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Please click on Posts by Topic in navigation to read postings and columns about the many humorous (in retrospect) events encountered by my family, friends and me. The above drawings by son Greg (way over qualified for that task) illustrated a couple of my books. You may click on each to enlarge if you wish to see more detail. And, yes, I really did hit an owl on the highway and unknowingly drive all over town with him hanging from the grille.
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If you like my website, you may enjoy Life is more fun when you live it . . . Jest for Grins. The 171-page print edition, priced at $14.95, is sold out, but you may purchase the Kindle edition for $2.99.
Click HERE to purchase or read more about this book.
Life is more fun when you live it . . . Jest for Grins is the first compilation of my Jest for Grins columns. The columns are divided into nine sections, among them: Kid Stuff; Critters, Furred, Feathered and Scaled; You Have to Travel to Get There; If I wanted to be a Housewife, I'd have Married a House; and Men (and the Women who Love and Tolerate Them). As a bonus, I also have included two longer and previously unpublished articles, "Licorice: A New Twist" and my favorite, "A Short Jog Over the Hill." (I gave you the latter story as a freebie on this website.)
Click HERE to purchase or read more about this book.
Life is more fun when you live it . . . Jest for Grins is the first compilation of my Jest for Grins columns. The columns are divided into nine sections, among them: Kid Stuff; Critters, Furred, Feathered and Scaled; You Have to Travel to Get There; If I wanted to be a Housewife, I'd have Married a House; and Men (and the Women who Love and Tolerate Them). As a bonus, I also have included two longer and previously unpublished articles, "Licorice: A New Twist" and my favorite, "A Short Jog Over the Hill." (I gave you the latter story as a freebie on this website.)
Available now on Kindle. A Crazy Plan: Darby's Rangers' Heroic Last Stand at Cisterna is the story of one of WW II's most heartbreaking battles, told by those who fought it. Only eight Rangers out of two battalions escaped; the rest were killed or captured. The book is quite short, but it contains information that has not previously been available. I originally planned for it to be longer, but one of the Rangers I interviewed was very ill and I wanted his story out there while he was still living. RIP Carl.
On Kindle NOW: Human Nature Calls. This book is my second (and much longer) compilation of columns, a few sections of which are: Critters (the quick and the dead); Family Twists and Ties; Fears, Phobias and Things that Give You the Heebie-Jeebies; and Keepin' Home Fires Burnin'. Click on cover to read more or purchase.
No relation, but the name
is the same
Native Kansan and KU graduate Travis Goff, KU's new AD, may be the closest thing to the late, great KU AD Bob Fredrick whose business acumen and decency made us all proud. However, when my son Ray, Jr. saw a TV chyron saying Goff family arrives in Lawrence, his response was, "I've got news for them, Goff family arrived a long time ago." Indeed! At least five generations ago or perhaps even more.
I suspect the Dodge City native may be the son of a nice man in Dodge City who owns an automobile business named Goff Motors. Many years ago when my friend Joann Flower was driving to Western Kansas to visit her father, she saw a car with a Goff Motors tag and drove 60 miles out of her way to see if she could buy a tag for me. When she told the man why she wanted it, he said, "If her name is Goff, we'll give it to you." And that is why the tag pictured above hangs on my office wall. It is a reminder of what a wonderful friend I have in Joann and also of the generosity of a man who shares our family name.
I suspect the Dodge City native may be the son of a nice man in Dodge City who owns an automobile business named Goff Motors. Many years ago when my friend Joann Flower was driving to Western Kansas to visit her father, she saw a car with a Goff Motors tag and drove 60 miles out of her way to see if she could buy a tag for me. When she told the man why she wanted it, he said, "If her name is Goff, we'll give it to you." And that is why the tag pictured above hangs on my office wall. It is a reminder of what a wonderful friend I have in Joann and also of the generosity of a man who shares our family name.
Cordially Yours, Forrest C. Allen
During World War II, Phog Allen, legendary coach of the KU Men's basketball team, wrote a series of group letters to his athletes and students serving in the military. To read my article using excerpts from those letters, you may click on the photo above and it will take you directly to the article. The first athlete to die was on Attu early in the war, the last died when a Japanese submarine sank the Indianapolis just 15 days before the war ended.
Old JFG column features
Joe Biden appearance
Not my photo, but our yard looked exactly like this. Sadly, so did Joe's head.
Back in the day — 25 years ago to be exact — when I mentioned Joe Biden in my column titled “Snakes in WHAT grass” I had no idea he might one day become president. I would probably have mentioned him anyway because it was so appropriate (and funny) to do so. See what you think. Here’s the column:
The only good thing about not having a lawn is that there is no grass to provide cover for snakes. The two red-tailed hawks I recently saw fighting high above the ground over a snake dangling from one’s beak no doubt appreciated the ease with which they spotted their victim.
Certainly Ray and I have tried to establish a lawn. Last year — our first in the new home we built in the country — we planted 600 pounds of grass seed just before the Monsoon Season hit our area. We have wonderful grass at the base of the hill where all the seed washed and we have a nice stand of dirt — dotted with tiny plugs of zoysia grass — around the periphery of the house. Ray and I believe that we have the only yard in Kansas that looks like Senator Joe Biden’s head.
Just getting the zoysia here was no easy task. We moved almost an acre of it from our former yard and it was backbreaking work. My job was to cut the sod into two foot sections with an ax after the landscapers loosened it from the soil with a sodcutter. Ray and the boys spent days loading and transporting dozens of pickup loads to our building site. (When Ray traded off his old pickup several months later, the salesman observed, “Hey, you’ve got grass growing in the back of your truck!”) Just our luck to be able to grow grass in the metal bed of a pickup but not in soil.
Trying to establish a lawn also damaged our house when Ray hit the side of it with a tractor and sheared off one of the outside water faucets. He was hugely embarrassed because he virtually grew up on the seat of a tractor and was doing much of the field work at his parents’ farm even before he reached his teens. But he had never operated a tractor on a slope with a fully-loaded box-blade. “I had the choice of turning the tractor over backwards or hitting the house,” he sheepishly explained to me. One thing about Ray, even his panic decisions are good ones.
We have learned to be creative in simulating a lawn. We’ve discovered that weeds — when cut short and viewed from a distance — can pass for grass. And, because we live in the country, we leave untouched small areas of wildflowers and native prairie grasses, the latter of which have the added advantage of turning red in winter.
Still, we are getting ready to plant more grass seed in the hope of establishing a lush lawn that Ray can mow without sending up clouds of dust reminiscent of Western Kansas during the drought-stricken “Dirty Thirties.” I’m confident that we will soon have grass thick and tall enough to provide our snakes with protection from hawks.
Unfortunately, they can’t be guaranteed protection from my man on a riding lawnmower. According to Ray, the only good snake is the sectional one that is inside the mower bag. That is why — once we have a lawn — I don’t expect to see neat straight lawnmower paths. Our grass will be mowed as it always has been: free-form!
And that is also why our youngest son, once the proud owner of a 14-foot Burmese python, will cringe when he surveys the erratic path of our lawnmower. He will know it means his dad has bagged yet another snake in the grass.
The only good thing about not having a lawn is that there is no grass to provide cover for snakes. The two red-tailed hawks I recently saw fighting high above the ground over a snake dangling from one’s beak no doubt appreciated the ease with which they spotted their victim.
Certainly Ray and I have tried to establish a lawn. Last year — our first in the new home we built in the country — we planted 600 pounds of grass seed just before the Monsoon Season hit our area. We have wonderful grass at the base of the hill where all the seed washed and we have a nice stand of dirt — dotted with tiny plugs of zoysia grass — around the periphery of the house. Ray and I believe that we have the only yard in Kansas that looks like Senator Joe Biden’s head.
Just getting the zoysia here was no easy task. We moved almost an acre of it from our former yard and it was backbreaking work. My job was to cut the sod into two foot sections with an ax after the landscapers loosened it from the soil with a sodcutter. Ray and the boys spent days loading and transporting dozens of pickup loads to our building site. (When Ray traded off his old pickup several months later, the salesman observed, “Hey, you’ve got grass growing in the back of your truck!”) Just our luck to be able to grow grass in the metal bed of a pickup but not in soil.
Trying to establish a lawn also damaged our house when Ray hit the side of it with a tractor and sheared off one of the outside water faucets. He was hugely embarrassed because he virtually grew up on the seat of a tractor and was doing much of the field work at his parents’ farm even before he reached his teens. But he had never operated a tractor on a slope with a fully-loaded box-blade. “I had the choice of turning the tractor over backwards or hitting the house,” he sheepishly explained to me. One thing about Ray, even his panic decisions are good ones.
We have learned to be creative in simulating a lawn. We’ve discovered that weeds — when cut short and viewed from a distance — can pass for grass. And, because we live in the country, we leave untouched small areas of wildflowers and native prairie grasses, the latter of which have the added advantage of turning red in winter.
Still, we are getting ready to plant more grass seed in the hope of establishing a lush lawn that Ray can mow without sending up clouds of dust reminiscent of Western Kansas during the drought-stricken “Dirty Thirties.” I’m confident that we will soon have grass thick and tall enough to provide our snakes with protection from hawks.
Unfortunately, they can’t be guaranteed protection from my man on a riding lawnmower. According to Ray, the only good snake is the sectional one that is inside the mower bag. That is why — once we have a lawn — I don’t expect to see neat straight lawnmower paths. Our grass will be mowed as it always has been: free-form!
And that is also why our youngest son, once the proud owner of a 14-foot Burmese python, will cringe when he surveys the erratic path of our lawnmower. He will know it means his dad has bagged yet another snake in the grass.
Into each life some rain must fall
Nurse Ruth Margaret Moriarty Henry, the soul of patience
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
OK, Longfellow, I get it, but what Ray got wasn’t a little rain, it was a monsoon! Was that really necessary? We were exhilarated that he was recovering so quickly from the surgery one doctor described as “the biggest, most important surgery he could have.” We drove home from Dallas on Wednesday after his surgery the previous Thursday. I drove to a little north of Guthrie and he bought us home from there.
On Thursday, we did some light work around the house, on Friday we went to Costco in Lenexa on the outskirts of Kansas City, and on Saturday, Ray swept off the deck, watered the flowers and veggies there and baked a pineapple-upside-down cake for the neighbor who smoothed the ruts out of our long drive caused by a storm while we were away. Saturday evening, he began feeling ill. Although Ray was off oxygen when he left the hospital, we were sent home with a portable oxygen unit just in case he needed it on the long drive home. He didn’t, of course, but on Saturday night we used it.
Sunday, I suggested going to the ER. Ray refused so I called the doctor-on-call at UT Southwestern. He told me this sometimes happened with surgery and advised him to take it easier, hydrate and use the spirometer he was given to open up his lungs after anesthesia. I don’t even remember how we got through Monday and Tuesday, but on Wednesday I was scared enough to call our primary care physician and speak to his nurse. She advised going to the ER. Ray still didn’t want to go there so I called UTSW and spoke to a surgeon on Dr. Timaran’s team who said it wouldn’t hurt to be checked out at the ER but instead he could be checked out by his PCP. He said his concern was low. I called the PCP again and the doctor himself spoke to me urging me to take Ray to the ER.
When I drove to the ER entrance, I handed Ray off to a nurse with a wheelchair while I parked the car. I followed Ray into a private ER room. The doctor and his team there were superlative. In short order they slapped an oxygen mask on Ray, drew blood and took an in-bed x-ray. When I asked how much oxygen he was on and was told 15 liters, I was terrified because I knew that was the maximum amount. Within minutes they hooked him up to an IV through which a powerful broad-spectrum antibiotic dripped and whisked him away for a CT scan.
Long story, short: Ray had developed pneumonia. Even though he had had two pneumonia shots, I knew it didn’t protect him for all pneumonia strains. So, the good news is that after being pumped full of many different antibiotics and still taking more orally, he was sent home to recover. We are both happy about that because hospital visiting hours were reduced to one person from 1 to 4.
My grandmother, trained as a nurse in a Victorian hospital, was the soul of patience as a nurse while I am more the Nurse Ratched of One Flew over a Cuckoo’s Nest type. I want to be patient like Grams but it just isn’t in me. I have prayed for patience: “Please give me patience, God, and I want it right now!” Sadly, I figure instead of standing with the line of babies waiting to be born when God was giving out patience, I was standing in a line waiting for a sweet tooth.
The hospitalist found out my true nature when he planned to release Ray without telling me (I learned 30 minutes before the end of visiting hours when the pharmacist came in with a list of drugs because Ray was going home). “No, he’s NOT!” I said, “I don’t have anyone to help me get him home today. And we don't have a home oxygen unit.” At my request the hospitalist made an appearance and when I asked if he had considered given me advanced notice that he planned to send Ray home, he coolly replied, “I see no reason to involve family since he is an adult,” prompting me to respond, “Were you expecting me to drive him home or did you plan to call a cab?” Ray hadn’t had much to laugh at during his hospitalization, but that gave him a good one for which I was thankful. Pneumonia is tough stuff and nothing to fool around with.
It has been over a month since I wrote the above and during that time I have been Ray’s Caregiver from Hell. Attila the Hun would have been a better nurse. Poor Ray! When I had surgery 21 years ago, he was a fabulous nurse, ever patient and caring. He was so good that I often said I hoped he would never require a nurse but, if he did, I hoped I could be half as good as he was. Well the verdict is in and I’m not. In fact, I’m not a quarter of the nurse that he was.
What is worse, Ray keeps complimenting me on how well I’m doing which shows you what a low bar he has set for me. Let’s just say that I make a mean smoothie with coconut yogurt, protein powder, almond milk and a banana. My little Bullet mixer has been working overtime.
But something else must be working because, while he’s not yet ready to resume our walks on the trails around Mary’s Lake, he has become ever more active, walking down to feed the fish in our water garden and trying to do way more than I think he should. He’s gained back some weight but I think there should be a rule that a man cannot weigh less than his wife.
If you think the pneumonia made Ray one sick puppy, you’d be correct, but he is strong enough to survive three surgeries (including “the biggest, most important surgery he could have”) AND pneumonia in a six-month span. I thank God for Ray’s ongoing recovery every single day.
Some days must be dark and dreary.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
OK, Longfellow, I get it, but what Ray got wasn’t a little rain, it was a monsoon! Was that really necessary? We were exhilarated that he was recovering so quickly from the surgery one doctor described as “the biggest, most important surgery he could have.” We drove home from Dallas on Wednesday after his surgery the previous Thursday. I drove to a little north of Guthrie and he bought us home from there.
On Thursday, we did some light work around the house, on Friday we went to Costco in Lenexa on the outskirts of Kansas City, and on Saturday, Ray swept off the deck, watered the flowers and veggies there and baked a pineapple-upside-down cake for the neighbor who smoothed the ruts out of our long drive caused by a storm while we were away. Saturday evening, he began feeling ill. Although Ray was off oxygen when he left the hospital, we were sent home with a portable oxygen unit just in case he needed it on the long drive home. He didn’t, of course, but on Saturday night we used it.
Sunday, I suggested going to the ER. Ray refused so I called the doctor-on-call at UT Southwestern. He told me this sometimes happened with surgery and advised him to take it easier, hydrate and use the spirometer he was given to open up his lungs after anesthesia. I don’t even remember how we got through Monday and Tuesday, but on Wednesday I was scared enough to call our primary care physician and speak to his nurse. She advised going to the ER. Ray still didn’t want to go there so I called UTSW and spoke to a surgeon on Dr. Timaran’s team who said it wouldn’t hurt to be checked out at the ER but instead he could be checked out by his PCP. He said his concern was low. I called the PCP again and the doctor himself spoke to me urging me to take Ray to the ER.
When I drove to the ER entrance, I handed Ray off to a nurse with a wheelchair while I parked the car. I followed Ray into a private ER room. The doctor and his team there were superlative. In short order they slapped an oxygen mask on Ray, drew blood and took an in-bed x-ray. When I asked how much oxygen he was on and was told 15 liters, I was terrified because I knew that was the maximum amount. Within minutes they hooked him up to an IV through which a powerful broad-spectrum antibiotic dripped and whisked him away for a CT scan.
Long story, short: Ray had developed pneumonia. Even though he had had two pneumonia shots, I knew it didn’t protect him for all pneumonia strains. So, the good news is that after being pumped full of many different antibiotics and still taking more orally, he was sent home to recover. We are both happy about that because hospital visiting hours were reduced to one person from 1 to 4.
My grandmother, trained as a nurse in a Victorian hospital, was the soul of patience as a nurse while I am more the Nurse Ratched of One Flew over a Cuckoo’s Nest type. I want to be patient like Grams but it just isn’t in me. I have prayed for patience: “Please give me patience, God, and I want it right now!” Sadly, I figure instead of standing with the line of babies waiting to be born when God was giving out patience, I was standing in a line waiting for a sweet tooth.
The hospitalist found out my true nature when he planned to release Ray without telling me (I learned 30 minutes before the end of visiting hours when the pharmacist came in with a list of drugs because Ray was going home). “No, he’s NOT!” I said, “I don’t have anyone to help me get him home today. And we don't have a home oxygen unit.” At my request the hospitalist made an appearance and when I asked if he had considered given me advanced notice that he planned to send Ray home, he coolly replied, “I see no reason to involve family since he is an adult,” prompting me to respond, “Were you expecting me to drive him home or did you plan to call a cab?” Ray hadn’t had much to laugh at during his hospitalization, but that gave him a good one for which I was thankful. Pneumonia is tough stuff and nothing to fool around with.
It has been over a month since I wrote the above and during that time I have been Ray’s Caregiver from Hell. Attila the Hun would have been a better nurse. Poor Ray! When I had surgery 21 years ago, he was a fabulous nurse, ever patient and caring. He was so good that I often said I hoped he would never require a nurse but, if he did, I hoped I could be half as good as he was. Well the verdict is in and I’m not. In fact, I’m not a quarter of the nurse that he was.
What is worse, Ray keeps complimenting me on how well I’m doing which shows you what a low bar he has set for me. Let’s just say that I make a mean smoothie with coconut yogurt, protein powder, almond milk and a banana. My little Bullet mixer has been working overtime.
But something else must be working because, while he’s not yet ready to resume our walks on the trails around Mary’s Lake, he has become ever more active, walking down to feed the fish in our water garden and trying to do way more than I think he should. He’s gained back some weight but I think there should be a rule that a man cannot weigh less than his wife.
If you think the pneumonia made Ray one sick puppy, you’d be correct, but he is strong enough to survive three surgeries (including “the biggest, most important surgery he could have”) AND pneumonia in a six-month span. I thank God for Ray’s ongoing recovery every single day.
Ray, skinny, but always my Super Hero
Thank God for this surgeon's skill
Ray and Dr. Timaran in ICU the morning after Ray's surgery.
Carlos Timaran, endovascular surgeon extraordinaire, will tell you he is not a genius. My husband Ray and I respectfully disagree. Born in Columbia and bearing the Incan surname of his potato farmer/engineer father, Dr. Timaran is the perfect example of what can be achieved when one will not accept no as an answer.
Ray and I were destined to meet Dr. Timaran because of Ray's complicated abdominal aortic aneurysm. When first discovered, the aneurysm was downplayed because it was small. We actually forgot about it until I noticed mention of it in medical papers I was perusing. Once informed of the aneurysm's existence, Ray's doctor began monitoring its growth.
Finding it at all was our first stroke of luck because aneurysms are usually symptomless and are dubbed "the silent killer" for those who have them because they are often found too late on the autopsy table.
When the aneurysm reached five centimeters, Ray was referred to Dr. Seth DeCamp, an endovascular surgeon at KU Medical Center. Because Ray's aneurysm involved his renal arteries (instead of the customary two, God gave Ray a spare so he has three), Dr. DeCamp was unable to make the repair. However, Dr. DeCamp provided our second stroke of luck because he had been trained to do endovascular grafts by Dr. Timaran and knew the latter was part of an experimental study to design and place grafts to repair complicated aortic aneurysms like Ray's. Dr. DeCamp contacted Dr. Timaran on Ray's behalf and sent him CT scans of Ray's aneurysm.
It was a huge relief when we learned of Dr. Timaran's confident reply: "I can fix this." We met with him at his University of Texas Southwestern Clinical Heart and Vascular Center office in Dallas before Christmas. Measurements for a graft were taken and the graft, to be custom-made in Australia, was ordered.
On February 13 (Ray, who isn't suspicious, chose that date because it was the earliest of two offered), Dr. Timaran placed stents in his iliac arteries to make placement of the AAA graft easier. The surgery to place the graft in Ray's aorta was expected to occur on April 20 but the COVID-19 pandemic stopped or slowed down surgeries. The delayed surgery took place on June 1 and an unforeseen complication required a new graft design and its manufacture.
On July 30, Ray was taken to OR at 7 a.m. During the surgery, Dr. Timaran utilized Ray's left femoral artery to work the larger fenestrated graft up into Ray's aorta and used his subclavian artery under his right collarbone to work multiple stents down into his aorta where they were manipulated into arteries leading to various organs including Ray's three renal arteries. The complicated surgery required the utmost precision and skill. Indeed, Dr. Timaran is one of only about 10 surgeons in the US who can place such a graft. Shortly after 3 p.m., Dr. Timaran came out to tell me Ray was in recovery. I told him that the ability to save lives is a wonderful talent and expressed how glad I was that he chose to become a surgeon.
From our point of view, the surgery was wildly successful. After a year of Ray's aneurysm being an ongoing concern in the backs of our minds and the past year where it was a near-constant worry, having the repair completed is a wonderful thing. Ray will return to Dallas in three weeks for a scan and check-up to ensure that all is well and again six months after that, then annually for five years. If I can keep him from lifting more than 10 pounds for a few weeks and persuade him to stay off Mr. Ugly the tractor as well as the lawn mower which lacks a name, he'll be as good as ever . . . correction, he'll be better than ever.
We are blessed to have had so many churches and individuals of various religions praying for Ray. We are grateful to every single one. Bless them all. And those strokes of luck that I mentioned earlier? I think that was the finger of God pointing us in the right direction to achieve a successful result. So . . . Thank you, family and friends. Thank you, Dr Timaran and team. Thank you, Lord.
Ray and I were destined to meet Dr. Timaran because of Ray's complicated abdominal aortic aneurysm. When first discovered, the aneurysm was downplayed because it was small. We actually forgot about it until I noticed mention of it in medical papers I was perusing. Once informed of the aneurysm's existence, Ray's doctor began monitoring its growth.
Finding it at all was our first stroke of luck because aneurysms are usually symptomless and are dubbed "the silent killer" for those who have them because they are often found too late on the autopsy table.
When the aneurysm reached five centimeters, Ray was referred to Dr. Seth DeCamp, an endovascular surgeon at KU Medical Center. Because Ray's aneurysm involved his renal arteries (instead of the customary two, God gave Ray a spare so he has three), Dr. DeCamp was unable to make the repair. However, Dr. DeCamp provided our second stroke of luck because he had been trained to do endovascular grafts by Dr. Timaran and knew the latter was part of an experimental study to design and place grafts to repair complicated aortic aneurysms like Ray's. Dr. DeCamp contacted Dr. Timaran on Ray's behalf and sent him CT scans of Ray's aneurysm.
It was a huge relief when we learned of Dr. Timaran's confident reply: "I can fix this." We met with him at his University of Texas Southwestern Clinical Heart and Vascular Center office in Dallas before Christmas. Measurements for a graft were taken and the graft, to be custom-made in Australia, was ordered.
On February 13 (Ray, who isn't suspicious, chose that date because it was the earliest of two offered), Dr. Timaran placed stents in his iliac arteries to make placement of the AAA graft easier. The surgery to place the graft in Ray's aorta was expected to occur on April 20 but the COVID-19 pandemic stopped or slowed down surgeries. The delayed surgery took place on June 1 and an unforeseen complication required a new graft design and its manufacture.
On July 30, Ray was taken to OR at 7 a.m. During the surgery, Dr. Timaran utilized Ray's left femoral artery to work the larger fenestrated graft up into Ray's aorta and used his subclavian artery under his right collarbone to work multiple stents down into his aorta where they were manipulated into arteries leading to various organs including Ray's three renal arteries. The complicated surgery required the utmost precision and skill. Indeed, Dr. Timaran is one of only about 10 surgeons in the US who can place such a graft. Shortly after 3 p.m., Dr. Timaran came out to tell me Ray was in recovery. I told him that the ability to save lives is a wonderful talent and expressed how glad I was that he chose to become a surgeon.
From our point of view, the surgery was wildly successful. After a year of Ray's aneurysm being an ongoing concern in the backs of our minds and the past year where it was a near-constant worry, having the repair completed is a wonderful thing. Ray will return to Dallas in three weeks for a scan and check-up to ensure that all is well and again six months after that, then annually for five years. If I can keep him from lifting more than 10 pounds for a few weeks and persuade him to stay off Mr. Ugly the tractor as well as the lawn mower which lacks a name, he'll be as good as ever . . . correction, he'll be better than ever.
We are blessed to have had so many churches and individuals of various religions praying for Ray. We are grateful to every single one. Bless them all. And those strokes of luck that I mentioned earlier? I think that was the finger of God pointing us in the right direction to achieve a successful result. So . . . Thank you, family and friends. Thank you, Dr Timaran and team. Thank you, Lord.
Post-surgery: 15 hours. The incision visible under his right clavicle is the largest. Those in femoral arteries are about an inch long. Ray required five units of blood in the operating room. We decided they may have taken it all out in blood draws after surgery.
If you are looking for the Dachau issue of
Muzzleblasts, you are on the wrong
page. Please navigate to WW II Articles
by clicking the link above. Be aware of
the graphic nature of the photos.
Forget Romeo and Juliet, the
REAL love story was Lew and June
The were 17 when they met in the Summer of 1934. On their second date, he gave her a big ruby engagement ring, a family heirloom, and asked her to marry him. Valedictorian of her senior class, she graduated high school early and was beginning her first year of college at Oklahoma A&M that fall; he was a senior in high school in Sabetha, Kansas, so both knew that marriage was in the far distant future. She kept the ring though.
She dated others in college and perhaps he did, too, although an 84-year-old Jayhawk postcard (dated September 14, 1936, when they were 19) pictured at the end of this post denies any "pitching the woo" with others during their long-distance relationship while she lived in Oklahoma and he lived in the Delta Upsilon fraternity at The University of Kansas. He visited her as often as he could, but traveling 300 miles wasn't so easy then. She kept one telegram he sent advising her to "meet the train in Guthrie and see someone you like." On a few occasions, she spent time with him and his parents in Sabetha.
At 20, they decided they had waited long enough and eloped, keeping their marriage secret only from his parents since they were financing his education and he thought if they knew he had the responsibility of a wife, they would make him quit school and go to work. He had long planned to be a brain surgeon (his mother was a nurse trained in a Victorian hospital) and he wanted to continue on that path.
But then I, their first child came along when they were 21. What to do? I'm sure the letter informing his parents of his marriage and my subsequent birth was a hard one to write although he mentioned in the letter that he believed his mother suspected they were married. (She did, indeed, and told me about it when I was an adult.) Grandma and Grandpa were thrilled to learn they were grandparents. I always thought my name, Marsha Lou — Grandpa's name was Marshall and Dad's name was Lew — was an added bonus. They continued to pay for Dad's education and also for living expenses and an apartment for the three of us adjacent to campus.
When WW II came along, Dad, who was in ROTC at KU, sailed to Africa and joined the Rangers, leaving Mother in Sabetha for the duration with three daughters under five. I have their V-mail letters and one thing was constant in those wartime communications: their lasting devotion to one another. Parents who were deeply in love were wonderful role models for my three sisters (one born after the war) and me when it came to choosing our life partners. We thought that was the way marriage was supposed to be. I wish it were that way for everyone.
At 20, they decided they had waited long enough and eloped, keeping their marriage secret only from his parents since they were financing his education and he thought if they knew he had the responsibility of a wife, they would make him quit school and go to work. He had long planned to be a brain surgeon (his mother was a nurse trained in a Victorian hospital) and he wanted to continue on that path.
But then I, their first child came along when they were 21. What to do? I'm sure the letter informing his parents of his marriage and my subsequent birth was a hard one to write although he mentioned in the letter that he believed his mother suspected they were married. (She did, indeed, and told me about it when I was an adult.) Grandma and Grandpa were thrilled to learn they were grandparents. I always thought my name, Marsha Lou — Grandpa's name was Marshall and Dad's name was Lew — was an added bonus. They continued to pay for Dad's education and also for living expenses and an apartment for the three of us adjacent to campus.
When WW II came along, Dad, who was in ROTC at KU, sailed to Africa and joined the Rangers, leaving Mother in Sabetha for the duration with three daughters under five. I have their V-mail letters and one thing was constant in those wartime communications: their lasting devotion to one another. Parents who were deeply in love were wonderful role models for my three sisters (one born after the war) and me when it came to choosing our life partners. We thought that was the way marriage was supposed to be. I wish it were that way for everyone.
Cupid's scarlet letter
Sure, she looks sweet and innocent, but this cat is a lady of the evening ... and afternoon, too.
Not an A for Adulterer (Cupid isn’t married) but a big red S for Slut. When Cupid came to us a couple of years ago, she was skinny, hungry and scared. One day she just appeared on our deck which is ten feet aboveground sans stairs. We have fed many a stray cat that has been dumped near our home in the country, but Cupid was different. She was beautifully marked for a Calico and her only imperfection was that the tip of her left ear was lopped off.
A little online research revealed that she had likely been picked up by a shelter as a stray, vaccinated, spayed and released. The tip of her ear was cut off to mark that she had been picked up and was now free to roam on her own. That she had been spayed is a huge relief to us because we don’t need a litter of kittens.
Over time, Cupid has become our cat, as close to a pet as a stray can be. Although she marches to her own drum and roams the country day and night, she always returns to the deck where she has a kitty house with warming bed, a covered litter box, a few cat toys and all the nutritious food and cat treats she can eat.
So imagine my surprise the other day to see our neighbor’s cat, a tom with questionable morals, atop Cupid biting her neck. My knocking on the glass door didn’t disturb them at all. Cupid’s eyes were tightly closed and I thought maybe the tom had killed her so I called Ray to the door. “What’s he doing?” I asked. Ray told me in fairly graphic terms what the cats were doing, opened the door and ran both felines off the deck. I probably would have figured it out for myself except I didn’t think a spayed female would accept a male.
More online research reveals on rare occasions they will. “I think she likes it,” Ray said. “She’s a slut!” We haven’t seen her today and tend to worry about her when she doesn’t come home every few hours. Perhaps she has moved in with her boyfriend or perhaps she has multiple boyfriends. Who knows? However, online research also says spayed cats can get pregnant. Say what? If that happens, I’m certain of two things. The vet didn’t know what he or she was doing and our neighbors get the kittens.
_________________________________________
P.S. My friend Ann, an Ohio attorney, gave me the following free legal advice on Facebook after reading the above post: In my best lawyerly mode (🤣). I think there are exculpatory circumstances that you need to consider before calling that cat a slut. #1 -- You named her Cupid -- shouldn't she be trying to live up to her name? #2 The tom was "biting at her neck" -- was this even consensual nookie? #3 I think she should have gotten the letter F for fornicator at worst.
A little online research revealed that she had likely been picked up by a shelter as a stray, vaccinated, spayed and released. The tip of her ear was cut off to mark that she had been picked up and was now free to roam on her own. That she had been spayed is a huge relief to us because we don’t need a litter of kittens.
Over time, Cupid has become our cat, as close to a pet as a stray can be. Although she marches to her own drum and roams the country day and night, she always returns to the deck where she has a kitty house with warming bed, a covered litter box, a few cat toys and all the nutritious food and cat treats she can eat.
So imagine my surprise the other day to see our neighbor’s cat, a tom with questionable morals, atop Cupid biting her neck. My knocking on the glass door didn’t disturb them at all. Cupid’s eyes were tightly closed and I thought maybe the tom had killed her so I called Ray to the door. “What’s he doing?” I asked. Ray told me in fairly graphic terms what the cats were doing, opened the door and ran both felines off the deck. I probably would have figured it out for myself except I didn’t think a spayed female would accept a male.
More online research reveals on rare occasions they will. “I think she likes it,” Ray said. “She’s a slut!” We haven’t seen her today and tend to worry about her when she doesn’t come home every few hours. Perhaps she has moved in with her boyfriend or perhaps she has multiple boyfriends. Who knows? However, online research also says spayed cats can get pregnant. Say what? If that happens, I’m certain of two things. The vet didn’t know what he or she was doing and our neighbors get the kittens.
_________________________________________
P.S. My friend Ann, an Ohio attorney, gave me the following free legal advice on Facebook after reading the above post: In my best lawyerly mode (🤣). I think there are exculpatory circumstances that you need to consider before calling that cat a slut. #1 -- You named her Cupid -- shouldn't she be trying to live up to her name? #2 The tom was "biting at her neck" -- was this even consensual nookie? #3 I think she should have gotten the letter F for fornicator at worst.
