabashedly thankful for the birds that sing and the frogs that croak. He still likes it.

Once Upon That Mattress

Craig and I have always had a great and easy physical relationship and if it's true that what's happening in the bedroom is the thermometer for what's happening in the marriage, then for the last 20 years our marriage has been satisfying, pleasurable and fulfilling.  What's happening in our bedroom is as natural as rain. Playful, tender, generous, plentiful and sometimes real funny!   

We've always had a running joke about quarters...... 'Got five minutes? I've got a quarter', etc.   Flirtatious.    

A couple of years ago we were having a honeymoon weekend on Orcas at our favorite place to have this sort of wonderfulness.  We no sooner walked in and put our bags down than the romping, playing and loving started and finished like an instant sprint for both of us in a surprisingly short time. Like really short!  It was kinda fun, and a little surprising.  

Everyone knows that usually these things take some effort, a little time, some flippin' the switch and warm up exercises always help to ensure it ends well for both. 

Idealistically, we were thinking, wow, getting older is going to just get better and better!

Then realistically we thought, wow, maybe it's just the mattress and promptly checked to see what brand it was!   

The rest of the afternoon and evening were relaxing and cozy.  We slept like babies, woke up starving and quickly found a great breakfast cafe with good coffee.  Mt. Constitution was calling our name so we climbed all over the rock lookout tower admiring the heavy doors, stairs and wrought iron hinges.  The view is breathtaking in any direction.  Exhilarating.  It's new every time.

We headed back and no sooner got in the door than.....woohooo, replay of the afternoon before! Except this time it would have to be called instant gratification for me, as in instant!  Instant like lightning.   Craig has an extremely dry sense of humor;  without missing a beat he looked down wondering if he had left his Superman underwear on,  grinned mischievously and asked, "Honey, since I don't have any change for that quarter, should I just keep going?"  

We literally rolled off whatever kind of amazing mattress it was, tears streaming, sides aching, cheeks cramped and laughed till we collapsed completely.  We couldn't breathe or get up off the floor for quite awhile. 

The first part was good, but that laughter had all the loving texture of our lives boxed up, wrapped, and beribboned.  I took it off the shelf so you could have a peek inside and I could remember.

 

Hairy Toes

How could I grow up 'normal'?  Not a chance.  Mom lured a young deer into our car and brought it home from a park.  That crazy thing would sit on the couch with it's front legs on the floor like the rest of the family.  When it jumped up on her bed and urinated buckets, she decided it needed to go find it's parents and took it back.  Borrowed deer.  The ranger didn't say a word about that deer going for a visit.  Probably thought he was seeing things.

Once, a litter of the cutest baby skunks was crossing our driveway and she opened the car door and we all started chasing them.  Think we caught a couple. When she asked a vet about getting them de-scented, he was adamant that they might have rabies and it was not possible to keep them as pets.  

The one animal that she wouldn't ever let me have was a monkey.  On the wharf by Cannery Row in Monterey there was a hurdy gurdy man with the cutest little monkey all dressed up.  He would come around and hold out his cap when the wind up music played.   I really wanted one of my own, but mom hated them, said they smelled and had fleas.  No monkey.  I might need therapy for that one.  

We had every stray animal possible, as she couldn't bear for anything to be homeless or hungry. If it was injured, orphaned, an abused runt, helpless-she nursed it, bandaged it, fed it, kept it warm and cried if it died.  Us kids had a never ending supply of funerals to stage, all with very poetical, dramatic and grief stricken sermons, hymns, wooden crosses and burial plots. She's the reason I tried to incubate a bird egg, yes, nestled between my warm motherly breasts. It didn't work.  I tried to nurse the kittens and bandage frogs.  Craig has good naturedly stopped and let me pick up 'almost road kill' a few times, until watching the tragic deaths made me just look the other way and tell him to keep driving.   It's also the reason my milk almost feels like it is letting down when I hear a baby cry.   :)   I can't stand for anyone to be homeless or hungry either!   

Mom would gather us all together with banging pots and pans if she knew a big buck was going to be a target for a bullet.  Made the hunter soooooo mad after several failed attempts, he could have shot her.   

When we were in the car, trapped, that is the time she would practice yodeling.  She has a beautiful pure sweet voice, but no matter how hard she tried, it wouldn't 'break' like a true yodeler.   I tortured my children the same way, never could succeed either.   Why we had a yodeling fascination, I don't know-it's not in our gene pool AT ALL!  

Once when some friends were spending the night the little boy leaned over and whispered that my mom was a witch, and wondered if I knew.   I was horrified and asked why?  He told me that she had long hair and hair on her toes and could see from the back of her head.  Now, I hadn't noticed the first two, but it always had freaked me out that she could see and know what I was doing and thinking without seeing me or hearing me say anything outloud-so I considered that it might be true.   When I hesitantly got the nerve to ask her later, she laughed and laughed till tears came out her eyes and she couldn't breathe.   

Thankfully I have many many memories of mom singing and many more of her laughing till she cried.   Hopefully our girls will have memories of Craig and I laughing and singing....... Craig whistles, which is a very cheerful thing.     

Wonder when a mom loses that 'eyes in the back of your head' thing.  Freaks my girls out now when I do it to them.  

I'm not wanting to talk about hairy toes at this time, thanks.  (But is this normal?)

Peeps and Priests

Yesterday at Michael's craft store another gal and I kept passing each other in the isles.  We'd smile and get lost in our own creative dreams again until the next time.  After several of these, I felt like we were almost friends.  The last time I saw her she was almost choking on a little yellow Easter 'peep'.  Half of it was gone and the other part was goo-ily sticking to her fingers as she tried to get it in her mouth.  As she licked her fingers, she asked if I had seen the priest all decked out in priestly garb come in the front door, just as she was popping her unpaid for as yet 'peep' in her mouth?  Her expression looked just like a guilty 4 year old who had gotten caught with her hand in the cookie jar.  I had to hold on to my cart to keep upright.  We both got to laughing hard enough for our sides to split.  The store echoed with it.  I finally saw him at the check out, but the way he hurried out, black skirt swirling around his legs, I don't think he was concerned about a woman enjoying her peep, reliving her childhood both ways.  Indulging.  Busted.  Confession.