Katie (aka Rosie) is 99!
Ray and I met Katie when I was commissioned to write a magazine article about her. She was a Rosie the Riveter in World War II, shot a badger in the pen where she and her friend Pat raised greyhounds, and works tirelessly in their lawn. Did I mention that she is 99-years-old headed for a 110?
We haven’t seen Katie and Pat for a long time due to the shelter-in-place order. They’ve been careful and we have, too. So on her birthday, May 2, we went to Schlotzsky’s in Topeka and picked up sandwiches and a Cinnebon roll for which Ray had brought a candle, then took the food and her birthday cards to their rural Topeka home. We lit the candle and Pat, Ray and I serenaded Katie with Happy Birthday when we first arrived.
After dinner, just before we left, Katie asked Ray to light the candle so she could hear us sing Happy Birthday once again. This time, I had the presence of mind to take a video. The video isn’t that great, nor is the singing, but Katie is a fantastic-looking 99-year-old! Don’t you agree?
We haven’t seen Katie and Pat for a long time due to the shelter-in-place order. They’ve been careful and we have, too. So on her birthday, May 2, we went to Schlotzsky’s in Topeka and picked up sandwiches and a Cinnebon roll for which Ray had brought a candle, then took the food and her birthday cards to their rural Topeka home. We lit the candle and Pat, Ray and I serenaded Katie with Happy Birthday when we first arrived.
After dinner, just before we left, Katie asked Ray to light the candle so she could hear us sing Happy Birthday once again. This time, I had the presence of mind to take a video. The video isn’t that great, nor is the singing, but Katie is a fantastic-looking 99-year-old! Don’t you agree?
Here is the card I made for her.
And this is the card I made for her on JibJab. Love JibJab! As Katie watched this, she said, "I can't do that backbend any more."
Click on photo above to watch video of Katie roller skating.
Staying at home to avoid
the WuFlu
We are spending our stay-at-home evenings in our jammies watching Game of Thrones on DVD.
Friends, I am not minimizing the danger of COVID-19, but I have watched the coverage of the exponential increase of cases in New York and listened to Gov. Cuomo warn that the devastating increase is coming to us.
I don't believe Kansas will be as seriously affected as NY. Here's why: according to the NY Times, there are 32 counties in Kansas with cases, most in single digits and five counties in double digits. Now know this: Kansas has 105 counties meaning that 73 counties have no cases. My county has 18 cases, only one of which may have contracted it via community transfer.
Do I think we'll have more? You bet. But most of our residents are staying home as are Ray and I. We grocery shop only when we must and do it early. We also drive to Clinton Lake to see the wild critters and to Mary's Lake to walk the trails. Fresh air and exercise is good for us.
If you've read all of this, you deserve a treat. Here it is with one caveat. If you don't have a sense of humor, don't watch this:
I don't believe Kansas will be as seriously affected as NY. Here's why: according to the NY Times, there are 32 counties in Kansas with cases, most in single digits and five counties in double digits. Now know this: Kansas has 105 counties meaning that 73 counties have no cases. My county has 18 cases, only one of which may have contracted it via community transfer.
Do I think we'll have more? You bet. But most of our residents are staying home as are Ray and I. We grocery shop only when we must and do it early. We also drive to Clinton Lake to see the wild critters and to Mary's Lake to walk the trails. Fresh air and exercise is good for us.
If you've read all of this, you deserve a treat. Here it is with one caveat. If you don't have a sense of humor, don't watch this:
A flu story:
How my mother got her name
The Shellhammer family in a 1917 photo. Babe is the fourth from the left in the back row and Jake is standing next to her on the right. My mother, though you can hardly see her, is the baby on her mother's lap. I created the directory for the 1997 Shellhammer Family Reunion in Lawrence.
My mother was born in Oklahoma in 1917, the twelfth child of Jacob and Maude Shellhammer. Until she was two years old, she was called Baby because the family couldn't agree on a name for her.
The family's oldest child was a schoolteacher named Edna Grace, referred to as Babe and loved by all who knew her. She would have been considered a spinster at 27 years old were she not engaged to be married.
In 1918, American soldiers were fighting in World War I, the war to end all wars. But before the war ended, the Spanish flu, which began in the spring of 1918 as a relatively mild virus, mutated in autumn into a deadly, highly contagious influenza that curiously attacked young, healthy people usually unaffected by flu, and killed its victims within hours or days of the onset of symptoms. It killed more young soldiers in all armies than died in combat.
The Spanish flu pandemic killed over 675,000 people in the United States. One of them was Babe, Jake and Maude's beloved firstborn. When she became ill, the family called the town's doctor who placed her in a sealed room and didn't allow visitors. Not even her fiancé was allowed to see her. If her illness followed the course of others who died, her skin turned blue as her lungs filled with fluid and she slowly suffocated.
But the flu wasn't finished with the family. Another child, Jake, Jr., was stricken. Because of his failure to save Babe, the doctor had lost the family's confidence and they called the local veterinarian to care for Jake. His treatment was very different. He placed Jake in a room, opened all the windows though it was October, and piled on the covers. Whether because of the veterinarian's innovative treatment or in spite of it, Jake survived. No other Shellhammer sibling contracted the flu.
By the time the spring of 1919 arrived and the pandemic waned, an estimated 20 to 50 million people had died worldwide. Some put the estimate even higher at 100 million, three percent of the world's population. In 1919 the Spanish flu pandemic ended — after lowering life expectancy in the US by 12 years — and so did World War I, the war to end all wars that did not.
And one more thing of importance occurred that year. On February 10 at the age of two, my mother was finally given her name: Genevieve June. It was the name that her sister Babe had chosen for her.
The family's oldest child was a schoolteacher named Edna Grace, referred to as Babe and loved by all who knew her. She would have been considered a spinster at 27 years old were she not engaged to be married.
In 1918, American soldiers were fighting in World War I, the war to end all wars. But before the war ended, the Spanish flu, which began in the spring of 1918 as a relatively mild virus, mutated in autumn into a deadly, highly contagious influenza that curiously attacked young, healthy people usually unaffected by flu, and killed its victims within hours or days of the onset of symptoms. It killed more young soldiers in all armies than died in combat.
The Spanish flu pandemic killed over 675,000 people in the United States. One of them was Babe, Jake and Maude's beloved firstborn. When she became ill, the family called the town's doctor who placed her in a sealed room and didn't allow visitors. Not even her fiancé was allowed to see her. If her illness followed the course of others who died, her skin turned blue as her lungs filled with fluid and she slowly suffocated.
But the flu wasn't finished with the family. Another child, Jake, Jr., was stricken. Because of his failure to save Babe, the doctor had lost the family's confidence and they called the local veterinarian to care for Jake. His treatment was very different. He placed Jake in a room, opened all the windows though it was October, and piled on the covers. Whether because of the veterinarian's innovative treatment or in spite of it, Jake survived. No other Shellhammer sibling contracted the flu.
By the time the spring of 1919 arrived and the pandemic waned, an estimated 20 to 50 million people had died worldwide. Some put the estimate even higher at 100 million, three percent of the world's population. In 1919 the Spanish flu pandemic ended — after lowering life expectancy in the US by 12 years — and so did World War I, the war to end all wars that did not.
And one more thing of importance occurred that year. On February 10 at the age of two, my mother was finally given her name: Genevieve June. It was the name that her sister Babe had chosen for her.
Genevieve June Shellhammer Henry
It’s true: No good deed
goes unpunished
I will always think of this harrowing event as a "green jacket miracle."
Anyone who has ever received a parking ticket when the meter ran out while they were doing charitable work knows that no good deed goes unpunished. When I expressed that view to the meter maid who was writing my ticket, she continued writing and self-righteously replied that “a good deed should be its own reward.”
Well, yeah. I suppose that’s true . . . on whatever planet she’s from. Here on Earth I don’t expect rewards for doing good deeds, but neither do I anticipate a $2 fine.
My cousin Yola once had an expensive fender-bender while she was taking another cousin to the bus station. Yola’s rewards were double: no one was injured and the wreck wasn’t her fault. Still, she must have wondered if the deed wouldn’t have been just as good had she called a taxi for her cousin instead of serving as her personal chauffeur.
My friend Darlene suffered actual physical pain as a result of good deed doing. She was laid up for a week after she threw out her back while moving and setting up tables and chairs for a PTA function.
One of my good deeds gone potentially painfully bad involved my friend Ila. At the time, I was managing our county GOP political headquarters and had recently met Ila, who — although a member of the opposing party — was volunteering there to help a candidate who we mutually agreed was the best person for the office. When Rho, my bedfast friend, phoned to say she required help marking her absentee ballot, I thought it prudent to take along a witness. Ila readily agreed to accompany me to Rho’s home.
Once the ballot had been marked to Rho’s satisfaction, Ila and I spent quite a long time visiting with her as she was obviously grateful to have company. When I ran out of things to talk about — yes, it IS possible — Ila cheerfully regaled us with tales of her many charitable and church activities.
When Rho’s teenaged son came home, Ila and I said good-bye and started down the hall from the bedroom to the living room. I was a few steps ahead of Ila when the Hound from Hell attacked. Chaos — screams, barks, growls (some of them mine) — ensued. I kicked at the beast with my high heels and found as primary targets my own calves and ankles.
Suddenly, a green jacket mysteriously appeared in my hand. I waved it at the dog who grabbed it between his teeth and engaged me in a brief, but vicious, tug-of-war contest. I decided to let the dog have the jacket, made a dash for the front door and pushed through it with the snarling canine hot on my heels. The door slammed shut in the dog’s face and I stood safe on the porch. Whew!
As my pulse slowed and my breathing eased, I realized I had left Ila, whom I had last seen pressed against the far wall of the hall, trapped inside with the beast-dog. Thought of her made me wonder if, during my terrifying encounter with the dog, I had used words which might seem offensive to the ears of such a sweet and virtuous lady as Ila obviously is.
Abruptly, the door opened and Ila leaped through. As the door closed, she leaned against it and exclaimed, “#@&*#! I need a cigarette!”
I drove to the Court House, thinking that there I surely could find someone from whom I might bum a cigarette for Ila, who acknowledged that she hadn’t smoked in years (more accurately, that she hadn’t NEEDED to smoke in years).
We sat on the Court House steps and relived our horrific adventure while Ila attempted to calm her jangled nerves with a borrowed cigarette. “That was the biggest dog I ever saw in my life!” I said. “Was it a Rottweiler, Great Dane or Mastiff?”
“I don’t think it was quite that big,” Ila remarked, “but where on Earth did that jacket come from?”
“I haven’t a clue,” I answered. “It had to be a miracle. I think God must have handed it to me.”
When I recently encountered Ila, she told me that, while walking with a friend, she had been the victim of another dog which attacked her — “He came out of nowhere!” — and sent her to the hospital. While I was delighted that she had fully recovered from her injuries, I couldn’t help thinking that it was too bad she had been exercising instead of doing a good deed. A green jacket miracle would have come in handy.
Well, yeah. I suppose that’s true . . . on whatever planet she’s from. Here on Earth I don’t expect rewards for doing good deeds, but neither do I anticipate a $2 fine.
My cousin Yola once had an expensive fender-bender while she was taking another cousin to the bus station. Yola’s rewards were double: no one was injured and the wreck wasn’t her fault. Still, she must have wondered if the deed wouldn’t have been just as good had she called a taxi for her cousin instead of serving as her personal chauffeur.
My friend Darlene suffered actual physical pain as a result of good deed doing. She was laid up for a week after she threw out her back while moving and setting up tables and chairs for a PTA function.
One of my good deeds gone potentially painfully bad involved my friend Ila. At the time, I was managing our county GOP political headquarters and had recently met Ila, who — although a member of the opposing party — was volunteering there to help a candidate who we mutually agreed was the best person for the office. When Rho, my bedfast friend, phoned to say she required help marking her absentee ballot, I thought it prudent to take along a witness. Ila readily agreed to accompany me to Rho’s home.
Once the ballot had been marked to Rho’s satisfaction, Ila and I spent quite a long time visiting with her as she was obviously grateful to have company. When I ran out of things to talk about — yes, it IS possible — Ila cheerfully regaled us with tales of her many charitable and church activities.
When Rho’s teenaged son came home, Ila and I said good-bye and started down the hall from the bedroom to the living room. I was a few steps ahead of Ila when the Hound from Hell attacked. Chaos — screams, barks, growls (some of them mine) — ensued. I kicked at the beast with my high heels and found as primary targets my own calves and ankles.
Suddenly, a green jacket mysteriously appeared in my hand. I waved it at the dog who grabbed it between his teeth and engaged me in a brief, but vicious, tug-of-war contest. I decided to let the dog have the jacket, made a dash for the front door and pushed through it with the snarling canine hot on my heels. The door slammed shut in the dog’s face and I stood safe on the porch. Whew!
As my pulse slowed and my breathing eased, I realized I had left Ila, whom I had last seen pressed against the far wall of the hall, trapped inside with the beast-dog. Thought of her made me wonder if, during my terrifying encounter with the dog, I had used words which might seem offensive to the ears of such a sweet and virtuous lady as Ila obviously is.
Abruptly, the door opened and Ila leaped through. As the door closed, she leaned against it and exclaimed, “#@&*#! I need a cigarette!”
I drove to the Court House, thinking that there I surely could find someone from whom I might bum a cigarette for Ila, who acknowledged that she hadn’t smoked in years (more accurately, that she hadn’t NEEDED to smoke in years).
We sat on the Court House steps and relived our horrific adventure while Ila attempted to calm her jangled nerves with a borrowed cigarette. “That was the biggest dog I ever saw in my life!” I said. “Was it a Rottweiler, Great Dane or Mastiff?”
“I don’t think it was quite that big,” Ila remarked, “but where on Earth did that jacket come from?”
“I haven’t a clue,” I answered. “It had to be a miracle. I think God must have handed it to me.”
When I recently encountered Ila, she told me that, while walking with a friend, she had been the victim of another dog which attacked her — “He came out of nowhere!” — and sent her to the hospital. While I was delighted that she had fully recovered from her injuries, I couldn’t help thinking that it was too bad she had been exercising instead of doing a good deed. A green jacket miracle would have come in handy.
When trouble calls, call
Lillian and Justin
Lillian Lockwood with her Search and Rescue dog Justin
One of the coolest things I get to do as a writer is to shine a spotlight on amazing people and critters! Lillian Lockwood is an emergency room physician who also is half of a search and rescue team with her dog Justin, named after her nephew who was killed in Costa Rica at the tender age of 16 while on his high school's Spanish Club trip. Read about how Justin and Lillian are honoring her nephew's memory in the latest issue of Topeka Magazine by clicking HERE.
Lillian wants Justin to be comfortable in all environments so she familiarized him with helicopters in case they have to utilize one to go to an area inaccessible by vehicle.
The smiling bureaucrat
Is NO easier to take from a smiling bureaucrat? NO, it is not.
The bureaucrat in the graphic above looks mean. Mine today at the Driver’s License Bureau had a smile on his face and a pleasant enough demeanor but his NO answer was the same. So I ask you: Is a smiling bureaucrat better than a frowning bureaucrat? Not, in my opinion, if the result is the same.
The instructions are clear: If you want your Driver’s License to be a Real ID you can use to board airplanes, you must bring documents, many documents. For me that was bringing: 1) a Birth Certificate showing proof of lawful presence; 2) a 1099 showing my full Social Security Number; my current Driver’s License and a Credit Card Statement showing my current address. Sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? I thought so, too, until my bureaucrat perused my documents , then said, “The names on your Birth Certificate and the other documents don’t match. The name on your Birth Certificate is different.”
“That’s because I wasn’t married when I was born,” I said. But here’s the deal. My home state apparently lost the cards my mother and the doctor who delivered me sent to the Oklahoma Bureau of Vital Statistics. Hence, at the advanced age of 44, I had to get a delayed Birth Certificate in order to obtain a passport. How did I do that? Easy-peasy. I sent an Affidavit of Personal Knowledge from my mother who claimed she was present at my birth; my son Greg’s Birth Certificate listing my age at his birth; and my school record listing my parents’ names and my age when I entered high school.
Those documents prevented me from doing what I wanted to do when I realized I had to get a delayed Certificate of Birth. I told my sister Lesta, 13 months younger than I, that I was going to be younger than she was! I figured the hassle was worth shaving a few years off my age, don’t you?
I told my bureaucrat that my present name was on my Birth Certificate. And it is. Although the certificate lists my name at birth as Marsha Lou Henry, on the Delayed Certificate of Birth itself, I had to sign and have notarized an Affidavit of Registrant (person whose birth is being recorded). My signature on the document which is actually a part of the Birth Certificate is Marsha Lou Henry Goff. That proof of change of my name seemed obvious to me. Sadly, my bureaucrat didn’t see it that way.
So Ray and I drove all the way home so I could get our marriage license (how many of you have one of those handy?) and bring it back. Two trips there and back adds up to 60 miles just to get a Real ID Driver's License with a gold star on it. All that and 20 bucks, too. And when I expected to get some sympathy from good friends Betty and Louie by telling them about my horrendous experience, they had even worse stories about their Driver's License renewals. Seems everyone has had a bad experience there. What's yours?
The instructions are clear: If you want your Driver’s License to be a Real ID you can use to board airplanes, you must bring documents, many documents. For me that was bringing: 1) a Birth Certificate showing proof of lawful presence; 2) a 1099 showing my full Social Security Number; my current Driver’s License and a Credit Card Statement showing my current address. Sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? I thought so, too, until my bureaucrat perused my documents , then said, “The names on your Birth Certificate and the other documents don’t match. The name on your Birth Certificate is different.”
“That’s because I wasn’t married when I was born,” I said. But here’s the deal. My home state apparently lost the cards my mother and the doctor who delivered me sent to the Oklahoma Bureau of Vital Statistics. Hence, at the advanced age of 44, I had to get a delayed Birth Certificate in order to obtain a passport. How did I do that? Easy-peasy. I sent an Affidavit of Personal Knowledge from my mother who claimed she was present at my birth; my son Greg’s Birth Certificate listing my age at his birth; and my school record listing my parents’ names and my age when I entered high school.
Those documents prevented me from doing what I wanted to do when I realized I had to get a delayed Certificate of Birth. I told my sister Lesta, 13 months younger than I, that I was going to be younger than she was! I figured the hassle was worth shaving a few years off my age, don’t you?
I told my bureaucrat that my present name was on my Birth Certificate. And it is. Although the certificate lists my name at birth as Marsha Lou Henry, on the Delayed Certificate of Birth itself, I had to sign and have notarized an Affidavit of Registrant (person whose birth is being recorded). My signature on the document which is actually a part of the Birth Certificate is Marsha Lou Henry Goff. That proof of change of my name seemed obvious to me. Sadly, my bureaucrat didn’t see it that way.
So Ray and I drove all the way home so I could get our marriage license (how many of you have one of those handy?) and bring it back. Two trips there and back adds up to 60 miles just to get a Real ID Driver's License with a gold star on it. All that and 20 bucks, too. And when I expected to get some sympathy from good friends Betty and Louie by telling them about my horrendous experience, they had even worse stories about their Driver's License renewals. Seems everyone has had a bad experience there. What's yours?
Six documents and two trips totaling 60 miles just to get a gold star on my Driver's License.
Free book for you ... just 'cause
Click on book cover to go to Amazon for your free book!
Facebook reminded me that three years ago, I offered this book free so I decided to do it again from now through February 5. It's up to you whether you believe this unacknowledged mission happened. If you want to tell me what you decide, please click on CONTACT above to do so. I'd love to know what you think.
WW II Rangers deserve the
Congressional Gold Medal
My father, Lt. L. Lew Henry, and his friend Lt. William "Ace" Andreson, two Rangers still healing in Naples from wounds received in combat.
Of 16 million American military in World War II, only 7,000 were Rangers. Today there are only about 40 of those living. There are currently bills in Congress (S1757 in the Senate and HR5002 in the House) to award the Congressional Gold Medal to WW II Rangers. Dad was in Darby's Rangers (the 1st, 3rd and 4th Battalions. that you'll read about below. On June 6, 1944, he 2nd and 5th Ranger Battalions were part of the massive D-Day invasion of France. The 2nd Battalion climbed up the cliffs of Normandy while the 2nd Battalion landed on Omaha Beach and used Bangalore torpedoes to blast their way through the barbwire that barred their advance. The 6th Ranger Battalion in the Pacific rescued 512 Bataan Death March survivors from the Japanese prison camp 30 miles behind enemy ines at Cabanatuan, Philippines. If you think the WW II Rangers deserve the CGM, you can help by writing or calling your senator or congressional representative and asking them to sponsor their respective bill.
Seventy-six years ago—on January 30, 1944—767 men of the 1st and 3rd Battalions of US Army Rangers, known as Darby’s Rangers, slogged through the Pantano irrigation ditch toward Cisterna. Only eight days previously, they had spearheaded the invasion of Anzio.
The Rangers were special operations forces who had invaded Africa in 1942 and battled Rommel, then spearheaded the first invasions of Europe at Sicily and Salerno and fought their way through the freezing, muddy and ultimately bloody mountains of Italy. Their successes were unparalleled.
This time, however, fate conspired against them. Col. Darby’s protests that the plan was an inappropriate use of his Rangers were ignored. “I have my orders,” he told his Rangers, “and you have yours.” The intelligence was faulty; planners believed reconnaissance that indicated the main line of German resistance was behind Cisterna. Even when an Army Air Corps pilot flew his A-36A fighter-bomber over the area and reported that he saw a large number of concealed Panzers and self-propelled guns where they should not be, he was told to stand down and return to his tent.
We now know that what he observed was evidence that the Germans, unknown to the Allies, had chosen Cisterna as the assembly area for its reinforcement divisions for the counterattack on the beachhead where they hoped to drive Allied forces into the sea. Estimates of the German force around Cisterna ranged from 71,000 to 80,000 combatants.
The final nail in the Ranger’s coffin was when a young Polish conscript serving with the Germans deserted to the Rangers and attempted to warn them of the ambush ahead. However, no one understood his language so they sent him to the rear for interrogation which did not occur until after the battle.
The ring of tens of thousands of enemy soldiers and heavy armaments surrounding the Rangers was impossible to penetrate although the 4th Rangers, in trying to do so, suffered more casualties that day than did the other two battalions combined. Very few escaped being killed or captured. Some historians say as few as eight of the 767 men returned to Allied lines.
Seventy-six years ago—on January 30, 1944—767 men of the 1st and 3rd Battalions of US Army Rangers, known as Darby’s Rangers, slogged through the Pantano irrigation ditch toward Cisterna. Only eight days previously, they had spearheaded the invasion of Anzio.
The Rangers were special operations forces who had invaded Africa in 1942 and battled Rommel, then spearheaded the first invasions of Europe at Sicily and Salerno and fought their way through the freezing, muddy and ultimately bloody mountains of Italy. Their successes were unparalleled.
This time, however, fate conspired against them. Col. Darby’s protests that the plan was an inappropriate use of his Rangers were ignored. “I have my orders,” he told his Rangers, “and you have yours.” The intelligence was faulty; planners believed reconnaissance that indicated the main line of German resistance was behind Cisterna. Even when an Army Air Corps pilot flew his A-36A fighter-bomber over the area and reported that he saw a large number of concealed Panzers and self-propelled guns where they should not be, he was told to stand down and return to his tent.
We now know that what he observed was evidence that the Germans, unknown to the Allies, had chosen Cisterna as the assembly area for its reinforcement divisions for the counterattack on the beachhead where they hoped to drive Allied forces into the sea. Estimates of the German force around Cisterna ranged from 71,000 to 80,000 combatants.
The final nail in the Ranger’s coffin was when a young Polish conscript serving with the Germans deserted to the Rangers and attempted to warn them of the ambush ahead. However, no one understood his language so they sent him to the rear for interrogation which did not occur until after the battle.
The ring of tens of thousands of enemy soldiers and heavy armaments surrounding the Rangers was impossible to penetrate although the 4th Rangers, in trying to do so, suffered more casualties that day than did the other two battalions combined. Very few escaped being killed or captured. Some historians say as few as eight of the 767 men returned to Allied lines.
Sure, the windows are clean,
but, oh, the pain!
Because the back is a walkout, there are twice as many windows there. What were we thinking? Didn't we know that some day we'd have to wash them?
Any woman dumb enough to wash 54 mostly really BIG windows, inside and out, in a two day span should probably have expected to mess up her rotator cuff. After the fact, I looked up what causes that injury and right up there on the list is repetitive movement. But that was the last of September and, while I can still use it, I pay the price because it HURTS … a lot! I can lift my arm over my head now, which I couldn’t do at first, but I can’t reach behind me with my right arm which makes doing a lot of things — like putting on and taking off a coat — very difficult.
A few years ago, I messed up my meniscus (can you spell klutz?) and were it not diagnosed by not one, but two, MRIs, I would think I was misdiagnosed. Why? Because although I hobbled around for about a year and a half (to be fair, part of that time was due to my achilles injury), my knee doesn’t limit me now in any way. Hubby and I walk a lot, I can climb stairs, ladders to wash windows, I’m good with all of that.
What made the difference — and I’m disgruntled to say that the company isn’t giving me one thin dime for this testimony — are two little wraps: one, a cold cure with gel packs I keep in the fridge or freezer, and the other an electrical wrap called BFST which stands for Blood Flow Stimulation Therapy.
I’m cautious by nature so I consulted my orthopedic surgeon who was already sharpening his scalpel before I tried BFST and, while he said he didn’t think it would help, he assured me it would do no harm. So, convinced if NFL players used the products for their torn meniscuses that it would help lil ole non-athletic me, I ordered it. Odd thing about that BFST wrap is when it was set to 1, I couldn't feel any heat, but my knee warmed. It worked so well that last year when son Greg injured his knee, I told him about BFST. He ordered one and it worked for him, too.
So after suffering for four months (the wraps aren't cheap but I am), I ordered two wraps for my shoulder and they were delivered today by our great FEMAIL rural carrier. The shoulder wrap is a lot bigger and a lot harder to strap on than the simple knee wrap, but I’ve used the cold cure wrap today and will use it tomorrow before starting the BFST on Wednesday. I could have had them Saturday according to online tracking but the wimpy guy who was supposed to deliver it said the delivery couldn’t be made because the location was not accessible. Never mind that my husband and I had made several trips up and down our long snow-plowed driveway on Saturday, it looked too difficult to him. So much for through rain, snow and gloom of night.
If I feel as much better once I start the BFST as I did with my knee, I will be the happiest of campers. One more thing. I no longer do windows.
A few years ago, I messed up my meniscus (can you spell klutz?) and were it not diagnosed by not one, but two, MRIs, I would think I was misdiagnosed. Why? Because although I hobbled around for about a year and a half (to be fair, part of that time was due to my achilles injury), my knee doesn’t limit me now in any way. Hubby and I walk a lot, I can climb stairs, ladders to wash windows, I’m good with all of that.
What made the difference — and I’m disgruntled to say that the company isn’t giving me one thin dime for this testimony — are two little wraps: one, a cold cure with gel packs I keep in the fridge or freezer, and the other an electrical wrap called BFST which stands for Blood Flow Stimulation Therapy.
I’m cautious by nature so I consulted my orthopedic surgeon who was already sharpening his scalpel before I tried BFST and, while he said he didn’t think it would help, he assured me it would do no harm. So, convinced if NFL players used the products for their torn meniscuses that it would help lil ole non-athletic me, I ordered it. Odd thing about that BFST wrap is when it was set to 1, I couldn't feel any heat, but my knee warmed. It worked so well that last year when son Greg injured his knee, I told him about BFST. He ordered one and it worked for him, too.
So after suffering for four months (the wraps aren't cheap but I am), I ordered two wraps for my shoulder and they were delivered today by our great FEMAIL rural carrier. The shoulder wrap is a lot bigger and a lot harder to strap on than the simple knee wrap, but I’ve used the cold cure wrap today and will use it tomorrow before starting the BFST on Wednesday. I could have had them Saturday according to online tracking but the wimpy guy who was supposed to deliver it said the delivery couldn’t be made because the location was not accessible. Never mind that my husband and I had made several trips up and down our long snow-plowed driveway on Saturday, it looked too difficult to him. So much for through rain, snow and gloom of night.
If I feel as much better once I start the BFST as I did with my knee, I will be the happiest of campers. One more thing. I no longer do windows.
My prostate is the size of a
LEMON!
It must be true because that’s what the latest email from someone offering help for my enlarged prostate tells me. And yet a prostate wasn’t part of my original equipment. I haven’t had one added so I guess that emailer — like so many others who email me cures for my ED, male-pattern baldness or offer hot (women) dates — mistakenly thinks I’m an aging male who has a prostate the size of a lemon, male-pattern baldness or wants a hot date but wouldn’t know what to do with her since I have ED. Maybe they think I’m Harvey Weinstein, but no, the emails begin with Dear Marsha. Somewhere there must be a boy with the name of Marsha since Johnny Cash knew a boy named Sue.
But you know what bothers me most regarding that email about my non-existent prostate? It’s the fact it compares the size of it to a lemon! Twenty years ago, I wrote a column about my breast cancer in which I lamented the fact that the doctors for three of my friends with the disease compared their respective tumor size to that of a lemon, lime and pecan. “What is this?” I demanded of Ray when I heard about the fruit and nut comparisons. “Do they think women only understand produce?”
I guess we’ve come full-circle when the writer who wrote that copy presumes that men, too, only understand produce. But, frankly, were I a man who had an enlarged prostate, I’d prefer the doctor find another way to describe it: Inches? Centimeters? It wouldn’t matter as long as they didn’t compare it to fruit and nuts.
If you’d like to read my column titled Humor lightens the darkest days, click here.
But you know what bothers me most regarding that email about my non-existent prostate? It’s the fact it compares the size of it to a lemon! Twenty years ago, I wrote a column about my breast cancer in which I lamented the fact that the doctors for three of my friends with the disease compared their respective tumor size to that of a lemon, lime and pecan. “What is this?” I demanded of Ray when I heard about the fruit and nut comparisons. “Do they think women only understand produce?”
I guess we’ve come full-circle when the writer who wrote that copy presumes that men, too, only understand produce. But, frankly, were I a man who had an enlarged prostate, I’d prefer the doctor find another way to describe it: Inches? Centimeters? It wouldn’t matter as long as they didn’t compare it to fruit and nuts.
If you’d like to read my column titled Humor lightens the darkest days, click here.
The unca$hed check
Grandpa in his fur warehouse.
My grandparents who lived in the small town of Sabetha, Kansas, were said to own the biggest junkyard in Northeastern Kansas. I’m told the business saw the town through the Depression and also through WW II. The junkyard was a marvel to me as a child. It comprised an entire city block. Grandma and Grandpa’s home was in the middle of the block on the west side and they had two rental houses on the corners. A horseshoe drive extended east to the property line.
Once the leg of the drive to the south of their home passed the house, the garage behind it and Grandpa’s big fur warehouse — where he housed the pelts that trappers sold to him — huge piles of sorted metals lined the drive on each side.
The north leg of the drive ran between their rental house and the home Grandpa had purchased for his father. It’s a pity that families don’t always get along. Grandpa and Great-granddad once had a cordial relationship (after all, Grandpa bought him a house) until Great-granddad, in his mid-90s and long a widower, acquired a 35-year-old girlfriend. Grandpa didn’t approve and apparently made known that fact. I suspect he thought she was a gold-digger and odds are she was because not often does a 35-year-old divorcee fall in love with a 96-year-old gentleman.
Anyway, Great-granddad sent a letter to his son telling him that some of his iron was encroaching on his property (the property Grandpa gave to him) and he needed to get it off or he would have it removed. I do not know whether the two men made peace before Great-granddad died at 98-and-a-half but I hope they did. However, if they did settle their differences, Great-granddad forgot to change his will. He left the house Grandpa bought him to his other children and bequeathed Grandpa the sum of one dollar. I have the check now because Grandpa never cashed it. Hey, do you suppose the money that check represents has been sitting in the bank drawing interest and compounding for over 75 years?
Nope! Me neither.
Once the leg of the drive to the south of their home passed the house, the garage behind it and Grandpa’s big fur warehouse — where he housed the pelts that trappers sold to him — huge piles of sorted metals lined the drive on each side.
The north leg of the drive ran between their rental house and the home Grandpa had purchased for his father. It’s a pity that families don’t always get along. Grandpa and Great-granddad once had a cordial relationship (after all, Grandpa bought him a house) until Great-granddad, in his mid-90s and long a widower, acquired a 35-year-old girlfriend. Grandpa didn’t approve and apparently made known that fact. I suspect he thought she was a gold-digger and odds are she was because not often does a 35-year-old divorcee fall in love with a 96-year-old gentleman.
Anyway, Great-granddad sent a letter to his son telling him that some of his iron was encroaching on his property (the property Grandpa gave to him) and he needed to get it off or he would have it removed. I do not know whether the two men made peace before Great-granddad died at 98-and-a-half but I hope they did. However, if they did settle their differences, Great-granddad forgot to change his will. He left the house Grandpa bought him to his other children and bequeathed Grandpa the sum of one dollar. I have the check now because Grandpa never cashed it. Hey, do you suppose the money that check represents has been sitting in the bank drawing interest and compounding for over 75 years?
Nope! Me neither.
Honoring all veterans
Every time Ray and I drove on SW 29th Street in Topeka, I noticed in the front yard of a home the lifesize silhouette of a soldier praying in front of a battlefield cross and a white cross. The Stars and Stripes and a POW flag flew over the silhouettes at half-staff. I always said, "Some time, I'm going to find out what the story is behind that tribute." One day I made good on my statement and got a better story than I had imagined. If you would like to read it, click HERE to go directly to the article:
This is what I saw every time we drove by the neatly-kept house and yard on Topeka's SW 29th Street. Wouldn't it pique your curiosity?
Was Senior Spring as hot as these
books? Doubtful, very doubtful
I've read all these books and more, but the book I'd like to reread is Senior Spring. Sadly, there's not a copy to be found; all the high school librarians must have burned them.
I’d love to read the book Senior Spring again and see if it is as risqué as we high school girls — and especially our sweet old maiden lady librarian — thought. When it was finally returned to the school library, she read it and pulled it from the shelf. The story around school was that the mile-long waiting list for the book is what piqued the librarian’s curiosity.
I have always wondered if she read all of it or just enough to be appalled that she’d bought it for the library and possibly corrupted innocent young girls. However, she shouldn’t have blamed herself because Senior Spring is an innocuous title. Who would have expected it to be pornographic? And now I am wondering how she disposed of the book. Did she have a private book burning in her backyard?
I don’t know how many girls read the book before I did. Sally loaned the book to me after she read it. I learned many years later that Martha was the girl who had checked it out. She swears that she didn’t pay a fine, but I know it was long overdue when I read it and I no longer remember to whom I passed it after I finished it. “Someone may have paid a fine,” Martha insists, “but I didn’t.”
I do remember there was a lot of heavy petting in the book and some clothing removed. You’d think I’d remember how far the sexcapades went, but I don’t. The only phrase I remember with absolute clarity is, “I think I’ll wear the sweater that’s the color of yellow chicken feathers.” Actually, those may not be the exact words, but sweater and yellow and chicken feathers were definitely in there.
I suppose the book was unacceptable reading for high school girls, but I don’t remember being scandalized by it. Of course, I had read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn when I was in third grade, shocking my teacher when she found out. I routinely read all of my mother’s Literary Guild book club books. I didn’t necessarily understand all of them and couldn’t pronounce all of the words. It is why for years after I encountered the word fusillade in Wake of the Red Witch, I pronounced it fullisade, dyslectic though I’m not.
I’ve searched in vain for Senior Spring just so I could reread it and find out how bad it actually was. I’m pretty sure it would pale beside Lady Chatterley’s Lover which I read long ago, Fifty Shades of Gray, not so long ago, or The Total Woman, a book my friend Betty loaned me that I kept hidden in the linen closet so the kids wouldn’t find it. Funny, all I remember about the latter book is that it advocated something I never did: Not once did I greet my husband at the door wearing nothing but clear plastic wrap. What would the kids have thought?
Joan Martin's art is ageless
Baby Joan and 88-year-old Joan
I love to write about interesting people. In a recent article, I wrote about Joan Hagan Martin, an 88-year-old artist who taught watercolor until her 87th year. Joan grew up in Lawrence, with sojourns in Kansas City, California and Los Vegas, but she returned to her hometown several years ago. If you would like to read about this remarkable woman, click here for the article which begins on page 18.
The downside about writing about a wonderful artist like Joan is my tendency to spend the money I make writing by purchasing their works. I have purchased 18 (three designs) of Joan's laminated watercolor placemats. Two designs are pictured below.
The downside about writing about a wonderful artist like Joan is my tendency to spend the money I make writing by purchasing their works. I have purchased 18 (three designs) of Joan's laminated watercolor placemats. Two designs are pictured below.
A breakfast plate on this placemat ensures a cheery start to the day.
I couldn't resist buying these placemats that Joan named "Grandma's Place."
Lawrence: Site of
"Big Dam Foolishness"
Click on the cover above to read the history of the Lawrence Chamber of Commerce which is actually the history of Lawrence itself.
In the late 1990s, I was commissioned to write a history of the Lawrence Chamber of Commerce. At the time, I knew little about the Chamber and was not a member, nor am I now although I was a member for several years after I wrote the history simply because I had learned enough to support its mission. I was commissioned again in 1999 to update the history and that was finished in 2000. It hasn’t been updated since, but the Chamber has still been busy working to improve our city.
Few know the many businesses the Chamber has brought to town: Reuter Organ, Hallmark, Holiday Inn, Co-op, Westvaco (then FMC, Astaris and now ICL) and so many more. Nor are they aware that the Chamber was often the genesis of entities we take for granted: Lone Star Lake, Sunflower Army Ammunition where at one time one-half of the city’s working population and one-sixth of its total population was employed, New York School in conjunction with the CCC, and Clinton Lake to name a few. The Chamber had its fingerprints on almost every positive thing that has happened in Lawrence and the surrounding area.
It was the Chamber that provided employment for men without jobs during the Depression and later helped Lawrence host the premiere of The Dark Command, a movie about Quantrill’s Raid. The Chamber helped Lawrence recover after the devastating 1903 and 1951 Kaw floods and tried to bring peace to a town racked with riots during a turbulent period in 1970 that resulted in the deaths of two young people, the shooting of a police officer and the burning of the Student Union at KU.
Who knew the Chamber had a hand in the construction of Allen Fieldhouse or the airport or the once controversial but now heavily traveled K-10 Bypass known as the South Lawrence Trafficway? Or that, through a non-profit corporation it created, it purchased the land for Centennial Park, then sold it to the City for the sum of one dollar? The Chamber also was involved in supporting many bond issues for school projects, including the building of a second high school. And the Chamber always sponsored events that would bring throngs of people (and their money) to the community: The National Corn-Husking Contest in 1939, bike races, marathons, Independence Day Festivals and lots more.
If you care about the history of our city and would like to know some of the stories behind the stories, you’ll want to read about the city that was once the site of “big dam foolishness” as people tried and failed to dam the Kaw River. Lawrence was derided as a town "not worth a dam" or the worst town "by a dam site."
Here’s how the Chamber felt about Lawrence in a brochure published in 1938:
LAWRENCE
1/2 way East, 1/2 way West
1/2 way North, 1/2 way South
The Center of the World
Many decades later, Google Earth saw it the same way.
Few know the many businesses the Chamber has brought to town: Reuter Organ, Hallmark, Holiday Inn, Co-op, Westvaco (then FMC, Astaris and now ICL) and so many more. Nor are they aware that the Chamber was often the genesis of entities we take for granted: Lone Star Lake, Sunflower Army Ammunition where at one time one-half of the city’s working population and one-sixth of its total population was employed, New York School in conjunction with the CCC, and Clinton Lake to name a few. The Chamber had its fingerprints on almost every positive thing that has happened in Lawrence and the surrounding area.
It was the Chamber that provided employment for men without jobs during the Depression and later helped Lawrence host the premiere of The Dark Command, a movie about Quantrill’s Raid. The Chamber helped Lawrence recover after the devastating 1903 and 1951 Kaw floods and tried to bring peace to a town racked with riots during a turbulent period in 1970 that resulted in the deaths of two young people, the shooting of a police officer and the burning of the Student Union at KU.
Who knew the Chamber had a hand in the construction of Allen Fieldhouse or the airport or the once controversial but now heavily traveled K-10 Bypass known as the South Lawrence Trafficway? Or that, through a non-profit corporation it created, it purchased the land for Centennial Park, then sold it to the City for the sum of one dollar? The Chamber also was involved in supporting many bond issues for school projects, including the building of a second high school. And the Chamber always sponsored events that would bring throngs of people (and their money) to the community: The National Corn-Husking Contest in 1939, bike races, marathons, Independence Day Festivals and lots more.
If you care about the history of our city and would like to know some of the stories behind the stories, you’ll want to read about the city that was once the site of “big dam foolishness” as people tried and failed to dam the Kaw River. Lawrence was derided as a town "not worth a dam" or the worst town "by a dam site."
Here’s how the Chamber felt about Lawrence in a brochure published in 1938:
LAWRENCE
1/2 way East, 1/2 way West
1/2 way North, 1/2 way South
The Center of the World
Many decades later, Google Earth saw it the same way.
Creative costumes for my kids
Back in the day when I had more time than money, I liked to make Halloween costumes for our boys. In the above photo, Ray, Jr. (aka Butch) sports a KU uniform and a papier mache Jayhawk mask while Greg wears an LHS uniform and a Chesty Lion mask. You wouldn’t believe how many hours, strips of newspaper and flour paste went into those masks. And yet those weren’t the best costumes I made them.
Oh no, those would have been the costumes transforming Butch into the Red Baron and Greg into that beloved dog Snoopy. I regret not having photos of the kids wearing those costumes. I used red poster board to make a 3-D Fokker tri-plane, complete with wings, propeller and tail with a German cross insignia. He wore it hanging from his shoulders with string and completed the look with a brown leather helmet. I crafted Snoopy’s 3-D white doghouse out of white poster board with a red poster board roof, which hung from Greg’s shoulders with string. A papier mache Snoopy mask completed the costume.
The costumes were good enough to take either second or third prize (I forget which; maybe it was second and third) at the Torey Southwick Halloween show at the Lawrence Community Building. Southwick with his puppet Gus was a popular kids’ show in the 1960s. But what I really remember about those costumes was walking the kids around the neighborhood on Halloween night in the worst Halloween snowstorm I can remember. Snowflakes as large as chicken feathers were blowing toward us as we canvassed the blocks for lighted porches. The kids weren’t content until we had covered our customary route. As a bonus for braving the weather, they collected more candy than usual. They weren’t the only kids out trick-or-treating, but numbers were lower than usual and I’m pretty sure I was the only pedestrian mother out that night.
Oh no, those would have been the costumes transforming Butch into the Red Baron and Greg into that beloved dog Snoopy. I regret not having photos of the kids wearing those costumes. I used red poster board to make a 3-D Fokker tri-plane, complete with wings, propeller and tail with a German cross insignia. He wore it hanging from his shoulders with string and completed the look with a brown leather helmet. I crafted Snoopy’s 3-D white doghouse out of white poster board with a red poster board roof, which hung from Greg’s shoulders with string. A papier mache Snoopy mask completed the costume.
The costumes were good enough to take either second or third prize (I forget which; maybe it was second and third) at the Torey Southwick Halloween show at the Lawrence Community Building. Southwick with his puppet Gus was a popular kids’ show in the 1960s. But what I really remember about those costumes was walking the kids around the neighborhood on Halloween night in the worst Halloween snowstorm I can remember. Snowflakes as large as chicken feathers were blowing toward us as we canvassed the blocks for lighted porches. The kids weren’t content until we had covered our customary route. As a bonus for braving the weather, they collected more candy than usual. They weren’t the only kids out trick-or-treating, but numbers were lower than usual and I’m pretty sure I was the only pedestrian mother out that night.
Here is a photo of Torey Southwick and Gus. I don’t know which one judged the costume contest, but I’d sure like to see the costume than won first.
Nasty job on both ends
Although this was written about a year and a half ago after Ray and I received the all clear, it has taken me this long to actually publish it. Why? Well, because to a lot of people, reading about poop, even if it might save their lives, is disgusting. What overrode my concerns about that? I lost a favorite cousin to colon cancer simply because he wouldn't have a colonoscopy and he didn't know there was another way to test for that disease. This test at home he might have done. If my humorous take on it pushes one person to try the test, my work here is done.
Dave Berry once wrote a hilarious column describing his colonoscopy and the messy process leading up to it. However, his graphic description caused husband Ray and me to decide we were going to skip that procedure in favor of a heavily advertised test that you complete in the comfort of your home (bathroom to be precise) without the need for cleaning out your entrails with laxatives and enemas. The kit is delivered to your door in a box and you just drop it off at UPS when you’ve completed the nasty job.
And that is the hard part. You open the box, remove a large white plastic gadget, unfold it and clamp it onto the bowl of your toilet. Then you drop the accompanying plastic pot through the hole in the gadget, put down the lid and go. Sounds easy, but it is not because it just doesn’t seem natural to poop — for the record, I know words like defecate and excrete, but I avoid polysyllabic words when a word of one syllable suffices — in the white plastic pot and let it remain there. In the words of the late great George Carlin, you don’t take one, you leave one.
Even weirder is that you send ALL of it back. This isn’t the test for occult blood that your grandmother knew … the one where she used a popsicle stick to get a smear of poop to send back on a cardboard slide. Oh no, they want to analyze the entire poop for DNA to ensure you do not have colon cancer. The instructions warn you not to allow the poop to extend over the top of the pot … as if that were possible. An elephant might be able to fill the pot to capacity, but I seriously doubt if a human could.
I read the instructions to Ray and the look of astonishment on his face reminded me of the time I took the boys to the doctor for physicals. Greg, then 4-years-old, went with the nurse first and came out holding two stainless steel cups. He presented one to Butch, his 9-year-old brother, who asked, “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“You’re supposed to potty in it.”
“WHAT? No!”
“Yes, really,” said Greg, his eyes as big and round as saucers, “Really, REEEELY!”
Ray had to read the instructions himself before he believed them. We’ll skip the part where we got the poop in the pot — you already know how that works — and go to the part where you take a little plastic wand with grooves in it, slather it with poop and place it in the supplied liquid-filled tube. Then you take the big bottle filled with poop preservative which is also supplied and pour it into the pot with the poop. Put the lid on and screw it down tight, place it in the holding tray (there’s also a slot for the little tube with the wand), put the whole shebang in a zippered plastic bag to avoid spills (God forbid), put it back in the box, seal it, slap on the return label and deliver it to UPS.
The box is emblazoned in the big, bright and oh so familiar logo of the test (a plain brown wrapper would have been nice), so everyone knows exactly what you are delivering. “I’d rather be sending it, than receiving it,” I said to the guy who took the box.
And that makes me think: How would you like to be the person whose job it is to open those boxes and the plastic pots inside? Perhaps that is one of the jobs they tell us that Americans simply won’t do.
My sister Vicki's new book
My sister Vicki Julian has just published a new book titled If it Hadn’t Happened to Me, a collaborative work of non-fiction stories told by those who experienced supernatural or unexplained events. Whether describing a dramatic near death experience, contact from beyond or just a simple premonition, the stories are interesting because of the credibility of the story contributors. Many have never spoken of their experiences and have chosen anonymity because they fear being regarded as kooks.
Vicki persuaded me to contribute two stories. One is about our mother who appeared to have remarkable ESP powers. She once predicted I would have a wreck (my first and I feel compelled to say that it wasn’t my fault. Still, it happened the very day she predicted it and that made quite an impression on me). Sadly, Mom’s powers skipped me. The closest I have come is knowing who is calling as I’m walking to a ringing phone (I’m not always right, but many times I am). The story I wrote for Vicki’s anthology about Mom is titled “The Telegram” and it was typical of Mom’s sixth sense. Plus, she had a couple of well-documented and believable contacts from beyond, something I would love to experience, but never have.
The story of my experience is not dramatic, just a most unusual occurrence for me. I had never experienced it before and haven’t experienced it since although I would love to do so. In reading the book, mine seems rather tame compared to others but it was memorable enough that I haven’t forgotten it.
Vicki’s book is available on Amazon as both a print and E-book.
Vicki persuaded me to contribute two stories. One is about our mother who appeared to have remarkable ESP powers. She once predicted I would have a wreck (my first and I feel compelled to say that it wasn’t my fault. Still, it happened the very day she predicted it and that made quite an impression on me). Sadly, Mom’s powers skipped me. The closest I have come is knowing who is calling as I’m walking to a ringing phone (I’m not always right, but many times I am). The story I wrote for Vicki’s anthology about Mom is titled “The Telegram” and it was typical of Mom’s sixth sense. Plus, she had a couple of well-documented and believable contacts from beyond, something I would love to experience, but never have.
The story of my experience is not dramatic, just a most unusual occurrence for me. I had never experienced it before and haven’t experienced it since although I would love to do so. In reading the book, mine seems rather tame compared to others but it was memorable enough that I haven’t forgotten it.
Vicki’s book is available on Amazon as both a print and E-book.
Katie the Riveter meets
Ike's granddaughter
Katie meets Mary Jean Eisenhower on June 6, 2019 at the Eisenhower Presidential Library in Abilene, Kansas.
I wrote a story about Katie and a few other Rosies who attended and were honored along with attending WW II veterans at the Eisenhower Presidential Library on the 75th Anniversary of the D-Day Normandy invasion. You may read the story in Amazing Aging, the newspaper I edit and write for Jayhawk Area Agency on Aging, by clicking here. Another story about Katie appeared in Topeka Magazine. You may read that by scrolling down or searching for Katie the Riveter. You may have to do that a second or third time to reach that article because the first search may take you here (same words in both titles and in this post; I should be more original).
Ray Goff doesn't have his first
or second or thirtieth car . . .
Bob's car, not ours, but ours was exactly like it. We called the colors Mustard and Avacado.
I recently wrote a story for posting on our high school class website about our friend Bob who still has the first car he purchased as a college sophomore: a 1955 Studebaker President Speedster. It was produced for only one year and only 2,215 were made. Ray and I owned a car identical to his and posting about Bob's car made me nostalgic so I also wrote the following post about my husband's relationship with cars.
Many years ago, I bought Ray this little statue of Garfield the Cat, clutching a mouse in one paw, while holding another mouse with his other paw. The statue’s base is emblazoned with the words, “It’s not the having, it’s the getting.” That describes Ray’s relationships with cars exactly. We’d be filthy rich if he had kept all of his cars to sell in today’s market. Sadly, he had to sell one to buy the next one he wanted. But we had fun driving them. Oh, yes, we did!
Understand this: I am married to a man who felt he had to own — at least briefly — every car he coveted in high school and later. The “Real Steel Autos” under Posts by Topic on this website describes many of the cars we have owned and includes the tales that only they can tell. About our Speedster: Ray wants you to know that the Speedster was aptly named. The top speed on the speedometer was 160 mph and he says it did every bit of that. Whether Bob has pushed his speedometer that high, I do not know, but I know that Ray did and I admit it only because I’m confident the statute of limitations is up on that offense.
I learned a lot about cars from Ray, but some things I learned from experience. For example, the noise I hear coming from the engine isn’t there until Ray hears it. Also, do you know that cars have the ability to sense estrogen sitting behind the wheel? We owned a 1983 Cadillac Seville that proved they do. The Caddy? We still have that car. I don’t think it’s been driven since 1996 but we have it in case Ray decides to take up car restoration again. In truth, I’m the one who didn’t want to sell that car for a hefty price when we had the opportunity. Pretty silly of me but I really liked the Caddy until it was totaled in a hailstorm.
Understand this: I am married to a man who felt he had to own — at least briefly — every car he coveted in high school and later. The “Real Steel Autos” under Posts by Topic on this website describes many of the cars we have owned and includes the tales that only they can tell. About our Speedster: Ray wants you to know that the Speedster was aptly named. The top speed on the speedometer was 160 mph and he says it did every bit of that. Whether Bob has pushed his speedometer that high, I do not know, but I know that Ray did and I admit it only because I’m confident the statute of limitations is up on that offense.
I learned a lot about cars from Ray, but some things I learned from experience. For example, the noise I hear coming from the engine isn’t there until Ray hears it. Also, do you know that cars have the ability to sense estrogen sitting behind the wheel? We owned a 1983 Cadillac Seville that proved they do. The Caddy? We still have that car. I don’t think it’s been driven since 1996 but we have it in case Ray decides to take up car restoration again. In truth, I’m the one who didn’t want to sell that car for a hefty price when we had the opportunity. Pretty silly of me but I really liked the Caddy until it was totaled in a hailstorm.
Some politicians will do
anything for a vote!
Here are a few posters I made for Senator Dole. Note there are two Jayhawk related posters and only one Wildcat. My favorite is the elephant wearing the Beak'em Hawks sweatshirt. I received an unusual complaint about the poster with the gender sign for female under the O in Women because the woman who complained thought it smacked of radical feminism. Eek!
I kept my semi-annual appointment with Jane my dental hygienist Friday and I didn’t take a boatload of reporters and cameramen with me. I also didn’t take them the day before when Mary Ann gave me a haircut. Why did I shun the opportunity to publicize these two momentous occasions? Easy answer: I’m not running for president.
One of the many candidates for president (I’m not sure exactly who he is, but he’s a guy) slid down one of those high multi-slide amusement park slides. He was 40 or 50 years older than the others on the slide, but, hey, that shows he’d be a good president, right? Just like the guy who had a good dental cleaning and a great haircut for which we hope he tipped well.
Back in the day, presidential candidates kissed babies for the cameras. Who wouldn’t want to kiss a sweet little baby? The candidate loved it, the parents loved it . . . I’m not so sure that the baby did. Probably not because I saw far too many squalling babies hurriedly handed back to their mothers.
As a veteran of a great many campaigns, I yearn for those simpler days of baby kissing instead of close-up views of molars and bicuspids. During my growing up years, I passed out cards soliciting votes for my dad who ran, always successfully, for city and state offices. I was so invested in his campaigns, it would have broken my heart if he had lost. One of my friends who grew up in Oklahoma remembers sitting on the courthouse steps crying after her dad, a police chief, lost his race for sheriff. I never felt that pain, but I can imagine what it felt like.
At fairs and festivals, I passed out many cups of Dole pineapple juice for Senator Dole when he was running for various offices. When we ran out of Dole juice and had to use another brand, we kept the can hidden. I always had a soft spot for Senator Dole because he served in the Kansas House with my father back in the day when both were young combat veterans. I was disappointed when he lost his race for president, but after losing the presidential contest, he appeared on late night TV showing his funny side and I heard someone say, "Well, if I had known he was that funny, I would have voted for him." Hmmmm, so being funny is what makes a good president. Who knew?
I made campaign posters, tons of them. One gubernatorial candidate was so happy with the posters I made him, his campaign manager called to say the candidate (he was elected governor) was going to do a quick stop at the Lawrence airport and would like to meet me. I could have made up a good excuse for missing the chance to meet him, but instead I told the truth: the time of his stop conflicted with a Tupperware party I had promised to attend.
Uh-oh, the candidate who showed us his teeth cleaning and haircut has just been televised changing a flat tire on his car. I hope he’s around if I ever have a flat because I sure don’t know how to change a tire. You'd think a presidential candidate could afford AAA.
I think he's trying to show he's just an everyday Joe doing what every guy does. I don't know about you, but I'm hoping he hasn't scheduled a prostate exam.
One of the many candidates for president (I’m not sure exactly who he is, but he’s a guy) slid down one of those high multi-slide amusement park slides. He was 40 or 50 years older than the others on the slide, but, hey, that shows he’d be a good president, right? Just like the guy who had a good dental cleaning and a great haircut for which we hope he tipped well.
Back in the day, presidential candidates kissed babies for the cameras. Who wouldn’t want to kiss a sweet little baby? The candidate loved it, the parents loved it . . . I’m not so sure that the baby did. Probably not because I saw far too many squalling babies hurriedly handed back to their mothers.
As a veteran of a great many campaigns, I yearn for those simpler days of baby kissing instead of close-up views of molars and bicuspids. During my growing up years, I passed out cards soliciting votes for my dad who ran, always successfully, for city and state offices. I was so invested in his campaigns, it would have broken my heart if he had lost. One of my friends who grew up in Oklahoma remembers sitting on the courthouse steps crying after her dad, a police chief, lost his race for sheriff. I never felt that pain, but I can imagine what it felt like.
At fairs and festivals, I passed out many cups of Dole pineapple juice for Senator Dole when he was running for various offices. When we ran out of Dole juice and had to use another brand, we kept the can hidden. I always had a soft spot for Senator Dole because he served in the Kansas House with my father back in the day when both were young combat veterans. I was disappointed when he lost his race for president, but after losing the presidential contest, he appeared on late night TV showing his funny side and I heard someone say, "Well, if I had known he was that funny, I would have voted for him." Hmmmm, so being funny is what makes a good president. Who knew?
I made campaign posters, tons of them. One gubernatorial candidate was so happy with the posters I made him, his campaign manager called to say the candidate (he was elected governor) was going to do a quick stop at the Lawrence airport and would like to meet me. I could have made up a good excuse for missing the chance to meet him, but instead I told the truth: the time of his stop conflicted with a Tupperware party I had promised to attend.
Uh-oh, the candidate who showed us his teeth cleaning and haircut has just been televised changing a flat tire on his car. I hope he’s around if I ever have a flat because I sure don’t know how to change a tire. You'd think a presidential candidate could afford AAA.
I think he's trying to show he's just an everyday Joe doing what every guy does. I don't know about you, but I'm hoping he hasn't scheduled a prostate exam.
Ross Perot was my
Super Hero
I didn't vote for Ross Perot when he ran for President in 1992. Perhaps I should have.
Perhaps we all should have.
I was saddened to read about the death of Ross Perot with whom I once spoke via phone. I had written him before we held the WW II Ranger reunion in Lawrence in 2006. There was a song and video, "Before You Go," on DVD about WW II veterans. I thought it would be nice to give a DVD to each Ranger attending. We didn't have the budget to buy them so I wrote Mr. Perot, provided a link to the video and asked him if he'd consider buying the DVDs for them. I received a call from his secretary who put me through to him. He had watched the video and was willing to pay for the DVDs but had one reservation. "It's SAYAD!" he said, "It's tellin' them they're gonna DIGH!"
I told him I'd ask a sampling of Rangers and/or their children and see what they thought. I emailed and sent links of the video to several and only had a single response from one Ranger daughter. Her response was ambivalent so we didn't go forward with the purchase. I have always had a warm feeling for Mr. Perot because of his willingness to buy the videos and his sensitivity about the Rangers' feelings. If you'd like to watch the short video and hear the song, click here.
I told him I'd ask a sampling of Rangers and/or their children and see what they thought. I emailed and sent links of the video to several and only had a single response from one Ranger daughter. Her response was ambivalent so we didn't go forward with the purchase. I have always had a warm feeling for Mr. Perot because of his willingness to buy the videos and his sensitivity about the Rangers' feelings. If you'd like to watch the short video and hear the song, click here.
Our coyotes eat T-bones
. . . and they think they've died and gone to Heaven.
They don’t get T-bones every night, of course. Nor do they get rump roasts, KC strips and coconut shrimp. Last night was an exception because our basement freezer lost electricity and defrosted, taking with it a bunch of Omaha Steak purchases as well as a brand new Costco-sized box of ice cream drumsticks purchased for our annual 4th of July bash.
We don’t know why the freezer lost electricity. It was plugged into the socket good and tight. Sure the power was off about ten hours night before last due to a torrential thunderstorm that dumped four inches of rain on us and put deep gullies in our driveway that Ray and his tractor Mr. Ugly will have to smooth, but the freezer had clearly started defrosting before the power went out. Ray discovered it when he went down to bring up shrimp for stir-fry.
We spent until 10:30 p.m. emptying the freezer, removing thawed food from boxes and making the coyotes' night. Fortune was smiling on us because, although six bacon-wrapped filet mignons had thawed, they were still cold so we grilled them and refroze them. We don't know what they'll taste like when heated in the microwave, but we'll give it a shot.
We also baked (make that burned) a Mrs. Smith's cherry pie. Those are meant to be baked frozen and while we adjusted the time for it being thawed, we should have lowered the temperature. We rescued some caramel apple tartlets, freezing them again since they were still cold and I don't think there are any ingredients that will make us sick. And we salvaged two roasts that were semi-frozen. (How did those remain semi-frozen? It's a mystery.)
So what caused the power to fail? The unfinished area of the basement has four outlets serving Ray's work space that come down from the ceiling in metal conduit. None of them work. We have reset every Ground Fault Circuit Interrupter we can find but either there is a hidden one we've missed or something else is messed up. We'll have to get an electrician out here because right now we have a long bright-orange extension cord from the freezer to an outlet in the family room. I'm not Martha Stewart when it comes to decorating, but even I know that just isn't in good taste.
Meanwhile the coyotes' tastebuds are happy little campers enjoying hundreds of dollars of our meat. They'll have to buy their own cherry pie and caramel apple tartlets.
We don’t know why the freezer lost electricity. It was plugged into the socket good and tight. Sure the power was off about ten hours night before last due to a torrential thunderstorm that dumped four inches of rain on us and put deep gullies in our driveway that Ray and his tractor Mr. Ugly will have to smooth, but the freezer had clearly started defrosting before the power went out. Ray discovered it when he went down to bring up shrimp for stir-fry.
We spent until 10:30 p.m. emptying the freezer, removing thawed food from boxes and making the coyotes' night. Fortune was smiling on us because, although six bacon-wrapped filet mignons had thawed, they were still cold so we grilled them and refroze them. We don't know what they'll taste like when heated in the microwave, but we'll give it a shot.
We also baked (make that burned) a Mrs. Smith's cherry pie. Those are meant to be baked frozen and while we adjusted the time for it being thawed, we should have lowered the temperature. We rescued some caramel apple tartlets, freezing them again since they were still cold and I don't think there are any ingredients that will make us sick. And we salvaged two roasts that were semi-frozen. (How did those remain semi-frozen? It's a mystery.)
So what caused the power to fail? The unfinished area of the basement has four outlets serving Ray's work space that come down from the ceiling in metal conduit. None of them work. We have reset every Ground Fault Circuit Interrupter we can find but either there is a hidden one we've missed or something else is messed up. We'll have to get an electrician out here because right now we have a long bright-orange extension cord from the freezer to an outlet in the family room. I'm not Martha Stewart when it comes to decorating, but even I know that just isn't in good taste.
Meanwhile the coyotes' tastebuds are happy little campers enjoying hundreds of dollars of our meat. They'll have to buy their own cherry pie and caramel apple tartlets.
I call it Highway Robbery
What do you think this switch is worth?
See the switch in the above photo? It goes in our oldie but goodie 2005 Lincoln Town Car. The switch quit working. It would roll every window in the car up and down except the driver’s window which was stuck down. Stuck up might not be so bad; stuck down is. It’s hot out. We could get wet if it rains and it has been raining a lot. Also it’s noisy.
We called our favorite mechanic who recommended a glass company where he said he’d take his car if it had that problem. But they wanted $278 to replace the switch. That sounded like a lot for a job that I watched a Youtube mechanic do in 2:09 minutes so I called the dealership to see what the switch cost. He said it was $116 and change plus tax. Then I called the dealership again to see what they would charge to replace the switch. They said $197 and change plus tax. No wonder some people call them stealerships. Still, the Lincoln dealer was cheaper than the glass company.
We called our favorite mechanic who recommended a glass company where he said he’d take his car if it had that problem. But they wanted $278 to replace the switch. That sounded like a lot for a job that I watched a Youtube mechanic do in 2:09 minutes so I called the dealership to see what the switch cost. He said it was $116 and change plus tax. Then I called the dealership again to see what they would charge to replace the switch. They said $197 and change plus tax. No wonder some people call them stealerships. Still, the Lincoln dealer was cheaper than the glass company.
I ordered this part from Amazon on Friday at 10:45 a.m. and it was in our mailbox at 3:43 p.m. Saturday.
Then I checked for the part on Amazon. Why didn’t I do that first? Long story short. I ordered the part yesterday. It arrived today. Husband Ray and son Butch replaced the switch in five minutes flat. Window works. Car is now cool, dry, quiet.
My guess is that the part I purchased from Amazon is made in China in the same plant or just down the street from the plant where the $116 part is made. What do you think?
Total cost to fix: $15.10.
My guess is that the part I purchased from Amazon is made in China in the same plant or just down the street from the plant where the $116 part is made. What do you think?
Total cost to fix: $15.10.
"Hey, AAA, I'm stuck
in my drive again!"
First Ray got the car stuck going downhill. If only I had snapped the photos that day when it was really messy. The ruts are about a foot deep.
We are blessed in Lawrence not to have the flooding that is occurring in Nebraska and Iowa. Nonetheless, we have had enough snow hanging around on top of the ground and rainfall usually seen only in tropical climates that our 950 foot gravel driveway is an absolute mess! It is such a mess that Ray got our car stuck in it . . . not once . . . but TWICE!
Try as he might, Ray couldn't free it from the muck. So he called AAA. The wrecker tried to back up our drive and got stuck. The driver finally managed to free the wrecker and pulled Ray partly down the drive. Ray drove to the highway, thanked the tow truck driver who drove off as Ray turned the car around and headed up the drive, this time driving on the zoysia grass bordering the drive, and got stuck AGAIN!
Try as he might, Ray couldn't free it from the muck. So he called AAA. The wrecker tried to back up our drive and got stuck. The driver finally managed to free the wrecker and pulled Ray partly down the drive. Ray drove to the highway, thanked the tow truck driver who drove off as Ray turned the car around and headed up the drive, this time driving on the zoysia grass bordering the drive, and got stuck AGAIN!
Going back to the house, Ray got stuck again . . . this time in the grass. See the ruts in the grass? Beware soggy ground.
Called AAA once more and, because it was getting dark, a different driver brought out a wrecker the next morning. The driver parked by the road, refusing to come up the drive because he was worried he'd damage his hydraulics. Ray got his shovel and he, with a little help from the tow truck driver, dug through the grass in front of and behind the car. Then the tow truck driver put one end of a chain on our car and the other end on Guppy Rojo, Ray's little 4-wheel drive Toyota, and had Ray pull the car out backwards with his own truck. Meanwhile, the wrecker safely sat at the end of the drive.
Ray and Mr. Ugly to the rescue of the driveway. Guppy in the background has done his job as a tow truck for AAA.
Ray drove the car to our neighbor's who offered it a place to sit until our driveway was dry enough for Ray to repair it with Mr. Ugly, his tractor. Do you think it is odd that Ray names our vehicles? Well, I don't think it is nearly so odd as that — since we stopped driving our 1983 Cadillac Seville (I say stopped driving because, although we still own it, it hasn't been driven since 1995) — the four times we've used AAA tow it was because Ray had a vehicle stuck at our home. Once Guppy Rojo was stuck in the middle of the backyard and another time he (Guppy Rojo is a boy) had to be transported to a garage for repairs.
I'll leave it up to you. Do you think AAA should pay Guppy Rojo for the tow?
I'll leave it up to you. Do you think AAA should pay Guppy Rojo for the tow?
Sayonara, landline!
Your time is SO over!
Back in the day when turquoise kitchens were popular, landlines were the only way to go. Hard to believe this turquoise wall phone hanging in our turquoise kitchen served our entire household consisting of two parents and two young sons. Later, we added an extension in the bedroom which we used primarily to answer late night wrong numbers. There were no cell phones then and it was years before we got one of those and a bag phone (remember those?).
In the days before cell phones if you had trouble on the road, you either relied on a CB radio (yep, we had one) or waited for a trooper or helpful motorist. There were also no medical alert phones or buttons. If you fell and hurt yourself, you had to hope you had the strength to crawl to the landline to call for help. My mother did that twice, calling me when she broke her hip and later when she broke her femur. The thought of her crawling to the phone in pain was almost more than I could bear and she finally gave into our pleas to get a medical alert button.
I made many mad dashes into her home after med alert personnel called me on my landline to say Mom needed help. My favorite call was from Mom herself who said, "Marsha, they keep saying I am pushing the button to say I need help, but I'm not. I can't even find it." So I drove into town and a frustrated Mom met me at her door in her electric wheelchair. It didn't take long to find the alert button. She was sitting on it.
In the days before cell phones if you had trouble on the road, you either relied on a CB radio (yep, we had one) or waited for a trooper or helpful motorist. There were also no medical alert phones or buttons. If you fell and hurt yourself, you had to hope you had the strength to crawl to the landline to call for help. My mother did that twice, calling me when she broke her hip and later when she broke her femur. The thought of her crawling to the phone in pain was almost more than I could bear and she finally gave into our pleas to get a medical alert button.
I made many mad dashes into her home after med alert personnel called me on my landline to say Mom needed help. My favorite call was from Mom herself who said, "Marsha, they keep saying I am pushing the button to say I need help, but I'm not. I can't even find it." So I drove into town and a frustrated Mom met me at her door in her electric wheelchair. It didn't take long to find the alert button. She was sitting on it.
Our current landline is connected to eight phones. The base phone on the desk in the kitchen has five walk around phones scattered throughout the house. There's a wall phone in the family room downstairs, a fax machine in the office and my favorite phone: Garfield the Cat. His eyes are closed in the photo, but when he is in use, his eyes are wide open. I will surely keep Garfield in my office even though he won't be usable as a phone just because he is so darn cute.
Because this post is about phones, I'm going to tell you my favorite phone story. Our friend Jack coveted a wooden antique wall phone, but was never able to bid high enough at auctions to buy one. Then one day he saw an auction ad in the paper that listed 30 antique phones. He was certain that, with so many phones to sell, he would surely be able to buy one.
The phones were beautiful, all 30 of them. Only one thing was lacking. Not a single phone had a receiver.
The phones were beautiful, all 30 of them. Only one thing was lacking. Not a single phone had a receiver.
No worries. Jack figured if he bought an antique phone, he could find a receiver somewhere. But it was not to be. The same man outbid him on every phone, smirking when the auctioneer gaveled sold. There was only one item left for sale: a big unopened cardboard box. Jack didn't want to go home empty handed so, having no clue what was in it, he bought the box on the cheap. He opened it as soon as he acquired it and inside were 30 receivers for antique phones.
The man who bought all the phones looked at Jack and said, "I suppose you're going to try to hold me up on the receivers."
"Nope," said Jack.
"You're not?" the man asked in surprise.
"No," said Jack with a smile, "they're not for sale."
Perhaps someday all our landline phones will be worth some money. Just in case, I'll keep the receivers with them.
The man who bought all the phones looked at Jack and said, "I suppose you're going to try to hold me up on the receivers."
"Nope," said Jack.
"You're not?" the man asked in surprise.
"No," said Jack with a smile, "they're not for sale."
Perhaps someday all our landline phones will be worth some money. Just in case, I'll keep the receivers with them.
At three feet, three inches tall
Leo Beuerman cast a giant
shadow
Leo in his little cart is communicating via written messages with Craig Weinaug, son of Catherine Weinaug, without whom the movie of Leo would not have been made. Craig recently retired as our county administrator.
As a child, I purchased my pencils from Leo Beuerman and tried to talk to him. But Leo couldn’t hear me. He was born a crippled dwarf, had limited sight in one eye, was blind in the other and lost his hearing when he was a child. He sat in his little red cart on the sidewalk in front of various businesses in our town and supported himself by selling pencils and repairing watches.
He drove into town each day from his home in the country on a specially-designed tractor that carried his cart. My father said Leo was a mechanical genius and I believed him. I was never afraid of Leo. I doubt any child was because, despite his appearance, he wasn’t a threatening presence. We simply pointed to the pencil we wanted, gave him money and he counted out our change. He once wrote that children were his best customers. Adults, he said, turned away.
In 1998, I was on the board of our county historical society and suggested we offer the public a showing of Leo Beuerman, a 14-minute Centron Films documentary that had been nominated for an Academy Award. The showing was free, but I insisted on reservations. The museum director thought that was unnecessary, believing we’d be lucky to get more than a dozen people to watch the film. Reservations totaled 180, a standing-room-only crowd, and when people without reservations showed up, Ross Wulfkuhle, who owned and operated the 16-millimeter projector, and Trudy Travis, who wrote the script, offered to stay for a second showing.
Shortly thereafter, I wrote an article about Leo for the Kansas City Star’s STAR Magazine. If you would like to see additional photos and read more about Leo, including the serendipitous positive outcome when a ruffian jerked him out of his cart one night when he was sleeping in a service station and robbed and badly injured him, please click here.
He drove into town each day from his home in the country on a specially-designed tractor that carried his cart. My father said Leo was a mechanical genius and I believed him. I was never afraid of Leo. I doubt any child was because, despite his appearance, he wasn’t a threatening presence. We simply pointed to the pencil we wanted, gave him money and he counted out our change. He once wrote that children were his best customers. Adults, he said, turned away.
In 1998, I was on the board of our county historical society and suggested we offer the public a showing of Leo Beuerman, a 14-minute Centron Films documentary that had been nominated for an Academy Award. The showing was free, but I insisted on reservations. The museum director thought that was unnecessary, believing we’d be lucky to get more than a dozen people to watch the film. Reservations totaled 180, a standing-room-only crowd, and when people without reservations showed up, Ross Wulfkuhle, who owned and operated the 16-millimeter projector, and Trudy Travis, who wrote the script, offered to stay for a second showing.
Shortly thereafter, I wrote an article about Leo for the Kansas City Star’s STAR Magazine. If you would like to see additional photos and read more about Leo, including the serendipitous positive outcome when a ruffian jerked him out of his cart one night when he was sleeping in a service station and robbed and badly injured him, please click here.
Smart phone or dumb owner?
Old photo, but the only one I could Photoshop.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I am not smart enough to have a smartphone. I hate owning a device that knows more than I do. This thing does everything except pop popcorn . . . or perhaps it does and I just haven’t discovered that yet.
Why am I so late to this technology? For years the hubby and I have made do with low-tech cellphones that merely made and received calls and texts because we couldn’t get a signal in our home and used said phones only on the road.
Back in the day, we had a bag phone and cells that worked in the house, but that was before we added a stone-coated, steel roof to our stone- and steel-sided home. The only way we could make calls with our cells was to stand outside on the front porch or back deck and that just isn’t practical in steamy summers or freezing winters.
The first problem I had with the smartphone was finding the power button. I didn't have a 4-year-old nearby to explain it so I consulted the manual. Later, while fooling around with the smartphone in the car, I called IT son to show I could at least make a phone call, then I couldn't figure out how to hang up. I powered off the phone and turned it back on only to receive a callback from him. Seems I had pushed enough buttons to hang up, then accidentally called him again. I asked how to end the call. Easy-peasy. You push the red phone icon to hang up. Who knew?
Son and family who gave me the phone for Christmas visited and I asked for a crash course in usage. Wow! This phone gives a heart-rate reading that looks just like an EKG and monitors the oxygen in one's blood like an oximeter. It keeps track of my steps like a pedometer and also allows me to keep track of calories, sleep and exercise.
It has a night mode that darkens the screen like our GPS. I turned it on but couldn't figure out how to turn it off because it is very difficult to read small white writing on a black screen in the daytime. Worked that out after a couple of days and only wish I could remember how I did it.
Have you ever been doing something (I was on Facebook) on your smartphone when it rang and you couldn't figure out how to answer it? IT son helped with that: "Mom it will come up at the top of your screen and you can accept or decline the call."
Someone smart thought of that idea which is a very good one. I've decided to keep playing with this phone and maybe, just maybe, I'll get smart enough to use it. Hope, they say, springs eternal.
Why am I so late to this technology? For years the hubby and I have made do with low-tech cellphones that merely made and received calls and texts because we couldn’t get a signal in our home and used said phones only on the road.
Back in the day, we had a bag phone and cells that worked in the house, but that was before we added a stone-coated, steel roof to our stone- and steel-sided home. The only way we could make calls with our cells was to stand outside on the front porch or back deck and that just isn’t practical in steamy summers or freezing winters.
The first problem I had with the smartphone was finding the power button. I didn't have a 4-year-old nearby to explain it so I consulted the manual. Later, while fooling around with the smartphone in the car, I called IT son to show I could at least make a phone call, then I couldn't figure out how to hang up. I powered off the phone and turned it back on only to receive a callback from him. Seems I had pushed enough buttons to hang up, then accidentally called him again. I asked how to end the call. Easy-peasy. You push the red phone icon to hang up. Who knew?
Son and family who gave me the phone for Christmas visited and I asked for a crash course in usage. Wow! This phone gives a heart-rate reading that looks just like an EKG and monitors the oxygen in one's blood like an oximeter. It keeps track of my steps like a pedometer and also allows me to keep track of calories, sleep and exercise.
It has a night mode that darkens the screen like our GPS. I turned it on but couldn't figure out how to turn it off because it is very difficult to read small white writing on a black screen in the daytime. Worked that out after a couple of days and only wish I could remember how I did it.
Have you ever been doing something (I was on Facebook) on your smartphone when it rang and you couldn't figure out how to answer it? IT son helped with that: "Mom it will come up at the top of your screen and you can accept or decline the call."
Someone smart thought of that idea which is a very good one. I've decided to keep playing with this phone and maybe, just maybe, I'll get smart enough to use it. Hope, they say, springs eternal.
My husband's love affair
with a younger woman
Here is the little hussy.
OK, so the other woman is a cat, but Ray is smitten nonetheless. And his love is reciprocated. He pets; she purrs. That is quite a change for a feral cat who arrived on our deck last spring thin, hungry and afraid . . . very afraid. So afraid that even when Ray was holding out his hand with food she badly wanted, she wouldn’t approach him. If he attempted to move closer, she backed away.
But he persevered and finally she took food from his hand. While she accepted food, she would not allow him to touch her. But that was then. Now she delights in his touch, but still will not allow me to pet her. She may have nine lives, but she has one heart and she has given it to Ray. And he has given her the name Cupid "because she is so sweet."
Tell that to granddaughter Zoe, a certified cat charmer, who attempted to approach Cupid at a recent family gathering. Cupid reacted to her charms by jumping off the deck which is sans stairs and ten feet above the ground. Zoe was astounded. "She committed suicide!" she exclaimed in horror.
Cupid’s home base is our deck. Four jumps up one of the big cedar posts and she’s up; one long jump and she’s down. Ray has not mentioned bringing her in the house and it’s a good thing he hasn’t because that is not happening . . . not because I’m jealous of his other woman, but because she has claws! Two screens to the deck, one from the living room and one from our bedroom, are shredded to prove the effectiveness of those claws. When warm weather returns, he will re-screen them and affix clear Plexiglass to the bottom halves of the screens so she can’t repeat her destructive action.
Cupid is an outdoor cat and that is where she will stay. She comes and goes at will. The first morning she didn't greet Ray, he was sure a coyote had killed her, but she sneaked in during late afternoon like a guilty teenager who had missed curfew. In summer she sleeps on a padded chair on the deck which she hasn’t shredded (she apparently prefers screens) and in winter she sleeps in her cozy kitty house with a self-warming bed that reflects her body heat.
Cupid loves Ray so much she even bought him a Christmas gift which shows the depth of her love for him. At least I'm convinced that she would have bought it if she had a credit card and access to the Internet. So I confess to purchasing it for her. Fact is, other woman or not, I love Ray, too.
But he persevered and finally she took food from his hand. While she accepted food, she would not allow him to touch her. But that was then. Now she delights in his touch, but still will not allow me to pet her. She may have nine lives, but she has one heart and she has given it to Ray. And he has given her the name Cupid "because she is so sweet."
Tell that to granddaughter Zoe, a certified cat charmer, who attempted to approach Cupid at a recent family gathering. Cupid reacted to her charms by jumping off the deck which is sans stairs and ten feet above the ground. Zoe was astounded. "She committed suicide!" she exclaimed in horror.
Cupid’s home base is our deck. Four jumps up one of the big cedar posts and she’s up; one long jump and she’s down. Ray has not mentioned bringing her in the house and it’s a good thing he hasn’t because that is not happening . . . not because I’m jealous of his other woman, but because she has claws! Two screens to the deck, one from the living room and one from our bedroom, are shredded to prove the effectiveness of those claws. When warm weather returns, he will re-screen them and affix clear Plexiglass to the bottom halves of the screens so she can’t repeat her destructive action.
Cupid is an outdoor cat and that is where she will stay. She comes and goes at will. The first morning she didn't greet Ray, he was sure a coyote had killed her, but she sneaked in during late afternoon like a guilty teenager who had missed curfew. In summer she sleeps on a padded chair on the deck which she hasn’t shredded (she apparently prefers screens) and in winter she sleeps in her cozy kitty house with a self-warming bed that reflects her body heat.
Cupid loves Ray so much she even bought him a Christmas gift which shows the depth of her love for him. At least I'm convinced that she would have bought it if she had a credit card and access to the Internet. So I confess to purchasing it for her. Fact is, other woman or not, I love Ray, too.
Sugar Daddy is more like it.
Believe it or not, this is the G-rated version of the mug.
OK, who thought this was a good idea?
It was freezing for our family photo in front of the Jayhawk tree and three of us were missing. I couldn't PhotoShop three people in so I handled the missing the best way I could. L to R: Ray, me, Ray, Jr. (aka Butch), Sammi, Val, Greg and B.J.
I have the best family! Even when I get a cockamamie idea to take a family photo in front of Nancy and Jim Yonally's Jayhawk tree in 30-something degree weather with a bitter wind blowing creating a 20-something chill factor, they go along with it. The fact that we aren't blue in the photo is because Nancy invited us inside to thaw out.
Seven of us braved the weather. Eight if you count our intrepid photographer and good friend to all of us. Such a good friend that Greg's kids call him Uncle Steve. Our immediate family of ten was missing three members, all of whom had good excuses: Butch's wife Linda was ill, grandson Gabe is presently in Oregon with his maternal grandfather and granddaughter Zoe is still busy with classes at Truman State.
I planned to Photoshop those three in but doing so proved beyond my capabilities. So I included them in the picture the best way I could. We plan to take another family photo at the Jayhawk tree in the Spring. If we are missing only one in that Spring photo, I can Photoshop them in (two or more, it's back to milk cartons). I am proud of my limited Photoshopping skills as evidenced in the photo below of Gabe and his friend Miriam who lives in Arequipa, Peru, but I learned it is a long tedious process and one person is all I can add with any confidence.
Seven of us braved the weather. Eight if you count our intrepid photographer and good friend to all of us. Such a good friend that Greg's kids call him Uncle Steve. Our immediate family of ten was missing three members, all of whom had good excuses: Butch's wife Linda was ill, grandson Gabe is presently in Oregon with his maternal grandfather and granddaughter Zoe is still busy with classes at Truman State.
I planned to Photoshop those three in but doing so proved beyond my capabilities. So I included them in the picture the best way I could. We plan to take another family photo at the Jayhawk tree in the Spring. If we are missing only one in that Spring photo, I can Photoshop them in (two or more, it's back to milk cartons). I am proud of my limited Photoshopping skills as evidenced in the photo below of Gabe and his friend Miriam who lives in Arequipa, Peru, but I learned it is a long tedious process and one person is all I can add with any confidence.
This is my first attempt at Photoshoping. Miriam is holding the Rock Chalk sign because I lifted her figure from a boat where her left hand was holding a rail. Gabe was just a junior at KU when the photo was taken.
Gabe taught English in Arequipa part of last year and this, and plans a trip to visit Miriam and her family in January as a Christmas gift from his parents. We're doing our best to make Miriam, who is a lawyer, a Jayhawk so she can get a graduate degree at KU.
Stay tuned for the Goff Family Spring photo. Let's hope it doesn't rain. Been there, done that and it was still better than freezing.
Stay tuned for the Goff Family Spring photo. Let's hope it doesn't rain. Been there, done that and it was still better than freezing.
Of Women and War
My parents' somber faces reflect the fact that my father was shipping out imminently to battle the German and Italian forces in Africa and Europe. I was too young to realize the importance of that.
A long time ago, I won a national contest for an editorial I wrote. How long ago? Well, in the news release of the win I was described as a “housewife,” not the now politically correct “homemaker.” It is a worthy occupation, but it has been a long time since that word alone has defined me. Oh, and Jimmy Carter was president.
What made me resurrect that long ago opinion piece is the recent Veteran’s Day recognition and a Facebook post in which I mentioned it while responding to another post. In the event you wish to read it, I have copied “Of Women and War” below.
Of Women and War
Marsha Henry Goff
President Carter’s call for registration of draft-age youths has sent chills of fear up the spine of every mother I know. Put two or more mothers together anywhere — from the bridge table to busy offices — and the topic of conversation is the same: The chances of their sons being drafted.
My friend, Darlene, says the Army will not take her son because of his football-injured knees. Betty’s son has bad eyes. Jean’s son suffers with asthma. Jody’s boy has one flat foot and she hopes it will keep him out of the service. Such physical defects, once ignored by mothers in favor of reporting their children’s academic progress or athletic prowess, suddenly are regarded as attributes.
Mothers, such as I, whose strong, healthy sons are obviously 1-A classifiable, are pitied and consoled by the others. I suspect that each of us heretofore lucky mothers wonders why her son cannot have a health problem — nothing major, mind you, just some small ailment that would keep him off the battlefield and safe in school.
We fear war because we know it. Even those of us who were very young during World War II have personal recollections of that terrible time. My father fought in Africa and Europe and our living room was dominated by a huge map of the area. Mother listened to the news on the radio and moved colored pins on the map to correspond with American and enemy positions. Every Christmas I asked Santa to bring my daddy back. Oh, I remember!
During the 1960s, my friends and I sweated out the Vietnam War with our husbands. As a wife, I worried that Ray would be sent to Vietnam. Then I worried whether, if he were, and if he were disabled, I would have enough love and strength of character to take care of him for the rest of our lives. I remember the trepidation I felt each time JFK or LBJ announced a new call-up of troops, and I recall my relief when Ray was designated III-A instead of 1-A. Yes, I remember!
Daughter, wife, mother. How vulnerable are we women at different stages of our lives. How afraid we are that our fathers, husbands, sons will be torn away from us and sent to places far from the protection of our love.
Yet we have an inner core of steel, an endurance that we can call upon when we must. I know this is so because, while going through my father’s papers after his death several years ago, I found a V-Mail letter sent to him during World War II’s darkest days by his mother. He was her only child, but she wrote a letter in which no trace of fear or doubt is evident. Her letter is one of love and pride and confidence that her son would return safely from battle.
It is a beautiful letter, one that makes me admire my grandmother’s courage. Still I pray each night that no mother ever again be obliged to write one like it — in English, or Russian, or German, or Chinese, or . . .
What made me resurrect that long ago opinion piece is the recent Veteran’s Day recognition and a Facebook post in which I mentioned it while responding to another post. In the event you wish to read it, I have copied “Of Women and War” below.
Of Women and War
Marsha Henry Goff
President Carter’s call for registration of draft-age youths has sent chills of fear up the spine of every mother I know. Put two or more mothers together anywhere — from the bridge table to busy offices — and the topic of conversation is the same: The chances of their sons being drafted.
My friend, Darlene, says the Army will not take her son because of his football-injured knees. Betty’s son has bad eyes. Jean’s son suffers with asthma. Jody’s boy has one flat foot and she hopes it will keep him out of the service. Such physical defects, once ignored by mothers in favor of reporting their children’s academic progress or athletic prowess, suddenly are regarded as attributes.
Mothers, such as I, whose strong, healthy sons are obviously 1-A classifiable, are pitied and consoled by the others. I suspect that each of us heretofore lucky mothers wonders why her son cannot have a health problem — nothing major, mind you, just some small ailment that would keep him off the battlefield and safe in school.
We fear war because we know it. Even those of us who were very young during World War II have personal recollections of that terrible time. My father fought in Africa and Europe and our living room was dominated by a huge map of the area. Mother listened to the news on the radio and moved colored pins on the map to correspond with American and enemy positions. Every Christmas I asked Santa to bring my daddy back. Oh, I remember!
During the 1960s, my friends and I sweated out the Vietnam War with our husbands. As a wife, I worried that Ray would be sent to Vietnam. Then I worried whether, if he were, and if he were disabled, I would have enough love and strength of character to take care of him for the rest of our lives. I remember the trepidation I felt each time JFK or LBJ announced a new call-up of troops, and I recall my relief when Ray was designated III-A instead of 1-A. Yes, I remember!
Daughter, wife, mother. How vulnerable are we women at different stages of our lives. How afraid we are that our fathers, husbands, sons will be torn away from us and sent to places far from the protection of our love.
Yet we have an inner core of steel, an endurance that we can call upon when we must. I know this is so because, while going through my father’s papers after his death several years ago, I found a V-Mail letter sent to him during World War II’s darkest days by his mother. He was her only child, but she wrote a letter in which no trace of fear or doubt is evident. Her letter is one of love and pride and confidence that her son would return safely from battle.
It is a beautiful letter, one that makes me admire my grandmother’s courage. Still I pray each night that no mother ever again be obliged to write one like it — in English, or Russian, or German, or Chinese, or . . .
A spectacular Jayhawk tree
To give you an idea of scale, the current mascot, known as the Happy Jayhawk, at the top is four and a half feet tall. The smaller Jayhawks below are the various versions of the mascot beginning with the Jayhawk at the bottom which was created in 1912.
I have always been fascinated with chainsaw carvers, those artists who can take a big chunk of wood and turn it into a piece of art. Usually, I have watched them in Colorado carving bears, raccoons, foxes and a variety of other critters and birds. It is amazing to watch someone take a felled tree and saw it into something beautiful.
Dan Besco, dba Kansaw Carvings, is licensed to create Jayhawks, the mascot of The University of Kansas. If you have been living under a rock and aren’t aware of the bright primary colored bird, you haven’t been watching college basketball, where the mascot struts his stuff on courts throughout the USA and occasionally abroad. Big Jay has a small sidekick, Baby Jay, who may or may not be a female. However, the student inside the small costume is typically female between the height of 4’11” and 5’1”.
Besco created the Jayhawk tree from the remains of a gigantic white mulberry tree. He was commissioned to do so by Nancy Yonally who saw it as a way to honor her parents, David and Margaret Shirk. Margaret, who grew up on the land where the tree stands, lived to be 100 years old, half the age of the tree she loved.
If you would like to read the entire story I wrote for Amazing Aging and see detailed photos of the carvings, click HERE.
Dan Besco, dba Kansaw Carvings, is licensed to create Jayhawks, the mascot of The University of Kansas. If you have been living under a rock and aren’t aware of the bright primary colored bird, you haven’t been watching college basketball, where the mascot struts his stuff on courts throughout the USA and occasionally abroad. Big Jay has a small sidekick, Baby Jay, who may or may not be a female. However, the student inside the small costume is typically female between the height of 4’11” and 5’1”.
Besco created the Jayhawk tree from the remains of a gigantic white mulberry tree. He was commissioned to do so by Nancy Yonally who saw it as a way to honor her parents, David and Margaret Shirk. Margaret, who grew up on the land where the tree stands, lived to be 100 years old, half the age of the tree she loved.
If you would like to read the entire story I wrote for Amazing Aging and see detailed photos of the carvings, click HERE.
It's time for pink ribbons
and red sweaters
"What will we name the other one?" — the late, great Erma Bombeck
Nineteen years ago this month, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. October is a bad month for that diagnosis because it is Breast Cancer Awareness Month and you can’t get away from it even if you want to ... and believe me, I wanted to! Pink ribbons and pink bracelets are everywhere, newspaper articles and TV stories urge women to get mammograms and literature is handed out in churches, grocery stores and even on the street.
I do not remember the exact date I was diagnosed, nor do I remember the day I had an eight-and-a-half-hour surgery. The date I do remember is the first scheduled surgery date — October 18 — which I discarded because my father had died on that day 26 years earlier. I am not superstitious, but I knew my mother could not handle me having surgery on that date. My decision made the agonizing wait from biopsy to surgery almost a full month so, to take our minds off the upcoming operation, Ray and I traveled to the Ozarks and met four good friends there. As I wrote in my column, “Sometimes you must change your latitude to improve your attitude."
Here's the thing about me. I can be open about my life (if you have visited this website a time or two, you already know that), but I'm very private when I'm in the midst of a crisis. Only my family and two very close friends were told of my upcoming surgery. Then, when it was all over, I wrote the column and shared the experience with friends and folks I didn't even know. Think it is hard to write a humor column dealing with cancer? Think reading it would be a bummer? If you're game, click HERE and answer your own questions.
Not knowing in advance upset a few close friends who read about it in the paper. One friend who served on the United Way Board with me thought the column titled "Humor can lighten the darkest days" was a joke, although why even I would joke about such a situation is pretty far-fetched.
But I didn't stop at the column. I interviewed a couple of cancer researchers at the KU Medical Center and delved deep into everything I could find about breast cancer regarding cause and treatment. If you want to read that article, click HERE. You didn't get a chance to read it in any of the women's magazines I sent it to. It was before the Women's Health Initiative halted its study early because it concluded that the overall health risks from the estrogen/progestin combo substantially exceeded the benefits. Said women's magazines all have multiple pages of full-color ads for those very same medicines. While I understand the economics, I often wonder how many women might have been helped by the article.
By the time the study was halted, I was mad and busily writing opinion pieces on the issue which I also couldn't sell. However, the WHI study shutting down did make me want to send a four-word sentence to the women's magazines that had turned down my earlier article: I TOLD YOU SO! Click HERE if you want to read my rant entitled "Just say WHOA!"
I've given you a lot to read, but, after all it is October so I will leave you with the following thought:
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Oklahoma's friendliest mayor
gives a helpful jump
I was blessed with lots of funny uncles on my mother’s side of the family. Not those kind of funny uncles … just the kind who provided great stories for me to write about. Mom had six brothers and five sisters (all but one of whom married). But the uncle that Ray and I were talking about at dinner tonight was Uncle Lloyd, the husband of my Aunt Vera and very special to us.
Uncle Lloyd was the mayor of his small Oklahoma town of about 300 people whose main street on Highway 33 was about two and a half blocks long. At various times, the town had a garage, café, movie theater, drug store, hardware store and not one, but two, grocery stores. And a bank, central to our dinner conversation about Uncle Lloyd, who was friendly and helpful to a fault. Oh, you don’t think one can be too helpful? Read on.
He had business at the bank, but noticed that a young man, parked at the curb in front of the bank, was desperately trying to start his car. Uncle Lloyd grabbed the battery cables out of his truck and asked if he could give him a jump. The man gratefully accepted and, once the car started, thanked Uncle Lloyd profusely and quickly drove away.
Uncle Lloyd returned the battery cables to his truck, retrieved his deposit and headed into the bank where he found the tellers and a couple of customers tied up on the floor. Yep, what a friendly town it is when the mayor starts the car for the man who had just robbed the bank. Helpful to a fault, right?
Uncle Lloyd was the mayor of his small Oklahoma town of about 300 people whose main street on Highway 33 was about two and a half blocks long. At various times, the town had a garage, café, movie theater, drug store, hardware store and not one, but two, grocery stores. And a bank, central to our dinner conversation about Uncle Lloyd, who was friendly and helpful to a fault. Oh, you don’t think one can be too helpful? Read on.
He had business at the bank, but noticed that a young man, parked at the curb in front of the bank, was desperately trying to start his car. Uncle Lloyd grabbed the battery cables out of his truck and asked if he could give him a jump. The man gratefully accepted and, once the car started, thanked Uncle Lloyd profusely and quickly drove away.
Uncle Lloyd returned the battery cables to his truck, retrieved his deposit and headed into the bank where he found the tellers and a couple of customers tied up on the floor. Yep, what a friendly town it is when the mayor starts the car for the man who had just robbed the bank. Helpful to a fault, right?
If you name a stray cat . . .
Does that mean you have to keep it? What about if you’re buying cat food and treats? Oh, and cat toys, too? A kitty house guaranteed to be waterproof? Even if it’s not? How about a padded cat mat that reflects the cat’s body heat and keeps the little feline toasty in the coldest weather?
I contend that Ray started it by naming the stray Cupid. “Why Cupid?” I asked. “Because she’s sweet,” he replied. Next thing I knew he was buying her cat food. So I bought her some salmon cat treats. Then I bought cat toys: a jingly plastic ball she won’t play with and a green and white furry mouse with a long tail that she also won’t play with. What does she play with? The ties on the lawn chairs. The same lawn chair she’s trying to sleep on in the photo below if I’d quit turning on the light to take her picture.
I contend that Ray started it by naming the stray Cupid. “Why Cupid?” I asked. “Because she’s sweet,” he replied. Next thing I knew he was buying her cat food. So I bought her some salmon cat treats. Then I bought cat toys: a jingly plastic ball she won’t play with and a green and white furry mouse with a long tail that she also won’t play with. What does she play with? The ties on the lawn chairs. The same lawn chair she’s trying to sleep on in the photo below if I’d quit turning on the light to take her picture.
"Hey, douse the light, will ya? I'm trying to sleep here!"
She actually went in the house for a couple of nights, but it rained and — not being waterproof although it was advertised as such — it got wet and she doesn’t trust it anymore even though I Scotchguarded it and Ray has a plastic trash bag tied around it. The lawn chairs are going back to the basement for the winter so I hope she’ll try the house again with the warming mat so I will stop worrying whether she’s too cold.
I’ve pretty much stopped worrying that she’ll get pregnant. Ray has always been confident that she’s spayed, but we thought the last stray — Miss Kitty — was pregnant, only to find out she was a neutered male. The reason I am accepting that Cupid may be spayed is because my friend Laura, noticing her damaged left ear (the point is cut off), said that many shelters pick up feral cats and spay and release them after docking an ear so they won’t mistakenly pick them up again.
One thing we do not have to worry about is that she can’t climb away from coyotes. Miss Kitty was declawed; Cupid is not. We know this because she can climb up on our stairless deck ten feet above the ground. The shredded screen from the living room doors to the deck is further evidence. Thankfully, she has yet to discover that there is another screen on the doors leading to the deck from the bedroom.
Cupid is definitely Ray’s cat. The minute he is anywhere near her she starts purring and rubbing against his legs as a signal to be petted. I think I just answered the question I started this post with. Yeah, we have to keep her.
I’ve pretty much stopped worrying that she’ll get pregnant. Ray has always been confident that she’s spayed, but we thought the last stray — Miss Kitty — was pregnant, only to find out she was a neutered male. The reason I am accepting that Cupid may be spayed is because my friend Laura, noticing her damaged left ear (the point is cut off), said that many shelters pick up feral cats and spay and release them after docking an ear so they won’t mistakenly pick them up again.
One thing we do not have to worry about is that she can’t climb away from coyotes. Miss Kitty was declawed; Cupid is not. We know this because she can climb up on our stairless deck ten feet above the ground. The shredded screen from the living room doors to the deck is further evidence. Thankfully, she has yet to discover that there is another screen on the doors leading to the deck from the bedroom.
Cupid is definitely Ray’s cat. The minute he is anywhere near her she starts purring and rubbing against his legs as a signal to be petted. I think I just answered the question I started this post with. Yeah, we have to keep her.
Each of the many great guys I know
deserves an apology
Those who know me are aware that I do not post my political opinions on social media. Oh, I have opinions and love to express and defend them in a civil debate, but I have observed that one cannot have such a debate on social media. This post is not intended to be political, although it may be perceived as so by some, but here goes.
Not all women are liars; not all women tell the truth. Not all men are liars; not all men tell the truth. I have met a few men who are pigs and a few women who are witches. That doesn’t color my view of all men and all women. Certainly not all men are predators, nor do they defend those who are, although some women currently ranting on television appear to think so. I refer specifically to the female senator from Hawaii who told the men of this country to “Shut up and step up!” I’m guessing men in her state stepped up to vote for her. I wonder if they will next election.
A couple of decades ago when I was on our local United Way board, we visited a battered women’s shelter for allocations hearings. That was unusual because they kept the location secret (not that you can actually do that), but they required money for needed repairs they wanted us to see. The women who resided there were not in residence. Nonetheless, the men were not permitted to go upstairs where repairs were needed because, according to the shelter’s director, their very presence — even when the residents were gone — would taint the space. I do not know if the men were embarrassed, but I was embarrassed for them, so I joked, “Is this where you separate the sheep from the goats?”
This I know. Whether the allegation of sexual misconduct levied against a man is true or not, he is forever tainted by the charge. If it is true, he deserves it. If it is not, the seed is planted and his reputation is ruined.
And concern about male sexual misconduct starts early. Remember the little bespectacled 6-year-old boy who sneaked a kiss from his female classmate? He was suspended from school for his heinous action. When I mentioned to my mother’s cardiologist that I thought it was ridiculous to suspend him, she said indignantly, “If it had been my daughter, I would have killed him.” She wasn’t kidding. Of course she wouldn’t really have killed him, but her outrage was real.
I was born liberated and grew up as the eldest of four daughters in a home where our parents told us we could do anything or be anything if we worked hard enough. My lawyer father taught us to look at both sides of an issue and not to make up our minds until we had all the facts. I once wrote that our family had the same dinner table debates as the Kennedy dynasty (no servants, though). We were encouraged to state our opinions from a young age and be prepared to defend them. Mainly, we were taught fairness. And fairness doesn’t mean believing someone just because of his or her gender.
I’ve been on this particular soapbox a long time. After a long ago column titled “Let’s hear it for the boys” was published, I received email and calls from some pretty angry women, one of whom asked, “Would it be okay if girls just went away?” I said, “Of course not. After all, I am a girl.” If you would like to read the column that made her so angry, click here.
Not all women are liars; not all women tell the truth. Not all men are liars; not all men tell the truth. I have met a few men who are pigs and a few women who are witches. That doesn’t color my view of all men and all women. Certainly not all men are predators, nor do they defend those who are, although some women currently ranting on television appear to think so. I refer specifically to the female senator from Hawaii who told the men of this country to “Shut up and step up!” I’m guessing men in her state stepped up to vote for her. I wonder if they will next election.
A couple of decades ago when I was on our local United Way board, we visited a battered women’s shelter for allocations hearings. That was unusual because they kept the location secret (not that you can actually do that), but they required money for needed repairs they wanted us to see. The women who resided there were not in residence. Nonetheless, the men were not permitted to go upstairs where repairs were needed because, according to the shelter’s director, their very presence — even when the residents were gone — would taint the space. I do not know if the men were embarrassed, but I was embarrassed for them, so I joked, “Is this where you separate the sheep from the goats?”
This I know. Whether the allegation of sexual misconduct levied against a man is true or not, he is forever tainted by the charge. If it is true, he deserves it. If it is not, the seed is planted and his reputation is ruined.
And concern about male sexual misconduct starts early. Remember the little bespectacled 6-year-old boy who sneaked a kiss from his female classmate? He was suspended from school for his heinous action. When I mentioned to my mother’s cardiologist that I thought it was ridiculous to suspend him, she said indignantly, “If it had been my daughter, I would have killed him.” She wasn’t kidding. Of course she wouldn’t really have killed him, but her outrage was real.
I was born liberated and grew up as the eldest of four daughters in a home where our parents told us we could do anything or be anything if we worked hard enough. My lawyer father taught us to look at both sides of an issue and not to make up our minds until we had all the facts. I once wrote that our family had the same dinner table debates as the Kennedy dynasty (no servants, though). We were encouraged to state our opinions from a young age and be prepared to defend them. Mainly, we were taught fairness. And fairness doesn’t mean believing someone just because of his or her gender.
I’ve been on this particular soapbox a long time. After a long ago column titled “Let’s hear it for the boys” was published, I received email and calls from some pretty angry women, one of whom asked, “Would it be okay if girls just went away?” I said, “Of course not. After all, I am a girl.” If you would like to read the column that made her so angry, click here.
Repartee with actor grandson
regarding Weather Channel's
fake Hurricane Florence report
Grandson Gabe has a degree in theatre from KU so when I saw the following YouTube video of the guy on the weather channel (#fakenewseverywhere), I wanted to share it with the Gabester. We have a similar sense of humor and this is what ensued on Facebook.
Marsha Henry Goff: And the Oscar for best acting in a hurricane goes to . . . the Weather Channel! Watch behind this thespian.
Marsha Henry Goff: And the Oscar for best acting in a hurricane goes to . . . the Weather Channel! Watch behind this thespian.
Marsha Henry Goff: Hey, Gabriel Goff, perhaps you should go into weather reporting. Who needs meteorology classes? Your degree in theatre will do nicely. After all, you did win the "Best Physical Actor" award!
Gabriel Goff: Marsha Henry Goff "Well Cuomo!!! I've spent the past half hour in the horse stance that Chuck Norris-sensei taught me to keep from getting blown away by the Nature Death Force!!! I'm also having to speak in a very loud voice because if you look behind me, Florence is summoning sound barrier-breaking tornado demons all around!!! if you look out to the East Side!!! You can see Moses trying to hold the hurricane at bay with his awesome God Stick!!! And I -- OH LORD THE WATER IS GETTING RED!!! This storm is next level!!!" *dramatic death faint* End scene.
Marsha Henry Goff: Gabriel Goff O.K., forget acting. Go into script writing. You're a GENIUS!
Marsha Henry Goff: O.K., Gabriel Goff, I had to look up Cuomo in the Urban Dictionary: after rivers cuomo. used to describe nerdy indie rockers. ... Top definition. Cuomomusic ... Get a Cuomo mug for your bunkmate Yasemin.
Still don't understand it, but I know what it means. Does that mean I'm hip? Do you need to look up hip?
Gabriel Goff: Marsha Henry Goff You read too much into it. Cuomo is this guy on the news that Grandpa likes to watch. He was reporting on the storm, that's why I used his name.
Marsha Henry Goff: Gotcha, Gabriel Goff. Chris Cuomo. I know the names of all the talking heads on every network (even the long-departed old and dead ones), but somehow, I don't think that makes me hip. I always look for a deeper meaning in your writing. Like I said, GENIUS! G'nite now.
Gabriel Goff: Marsha Henry Goff "Well Cuomo!!! I've spent the past half hour in the horse stance that Chuck Norris-sensei taught me to keep from getting blown away by the Nature Death Force!!! I'm also having to speak in a very loud voice because if you look behind me, Florence is summoning sound barrier-breaking tornado demons all around!!! if you look out to the East Side!!! You can see Moses trying to hold the hurricane at bay with his awesome God Stick!!! And I -- OH LORD THE WATER IS GETTING RED!!! This storm is next level!!!" *dramatic death faint* End scene.
Marsha Henry Goff: Gabriel Goff O.K., forget acting. Go into script writing. You're a GENIUS!
Marsha Henry Goff: O.K., Gabriel Goff, I had to look up Cuomo in the Urban Dictionary: after rivers cuomo. used to describe nerdy indie rockers. ... Top definition. Cuomomusic ... Get a Cuomo mug for your bunkmate Yasemin.
Still don't understand it, but I know what it means. Does that mean I'm hip? Do you need to look up hip?
Gabriel Goff: Marsha Henry Goff You read too much into it. Cuomo is this guy on the news that Grandpa likes to watch. He was reporting on the storm, that's why I used his name.
Marsha Henry Goff: Gotcha, Gabriel Goff. Chris Cuomo. I know the names of all the talking heads on every network (even the long-departed old and dead ones), but somehow, I don't think that makes me hip. I always look for a deeper meaning in your writing. Like I said, GENIUS! G'nite now.
Katie the Riveter
To read the magazine article, click on the cover, then scroll to page 16 and zoom to read about Katie and view some great photos.
Two years ago I had the great good fortune to be assigned to write a story about Katie Sherrow for Topeka SR Magazine. Then an active and vigorous 95-year-old, in her youth as a “Rosie the Riveter” she helped win World War II by repairing planes damaged in combat. “Sometimes, as you viewed the blood stains and bullet holes, you felt very close to the war zone,” she said. She also helped build aircraft, including the Constellation — a troop carrier and the largest plane Lockheed manufactured — as well as the P-38, a fighter plane.
Katie points to a P-38, one of the planes she helped build during World War II.
Katie and Pat Martin, who became fast friends while playing competitive softball as young women, have become adopted family to Ray and me. Both are active, fun-loving, kind-hearted and have the greatest senses of humor. Recently, when a repairman attempted to leave their house, he was surprised to find that the door was locked. “Yes,” said Katie with a wicked grin, “when we get a man in here, we try not to let him out.”
For years, they operated a greyhound breeding and training business on the acreage where they live outside of Topeka. Each morning before heading to their respective jobs, the women would get up at 4 a.m., muzzle the dogs and train them by allowing them to chase jackrabbits which they purchased for $5 each. Katie once shot a badger that was threatening the greyhounds in their pen. “She locked me in there with it,” Katie says, pointing to Pat. “I locked the gate so she wouldn’t go in there with the badger,” Pat explains, “I didn’t know she was already in the pen.”
Katie hasn’t changed much in the past two years, nor has Pat. They work hard and play hard, although bingo and casino visits have now taken the place of softball. “Katie the Riveter” and her friend Pat continue to live fulfilling and productive lives. We hope they live forever!
For years, they operated a greyhound breeding and training business on the acreage where they live outside of Topeka. Each morning before heading to their respective jobs, the women would get up at 4 a.m., muzzle the dogs and train them by allowing them to chase jackrabbits which they purchased for $5 each. Katie once shot a badger that was threatening the greyhounds in their pen. “She locked me in there with it,” Katie says, pointing to Pat. “I locked the gate so she wouldn’t go in there with the badger,” Pat explains, “I didn’t know she was already in the pen.”
Katie hasn’t changed much in the past two years, nor has Pat. They work hard and play hard, although bingo and casino visits have now taken the place of softball. “Katie the Riveter” and her friend Pat continue to live fulfilling and productive lives. We hope they live forever!
Squirrel calisthenics
Can you imagine holding this pose for 15 minutes?
I have absolutely no idea what this squirrel is doing, but he did it for about 15 minutes. I thought perhaps he was catatonic. Then I decided he was stretching before his morning jog. I am used to seeing squirrels upside down on the bird feeder or stretching from the deck railing to the feeder, but this guy (could be a gal) held a position I had never seen before.
I checked to see if he was looking at Ray's new stray acquisition, but the cat was not in sight (did I mention Ray has named her Cupid?). The photo below is the way our squirrels normally stretch. Ray recently was watching a squirrel doing this stretch when it lost its grip and fell to the ground. Here's the thing about squirrels: they can fall or jump from great heights without hurting themselves. They can also swim. Know how we know? Because one day Ray went out to fill the bird feeder and startled a squirrel who ran across the railing to the far end of the deck and sailed far enough off the end to land in the water garden. What a photo that would have been!
I checked to see if he was looking at Ray's new stray acquisition, but the cat was not in sight (did I mention Ray has named her Cupid?). The photo below is the way our squirrels normally stretch. Ray recently was watching a squirrel doing this stretch when it lost its grip and fell to the ground. Here's the thing about squirrels: they can fall or jump from great heights without hurting themselves. They can also swim. Know how we know? Because one day Ray went out to fill the bird feeder and startled a squirrel who ran across the railing to the far end of the deck and sailed far enough off the end to land in the water garden. What a photo that would have been!
This stretch isn't hard to figure out: he wants food!
Our new stray is a calico cat
This calico cat with no name is the latest stray we're feeding.
Our new stray cat is a calico and unlike our last stray — Miss Kitty renamed Paul — we are confident that this cat is really a female. Why? Because I just learned that only one calico cat in 3,000 is male. It has to do with the X chromosome which determines color: females (XX) have two X chromosomes and males (XY) have only one, so a female kitty can have orange and black patches while a male can have only one of those colors.
Also, the rare male calico cat (XXY) is usually sterile, only one in 10,000 being fertile. I wish that were true for female calico cats. Ray believes this cat has been spayed because it appears to him that the hair on her belly has been shaved at some point. I'm thinking that perhaps cats' bellies always look like that. After all, we thought that Miss Kitty was pregnant only to learn that she — er, he — was a neutered male.
Also, the rare male calico cat (XXY) is usually sterile, only one in 10,000 being fertile. I wish that were true for female calico cats. Ray believes this cat has been spayed because it appears to him that the hair on her belly has been shaved at some point. I'm thinking that perhaps cats' bellies always look like that. After all, we thought that Miss Kitty was pregnant only to learn that she — er, he — was a neutered male.
What is she looking at so intently?
Another dissimilarity to Miss Kitty is that this cat (as yet unnamed) is scared and unfriendly. Miss Kitty loved to be petted and tried to get in the house every time a door opened, while this cat won't come close even if Ray is holding food she badly wants. She is either a feral cat or has been abused. I'm pretty sure her damaged ear was the result of a cat fight which makes me worry again that she might have kittens. I don't mind buying food for one cat and worrying about her, but I don't want to worry about an entire litter.
If only she'd look so longingly (and clean up) all the bird poop. That's the downside of birds.
Miss Kitty was declawed and I do not think this cat is since she can climb 10 feet up to the deck. And that is my other worry. Notice the above photo of her. Then look at the photo to the right to see what she is looking at so intently. Here's the thing: Cats gotta eat . . . but they don't have to eat birds. Especially our birds. And especially when we are buying her cat food and giving her chicken (that's a bird) out of a can.
Splish, splash, he (or she)
was taking a bath!
We wondered how long it would take for the birds to discover this fountain (see video below).
When son Greg and family gave his dad this charming little fountain, we thought the birds would love it. Not only is it pretty, but the water falling into the metal cups makes a melodious sound we enjoy when the outdoor temperature allows us to have the doors open to the deck. That hasn't happened lately with temperatures hovering near 100.
This morning, the heat was too much for the robin pictured above. He splished, splashed, ducked his entire head in the water, and shook the water off like a wet dog. He was still so wet when he left, I thought he might be too waterlogged to fly. I'm guessing he will share his experience with feathered family and friends and they'll have a pool party tomorrow. There's room for 17 and if they show up in force, I'll snap a picture of the gathering.
This morning, the heat was too much for the robin pictured above. He splished, splashed, ducked his entire head in the water, and shook the water off like a wet dog. He was still so wet when he left, I thought he might be too waterlogged to fly. I'm guessing he will share his experience with feathered family and friends and they'll have a pool party tomorrow. There's room for 17 and if they show up in force, I'll snap a picture of the gathering.
What's cuter than a fox kit?
This little fox kit apparently lives in a tube under a home's driveway in the
small town of Clinton near Clinton Lake. Want to know how little he actually is? That circular light near him is a reflective driveway marker.
It's simply not fair that we have to drive to Clinton Lake to see foxes! A resident of Clinton told me this little fox pictured above was one of about four litters. She said these foxes aren't afraid of people or dogs. The dogs chase them and the foxes think it's a game.
We live in the country, but the only live fox I ever saw in our vicinity was one running across the highway. The others I saw never made it. Our house on the hill is surrounded by seven and a half acres which is plenty of room for a vixen to be producing litter after litter. Perhaps our lack of foxes is because we don't have a dog for them to play with.
Even my friend Martha, who lives in the city, has a fox frequenting her neighborhood. She complains about it. I, on the other hand, would be putting out dog food for it and Ray would likely be giving it meat scraps. He feeds the coyotes. Why not a cute little fox? I'm pretty sure he'd even name it.
We're headed out to the lake in a while so maybe I'll snap more pics. Enjoying foxes vicariously is better than not enjoying them at all!
We live in the country, but the only live fox I ever saw in our vicinity was one running across the highway. The others I saw never made it. Our house on the hill is surrounded by seven and a half acres which is plenty of room for a vixen to be producing litter after litter. Perhaps our lack of foxes is because we don't have a dog for them to play with.
Even my friend Martha, who lives in the city, has a fox frequenting her neighborhood. She complains about it. I, on the other hand, would be putting out dog food for it and Ray would likely be giving it meat scraps. He feeds the coyotes. Why not a cute little fox? I'm pretty sure he'd even name it.
We're headed out to the lake in a while so maybe I'll snap more pics. Enjoying foxes vicariously is better than not enjoying them at all!
The reason I do what I do
Julius and Carolyn Leary are restoring their Victorian home built in 1870 to its former grandeur.
Writers do not write for money alone. The best perk of my profession is the opportunity to interview and write about interesting people . . . or several interesting people in the same family. Ray’s and my classmate, Ralph Leary, is the fifth generation of Learys who have owned and/or lived in the beautiful Victorian home his great-great-grandfather built in 1870 south of Lawrence.
Ralph and his wife, Leila, were once held hostage there by a couple of convicts, making it the most memorable event to ever take place in the house. “By far!” adds Ralph.
Julius Leary, the current owner and grandson of Ralph Leary, and his wife Carolyn are determined to restore the house to its former beauty. They've made a good start and they have created an eighth generation with Julius, Jr. and Jennifer.
If you would like to read the story I wrote for Lawrence Magazine and see some great photos of the family and the house, please click on this link: https://issuu.com/sunflower_publishing/docs/lm18su/40
Getting a Goff Family photo
is like herding cats!
L to R: Sammi, Ray, Marsha, Greg, Val, Gabe, Linda, B.J. and Butch. (I just noticed I'm still the shortest person in the photo. I think next time I'll wear stilettos.)
A year ago last March when I talked the entire family into dressing in Jayhawk garb and posing for a picture under a limb on Ray’s and my favorite hiking trail at Mary’s Lake, I had visions of taking seasonal photos every three months. Silly me! It took over a year to get everyone back there and even then we were missing granddaughter Zoe because she was taking a friend, returning home to Vietnam for the summer, to the airport .
In the last photo, Ray was wearing sunglasses while the rest of us were not, so I thought it would be fun to take a photo with everyone wearing sunglasses. It almost worked. I took the precaution of bringing extra sunglasses in case anyone forgot to bring them. Greg, however, said his glasses darkened in the sun . . . and they do, but you have to be in the sun, not on a shady trail.
Steve Jones, Greg’s buddy since high school and everyone’s friend (Greg and Val’s kids call him Uncle Steve), was a good sport and took the photo as he did last time. Then he took another photo on our deck — where we had gathered for a cookout celebrating Ray's and Sammi's birthdays — so Zoe could be in a picture. Problem is, Butch, Linda and B.J. are missing in that one.
In the last photo, Ray was wearing sunglasses while the rest of us were not, so I thought it would be fun to take a photo with everyone wearing sunglasses. It almost worked. I took the precaution of bringing extra sunglasses in case anyone forgot to bring them. Greg, however, said his glasses darkened in the sun . . . and they do, but you have to be in the sun, not on a shady trail.
Steve Jones, Greg’s buddy since high school and everyone’s friend (Greg and Val’s kids call him Uncle Steve), was a good sport and took the photo as he did last time. Then he took another photo on our deck — where we had gathered for a cookout celebrating Ray's and Sammi's birthdays — so Zoe could be in a picture. Problem is, Butch, Linda and B.J. are missing in that one.
Ray, Gabe, Greg, Marsha, Val, Zoe (no longer missing) and Sammi.
I was ready to apologize (NOT!) to granddaughter Sammi, who attended the University of Missouri at Columbia and now attends UMKC, for wearing the T-shirt that says Defeating Missouri since 1854. But, guess what? She turned up in the very same T-shirt. Here’s proof.
I may keep trying to get everyone together periodically for a family picture at the Mary’s Lake trail. Perhaps we can arrange to take one in the snow where we are all wearing Santa hats. What a Christmas card that would make! Stay tuned.
Possums and early birds
Not our marsupial with her load of passengers, but it might have been had Ray carried a camera.
Ray rises before the sun while I, owl that I am, still sleep. Only rarely do I envy his lark status. One of those times was when he drove his truck down our long drive to retrieve our newspaper. He still cannot talk about the incident — a pre-dawn possum encounter — without laughing.
A mama possum giving her babies a ride started to cross our drive and did a quick U-turn when his truck's headlights hit her. "The two little possums walking beside her were okay," Ray says, "but the ones clinging to her back were thrown off and rolled all over the place like little furry softballs."
Fortunately, Ray avoided hitting any of the little possums. It would have broken his heart to kill one because he likes possums. Why? Because possums kill and eat snakes (they are impervious to the bite of venomous snakes) and they are such fastidious groomers that they kill 95% of the ticks that try to suck their blood. What's not to like?
At Clinton Lake, where we often drive and frequently walk, we became used to seeing a possum who palled around with a gimpy-legged raccoon. I don't remember naming the raccoon, but we dubbed the marsupial Possum Doble (clearly the fault of too much viewing of dancers performing the paso doble on Dancing with the Stars ).
A mama possum giving her babies a ride started to cross our drive and did a quick U-turn when his truck's headlights hit her. "The two little possums walking beside her were okay," Ray says, "but the ones clinging to her back were thrown off and rolled all over the place like little furry softballs."
Fortunately, Ray avoided hitting any of the little possums. It would have broken his heart to kill one because he likes possums. Why? Because possums kill and eat snakes (they are impervious to the bite of venomous snakes) and they are such fastidious groomers that they kill 95% of the ticks that try to suck their blood. What's not to like?
At Clinton Lake, where we often drive and frequently walk, we became used to seeing a possum who palled around with a gimpy-legged raccoon. I don't remember naming the raccoon, but we dubbed the marsupial Possum Doble (clearly the fault of too much viewing of dancers performing the paso doble on Dancing with the Stars ).
This possum is not dead, just curled into a fetal position and pretending to be.
Have you ever seen a possum play dead? They do a good job of it and that is where the term "playing possum" comes from. I recently met my friend Linda at the Big Biscuit for breakfast and she told me an interesting possum story regarding the possum's ability to do that.
Linda has a dearly beloved female Lab and a doggie door in the kitchen so the dog can go in and out at will. One day, Linda noticed a possum walking around in her kitchen (I suspect you don't have to be very observant to notice a possum in the house). The possum was removed. A few weeks later, it happened again. The third time a marsupial entered the house, the mystery was solved because the possum, playing dead, came through the doggie door in the soft jaws of the Lab. "She didn't want to hurt him," Linda explained, "she just wanted to play with him."
Any dogs around our home belong to our neighbors and we enjoy them vicariously. Definitely no doggie doors in our house. As much as we like possums, we want them to stay outside the house.
Linda has a dearly beloved female Lab and a doggie door in the kitchen so the dog can go in and out at will. One day, Linda noticed a possum walking around in her kitchen (I suspect you don't have to be very observant to notice a possum in the house). The possum was removed. A few weeks later, it happened again. The third time a marsupial entered the house, the mystery was solved because the possum, playing dead, came through the doggie door in the soft jaws of the Lab. "She didn't want to hurt him," Linda explained, "she just wanted to play with him."
Any dogs around our home belong to our neighbors and we enjoy them vicariously. Definitely no doggie doors in our house. As much as we like possums, we want them to stay outside the house.
We caught something
in the safe trap!
Correction: The little critter below which I described in the following post as a gopher because he had pink feet is very likely a pack rat according to a consensus of people who claim to know. Who knew pack rats also have pink feet? Sorry. My bad!
See? Pink feet. The groundhog's feet are black (like his heart).
It just isn’t what we expected. I think it is a gopher. It’s a lot smaller than the groundhog. Cuter, too. The Internet — we can always believe the Internet, can’t we? — says gophers have pink feet. This one surely does. Ray thinks it may be a rat because its tail is hairless.
But, wait! The Internet says one difference between a gopher and a groundhog is that the gopher’s tail is hairless, while the groundhog’s shorter tail is covered with fur. Another reason I think it is a gopher is because Ray thinks it is “a cute little fellow.” He surely wouldn’t think a rat was cute, would he? Case closed. It’s a gopher . . . unless, of course, one of you know what it really is.
Ray discovered the little rodent (whatever it is, it is definitely a rodent) was in the trap when he went to the front step to crack black walnuts which he will freeze until he needs them for the Christmas candy he makes. He said the little guy was frantic, trying to bite his way free through the wire. Ray felt so sorry for him, he gave him part of his cream-cheese Danish.
“He went nuts over that,” Ray says, “He just loved it.” The critter will have to go back to eating whatever he eats when pastries aren’t available, because Ray transported him to the Wakarusa River and let him loose where, according to Ray, “He took off like a shot! He was really moving fast.”
The Wakarusa is a small river, more like a creek until it floods, located about three and a half miles from our home. Its name is an Indian word meaning “hip-deep.” It is where Ray released the many raccoons he caught in that trap. I’m pretty sure the coons made it back to our home before he did. And, given that Ray said the little rodent was really moving fast, I’ll bet he did, too!
At least we now know to bait the trap with cream-cheese Danish.
But, wait! The Internet says one difference between a gopher and a groundhog is that the gopher’s tail is hairless, while the groundhog’s shorter tail is covered with fur. Another reason I think it is a gopher is because Ray thinks it is “a cute little fellow.” He surely wouldn’t think a rat was cute, would he? Case closed. It’s a gopher . . . unless, of course, one of you know what it really is.
Ray discovered the little rodent (whatever it is, it is definitely a rodent) was in the trap when he went to the front step to crack black walnuts which he will freeze until he needs them for the Christmas candy he makes. He said the little guy was frantic, trying to bite his way free through the wire. Ray felt so sorry for him, he gave him part of his cream-cheese Danish.
“He went nuts over that,” Ray says, “He just loved it.” The critter will have to go back to eating whatever he eats when pastries aren’t available, because Ray transported him to the Wakarusa River and let him loose where, according to Ray, “He took off like a shot! He was really moving fast.”
The Wakarusa is a small river, more like a creek until it floods, located about three and a half miles from our home. Its name is an Indian word meaning “hip-deep.” It is where Ray released the many raccoons he caught in that trap. I’m pretty sure the coons made it back to our home before he did. And, given that Ray said the little rodent was really moving fast, I’ll bet he did, too!
At least we now know to bait the trap with cream-cheese Danish.
He's baaaaack!
"Do you want a piece of me? Well, do ya?"
Perhaps he’s a she. We’re not sure. But the rogue rodent — call it what you will, groundhog, woodchuck or the words my husband calls it — that has been plaguing Ray for months just bit the tops off all of the garlic and red onions he planted in a square-foot garden.
Wasn’t it enough that the *%#$@&* shredded one of the boxes containing our Tuft&Needle twin XL mattresses for our king bed? Apparently not, because he’s been digging a big hole under the south side of the attached garage since Ray blocked the cavern he had dug under the front sidewalk.
Many moons ago, my mother was troubled by a female groundhog. We knew she was female because she had a bunch of babies who followed her around. One day, she waddled up to Mom’s bedroom window and — without any provocation whatsoever — bit a huge chunk out of the bottom window frame. Many might have dispatched her for that sinful destruction, but we’re softies who cannot kill a mother whose babies need her.
Son Greg called his high school anatomy teacher — he also taught biology — who brought out a safe trap and, after several tries with different baits (I think apple was one), finally lured the whole kit and caboodle into the trap. He carted them off far enough that they couldn’t do further damage to Mom’s house.
So Ray has now set up a safe trap (turns out a groundhog doesn't have to have babies for us to be softies). He baited it with apple. I still think my suggestion to bait it with Tic-tacs was better.
Wasn’t it enough that the *%#$@&* shredded one of the boxes containing our Tuft&Needle twin XL mattresses for our king bed? Apparently not, because he’s been digging a big hole under the south side of the attached garage since Ray blocked the cavern he had dug under the front sidewalk.
Many moons ago, my mother was troubled by a female groundhog. We knew she was female because she had a bunch of babies who followed her around. One day, she waddled up to Mom’s bedroom window and — without any provocation whatsoever — bit a huge chunk out of the bottom window frame. Many might have dispatched her for that sinful destruction, but we’re softies who cannot kill a mother whose babies need her.
Son Greg called his high school anatomy teacher — he also taught biology — who brought out a safe trap and, after several tries with different baits (I think apple was one), finally lured the whole kit and caboodle into the trap. He carted them off far enough that they couldn’t do further damage to Mom’s house.
So Ray has now set up a safe trap (turns out a groundhog doesn't have to have babies for us to be softies). He baited it with apple. I still think my suggestion to bait it with Tic-tacs was better.
Grams made it into a podcast!
(she wouldn't know what that is)
Ruth Margaret Moriarty, RN
I have been notified that my story — “She Did it Herself” — about my grandmother which will be published this month in Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Crazy Family will also be featured on the Chicken Soup for the Soul podcast on April 18. They sent the following links to listen to the podcast: click here for Apple or here for Google.
I, however, plan to listen to it on the Chicken Soup for the Soul website: click here for Chicken Soup.
What is so cool about this is that so many people will learn more about Grams. She was an RN, trained in a Victorian hospital, an independent woman back in the day when most women weren’t. It was Grams who taught me how to make a fire by focusing the rays of the hot summer sun through a magnifying glass onto paper. It was she who could tell a bird by its song and a tree by its shape, bark or leaf. And it was Grams who made me pancakes in the shape of bunny rabbits and squirrels.
I, however, plan to listen to it on the Chicken Soup for the Soul website: click here for Chicken Soup.
What is so cool about this is that so many people will learn more about Grams. She was an RN, trained in a Victorian hospital, an independent woman back in the day when most women weren’t. It was Grams who taught me how to make a fire by focusing the rays of the hot summer sun through a magnifying glass onto paper. It was she who could tell a bird by its song and a tree by its shape, bark or leaf. And it was Grams who made me pancakes in the shape of bunny rabbits and squirrels.
When I showed Grams this Polaroid picture, she said, "I look sort of pregnant."
Best of all, Grams taught me how to grow old without noticing I was doing it. When the kids played with sparklers on the 4th of July, so did she. And I will never forget the day she accompanied Ray and me when we took our sons to the park. Grams came barreling down the high slide with both arms high in the air. She shot right off the end of the slide and landed in a pile of sand. She struggled to her feet, dusted herself off and headed for the ladder to “go again.”
Grams grew older but she never grew old. I plan to do the same.
Grams grew older but she never grew old. I plan to do the same.
Go Hawks!
. . . and Happy Easter!
A letter to my grandmother:
Dear Grams, you made it
into Chicken Soup!
My Crazy Family's publication date is April 10.
Yes, you did! Your story is one of 101 stories in Chicken Soup for the Soul's My Crazy Family.
No, Grams, I do not think you were crazy. Does it help that a subtitle explains that the book's stories are about the Wacky, Lovable People in Our Lives? No, Grams, I don't think you were wacky either. Lovable, for sure. I also thought you were independent and brave. I admit some people may have thought your actions were a bit eccentric — which may be considered a synonym for crazy — but not me. I knew you better than they did.
The title of your story is "She did it herself!" That is true enough. I don't think there was anything you were afraid to try. Most ladies in their mid-80s wouldn't climb 15 feet up into a tree. Heck, most octogenarians of either gender might be hesitant to climb up a step-ladder. As far as taking on a burglar with a baseball bat as you planned to do, well, almost everyone I know would choose to run or hide rather than engage an intruder. I pity any burglar who tried to break into your house.
If there are books in Heaven — Why wouldn't there be? — I hope you can find a copy of this particular book and read your story. Perhaps you and Great-aunt May (she's also mentioned) can read it together. I hope you like it.
Love,
Marsha
No, Grams, I do not think you were crazy. Does it help that a subtitle explains that the book's stories are about the Wacky, Lovable People in Our Lives? No, Grams, I don't think you were wacky either. Lovable, for sure. I also thought you were independent and brave. I admit some people may have thought your actions were a bit eccentric — which may be considered a synonym for crazy — but not me. I knew you better than they did.
The title of your story is "She did it herself!" That is true enough. I don't think there was anything you were afraid to try. Most ladies in their mid-80s wouldn't climb 15 feet up into a tree. Heck, most octogenarians of either gender might be hesitant to climb up a step-ladder. As far as taking on a burglar with a baseball bat as you planned to do, well, almost everyone I know would choose to run or hide rather than engage an intruder. I pity any burglar who tried to break into your house.
If there are books in Heaven — Why wouldn't there be? — I hope you can find a copy of this particular book and read your story. Perhaps you and Great-aunt May (she's also mentioned) can read it together. I hope you like it.
Love,
Marsha
Sometimes you should believe
your lyin' eyes
I am holding the hoodie by the shoulder seams. HUGE, right?
Does this look like a medium royal blue T-shirt to you?
Ray ordered me a T-shirt with the words I’m a February girl. I was born with my heart on my sleeve, a fire in my soul and a mouth I can’t control. Thank you for understanding. He is convinced that the person who wrote those lines must have known me.
Ray ordered me a T-shirt with the words I’m a February girl. I was born with my heart on my sleeve, a fire in my soul and a mouth I can’t control. Thank you for understanding. He is convinced that the person who wrote those lines must have known me.
Here's the hoodie photographed with a royal blue (and white) Dockers medium knit top. Notice any difference?
The T-shirt he ordered was size medium in royal blue. When it arrived last week, I eagerly opened the package to find a gray hoodie in extra-large. For the record, extra-large is HUGE!
Click on photos for larger images and you'll be able to read that this is actually a T-shirt (royal) M. (Frankly, I don't think so.)
But not to worry. The person who packaged my T-shirt could read. The sticky tag on the shoulder of the gray extra-large hoodie says “T-shirt (Royal) M.” So . . . what would you believe? The tag? Or your lyin’ eyes?
I emailed the company about the mix-up and today I received a reply. They say they'll make it right and they apologized for the inconvenience. (I'm a little worried about how inconvenient it will be to return the hoodie.) They also asked for pictures. Do you think these three are enough?
I emailed the company about the mix-up and today I received a reply. They say they'll make it right and they apologized for the inconvenience. (I'm a little worried about how inconvenient it will be to return the hoodie.) They also asked for pictures. Do you think these three are enough?
A new visitor to our deck
Doesn't he look fierce? And get a look at those talons.
"Marsha!" Ray shouted, "Come quick!"
When Ray summons me in that hurry-up manner, I have a pretty good idea that he has spotted a critter. "Have you seen a bird like that?" he asked. "Is it some kind of owl?"
From the back, it looked like an owl, the same sort of coloration and pattern, but when he turned sideways, we could tell it was a hawk . . . but not one we have seen in our neck of the woods. He was cold and miserable and looked as fierce as an eagle.
When Ray summons me in that hurry-up manner, I have a pretty good idea that he has spotted a critter. "Have you seen a bird like that?" he asked. "Is it some kind of owl?"
From the back, it looked like an owl, the same sort of coloration and pattern, but when he turned sideways, we could tell it was a hawk . . . but not one we have seen in our neck of the woods. He was cold and miserable and looked as fierce as an eagle.
You'd look fierce, too, if you had ice hanging from your nose.
Note in the photo at right the ice at the end of his beak. That ice made Ray worry that he had been after the fish in the water garden. Yes, the goldfish and shubunkin are swimming around instead of hibernating or whatever they are supposed to do in the winter. I actually don't know if hawks, other than osprey, have a hankering for fish or if, like Ray, they would eat fish only if they were starving.
As is my wont, I called son Greg's high school biology teacher who is my go-to-guy in cases like this. He looked at my photos and said he is 88.64% certain our visitor is a red-shouldered hawk. Their numbers are said to be increasing in Kansas, but they are still rare enough that we haven't seen one. He seems to be hanging around so maybe, if he can find a mate, we might increase the population with some little hawks. I just realized he may be a she, in which case she will need to find a he. Whatever . . . it's all good.
As is my wont, I called son Greg's high school biology teacher who is my go-to-guy in cases like this. He looked at my photos and said he is 88.64% certain our visitor is a red-shouldered hawk. Their numbers are said to be increasing in Kansas, but they are still rare enough that we haven't seen one. He seems to be hanging around so maybe, if he can find a mate, we might increase the population with some little hawks. I just realized he may be a she, in which case she will need to find a he. Whatever . . . it's all good.
They said it couldn't be done,
but, by gosh, I did it!
WHO said it couldn't be done? Well, that would be me. Still, with the help of IT son and a bunch of nice tech guys and gals (too polite to ask, "How dumb can you be?"), I have successfully moved my website.
You will see some under construction signs on a few of the pages I'm still working on, but I hope you find this a fun experience. Clicking on Posts by Topic in Navigation at the very top of this site will bring up a menu showing you the various pages you can access.
Real Steel Autos features stories of all the cars we have owned. Well, not all of them yet, but the ones that are on there have stories to tell and, let me tell you, they are real blabbermouths.
There is another page that features our adventures on our Rose Bowl Trip when 2014 turned into 2015 and granddaughter Zoe's Blue Springs High School band marched in the parade. It was the coldest parade on record. Wouldn't you just know it? I'm not sure that Lawrence, Kansas wasn't warmer than Pasadena, California that New Year's Day.
You'll get to watch this site improve. I'm learning more every single day. So have fun exploring and if you have suggestions or comments, there is a comment page. I'd love to hear from you!
You will see some under construction signs on a few of the pages I'm still working on, but I hope you find this a fun experience. Clicking on Posts by Topic in Navigation at the very top of this site will bring up a menu showing you the various pages you can access.
Real Steel Autos features stories of all the cars we have owned. Well, not all of them yet, but the ones that are on there have stories to tell and, let me tell you, they are real blabbermouths.
There is another page that features our adventures on our Rose Bowl Trip when 2014 turned into 2015 and granddaughter Zoe's Blue Springs High School band marched in the parade. It was the coldest parade on record. Wouldn't you just know it? I'm not sure that Lawrence, Kansas wasn't warmer than Pasadena, California that New Year's Day.
You'll get to watch this site improve. I'm learning more every single day. So have fun exploring and if you have suggestions or comments, there is a comment page. I'd love to hear from you!
It's all about the $$$$$
Jest for Grins has moved! It isn't easy moving a website from one host to another. It is tedious and time-consuming, making me wonder just how cheap I must be to value my time so little. Turns out I can be as fickle about web hosts as I am satellite providers.
But don't let the title of this post fool you. It isn't all about saving money, although that's a big part of it. I'll have new features to offer you as soon as I learn to use them. I promised a long time ago that if I could ever figure out how to post videos, I would post one of the herd of deer (eight bucks and six does) that Ray videotaped cavorting in our back yard. A caveat, though, the video has to be under one gigabyte.
I've even saved the night video Ray's trail cam captured when Critter Control set safe traps for the lady skunk living under our sidewalk by the front door. When an attractive female skunk lives under your sidewalk, it creates a very stinky situation because of the many male suitors vying for her attention. Still, I am glad the critter guy was able to release her at Clinton Lake. He said if we had lived within the city limits, he would have had to kill her. Why? City skunks should have the same rights as country skunks.
But I digress. Should you find links that don't work, rest assured that they will be quickly addressed. I'm archiving a lot of the older posts (I've been doing this for six years), and categorizing them into groups: Critters, Real Steel Autos, Holidays, Rose Bowl Trip, etc. The good thing about humorous and historical articles is that they are timeless.
But don't let the title of this post fool you. It isn't all about saving money, although that's a big part of it. I'll have new features to offer you as soon as I learn to use them. I promised a long time ago that if I could ever figure out how to post videos, I would post one of the herd of deer (eight bucks and six does) that Ray videotaped cavorting in our back yard. A caveat, though, the video has to be under one gigabyte.
I've even saved the night video Ray's trail cam captured when Critter Control set safe traps for the lady skunk living under our sidewalk by the front door. When an attractive female skunk lives under your sidewalk, it creates a very stinky situation because of the many male suitors vying for her attention. Still, I am glad the critter guy was able to release her at Clinton Lake. He said if we had lived within the city limits, he would have had to kill her. Why? City skunks should have the same rights as country skunks.
But I digress. Should you find links that don't work, rest assured that they will be quickly addressed. I'm archiving a lot of the older posts (I've been doing this for six years), and categorizing them into groups: Critters, Real Steel Autos, Holidays, Rose Bowl Trip, etc. The good thing about humorous and historical articles is that they are timeless.
They thought I was bluffing
. . . but I wasn't
Well, sure, this is a facsimile, but I have received multiple $200 gift cards from Direct-TV after I followed through on my promise to change to Dish if they wouldn't meet their offer.
If only Direct-TV had tried half as hard to keep me as they’ve tried to get me back! They certainly had their chances. I guess they thought our 21 year marriage was solid.
When we built our house on a hill in the country, cable wasn't an option. We paid $1,200 for the D-TV satellite and Ray installed it himself while standing on a wooden ladder in the bed of his pickup truck to give him the extra height needed to reach the highest peak of our house. In less than a year, the satellite and installation were free with a contract.
My marriage with D-TV had its ups and downs, as all marriages do. Technical assistance almost broke us up several times. After one frustrating call, I wrote a column about it. Want to read Boondocks living means no cable television? Click HERE.
But what really broke up our union was the doubling, tripling, quadrupling of our bill. Enter DISH, a suitor that brought with it a really good deal, both price-wise and feature-wise. I called D-TV several times trying to negotiate a better rate. They wouldn't budge.
So I am currently in the middle of a sizzling romance with DISH that is going very, very well. Hopefully, when this contract ends, they won't jack up their prices a la D-TV. Attention DISH: I love you now, but I'm clearly fickle about satellite providers when it comes to my pocketbook. You'd be wise to remember that.
When we built our house on a hill in the country, cable wasn't an option. We paid $1,200 for the D-TV satellite and Ray installed it himself while standing on a wooden ladder in the bed of his pickup truck to give him the extra height needed to reach the highest peak of our house. In less than a year, the satellite and installation were free with a contract.
My marriage with D-TV had its ups and downs, as all marriages do. Technical assistance almost broke us up several times. After one frustrating call, I wrote a column about it. Want to read Boondocks living means no cable television? Click HERE.
But what really broke up our union was the doubling, tripling, quadrupling of our bill. Enter DISH, a suitor that brought with it a really good deal, both price-wise and feature-wise. I called D-TV several times trying to negotiate a better rate. They wouldn't budge.
So I am currently in the middle of a sizzling romance with DISH that is going very, very well. Hopefully, when this contract ends, they won't jack up their prices a la D-TV. Attention DISH: I love you now, but I'm clearly fickle about satellite providers when it comes to my pocketbook. You'd be wise to remember that.
My Christmas gift to you:
Free download of
Recognition Denied
Full cover, back (left) and front (right). Click on photo for larger image.
As a Christmas present to all of you — especially Rangers of any era and those who love them or who love history — you may download free on Amazon an electronic version of my short little book Recognition Denied beginning Saturday, December 23 through Wednesday, December 27. The book is the untold story of a daring WW II mission by several Darby's Rangers which is still unacknowledged by the Army. I believe it happened because of how I first, and subsequently, learned about it. Decide for yourself whether I proved my case. For a few brief days after publication, this little book was Amazon's Number 1 best seller for short history and Number 2 for WW II history. The men — one of whom was my father — are likely all long dead. The ones whose names are known certainly are.
A blue-barn calendar for
two special ladies
Katie, 96, a WW II Rosie the Riveter, and Pat, 84, a painter of blue barns
One of the best things about being a writer is that I get to meet some amazing people. However, I (and Ray, too) have rarely bonded with an interviewee like we have with Katie, a real-life World War II Rosie the Riveter. Katie is the youngest 96-year-old you’ll ever meet and her friend Pat, with whom she lives, is a vigorous 84-year-old. Together, they are a dynamic duo, endowed with energy, enthusiasm and humor.
They are such avid KU Jayhawk basketball fans that Pat long ago painted her barn a vivid blue. That barn has been featured in a number of cards I have sent them and when Ray and I wanted to give them a Christmas gift, we decided to give something no one else could: a 2018 calendar prominently featuring the blue barn.
In January, the barn hosts Pat and Katie’s “Rockin’ New Year’s Eve.” In February, it is a tunnel of love and it is the venue for an Irish Extravaganza in March. Bunnies paint Easter Eggs in front of the barn in April, Pat and Katie present a spring festival in May and own a garden center housed in the barn in June. They sell fireworks out of the barn in July, have a back-to-school book sale in September and in October, turn the barn into a haunted house. Pat and Katie boast a turkey farm in November, tagline: “We raise ‘em; you roast ‘em.” In December, they present Santa’s workshop for kids of all ages.
But we knew Pat and Katie would love most that the barn turns into a theatre in August, starring nephew Brad Zinn, a talented comedy impressionist in his one-man show called The Great Comedians: Those Felt Hat and Big Cigar Funny Men. Katie and Pat are button-busting proud of Brad and think he is the greatest of performers. If you want to judge for yourself how good he actually is, click HERE.
The groundhog and
the mattress
Think he's cute? Look at those claws and teeth!
Our resident rogue rodent likes our new mattress. Or perhaps he (or she, hard to tell with groundhogs) likes the box. If it’s a she, I fear she may want the cardboard she shredded from the shipping box for a nest. That would be bad news for us because we don’t want one groundhog, let alone a litter. Until now, we have had a laissez-faire relationship with the groundhog — did I mention that it is huge, has long wicked claws and really big teeth? — expecting it to mind its own business, while we minded ours.
Regarding the bedding the rodent tried to reach, I have written books in less time than it took me to decide which online mattress to buy. I narrowed it down to T&N (Tuft & Needle), Casper and Nectar and finally decided on T&N because it is made in the USA, uses fewer chemicals in manufacturing their adaptive foam and 95% of buyers keep it (they said so and I must believe them because I bought it after multiple online chats to quell my insecurity about buying a mattress online). Also, I keep thinking Casper is a ghost and Nectar might attract bees.
Regarding the bedding the rodent tried to reach, I have written books in less time than it took me to decide which online mattress to buy. I narrowed it down to T&N (Tuft & Needle), Casper and Nectar and finally decided on T&N because it is made in the USA, uses fewer chemicals in manufacturing their adaptive foam and 95% of buyers keep it (they said so and I must believe them because I bought it after multiple online chats to quell my insecurity about buying a mattress online). Also, I keep thinking Casper is a ghost and Nectar might attract bees.
Yes, that's the mattress you are seeing. Looks like he nicked the plastic covering in one place, but it hasn't expanded and broken out of the box, so we hope it is OK.
I am using the singular word mattress, but, in fact, we bought two XL twins for our king-sized bed in the hope that we will eventually buy an individually adjustable bed. But first, I need to make sure the mattresses work for us. Like Goldilocks, we want it to be not too hard, not too soft, but just right. We have 100 nights to find out
I ordered the mattresses on Monday and they arrived two days later on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Ray and I were home all day, which is unusual for us, but we didn’t realize the boxes were there until Ray heard something and opened the door to see the groundhog opening a box with its very long and sharp claws. Ray shooed off the rodent and we brought the boxes inside. We won’t learn whether the mattress is damaged until we open the boxes on Friday.
I’ve burned up the Internet buying gifts online this year so I hope next time a FedEx driver delivers a package to our home, he or she will ring the bell so we know a package has arrived. Got that, FedEx?
Only problem now is getting rid of our king mattress. Perhaps if we drag it to the front porch the groundhog will shred it like it shredded the box, thus allowing the strong winter zephyrs on our Kansas hill to blow it away. Nah, we like the neighbors east of us.
Wishing you — and us — a Happy Thanksgiving and sweet dreams for many years to come.
I ordered the mattresses on Monday and they arrived two days later on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Ray and I were home all day, which is unusual for us, but we didn’t realize the boxes were there until Ray heard something and opened the door to see the groundhog opening a box with its very long and sharp claws. Ray shooed off the rodent and we brought the boxes inside. We won’t learn whether the mattress is damaged until we open the boxes on Friday.
I’ve burned up the Internet buying gifts online this year so I hope next time a FedEx driver delivers a package to our home, he or she will ring the bell so we know a package has arrived. Got that, FedEx?
Only problem now is getting rid of our king mattress. Perhaps if we drag it to the front porch the groundhog will shred it like it shredded the box, thus allowing the strong winter zephyrs on our Kansas hill to blow it away. Nah, we like the neighbors east of us.
Wishing you — and us — a Happy Thanksgiving and sweet dreams for many years to come.
Marsha's one and only
Helpful Household Tip
My sentiments exactly!
Many years ago, when Ray discovered I was neither Betty Crocker nor Suzy Homemaker, he bought me the little statue of a cleaning lady which son Greg used as a model to draw the pen-and-ink sketch above to illustrate one of my books.
The book I will never write is one filled with household tips and yet I am giving you one now in case you should you ever scorch an item. I never thought I would need such a tip because the last time I ironed was circa 1969. But did you know your dryer set on low could scorch a puffy king-size alternative-down comforter if you kept it in there too long? Me neither.
I thought I'd have to dye it brown, but, happily, I learned that all you have to do to erase the scorch marks on a snowy-white comforter is soak a cloth in hydrogen peroxide, lay it on the scorch marks and iron it with a hot, but not too hot, iron. (I used the wool setting.) It's a miracle cure!
The book I will never write is one filled with household tips and yet I am giving you one now in case you should you ever scorch an item. I never thought I would need such a tip because the last time I ironed was circa 1969. But did you know your dryer set on low could scorch a puffy king-size alternative-down comforter if you kept it in there too long? Me neither.
I thought I'd have to dye it brown, but, happily, I learned that all you have to do to erase the scorch marks on a snowy-white comforter is soak a cloth in hydrogen peroxide, lay it on the scorch marks and iron it with a hot, but not too hot, iron. (I used the wool setting.) It's a miracle cure!
Battle of the Bulge
Next month on December 16th marks the 73rd Anniversary of the start of the World War II battle dubbed Battle of the Bulge when 200,000 German soldiers and 1000 tanks broke through a 75-mile stretch of the American front in the Ardennes Forest of Belgium, France and Luxemburg. The American defenders in the Ardennes were four divisions of inexperienced or battle-weary soldiers stationed there for either preparation or rest.
By the end of the battle on January 25, 1945, Americans had suffered 75,000 casualties and the Germans, 80,000 to 100,000. The December attack was Hitler’s last major offensive and fewer than nine months — but sadly, many more lives — before Germany was defeated on September 2, 1945.
I am always stunned when I think of what our fathers endured. To quote from one of my father's letters to his parents from Anzio Beachhead: "To the combat soldier who lives in holes like animals, whose existence is characterized only by the barest minimum of the necessities of life, and who has for almost a year and a half suffered day after day from heat or cold, in desert or in icy, muddy mountains, going without sleep, or bathing, or changing clothes for days, weeks and months, life has been crystalized into the expression of one desire -- to return home!"
Dad had a long war, from Africa, through Sicily, Italy, France, Belgium -- he was wounded during the Battle of the Bulge -- and Germany. This painting brings his words home in ways my imagination cannot.
By the end of the battle on January 25, 1945, Americans had suffered 75,000 casualties and the Germans, 80,000 to 100,000. The December attack was Hitler’s last major offensive and fewer than nine months — but sadly, many more lives — before Germany was defeated on September 2, 1945.
I am always stunned when I think of what our fathers endured. To quote from one of my father's letters to his parents from Anzio Beachhead: "To the combat soldier who lives in holes like animals, whose existence is characterized only by the barest minimum of the necessities of life, and who has for almost a year and a half suffered day after day from heat or cold, in desert or in icy, muddy mountains, going without sleep, or bathing, or changing clothes for days, weeks and months, life has been crystalized into the expression of one desire -- to return home!"
Dad had a long war, from Africa, through Sicily, Italy, France, Belgium -- he was wounded during the Battle of the Bulge -- and Germany. This painting brings his words home in ways my imagination cannot.
Correction: not a Lady Smith
When Grams' devious renter told me her gun, the subject of the following posting, was a Lady Smith, I took him at his word. Why would I do that after learning that he was a stranger to the truth?
However, my friend Gary, who knows more about guns than Wyatt Earp, told me the little gun is a Smith & Wesson Bekeart and rarer than the Lady Smith. "It was the Remington ammunition that gave it away," he said. "It is a long gun and there were no Lady Smith long guns."
I have no idea what long gun means; it doesn't look very long to me. Perhaps it has a longer range. I forgot to ask, but I am trusting that Gary is correct. He did a lot of research and he was never one of Grams' renters.
However, my friend Gary, who knows more about guns than Wyatt Earp, told me the little gun is a Smith & Wesson Bekeart and rarer than the Lady Smith. "It was the Remington ammunition that gave it away," he said. "It is a long gun and there were no Lady Smith long guns."
I have no idea what long gun means; it doesn't look very long to me. Perhaps it has a longer range. I forgot to ask, but I am trusting that Gary is correct. He did a lot of research and he was never one of Grams' renters.
OMG, I'm writing about guns!
An important preamble: The little gun pictured below belonged to my grandmother. Funny story about that: when Grams was in a nursing home in Lawrence, Ray and I were charged with checking on her properties in Sabetha. Once when we were up there, I was talking in front of her house with one of her renters and her neighbor man across the street. The renter said, "I loaned your grandmother a little Lady Smith gun because she was afraid and I'd like to have it back." That sounded strange to me because Grams was never afraid, keeping a bat beside her door should anyone break in. I told him I'd ask her about it and he said, "Oh, never mind. I wouldn't want to bother her." After he left, her neighbor said indignantly, "Don't give him that gun. I was with him when your grandmother showed it to us and said your grandfather purchased it for her." And now, without further ado (drum roll): OMG, I'm writing about guns!
Grandma Ruth's S&W Lady Smith in its presentation case, a gift to her from Grandpa Marsh.
Yes, I guess I am. Not to worry, though, this isn’t a political piece, just a story about some of my experiences with guns. Grandpa Henry was a “trick shot” in the circus. That was way before my time, so I really don’t know exactly what he did except he must have been good at it. Dad was a sportsman — we ate lots of pheasant and quail and even some rabbit and squirrel — so my sisters and I grew up with a rack of rifles and shotguns hanging in our parents’ bedroom.
There were handguns, too. Mom’s little Stevens .22 which she once used to defend sister Lesta and me when we were babies and Dad was away (If you want to read about that, click HERE). Then there was Dad’s Colt .45 automatic (but not, I don’t think, the one he carried as a WW II Ranger because I’m told he gave that gun to my male cousin, never dreaming that he might have grandsons who would cherish it, and perhaps because he didn’t have good memories of using it in combat).
At 15, I had an up-close-and-personal experience with the .45 when my parents and younger sisters were out of town and I was home alone. I expected them home before dark and became anxious when they weren’t and a suspicious car kept driving by our house. Instead of closing the picture window drapes, I decided to get a gun and flash it around the window to scare off the occupants of the car. Next thing I knew, I had shot twice through the living room floor and once through a chair. My lasting memory is that a .45, when fired in a small living room, is really loud. In retrospect, I also realize I really was a dumb blond at age 15.
As a police officer, Ray carried a .38 Smith and Wesson Chief Special. On vacation in Oklahoma while heading to Six Flags over Texas, Ray and I accompanied my cousins Mike and Herb to a gun range they set up in the country. They were firing black powder muzzle-loading long guns, holding them against their shoulders and aiming toward a bullseye a long ways away. Ray shot at the target a few times with his .38, then asked if I wanted to try it.
Naturally, I did. As the guys watched the target through scopes to see if I could hit it, I aimed the gun by holding it close to my right eye. I fired and was knocked backward into a tree. My first thought was that I had shot myself in the head. I was fortunate that the detective who owned the gun before Ray had filed off the hammer spur so he could easily pull it out of his pocket. Otherwise, in addition to a big purple bump over my eye, I would have had a puncture in my head. When we arrived at Six Flags a couple of days later, I resembled a unicorn with its horn off-kilter. Did I mention I hit the 9-ring? My cousin Mike said I’d be a really good shot if I armor plated my forehead.
Years ago, Butch bought me a gun for protection, knowing I was often driving alone in the country at night and believing “when seconds count, the police are only minutes away.” Then he took me to a gun range and taught me how to shoot it. I guess I will get political and say I support the Second Amendment to the Constitution but with this caveat: If you own a gun, make sure you know how to use it so you won’t injure any innocent floors and chairs.
There were handguns, too. Mom’s little Stevens .22 which she once used to defend sister Lesta and me when we were babies and Dad was away (If you want to read about that, click HERE). Then there was Dad’s Colt .45 automatic (but not, I don’t think, the one he carried as a WW II Ranger because I’m told he gave that gun to my male cousin, never dreaming that he might have grandsons who would cherish it, and perhaps because he didn’t have good memories of using it in combat).
At 15, I had an up-close-and-personal experience with the .45 when my parents and younger sisters were out of town and I was home alone. I expected them home before dark and became anxious when they weren’t and a suspicious car kept driving by our house. Instead of closing the picture window drapes, I decided to get a gun and flash it around the window to scare off the occupants of the car. Next thing I knew, I had shot twice through the living room floor and once through a chair. My lasting memory is that a .45, when fired in a small living room, is really loud. In retrospect, I also realize I really was a dumb blond at age 15.
As a police officer, Ray carried a .38 Smith and Wesson Chief Special. On vacation in Oklahoma while heading to Six Flags over Texas, Ray and I accompanied my cousins Mike and Herb to a gun range they set up in the country. They were firing black powder muzzle-loading long guns, holding them against their shoulders and aiming toward a bullseye a long ways away. Ray shot at the target a few times with his .38, then asked if I wanted to try it.
Naturally, I did. As the guys watched the target through scopes to see if I could hit it, I aimed the gun by holding it close to my right eye. I fired and was knocked backward into a tree. My first thought was that I had shot myself in the head. I was fortunate that the detective who owned the gun before Ray had filed off the hammer spur so he could easily pull it out of his pocket. Otherwise, in addition to a big purple bump over my eye, I would have had a puncture in my head. When we arrived at Six Flags a couple of days later, I resembled a unicorn with its horn off-kilter. Did I mention I hit the 9-ring? My cousin Mike said I’d be a really good shot if I armor plated my forehead.
Years ago, Butch bought me a gun for protection, knowing I was often driving alone in the country at night and believing “when seconds count, the police are only minutes away.” Then he took me to a gun range and taught me how to shoot it. I guess I will get political and say I support the Second Amendment to the Constitution but with this caveat: If you own a gun, make sure you know how to use it so you won’t injure any innocent floors and chairs.
If this doesn't scare you ...
Gabe as a zombie in Night of the Living Dead.
... I don't know what will!
For a couple of years, grandson Gabe appeared in Coterie Theatre's presentation of Night of the Living Dead at Kansas City's Crown Center. And, yes, we went to see him each time. At the end of the play, all of the zombies — and there were a creepy bunch of them — came out in front of the audience and performed Michael Jackson's Thriller Dance.
For the last 11 years, my city has hosted a Zombie Walk. I think it is a shame that Gabe never participated in that celebration and he certainly won't be doing it this year since he will be spending his birthday and Halloween in Peru. However, I have just learned that Peru celebrates Día de los Difuntos (Day of the Departed) although, according to the Internet (don't believe everything you read there), it consists only of putting the departed's favorite foods on an altar on November 1 and flowers on his/her grave the next day.
Perhaps Gabe can teach his new friends the Thriller Dance, get them to dress up like Zombies (he knows how to put on the makeup) and parade them through the streets. It can be his gift to the country! But they may not need a new tradition because he sent the photo below of a cafe with a very cool and very large blue skull.
I'm thinking of buying some black licorice and root beer in honor of my late mother (just a stroke of luck that those happen to be my favorite foods, too). I wonder if Peruvians eat the food off the altar. Probably not, but I likely will.
If you want to see photos of the Zombie Walk in Lawrence — and see them doing the Thriller Dance -- click HERE.
For the last 11 years, my city has hosted a Zombie Walk. I think it is a shame that Gabe never participated in that celebration and he certainly won't be doing it this year since he will be spending his birthday and Halloween in Peru. However, I have just learned that Peru celebrates Día de los Difuntos (Day of the Departed) although, according to the Internet (don't believe everything you read there), it consists only of putting the departed's favorite foods on an altar on November 1 and flowers on his/her grave the next day.
Perhaps Gabe can teach his new friends the Thriller Dance, get them to dress up like Zombies (he knows how to put on the makeup) and parade them through the streets. It can be his gift to the country! But they may not need a new tradition because he sent the photo below of a cafe with a very cool and very large blue skull.
I'm thinking of buying some black licorice and root beer in honor of my late mother (just a stroke of luck that those happen to be my favorite foods, too). I wonder if Peruvians eat the food off the altar. Probably not, but I likely will.
If you want to see photos of the Zombie Walk in Lawrence — and see them doing the Thriller Dance -- click HERE.
Wouldn't you like to eat here? I would!
Who needs pants?
Chris, Vicki, Lesta, Marsha and Ray (aka Cousin Eddie).
Hey guys! You know that sinking feeling when you travel 200 miles to a snazzy wedding, check into the hotel, carrying in your suit cover and then, when you start to get dressed, discover you have your suit coat, shirt, tie, belt, but no pants? If so, Ray can feel your pain.
Driving up to Omaha the day of the wedding and back the next morning, all we had with us was one pair of jeans each and a small bag containing a change of clean socks, underwear and shirts. What to do? Tried calling my niece whose son was getting married; couldn’t reach her. Then tried calling my sister Vicki who had also traveled from Lawrence to see if we should go to the wedding or stay at the hotel. Connected with her just as she and her son Chris were walking into the club. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, then suggested that we come anyway.
Meanwhile, I tell Ray I am having a flashback to the movie Christmas Vacation and imagining niece Debby introducing us as her relatives — Marsha and Cousin Eddie — from Kansas. I repeated that to Jake who transported us to the swanky golf club in the hotel shuttle and he said reassuringly, “He’ll be fine.” I figured we’d have Jake wait and if they wouldn’t let us in, we’d go back to the hotel.
Fortunately, like my late father, Ray looks good in whatever he is wearing, even when he’s working in the yard. Still a black suit coat paired with light blue jeans, even though they fit well, is hard to overlook. “Maybe I’ll set a new fashion trend,” Ray said.
“Or," I countered, "they’ll think you’re a billionaire country music star.” Ray was wearing dress cowboy boots, but that was intentional. He owns dress shoes, but always wears boots if he’s not wearing sneakers. He wore sneakers driving up, but fortunately remembered his boots.
Jake, our driver, said it best to Ray as he dropped us off, “You’ll probably be the only one comfortable at the wedding." And both of us were comfortable. I did explain to the bride’s parents that Ray actually had pants that matched his coat, because I figured we owed them that given they had obviously dropped a bundle on the wedding. First wedding I can remember where there was a full complimentary bar.
We had a wonderful time at the wedding, ate great food — salmon for me, KC strip for Ray — toasted the beautiful bride and handsome groom, visited with family and made new friends.
Had a fun drive home (we love to travel by car). And when we carried our bag and Ray’s suit coat into the closet to hang it up, there were his pants lying on the floor. That was a good place for them because it turns out that we didn’t miss them at all!
Driving up to Omaha the day of the wedding and back the next morning, all we had with us was one pair of jeans each and a small bag containing a change of clean socks, underwear and shirts. What to do? Tried calling my niece whose son was getting married; couldn’t reach her. Then tried calling my sister Vicki who had also traveled from Lawrence to see if we should go to the wedding or stay at the hotel. Connected with her just as she and her son Chris were walking into the club. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, then suggested that we come anyway.
Meanwhile, I tell Ray I am having a flashback to the movie Christmas Vacation and imagining niece Debby introducing us as her relatives — Marsha and Cousin Eddie — from Kansas. I repeated that to Jake who transported us to the swanky golf club in the hotel shuttle and he said reassuringly, “He’ll be fine.” I figured we’d have Jake wait and if they wouldn’t let us in, we’d go back to the hotel.
Fortunately, like my late father, Ray looks good in whatever he is wearing, even when he’s working in the yard. Still a black suit coat paired with light blue jeans, even though they fit well, is hard to overlook. “Maybe I’ll set a new fashion trend,” Ray said.
“Or," I countered, "they’ll think you’re a billionaire country music star.” Ray was wearing dress cowboy boots, but that was intentional. He owns dress shoes, but always wears boots if he’s not wearing sneakers. He wore sneakers driving up, but fortunately remembered his boots.
Jake, our driver, said it best to Ray as he dropped us off, “You’ll probably be the only one comfortable at the wedding." And both of us were comfortable. I did explain to the bride’s parents that Ray actually had pants that matched his coat, because I figured we owed them that given they had obviously dropped a bundle on the wedding. First wedding I can remember where there was a full complimentary bar.
We had a wonderful time at the wedding, ate great food — salmon for me, KC strip for Ray — toasted the beautiful bride and handsome groom, visited with family and made new friends.
Had a fun drive home (we love to travel by car). And when we carried our bag and Ray’s suit coat into the closet to hang it up, there were his pants lying on the floor. That was a good place for them because it turns out that we didn’t miss them at all!
Kids are honest;
so are seniors
Zoe at two-years-old.
My friend Sherry says that kids are simple, but honest. She uses her boys as evidence. When they were young, they categorized everyone they knew as either sweethearts or stinky-butts.
I have written much about honesty in my columns because that quality is important to me. As my father often said, "You can always watch thieves and while you're watching them, you know they are not stealing from you; but with known liars, every time their mouths are moving, you can't be sure they're not lying to you."
At any rate, Sherry's posting on Facebook reminded me of a long ago column (long enough ago that my newspaper hasn't archived it). It begins: Two-year-old Zoe toddled up to her mother and stated emphatically, “Something STINKS!” You notice these things when your nose is so close to your diaper. I converted that column to a PDF in case you want to read it. Just click HERE.
I have written much about honesty in my columns because that quality is important to me. As my father often said, "You can always watch thieves and while you're watching them, you know they are not stealing from you; but with known liars, every time their mouths are moving, you can't be sure they're not lying to you."
At any rate, Sherry's posting on Facebook reminded me of a long ago column (long enough ago that my newspaper hasn't archived it). It begins: Two-year-old Zoe toddled up to her mother and stated emphatically, “Something STINKS!” You notice these things when your nose is so close to your diaper. I converted that column to a PDF in case you want to read it. Just click HERE.
Check out my WW II page ...
... if you would like to read a letter sent to my mother by a Ranger who served with Dad in WW II. That letter means more to me than Dad's medals. I have also posted an ad I placed in a Ranger reunion book which honors Dad and those men who returned home to pick up their lives.
The perks of what I do
Meeting people like Margaret Shirk is one of the biggest perks of what I do
When you write for a living (or, in my case, a supplemental income), one of the biggest perks is the opportunity to meet some amazing people. Margaret Shirk, who recently died a few days after her 100th birthday was one of them.
Two years ago, I wrote an article about her in Amazing Aging, the newspaper I edit and primarily write for a non-profit. At 98, she was still volunteering for the Red Cross blood drives, something she had done for almost 50 years. To the end, she was the most avid supporter of the KU Jayhawks, never missing a basketball game and often dancing with the Baby Jay mascot. And she put her money where her mouth was, reportedly giving over a million dollars to her alma mater.
It is nearly impossible to describe how vibrant she was, but I gave it a try in "Margaret Shirk: Serving the Red Cross since 1966." If you would like to read it, click HERE.
When I learned she had celebrated her 100th birthday, I made and mailed her the special card pictured below. I so hope she saw it. Do you recognize the players? I guarantee that, if she saw it, Margaret did! Rest in peace, Wonderful Lady!
Two years ago, I wrote an article about her in Amazing Aging, the newspaper I edit and primarily write for a non-profit. At 98, she was still volunteering for the Red Cross blood drives, something she had done for almost 50 years. To the end, she was the most avid supporter of the KU Jayhawks, never missing a basketball game and often dancing with the Baby Jay mascot. And she put her money where her mouth was, reportedly giving over a million dollars to her alma mater.
It is nearly impossible to describe how vibrant she was, but I gave it a try in "Margaret Shirk: Serving the Red Cross since 1966." If you would like to read it, click HERE.
When I learned she had celebrated her 100th birthday, I made and mailed her the special card pictured below. I so hope she saw it. Do you recognize the players? I guarantee that, if she saw it, Margaret did! Rest in peace, Wonderful Lady!
Ain't fell in a bucket of paint!
I purchased this sign for my sister Vicki.
Mrs. Margrave, my second grade teacher, wrote “Ain’t fell in a bucket of paint!” on the blackboard, complete with a drawing of a paint can. It obviously made an impression on me because I still remember it. It was my first formal introduction to proper grammar.
Don't worry. I'm not the person silently correcting your grammar. That would be my sister Vicki for whom I bought the sign. And she's not the only one. Have you ever borrowed a book from the library and noticed that a previous borrower took time to make corrections to the text? Sometimes the corrections mark simple typos; other times, they note poor grammar.
You couldn't grow up as one of Dad's daughters without being instructed on the proper use of I and me. I never accidentally confused the two pronouns after asking Dad, "Will you take Wanda and I to a movie?"
"Would you say, 'Will you take I to a movie?'" Dad asked. I confess that I have sometimes used me when I is proper but sounded stilted in one of my columns. But that is a purposeful misuse ... or perhaps not. Winston Churchill is said to have advocated the use of "It's me" over "It's I" in answer to "Who's there?"
So, yes, I notice misuse of I and me, was and were and her and she. In fact the other day, I heard a TV personality who I believe is intelligent say, "Her and her supporters." Yikes!
Vicki admits to calling out news anchors for their egregious use of improper English. "I realize they are just reading what someone else has written," she says, "but someone should catch it."
The only time I emailed a TV news director was when an attractive young woman reporting a brutal murder ended her report by saying, "Both her legs were decapitated."
Tongue in cheek, I wrote, "Just thought your reporter might like to know that only heads can be decapitated."
I loved the response I received: "She didn't. We did. We should have caught it. Our bad."
My mother was my go-to grammarian if I had a sticky grammar question. She was expert at diagramming sentences and distinguishing parts of speech. And when I sometimes ended a sentence with a preposition (again because to do otherwise sounded too stilted for a humor column), I know she cringed. Still, she once admitted that her college English text instructed: Never use a preposition to end a sentence with.
Note: When I ran this posting through Word's spell and grammar check, Word suggested that I change is to am in the following sentence, making it read: I confess that I have sometimes used me when I is proper but sounded stilted in one of my columns. You can't always trust Word. Oh, and do you think I improperly used who when I should have used whom in the sentence about the intelligent TV personality's grammar goof? Nope, who is correct ... and if it isn't I'm pretty sure that Vicki will tell me!
Don't worry. I'm not the person silently correcting your grammar. That would be my sister Vicki for whom I bought the sign. And she's not the only one. Have you ever borrowed a book from the library and noticed that a previous borrower took time to make corrections to the text? Sometimes the corrections mark simple typos; other times, they note poor grammar.
You couldn't grow up as one of Dad's daughters without being instructed on the proper use of I and me. I never accidentally confused the two pronouns after asking Dad, "Will you take Wanda and I to a movie?"
"Would you say, 'Will you take I to a movie?'" Dad asked. I confess that I have sometimes used me when I is proper but sounded stilted in one of my columns. But that is a purposeful misuse ... or perhaps not. Winston Churchill is said to have advocated the use of "It's me" over "It's I" in answer to "Who's there?"
So, yes, I notice misuse of I and me, was and were and her and she. In fact the other day, I heard a TV personality who I believe is intelligent say, "Her and her supporters." Yikes!
Vicki admits to calling out news anchors for their egregious use of improper English. "I realize they are just reading what someone else has written," she says, "but someone should catch it."
The only time I emailed a TV news director was when an attractive young woman reporting a brutal murder ended her report by saying, "Both her legs were decapitated."
Tongue in cheek, I wrote, "Just thought your reporter might like to know that only heads can be decapitated."
I loved the response I received: "She didn't. We did. We should have caught it. Our bad."
My mother was my go-to grammarian if I had a sticky grammar question. She was expert at diagramming sentences and distinguishing parts of speech. And when I sometimes ended a sentence with a preposition (again because to do otherwise sounded too stilted for a humor column), I know she cringed. Still, she once admitted that her college English text instructed: Never use a preposition to end a sentence with.
Note: When I ran this posting through Word's spell and grammar check, Word suggested that I change is to am in the following sentence, making it read: I confess that I have sometimes used me when I is proper but sounded stilted in one of my columns. You can't always trust Word. Oh, and do you think I improperly used who when I should have used whom in the sentence about the intelligent TV personality's grammar goof? Nope, who is correct ... and if it isn't I'm pretty sure that Vicki will tell me!
A few crumbs short of
a smart cookie
We're standing on one of the Estes Park bridges over the Big Thompson River which never looked particularly big to me. A day after this photo was snapped, it looked HUGE!
Like clockwork every fall, Ray and I would head to Colorado. No more . . . or at least, not yet. The above photo, snapped in September 2013, tells you why. Sure, we are grinning like idiots in the picture but that was before we realized how bad the flood would get, trapping us there with no cell signal, landline nor Internet connection.
And yet, as choppy as the water behind us looks, it wasn't nearly as rough as the Arkansas River we rafted on with the Salida River Runners during an earlier trip. I have a habit of letting Ray talk me into things a smarter cookie would eschew. Could he talk me into that again? Doubtful, but I have learned never to say never where he's concerned.
I wrote about that experience where only Ray and I and our professional river runner spoke English in our raft. Our fellow passengers sprach nur deutsch. I thought they were overdressed in wetsuits, but turned out we were underdressed in shorts and T-shirts. If you'd like to read that column about my whitewater rafting experience, along with a few other scary things Ray persuaded me to do, click HERE.
Note: My original title for the column is the one I used for this post. The newspaper headline writer changed it as he was wont to do . . . usually for the better. This time, I like my title best.
And yet, as choppy as the water behind us looks, it wasn't nearly as rough as the Arkansas River we rafted on with the Salida River Runners during an earlier trip. I have a habit of letting Ray talk me into things a smarter cookie would eschew. Could he talk me into that again? Doubtful, but I have learned never to say never where he's concerned.
I wrote about that experience where only Ray and I and our professional river runner spoke English in our raft. Our fellow passengers sprach nur deutsch. I thought they were overdressed in wetsuits, but turned out we were underdressed in shorts and T-shirts. If you'd like to read that column about my whitewater rafting experience, along with a few other scary things Ray persuaded me to do, click HERE.
Note: My original title for the column is the one I used for this post. The newspaper headline writer changed it as he was wont to do . . . usually for the better. This time, I like my title best.
MARSHA the BRAVE
(yeah, right!)
I can't remember which friend gave me this cup, but I remember I was flattered at the time that this was the way she (I'm pretty sure the friend was a she) saw me. (Click for larger image to read the cup's small print.)
I recently took a color test that promised to determine my dominant character trait. According to the test, my dominant trait is COURAGE. First, I laughed and then I remembered this cup which had been relegated to the highest shelf behind a bunch of other celebratory and advertising mugs collected over the years. The friend who gave me this cup obviously saw me that way.
The only line in the cup's poem that is fact is You like to defend as can be confirmed by the boy I hit with a little blue wooden chair in kindergarten when he called Sonja, my disabled friend, dumb and ugly. My mother was called to school for my offense by the teacher who clearly suspected I might be a bad seed. Perhaps she knew that in Latin the meaning of the name Marsha is: Mars (Roman god of war).
I was obviously pleased that my friend who bestowed the cup believed I was brave, even if I didn't see myself that way, because I wrote a column in which I mentioned it. (Click brave.pdf to read that really old column.) Of course, there is very little in life I haven't written about, making my life pretty much an open book.
I'm still not sure how a color test can determine character traits. Sure BLUE denotes sad, YELLOW cowardice, RED anger, GREEN envy, but the test wasn't that simple. However, it did determine that my friend Judi's dominant trait is kindness which hit the nail right on the head. Perhaps I am more courageous than I think I am. (Nah!)
The only line in the cup's poem that is fact is You like to defend as can be confirmed by the boy I hit with a little blue wooden chair in kindergarten when he called Sonja, my disabled friend, dumb and ugly. My mother was called to school for my offense by the teacher who clearly suspected I might be a bad seed. Perhaps she knew that in Latin the meaning of the name Marsha is: Mars (Roman god of war).
I was obviously pleased that my friend who bestowed the cup believed I was brave, even if I didn't see myself that way, because I wrote a column in which I mentioned it. (Click brave.pdf to read that really old column.) Of course, there is very little in life I haven't written about, making my life pretty much an open book.
I'm still not sure how a color test can determine character traits. Sure BLUE denotes sad, YELLOW cowardice, RED anger, GREEN envy, but the test wasn't that simple. However, it did determine that my friend Judi's dominant trait is kindness which hit the nail right on the head. Perhaps I am more courageous than I think I am. (Nah!)
Fear sometimes is love's
defining moment
I know, this creeps me out, too, but follow the link and you'll understand.
My cousin Candy requested a link to a long-ago Jest for Grins column, but "Fear sometimes is love's defining moment" was published before the newspaper was putting articles online. Fortunately, I had it archived on my computer and converted the DOC to a PDF. You may click HERE to read it if you wish. Only then will you understand the illustration.
A flood of memories:
Remembering the
1951 Kaw flood
Gib Francis evacuates the Crews family (the baby is a week old).
The devastating flooding in Texas — the aftermath of Hurricane Harvey — reminds me of the Kaw River Flood of 1951 when my family was forced to leave our home in North Lawrence. My father, a City of Lawrence Commissioner, was one of the volunteers sandbagging the levee north of town. His shoulders were bloody from hauling the heavy sandbags, but his and other men’s efforts failed and the levees broke.
Many awakened on the morning of July 12 to the excited voice of Arden Booth, who owned KLWN Radio, shouting, “Get out, get out! The dike has broken!” Later, people watched in horror as whole houses floated down the river and broke apart on the beautifully arched, but obviously strong, Kaw River bridge.
Today on TV, as I watched citizen volunteers using their personal boats, previously used for pleasure, to evacuate people in Houston, I recalled that also happened here in 1951. The picture above shows the rescue of a North Lawrence family by a man who owned a sporting goods store. The boat was his lake fishing boat, not intended for the strong currents of a river, especially one in full flood, but he, like the volunteers in Houston, was intent on saving lives.
On the 50th anniversary of the 1951 Kaw River flood, I was commissioned to write a flood tabloid for the Journal-World. Click HERE for a link to “Survivors share flood of memories,” the main story in the tabloid, to read stories of generosity and heroism that made the survivors’ fear and loss easier to bear.
Please pray for Texas.
Many awakened on the morning of July 12 to the excited voice of Arden Booth, who owned KLWN Radio, shouting, “Get out, get out! The dike has broken!” Later, people watched in horror as whole houses floated down the river and broke apart on the beautifully arched, but obviously strong, Kaw River bridge.
Today on TV, as I watched citizen volunteers using their personal boats, previously used for pleasure, to evacuate people in Houston, I recalled that also happened here in 1951. The picture above shows the rescue of a North Lawrence family by a man who owned a sporting goods store. The boat was his lake fishing boat, not intended for the strong currents of a river, especially one in full flood, but he, like the volunteers in Houston, was intent on saving lives.
On the 50th anniversary of the 1951 Kaw River flood, I was commissioned to write a flood tabloid for the Journal-World. Click HERE for a link to “Survivors share flood of memories,” the main story in the tabloid, to read stories of generosity and heroism that made the survivors’ fear and loss easier to bear.
Please pray for Texas.
There's only one
Erma Bombeck
Seated at a messy desk, dressed in a warm fuzzy robe and wearing a clown nose, I'm getting in the mood to write. I wonder if Erma did this.
www2.ljworld.com/news/2006/apr/09/plea_roadkill_stay_road/Any woman who writes humor will eventually be compared to Erma Bombeck. Let me be clear: there was only one Erma Bombeck. Just like there was only one Johnny Carson.
Sure, I’ve been compared to Erma. Most of those who have introduced me when I spoke to this group or that often made the comparison. It was embarrassing. They were expecting Erma and they got stuck with me. My mother placed great significance on the fact that my first newspaper humor column appeared on April 22, 1996, the very day that Erma died. But that column had been written a couple of months before it was printed, so Erma’s talented spirit had nothing to do with it. The column was titled “Spending money on weight loss only makes wallet thinner.” If you’d like to read my first column, click HERE.
Life just seems hit me over the head with funny incidents I encounter in my daily life and it would be foolish not to record them. I do think my Jest for Grins columns improved over the years. Take, for example, one entitled “Plea to roadkill: stay on the road!” that was written ten years later when I hit a huge owl and unknowingly drove it all over town. Click HERE if you’d like to read that one.
I hit the owl after I had earlier hit a chicken. You know the old joke about why the chicken crossed the road? My favorite answer to that question is “to show the possum it could be done.” But the chicken I hit couldn’t teach the possum anything. It stood by the side of the road watching me drive down the highway toward it at 55 miles an hour, then launched into the air right in front of me, failing to gain altitude. I think it had a death wish. You may read “Why, oh why, did that chicken cross the road?” HERE if you wish. Then there was the squirrel I tried, but failed, to straddle. Poor little guy, he went left, then right, then left. I ended that column with the hope that Squirrel Heaven was long on nut trees and short of automobiles.
Come to think of it, I don’t recall Erma ever writing about being a serial killer of critters. If she never hit a critter and left it as roadkill, she was fortunate; if she did hit one, she was smart enough to not write about it. And that’s just one of the differences between Erma and me.
So, dear Erma, there will never be another like you. I hope you rest in peace. And I hope all the critters I unintentionally manslaughtered do as well.
Sure, I’ve been compared to Erma. Most of those who have introduced me when I spoke to this group or that often made the comparison. It was embarrassing. They were expecting Erma and they got stuck with me. My mother placed great significance on the fact that my first newspaper humor column appeared on April 22, 1996, the very day that Erma died. But that column had been written a couple of months before it was printed, so Erma’s talented spirit had nothing to do with it. The column was titled “Spending money on weight loss only makes wallet thinner.” If you’d like to read my first column, click HERE.
Life just seems hit me over the head with funny incidents I encounter in my daily life and it would be foolish not to record them. I do think my Jest for Grins columns improved over the years. Take, for example, one entitled “Plea to roadkill: stay on the road!” that was written ten years later when I hit a huge owl and unknowingly drove it all over town. Click HERE if you’d like to read that one.
I hit the owl after I had earlier hit a chicken. You know the old joke about why the chicken crossed the road? My favorite answer to that question is “to show the possum it could be done.” But the chicken I hit couldn’t teach the possum anything. It stood by the side of the road watching me drive down the highway toward it at 55 miles an hour, then launched into the air right in front of me, failing to gain altitude. I think it had a death wish. You may read “Why, oh why, did that chicken cross the road?” HERE if you wish. Then there was the squirrel I tried, but failed, to straddle. Poor little guy, he went left, then right, then left. I ended that column with the hope that Squirrel Heaven was long on nut trees and short of automobiles.
Come to think of it, I don’t recall Erma ever writing about being a serial killer of critters. If she never hit a critter and left it as roadkill, she was fortunate; if she did hit one, she was smart enough to not write about it. And that’s just one of the differences between Erma and me.
So, dear Erma, there will never be another like you. I hope you rest in peace. And I hope all the critters I unintentionally manslaughtered do as well.
Near total eclipse of the sun
OR
What a waste of $4.35!
Ray points out the solar eclipse (it's up there somewhere).
We were READY! We had our solar eclipse glasses (real ones, not counterfeit) that we purchased for $4.35 (we should have bought more and sold them on eBay). Our chairs were arranged on the deck where we would have an unobstructed view of the near-total (99.3%) 2017 solar eclipse in Douglas County, Kansas. Gatorade was handy and camera was charged to record the event.
We used our solar eclipse glasses to view the sun when it was about a third covered by the moon. Then, before I could snap the stunning shot, the sun was eclipsed . . . by CLOUDS! Rats! But my glass is always half-full so I believed the clouds would dissipate before near-totality occurred. They didn’t. The temperature cooled and it felt like twilight, crickets or cicadas (hard to tell) were singing and the birds were not, but if the stars were twinkling in the sky, the clouds hid them.
So, we didn’t SEE the solar eclipse, but we FELT and HEARD it. I’m disappointed, but I figure two out of three isn’t bad. There’s always 2205 which is when the next total solar eclipse occurs in our area (I told you my glass is always half-full).
We used our solar eclipse glasses to view the sun when it was about a third covered by the moon. Then, before I could snap the stunning shot, the sun was eclipsed . . . by CLOUDS! Rats! But my glass is always half-full so I believed the clouds would dissipate before near-totality occurred. They didn’t. The temperature cooled and it felt like twilight, crickets or cicadas (hard to tell) were singing and the birds were not, but if the stars were twinkling in the sky, the clouds hid them.
So, we didn’t SEE the solar eclipse, but we FELT and HEARD it. I’m disappointed, but I figure two out of three isn’t bad. There’s always 2205 which is when the next total solar eclipse occurs in our area (I told you my glass is always half-full).
Pets: what we do for love
Our granddog Mia (short for Ameilia).
Back in the day when we had dogs, we loved them dearly. But it never occurred to us that one of them might have diabetes and we should administer insulin shots. Nor did it occur to us to have them anesthetized for teeth cleanings. I’m not sure they were doing those treatments then anyway, but, if they were, it wasn’t common knowledge and I am not sure we could have afforded them. Early in our marriage, it was all we could manage to pay for the kids’ vaccinations.
What brought this to our attention is that our granddog Mia, a beautiful Samoyed, is a diabetic who requires two insulin shots each day. Daughter-in-law Val is the most adept at giving the shots, but son Greg has injected Mia, as has granddaughter Sammi. I think even grandson Gabe has given Mia a shot or two in an emergency.
However, it was only last night when I learned that Panda, our black-and-white grandcat, is also a diabetic who requires a daily insulin injection. Happily, our Samoyed granddog Max and grandcat Rameses are diabetes-free, although Rameses has digestive issues and requires a very expensive cat food.
“I wonder,” I said to Greg, “if diabetes is what killed the orange and white cat.” I described the cat because I cannot remember his name. He was a very sweet cat and one day when Val came home with the kids, he was stretched out on the floor stone cold dead. “No,” said Greg, “the autopsy showed that he died of a heart defect similar to the one that sometimes causes basketball players to suddenly collapse and die on the court.”
“AUTOPSY?” I was flabbergasted. I should say I was momentarily flabbergasted before I began laughing hysterically. What flashed through my mind was a veterinarian somberly delivering this result to a grieving pet owner: “Curiosity killed the cat.”
According to a pet website, the cost of dog teeth cleaning submitted by policyholders of veterinary pet insurance averages $292, although if the dog has periodontal disease and deep scaling is required, the fee can be $1,000 or more. Regarding the cost of an autopsy (actually that’s the term for humans; for pets it is necropsy), the University of California Davis School of Veterinary Medicine charges $495 for the basic necropsy with additional fees for added tests. Neurological tests can drive the autopsy to $1,500. Cremation adds another $50 to $150.
We loved our animals and, let’s face it, if money would have saved our pets and we had it to pay, we would have. When King, our last dog — the result of our German Shepherd having a midnight romance with a Siberian Husky who lived at a KU fraternity — had to be euthanized, the veterinarian offered to come to our home since King was both large and weak. I met Dr. Wempe at the door crying and said, “If there is an alternative to this, tell me.” After examining King, who was 126 in human years, he said, “It is the kindest thing you can do.”
He didn’t offer an autopsy. Nor cremation. King, tenderly wrapped in a quilt, is buried under Target’s parking lot in what was once our back yard. He is joined there by his mother, a couple of stray cats we adopted, two pet rabbits, a bunch of turtles and a small yellow duck named Donald Everett McKinley Duckson.
R.I.P. Goff pets.
What brought this to our attention is that our granddog Mia, a beautiful Samoyed, is a diabetic who requires two insulin shots each day. Daughter-in-law Val is the most adept at giving the shots, but son Greg has injected Mia, as has granddaughter Sammi. I think even grandson Gabe has given Mia a shot or two in an emergency.
However, it was only last night when I learned that Panda, our black-and-white grandcat, is also a diabetic who requires a daily insulin injection. Happily, our Samoyed granddog Max and grandcat Rameses are diabetes-free, although Rameses has digestive issues and requires a very expensive cat food.
“I wonder,” I said to Greg, “if diabetes is what killed the orange and white cat.” I described the cat because I cannot remember his name. He was a very sweet cat and one day when Val came home with the kids, he was stretched out on the floor stone cold dead. “No,” said Greg, “the autopsy showed that he died of a heart defect similar to the one that sometimes causes basketball players to suddenly collapse and die on the court.”
“AUTOPSY?” I was flabbergasted. I should say I was momentarily flabbergasted before I began laughing hysterically. What flashed through my mind was a veterinarian somberly delivering this result to a grieving pet owner: “Curiosity killed the cat.”
According to a pet website, the cost of dog teeth cleaning submitted by policyholders of veterinary pet insurance averages $292, although if the dog has periodontal disease and deep scaling is required, the fee can be $1,000 or more. Regarding the cost of an autopsy (actually that’s the term for humans; for pets it is necropsy), the University of California Davis School of Veterinary Medicine charges $495 for the basic necropsy with additional fees for added tests. Neurological tests can drive the autopsy to $1,500. Cremation adds another $50 to $150.
We loved our animals and, let’s face it, if money would have saved our pets and we had it to pay, we would have. When King, our last dog — the result of our German Shepherd having a midnight romance with a Siberian Husky who lived at a KU fraternity — had to be euthanized, the veterinarian offered to come to our home since King was both large and weak. I met Dr. Wempe at the door crying and said, “If there is an alternative to this, tell me.” After examining King, who was 126 in human years, he said, “It is the kindest thing you can do.”
He didn’t offer an autopsy. Nor cremation. King, tenderly wrapped in a quilt, is buried under Target’s parking lot in what was once our back yard. He is joined there by his mother, a couple of stray cats we adopted, two pet rabbits, a bunch of turtles and a small yellow duck named Donald Everett McKinley Duckson.
R.I.P. Goff pets.
AAA gets a
There is no worse sound than when you come out of a grocery store with a load of groceries on a really hot day, turn the key in the ignition and hear CLICK. But not to worry, we've been paying Triple A for years and used it mainly for TripTics and maps. After Ray and I individually searched for our respective cards, he pulled his from his wallet while I was still searching my purse (if you saw my purse, you'd understand why).
I dialed the number, answered all Automated Voice's questions (including giving AAA permission to locate where we were via the nearest cell tower), punched in my sixteen digit number and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. When I finally got a human on the line, I noticed that the battery on Ray's phone was nearly exhausted so I quickly told her where we were, what the problem was and gave her my sixteen digit number AGAIN (I think they only have you punch it in when you're talking to Automated Voice to give you something to do while you're waiting). I told her I was going to lose the cell connection and that was prophetic.
But, YAY!, my phone had two whole bars, so I dialed AAA and started all over again. This time Automated Voice asked the same questions, had me punch in my number, then announced that calling was heavy and wait time was 15 to 20 minutes. Gratified that they didn't tell me I could report the problem online, I wondered how many minutes of waiting it would take to exhaust two bars.
I still don't know the answer to that question, because I became exhausted before the battery did. Worried about groceries spoiling in the heat, I gave up and called son Butch who came crosstown to our rescue with battery cables and a jump. Do you know that a car battery can develop a short that keeps it from charging? Neither did we. But we are thrilled to now have a new battery sans short.
I would cut AAA some slack if we didn't wind up paying the expensive tow ourselves when our car died at a stop light on a six-lane highway in Spirit Lake, Iowa. When we told the sheriff who quickly appeared that I had called our dealer back home (yes, I know he couldn't do anything hundreds of miles away, but I was frazzled) and we were preparing to call Triple A, he said that AAA was pretty useless there so we'd be lucky if they came to our rescue in two hours and he needed to clear us off the highway. If you're game, do a search on this site for Dear Ford Motor Company - Part Deux and you can read all about it.
Actually, Triple A has been helpful for Ray's little truck, but both times the tow truck has come to our home, once to take it to the garage for repair and another time when Ray got it stuck in the back yard. AAA gets an A+ for that, but I suggest they call it Homeside Service rather than Roadside Service. We haven't had much luck with the latter.
I dialed the number, answered all Automated Voice's questions (including giving AAA permission to locate where we were via the nearest cell tower), punched in my sixteen digit number and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. When I finally got a human on the line, I noticed that the battery on Ray's phone was nearly exhausted so I quickly told her where we were, what the problem was and gave her my sixteen digit number AGAIN (I think they only have you punch it in when you're talking to Automated Voice to give you something to do while you're waiting). I told her I was going to lose the cell connection and that was prophetic.
But, YAY!, my phone had two whole bars, so I dialed AAA and started all over again. This time Automated Voice asked the same questions, had me punch in my number, then announced that calling was heavy and wait time was 15 to 20 minutes. Gratified that they didn't tell me I could report the problem online, I wondered how many minutes of waiting it would take to exhaust two bars.
I still don't know the answer to that question, because I became exhausted before the battery did. Worried about groceries spoiling in the heat, I gave up and called son Butch who came crosstown to our rescue with battery cables and a jump. Do you know that a car battery can develop a short that keeps it from charging? Neither did we. But we are thrilled to now have a new battery sans short.
I would cut AAA some slack if we didn't wind up paying the expensive tow ourselves when our car died at a stop light on a six-lane highway in Spirit Lake, Iowa. When we told the sheriff who quickly appeared that I had called our dealer back home (yes, I know he couldn't do anything hundreds of miles away, but I was frazzled) and we were preparing to call Triple A, he said that AAA was pretty useless there so we'd be lucky if they came to our rescue in two hours and he needed to clear us off the highway. If you're game, do a search on this site for Dear Ford Motor Company - Part Deux and you can read all about it.
Actually, Triple A has been helpful for Ray's little truck, but both times the tow truck has come to our home, once to take it to the garage for repair and another time when Ray got it stuck in the back yard. AAA gets an A+ for that, but I suggest they call it Homeside Service rather than Roadside Service. We haven't had much luck with the latter.
Black Thumb marries
Green Thumb
It is easy to see why this big and beautiful plant is called Bird of Paradise.
Yes, that is a real flower and no, I didn't grow it. Ray, my husband blessed with a green thumb, did. I was born with a black thumb and have dubbed myself the Kevorkian of house plants. Creeping charlies don't run when they see me coming, but I'm pretty sure I saw one flinch the other day when I walked by it.
I contend Ray has an advantage because he grew up on a farm where the chief occupation was digging in the dirt and planting things. The only time this city girl dug in the dirt was to give some tiny critter -- be it bug or small frog -- a proper funeral in a matchbox complete with flowers, tears and singing of hymns. By rights, I should be a funeral director.
Ray has many beautiful flower beds on our seven and a half acres. His taste runs both to the common and the exotic, but one exotic houseplant, although beautiful, was exiled from the house because of its foul odor. He bought it under the innocuous name of Star Cactus. Only later did we learn its true names: Corpse flower and Carrion Plant. The description of it says it gives off a "deep rotting smell imitating dead animal matter." That figures! We looked all over for a dead mouse before discovering it was coming from the plant in the solarium.
I wrote a long-ago column about it. If you'd like to read it, click here.
I contend Ray has an advantage because he grew up on a farm where the chief occupation was digging in the dirt and planting things. The only time this city girl dug in the dirt was to give some tiny critter -- be it bug or small frog -- a proper funeral in a matchbox complete with flowers, tears and singing of hymns. By rights, I should be a funeral director.
Ray has many beautiful flower beds on our seven and a half acres. His taste runs both to the common and the exotic, but one exotic houseplant, although beautiful, was exiled from the house because of its foul odor. He bought it under the innocuous name of Star Cactus. Only later did we learn its true names: Corpse flower and Carrion Plant. The description of it says it gives off a "deep rotting smell imitating dead animal matter." That figures! We looked all over for a dead mouse before discovering it was coming from the plant in the solarium.
I wrote a long-ago column about it. If you'd like to read it, click here.
Pretty? Yeah, pretty STINKY!
Ma Bell ain't what
she used to be!
Can you hear me now?
Last night in the midst of a thunderstorm that brought us lots of lightning, loud cracks of thunder and two and a half inches of rain, our security alarm started screaming. Ray reset it and it started screaming again. The alarm company didn’t call so I checked a phone and read the message: Check phone line. Yep, no landline . . . AGAIN. Why do we even have one? I guess it is because we don’t want to disappoint telemarketers and charities asking for money.
I have learned from experience that we need to report outages. You’d think AT&T would know, but they don’t . . . or, if they do, they ignore it until I report it. I tried to report it. Yes, I did. I consulted the last phone directory AT&T published (2014). (It’s not worth printing phone books any longer, I was told by AT&T last year when I asked why we hadn’t received a new phone book.) But the old directory gave me a number to call for repair and said it was monitored 24/7. Maybe it was in 2014, but not in 2017. When I called via cell phone to report the outage, I was instructed to call back during regular office hours.
Not to worry. The old directory said I could report it online. I filled out the form: name, phone number and zip code, last four digits of my Social Security number and nature of the problem. Then I was instructed that I couldn’t file the report unless I registered my account . . . which I tried to do. I filled out everything but the validation code which was being sent to me, the message said, via phone (the landline that was out of order). Say WHAT? At that point, I gave up and went to bed . . . only to be awakened at 2:30 a.m. when AT&T called on my mysteriously now working landline to give me the validation code.
So I just finished completing my online registration, when it asked if I wanted paperless billing. I do not because I figure Uncle Sam may decide to quit delivering mail if all the companies who send me bills deliver them without paying postage. Please read the following message regarding paperless billing. Should I have checked the box or not? I didn’t check it, but I will call tomorrow during regular business hours to see if they signed me up for paperless billing.
Paperless billing
[_] Home Phone & Internet xxx-xxx-xxxx
If you don't check this box, you'll keep getting paperless bills. Read the paperless billing disclosure.
And now AT&T owns Direct TV. We had Direct TV for 21 years before switching to DISH. Looks like we switched just in time. However, if Direct TV had tried as hard to keep us as they’ve tried to get us back, we might still be with them. I shudder to think of it.
I have learned from experience that we need to report outages. You’d think AT&T would know, but they don’t . . . or, if they do, they ignore it until I report it. I tried to report it. Yes, I did. I consulted the last phone directory AT&T published (2014). (It’s not worth printing phone books any longer, I was told by AT&T last year when I asked why we hadn’t received a new phone book.) But the old directory gave me a number to call for repair and said it was monitored 24/7. Maybe it was in 2014, but not in 2017. When I called via cell phone to report the outage, I was instructed to call back during regular office hours.
Not to worry. The old directory said I could report it online. I filled out the form: name, phone number and zip code, last four digits of my Social Security number and nature of the problem. Then I was instructed that I couldn’t file the report unless I registered my account . . . which I tried to do. I filled out everything but the validation code which was being sent to me, the message said, via phone (the landline that was out of order). Say WHAT? At that point, I gave up and went to bed . . . only to be awakened at 2:30 a.m. when AT&T called on my mysteriously now working landline to give me the validation code.
So I just finished completing my online registration, when it asked if I wanted paperless billing. I do not because I figure Uncle Sam may decide to quit delivering mail if all the companies who send me bills deliver them without paying postage. Please read the following message regarding paperless billing. Should I have checked the box or not? I didn’t check it, but I will call tomorrow during regular business hours to see if they signed me up for paperless billing.
Paperless billing
- Get monthly bill notifications via email.
- View, analyze, and pay your bills in seconds.
- Easily access 16 months of billing records.
- Enjoy greater convenience.
- Improve your security and privacy.
- Simplify recordkeeping.
- Saves time and money.
[_] Home Phone & Internet xxx-xxx-xxxx
If you don't check this box, you'll keep getting paperless bills. Read the paperless billing disclosure.
And now AT&T owns Direct TV. We had Direct TV for 21 years before switching to DISH. Looks like we switched just in time. However, if Direct TV had tried as hard to keep us as they’ve tried to get us back, we might still be with them. I shudder to think of it.
Snake tales come clean
Asclepius, son Greg's 14-foot Burmese Python, takes a bath
My friend Judi almost stepped on a big bullsnake while weeding her lawn. The report of her encounter reminded me of many of my own snake encounters. A long time ago, 1996 to be exact, I wrote in my Jest for Grins column about the snake (not son Greg's pet Burmese Python pictured above; this was a strange snake) that I found in the washing machine. I titled itThere's a s-s-s-snake in the washer. The newspaper re-titled it Snake tales come clean, a better title, I admit, but I was there and I know what I said. If you'd like to read it, click here.
Fraternity brothers
who fought on
opposite sides in WW II
My late father's DU plaque.
Both were officers. One wore a Ranger scroll, the other a German eagle. My father, the Ranger, was an only child. As a student at the University of Kansas prior to World War II, he was a member of Delta Upsilon fraternity, where he managed to have a German student inducted into his fraternity, a first, I'm told, for that chapter.
Dad and Claus were considered brothers in the fraternity, but, in fact, they were as close as actual brothers. They went to Mexico together and Claus was a good part of the reason Dad was so fluent in German; he had actual practice outside his German language classes.
When Hitler called the German students home, I am told that Claus refused to go until a diplomat came to the campus and reminded him he had family in the Motherland. So Claus returned to Hamburg. In a long letter he wrote to Dad on July 5, 1939, he spoke in glowing terms of life in Germany, ending with a disturbing paragraph: You see we enjoy life, even if the international situation looks quite dangerous. But in the world of today there is no greater place than inside Germany — many foreigners have told me this. We are trusting our strength and if the day comes — well, we are prepared. I hope, however, that England and France will be reasonable in the Danzig-question,which is none of their business. Danzig is a German State and wants to belong to Germany. Who has a right to interfere and start a war, which might bring about the end of Europe?
He ends the letter Your sincere friend, Claus.
There are other pre-war letters. In one he suggests: Unless Roosevelt changes his ways, I believe we are destined to meet on the battlefields of Europe.
After the war, he contacted Dad again. Claus had lost many of his family and friends. He said that one friend, whom Dad knew, was killed in Russia. He also wrote: I feel very sorry to admit that the fault lies mainly on the side of my country. We in Germany were too credulous. When it became evident that we were deceived and that our leaders were adventurers and even criminals, it was too late. Fascism has lost the game.
In return Dad wrote Claus, mentioning that two of their fraternity brothers were killed in Sicily with the 1st Division. And in one part of the letter Dad wrote: As for me, die Deutshe Soldaten have spilled a bit of my blood in several countries, and I, a bit of theirs. C'est la Guerre!
Such, indeed, is war.
Dad and Claus were considered brothers in the fraternity, but, in fact, they were as close as actual brothers. They went to Mexico together and Claus was a good part of the reason Dad was so fluent in German; he had actual practice outside his German language classes.
When Hitler called the German students home, I am told that Claus refused to go until a diplomat came to the campus and reminded him he had family in the Motherland. So Claus returned to Hamburg. In a long letter he wrote to Dad on July 5, 1939, he spoke in glowing terms of life in Germany, ending with a disturbing paragraph: You see we enjoy life, even if the international situation looks quite dangerous. But in the world of today there is no greater place than inside Germany — many foreigners have told me this. We are trusting our strength and if the day comes — well, we are prepared. I hope, however, that England and France will be reasonable in the Danzig-question,which is none of their business. Danzig is a German State and wants to belong to Germany. Who has a right to interfere and start a war, which might bring about the end of Europe?
He ends the letter Your sincere friend, Claus.
There are other pre-war letters. In one he suggests: Unless Roosevelt changes his ways, I believe we are destined to meet on the battlefields of Europe.
After the war, he contacted Dad again. Claus had lost many of his family and friends. He said that one friend, whom Dad knew, was killed in Russia. He also wrote: I feel very sorry to admit that the fault lies mainly on the side of my country. We in Germany were too credulous. When it became evident that we were deceived and that our leaders were adventurers and even criminals, it was too late. Fascism has lost the game.
In return Dad wrote Claus, mentioning that two of their fraternity brothers were killed in Sicily with the 1st Division. And in one part of the letter Dad wrote: As for me, die Deutshe Soldaten have spilled a bit of my blood in several countries, and I, a bit of theirs. C'est la Guerre!
Such, indeed, is war.
Keeping Freedom's Time
for 150 Years
This clock came to Kansas via flatboat and covered wagon, beginning in 1850. It is still ticking away on my mantle.
A Facebook posting asked readers what was the oldest thing they owned. For me, it is my Great-Great-Grandmother's clock pictured above. I won a statewide writing contest when I told the clock's story. If you want to read the little illustrated booklet, just click on the clock and read the PDF.
Dad, you always
made me proud
Dad kept his promise to his constituents.
Father’s Day is approaching and it often reminds me of the advice my lawyer/legislator dad gave me that he likely believed was going in one ear and out the other. Given yesterday’s attack on Republican congressmen practicing for a charity baseball game, along with the present poisonous political atmosphere, I am reminded of these two important pieces of advice he offered.
When I was old enough to register to vote, Dad, a lifelong Republican, told me it was my responsibility to know about the people I was voting for. “Don’t ever vote a straight ticket without knowing the candidates,” he said, “or you’ll get burned. If you don’t know what the candidates stand for, leave that race blank.” It is advice I still follow.
Perhaps the most important advice he gave me, though, is this: “Someone may have the same information you do and reach a different conclusion. You have to allow them that latitude.” A visit to my local newspaper’s comment section proves that just isn’t done anymore. Intelligent discourse on that site is rare. Name-calling is prevalent. Don’t believe like I do? You’re a racist, an idiot, a bigot or a bleep-bleep.
What troubles me even more than my newspaper’s comment section is the attitude of some college students and a few of their professors who deny the right to speak to those with whom they do not agree. Dad encouraged my sisters and me to listen to all sides … in politics, religion and any other provocative matter being discussed. I thought I had learned that lesson well until, as a young mother, he showed me that I hadn’t. I dropped in to visit my parents one day and found my father reading a controversial book entitled “The Passover Plot.”
“I wouldn’t read that sacrilegious book!” I exclaimed.
“Why?” Dad asked, “Is your faith so weak you’re afraid to test it?”
I cannot imagine what Dad would think of today’s political environment. He certainly wouldn’t like it, but could a man whose campaign card promised that “I will attempt to represent you the way I would want you to represent me” make a difference in our current uncivil and uncompromising partisan climate? Dad never lost an election. I wonder if he could win today.
When I was old enough to register to vote, Dad, a lifelong Republican, told me it was my responsibility to know about the people I was voting for. “Don’t ever vote a straight ticket without knowing the candidates,” he said, “or you’ll get burned. If you don’t know what the candidates stand for, leave that race blank.” It is advice I still follow.
Perhaps the most important advice he gave me, though, is this: “Someone may have the same information you do and reach a different conclusion. You have to allow them that latitude.” A visit to my local newspaper’s comment section proves that just isn’t done anymore. Intelligent discourse on that site is rare. Name-calling is prevalent. Don’t believe like I do? You’re a racist, an idiot, a bigot or a bleep-bleep.
What troubles me even more than my newspaper’s comment section is the attitude of some college students and a few of their professors who deny the right to speak to those with whom they do not agree. Dad encouraged my sisters and me to listen to all sides … in politics, religion and any other provocative matter being discussed. I thought I had learned that lesson well until, as a young mother, he showed me that I hadn’t. I dropped in to visit my parents one day and found my father reading a controversial book entitled “The Passover Plot.”
“I wouldn’t read that sacrilegious book!” I exclaimed.
“Why?” Dad asked, “Is your faith so weak you’re afraid to test it?”
I cannot imagine what Dad would think of today’s political environment. He certainly wouldn’t like it, but could a man whose campaign card promised that “I will attempt to represent you the way I would want you to represent me” make a difference in our current uncivil and uncompromising partisan climate? Dad never lost an election. I wonder if he could win today.
The Henry sisters never miss
a photo opportunity
The Henry sisters: Marsha, Vicki and Lesta.
For the past ten years, I have chaired a fundraiser in Topeka for a non-profit agency. I'm retiring from that duty and both of my sisters attended the dance this year. A very talented classmate has performed as an Elvis tribute artist the last five years.
I made sure that the three Henry sisters present had their picture taken in front of the photo backdrop because there used to be a fourth Henry sister. All four of us, dressed to the nines, were at my nephew's wedding. While wedding photographers usually snap photos of everyone in attendance, hoping they'll buy lots of photos, this photographer missed getting photos of our family. What was he thinking? He could have sold a bundle of pictures to us and our children.
Sadly, our sister Bette died before we had another chance to be photographed together and I made a vow to never again miss such an opportunity. So the above pic shows us that happy night of last May 27. I am the eldest, Lesta is a year younger and Vicki is 12 years younger. Bette was four years younger than I am.
Lesson learned: Don't ever miss a photo opportunity with those you love.
Speaking of photos, here's one of Rich wearing his "training coconuts." Ray and I have two sons, but Rich and Steve, a couple of son Greg's friends, felt like ours when they were growing up ... and still do. Rich came to the dance with his wife Elaine and daughter Katy. He wore the coconut bra and a grass skirt (missing in this photo) at one of his milestone birthday parties and I asked him to wear them to Elvis in Blue Hawaii. He didn't wear them long, but put them on to pose with me for a photo
I made sure that the three Henry sisters present had their picture taken in front of the photo backdrop because there used to be a fourth Henry sister. All four of us, dressed to the nines, were at my nephew's wedding. While wedding photographers usually snap photos of everyone in attendance, hoping they'll buy lots of photos, this photographer missed getting photos of our family. What was he thinking? He could have sold a bundle of pictures to us and our children.
Sadly, our sister Bette died before we had another chance to be photographed together and I made a vow to never again miss such an opportunity. So the above pic shows us that happy night of last May 27. I am the eldest, Lesta is a year younger and Vicki is 12 years younger. Bette was four years younger than I am.
Lesson learned: Don't ever miss a photo opportunity with those you love.
Speaking of photos, here's one of Rich wearing his "training coconuts." Ray and I have two sons, but Rich and Steve, a couple of son Greg's friends, felt like ours when they were growing up ... and still do. Rich came to the dance with his wife Elaine and daughter Katy. He wore the coconut bra and a grass skirt (missing in this photo) at one of his milestone birthday parties and I asked him to wear them to Elvis in Blue Hawaii. He didn't wear them long, but put them on to pose with me for a photo
Rich and me (and coconut bra makes three)
Remembering Dad
and those with
whom he served
My father had the chance to grow older than many with whom he served ... those soldiers who died young under foreign skies in Africa and Europe. But he didn't have the chance to know two of his grandchildren and none of his great-grandchildren.
I thought of those and many other things he missed when we placed the flag on his grave for Memorial Day and again when we removed it this evening. My mother is with him now so I know he is happy. But we miss them both so much.
I thought of those and many other things he missed when we placed the flag on his grave for Memorial Day and again when we removed it this evening. My mother is with him now so I know he is happy. But we miss them both so much.
A picture worth a
thousand words
Ray shares Mr. Ugly with cute little Hadley Lou.
Niece Debby came down last weekend from Omaha with her daughters Alicia and Sydney and Alicia's daughter Hadley. Alicia suggested getting a photo of Hadley on "Mr. Ugly" since her older brother Jesse had posed on the same tractor several years ago.
Someone voiced the thought that the little tyke might be scared of Mr. Ugly, but she wasn't. Hadley "drove" the tractor for several minutes and when Alicia tried to take her off, Hadley responded with one syllable: NO! She might have still been seated there had she not noticed that the steering wheel was turning the palms of her hands black which totally freaked her out!
As is evident from the photo, Ray, who began driving tractors as a farm boy at the tender age of eight, thoroughly enjoyed Hadley's experience. However, he says he always wears gloves to prevent black-hand syndrome when he uses Mr. Ugly to grade our long drive.
Someone voiced the thought that the little tyke might be scared of Mr. Ugly, but she wasn't. Hadley "drove" the tractor for several minutes and when Alicia tried to take her off, Hadley responded with one syllable: NO! She might have still been seated there had she not noticed that the steering wheel was turning the palms of her hands black which totally freaked her out!
As is evident from the photo, Ray, who began driving tractors as a farm boy at the tender age of eight, thoroughly enjoyed Hadley's experience. However, he says he always wears gloves to prevent black-hand syndrome when he uses Mr. Ugly to grade our long drive.
A Mother's Day surprise
for our
wonderful mother
Left to right: Vicki, Lesta, Mom, Marsha and Bette celebrating Mother's Day in the apartment where she and Dad lived with Lesta and me (their one-time apartment house is now a Bed & Breakfast).
Although the above photo is of Mom and her daughters, the entire family, including her sons-in-law and grandchildren, enjoyed a catered Mother's Day dinner at the apartment where she and Dad once lived. That was the apartment where a man tried to break in through the double oak front doors while Dad was away.
Mom said she might not have heard him until too late except for the fact that I was fussy with chigger bites. When the police arrived, the man had almost succeeded in breaking through the doors. Had he done so, it wouldn't have ended well for him because Mom was sitting in front of the doors pointing her Stevens .22 pistol at the door. As scared as she was, Mom was in a protective mode; no one was going to harm her young daughters on her watch.
The dinner was a total surprise for Mom. She hadn't been in that apartment in many decades. It was exciting for us, too. We'd heard of the Shakespeare tiles around the elegant fireplace, but Lesta and I didn't remember them. The surprise also came with the chance to spend the night, sleeping in the rounded room that was once Dad's and Mom's bedroom. Lesta was willing to stay the night with her, but Mom declined, saying there were too many bittersweet memories there. I'm confident, however, that had Dad been living, she would have jumped at the chance to revive those old memories.
The big historic brick house, turned into apartment building, turned into Bed & Breakfast remains a Bed & Breakfast. How I'd love to take Mother there one last time and wish Happy Mother's Day to June Shellhammer Henry, my wonderful, amazing mother.
Mom said she might not have heard him until too late except for the fact that I was fussy with chigger bites. When the police arrived, the man had almost succeeded in breaking through the doors. Had he done so, it wouldn't have ended well for him because Mom was sitting in front of the doors pointing her Stevens .22 pistol at the door. As scared as she was, Mom was in a protective mode; no one was going to harm her young daughters on her watch.
The dinner was a total surprise for Mom. She hadn't been in that apartment in many decades. It was exciting for us, too. We'd heard of the Shakespeare tiles around the elegant fireplace, but Lesta and I didn't remember them. The surprise also came with the chance to spend the night, sleeping in the rounded room that was once Dad's and Mom's bedroom. Lesta was willing to stay the night with her, but Mom declined, saying there were too many bittersweet memories there. I'm confident, however, that had Dad been living, she would have jumped at the chance to revive those old memories.
The big historic brick house, turned into apartment building, turned into Bed & Breakfast remains a Bed & Breakfast. How I'd love to take Mother there one last time and wish Happy Mother's Day to June Shellhammer Henry, my wonderful, amazing mother.
I'm not here for the beer
Kansas just passed a law making it legal for grocery stores to sell strong beer, where previously such stores could only sell light beer as far as alcoholic content was concerned. Doesn't matter to me either way as I never quite developed a taste for it. As for Ray, he says wine tastes like perfume and beer tastes like horse tinkle (I've cleaned that up a bit, but you get the idea). My concern is: How does he know?
I brought home the beer pictured above from a Ranger reunion at Lake Okoboji, Iowa. The woman who brought it clearly bought it for the label but the Rangers didn't care for it, saying they liked cheap beer better. Those who know such things told me this is a very "hoppy" beer. It has 6.5 percent alcohol content so I might be seeing it at my local Hy-Vee next year. Who knows?
What surprised me is the news report said Kansas enacted the law because Missouri and Oklahoma had similar laws. Oklahoma? I well remember when Oklahoma was a "dry" state and Kansas was "wet." I remember because every trip we made to visit my maternal grandparents was tense when we crossed the state line for fear the Oklahoma highway patrol would think we were smuggling booze . . . which we were: a single bottle of whiskey for Grandpa.
Grandpa firmly believed in Timothy 's Biblical advice to "take a little wine for thy stomach's sake." He believed so strongly in that advice that each day he gave his young children a single tablespoon of homemade wine with their dinner. In his golden years, Grandpa's taste moved from wine to a morning "hot toddy" of whiskey mixed with hot water.
However, he frequently complained that his whiskey was "disappearing." My father discovered why one day when he caught my aunt, who lived nearby, chug-a-lugging the bottle which was kept in a kitchen cabinet. She had her reasons because she had a lot on her plate and if a swig of whiskey once in a while helped, so be it. I'm guessing that on our next trip to Oklahoma, we smuggled in two bottles. Best of all we were never caught . . . not once! Even better, I think the statute of limitations for that infraction has expired.
I brought home the beer pictured above from a Ranger reunion at Lake Okoboji, Iowa. The woman who brought it clearly bought it for the label but the Rangers didn't care for it, saying they liked cheap beer better. Those who know such things told me this is a very "hoppy" beer. It has 6.5 percent alcohol content so I might be seeing it at my local Hy-Vee next year. Who knows?
What surprised me is the news report said Kansas enacted the law because Missouri and Oklahoma had similar laws. Oklahoma? I well remember when Oklahoma was a "dry" state and Kansas was "wet." I remember because every trip we made to visit my maternal grandparents was tense when we crossed the state line for fear the Oklahoma highway patrol would think we were smuggling booze . . . which we were: a single bottle of whiskey for Grandpa.
Grandpa firmly believed in Timothy 's Biblical advice to "take a little wine for thy stomach's sake." He believed so strongly in that advice that each day he gave his young children a single tablespoon of homemade wine with their dinner. In his golden years, Grandpa's taste moved from wine to a morning "hot toddy" of whiskey mixed with hot water.
However, he frequently complained that his whiskey was "disappearing." My father discovered why one day when he caught my aunt, who lived nearby, chug-a-lugging the bottle which was kept in a kitchen cabinet. She had her reasons because she had a lot on her plate and if a swig of whiskey once in a while helped, so be it. I'm guessing that on our next trip to Oklahoma, we smuggled in two bottles. Best of all we were never caught . . . not once! Even better, I think the statute of limitations for that infraction has expired.
I'm a Frank Mason III groupie!
This is the front of the card I made for Frank Mason III.
I'm not the only one. All who bleed crimson and blue are cheering Frank Mason III for becoming a near consensus National Player of the Year and sweeping the major awards: Wooden, Naismith, AP, Oscar Robertson and many more. Additionally, he won the Bob Cousy point guard of the year award and was a unanimous choice for first-team All-American.
Best of all, he is a class act. He became a father around the age of 17 and is engaged in his son's life -- a responsible father when many are not. When he addressed his son in his senior speech at Allen Field House, he said everything he worked for was to give him a better life. He sincerely meant it as he did when he said if he could play another four years at KU, "I swear I would."
Ray and I have delighted in all the greats we've watched on the court at KU. Danny Manning was fantastic; so was Paul Pierce and many, many others. Who can forget Wilt the Stilt? Not Ray who shared a geology class with him. Make that the single class Wilt attended while Ray missed not a one. For years, it was Ray's fervent hope that Wilt didn't get a better grade than he did. Still, we are both glad that Wilt came back in 1998 to see his jersey hung in the Phog. It was time he returned to KU.
But here's the thing: Not one of the multitude of Jayhawk greats was as fun to watch as Frank Mason III weaving among the trees and making a basket or drawing a foul and making his foul shots. Either way, he'd make the opposing team pay. Did I mention his three-point accuracy? His average is 47.1. WOOSH!
We do not watch many NBA games. Occasionally, we have watched Paul Pierce and a few other former Jayhawks, but we'll watch any NBA team smart enough to draft Frank Mason. It's not how tall you are -- it's what you do with the inches you've got!
Best of all, he is a class act. He became a father around the age of 17 and is engaged in his son's life -- a responsible father when many are not. When he addressed his son in his senior speech at Allen Field House, he said everything he worked for was to give him a better life. He sincerely meant it as he did when he said if he could play another four years at KU, "I swear I would."
Ray and I have delighted in all the greats we've watched on the court at KU. Danny Manning was fantastic; so was Paul Pierce and many, many others. Who can forget Wilt the Stilt? Not Ray who shared a geology class with him. Make that the single class Wilt attended while Ray missed not a one. For years, it was Ray's fervent hope that Wilt didn't get a better grade than he did. Still, we are both glad that Wilt came back in 1998 to see his jersey hung in the Phog. It was time he returned to KU.
But here's the thing: Not one of the multitude of Jayhawk greats was as fun to watch as Frank Mason III weaving among the trees and making a basket or drawing a foul and making his foul shots. Either way, he'd make the opposing team pay. Did I mention his three-point accuracy? His average is 47.1. WOOSH!
We do not watch many NBA games. Occasionally, we have watched Paul Pierce and a few other former Jayhawks, but we'll watch any NBA team smart enough to draft Frank Mason. It's not how tall you are -- it's what you do with the inches you've got!
Family portrait
Left to right: Ray, Jr. (Butch), Linda, Zoe, Ray, Marsha, Gabe, B.J., Sammi, Val, Greg pose under a felled tree on the trail at Mary's Lake
The trail where Ray and I frequently walk has a felled tree forming an arch over the trail and it seemed to me a great place to take a family portrait. I also talked everyone into wearing Jayhawk garb and to do it at 1:00 p.m. on the day KU played Oregon in the Elite Eight game.
It was no small effort to get everyone there. Son Butch, his wife Linda and their son, B.J, live in Lawrence as do Ray and I so that was easy. Son Greg, his wife Val, their son Gabe and daughter Sammi drove in from Blue Springs and their daughter Zoe came into KC's Union Station via Amtrak from Truman State University. Family friend Steve agreed to take the photo. What could go wrong?
It was no small effort to get everyone there. Son Butch, his wife Linda and their son, B.J, live in Lawrence as do Ray and I so that was easy. Son Greg, his wife Val, their son Gabe and daughter Sammi drove in from Blue Springs and their daughter Zoe came into KC's Union Station via Amtrak from Truman State University. Family friend Steve agreed to take the photo. What could go wrong?
Click on the picture to make it larger and you will notice that my umbrella is covered in Jayhawks
RAIN, that's what! We met in a parking lot to hike to the photo location and, just as we opened our car doors, the rain began. Yes, the weatherman said it might rain, but I gambled that it wouldn't rain on our photo shoot, making me wrong twice on that day (I was also sure that our Hawks would beat the Ducks of Oregon). But did we let rain stop us? No, we did not. Did we let it make us silly? Well, sure, we did.
I would have made a silly face, too, if I hadn't been so busy laughing at the others.
No joy in Larryville
I hoped I wouldn't need to use this picture. However the Jayhawks' loss to Oregon, in spite of a Herculean effort by Frank Mason, ensured that I would.
Do you have any idea what the above photo is? It resides in a little plastic box high on my computer desk next to a photo of my parents and a sculpture of a cleaning lady holding a mop with the message "To Hell With Housework."
So far only one person who examined it identified it. "It's poop!" said the veterinarian. He should know; he's seen plenty of it.
How, you wonder, did I acquire poop painted like a Jayhawk? Or perhaps you're wondering what kind of poop would measure a mere one and a quarter inch long (that's right, I just measured it).
It was a gift from my late friend Gertrude after a trip to Alaska. She noticed that people were buying painted poop jewelry — seriously, look it up, you can buy it online -- and decided to save some money and target the poop to her friends' individual taste. (I can't believe I used the words poop and taste in the same sentence.)
Who would believe that an animal as big as a moose could produce such small poop? And who would believe that our Hawks had a lid on the basket and only scored 60 points, the lowest number of points they scored all year.
My bracket showed us playing Oregon and winning, then playing North Carolina and winning, then playing Arizona and winning the national championship. Now I'm hoping that Roy and North Carolina go all the way. Given my record, though, Roy may wish I'd cheer on another team.
With regard to tonight's game, I have but two words: "Oh, poop!"
Do you have any idea what the above photo is? It resides in a little plastic box high on my computer desk next to a photo of my parents and a sculpture of a cleaning lady holding a mop with the message "To Hell With Housework."
So far only one person who examined it identified it. "It's poop!" said the veterinarian. He should know; he's seen plenty of it.
How, you wonder, did I acquire poop painted like a Jayhawk? Or perhaps you're wondering what kind of poop would measure a mere one and a quarter inch long (that's right, I just measured it).
It was a gift from my late friend Gertrude after a trip to Alaska. She noticed that people were buying painted poop jewelry — seriously, look it up, you can buy it online -- and decided to save some money and target the poop to her friends' individual taste. (I can't believe I used the words poop and taste in the same sentence.)
Who would believe that an animal as big as a moose could produce such small poop? And who would believe that our Hawks had a lid on the basket and only scored 60 points, the lowest number of points they scored all year.
My bracket showed us playing Oregon and winning, then playing North Carolina and winning, then playing Arizona and winning the national championship. Now I'm hoping that Roy and North Carolina go all the way. Given my record, though, Roy may wish I'd cheer on another team.
With regard to tonight's game, I have but two words: "Oh, poop!"
True blue Jayhawk Fans
www2.ljworld.com/news/2003/apr/13/family_boasts_true/When you live in Lawrence, home to KU's Jayhawk basketball team, you can't avoid March madness even if you want to (which we don't). We're hoping, as we do every year, that our Hawks go all the way and win another national championship. To bring them luck, I may dig out our T-shirts that say "The Hawks spread their wings when the Fat Lady sings," a relic of the 1988 championship with Danny and the Miracles.
My mother went to college at OSU (when it was called Oklahoma A&M) and for a few years after she married Dad, she sat in the KU student section with him while proudly wearing orange and black. However, she became such an avid Hawk fan that there is a paver near Phog's statue in front of Allen Field House that reads: JUNE HENRY - TRUE BLUE HAWK FAN.
The montage above contains just a few of the many Jayhawk mementos around our home. Beginning at top left and going to right is a Jayhawk candle. A wind chime made out of a license tag is a birthday gift from sister Vicki. The next item is a cross-stitch Jayhawk laboriously stitched by me (the girl with no sewing talent). And then there is the luggage tag that travels everywhere we go.
The lamp sits on a bedside table. The china plate clock is in our exercise room. Let me be precise: it is in the room where we store exercise equipment. I love the Jayhawk hot air balloon crafted by my late sister Bette who got all the knitting/crocheting talent in our family. The next clock hangs in my office over my computer desk. It should have a basketball on that hand instead of a football (we don't talk much about football).
The Rock Chalk Jayhawk sign hangs near our front door. It snowed today which made it an opportune time to bring out the little snowman. I hope he brings the team luck. The sticker applies to Ray, but not to me. We may both be Jayhawks, but only he is Kansas born (I was born in Oklahoma and transplanted to Lawrence when I was a month old). The totem pole was a Christmas gift from Ray.
We'll be watching the Jayhawks in the tournament and Ray will be giving his customary color commentary. If you'd like to read Family boasts true blue (and red hot) Hawk fans, click here.
My mother went to college at OSU (when it was called Oklahoma A&M) and for a few years after she married Dad, she sat in the KU student section with him while proudly wearing orange and black. However, she became such an avid Hawk fan that there is a paver near Phog's statue in front of Allen Field House that reads: JUNE HENRY - TRUE BLUE HAWK FAN.
The montage above contains just a few of the many Jayhawk mementos around our home. Beginning at top left and going to right is a Jayhawk candle. A wind chime made out of a license tag is a birthday gift from sister Vicki. The next item is a cross-stitch Jayhawk laboriously stitched by me (the girl with no sewing talent). And then there is the luggage tag that travels everywhere we go.
The lamp sits on a bedside table. The china plate clock is in our exercise room. Let me be precise: it is in the room where we store exercise equipment. I love the Jayhawk hot air balloon crafted by my late sister Bette who got all the knitting/crocheting talent in our family. The next clock hangs in my office over my computer desk. It should have a basketball on that hand instead of a football (we don't talk much about football).
The Rock Chalk Jayhawk sign hangs near our front door. It snowed today which made it an opportune time to bring out the little snowman. I hope he brings the team luck. The sticker applies to Ray, but not to me. We may both be Jayhawks, but only he is Kansas born (I was born in Oklahoma and transplanted to Lawrence when I was a month old). The totem pole was a Christmas gift from Ray.
We'll be watching the Jayhawks in the tournament and Ray will be giving his customary color commentary. If you'd like to read Family boasts true blue (and red hot) Hawk fans, click here.
My name is Marsha the Blond
and my password is . . .
Don’t you just hate to explain to your monitoring agency why your security alarm went off? I’ve thought about saying, “Yeah, a burglar tripped the alarm, but we fought him off and he’s gone.” But that wouldn’t be right.
Most times it has been Ray, warring with raccoons, who has set off the alarm when he rushes out on the deck to shoo them away from the birdfeeder. He does the same thing with squirrels, but that is in the daytime when the alarm isn’t usually set unless we are away.
The other night the lapse was mine. I heard Ray set the alarm and figured I had better scurry to open the door, deposit recycling materials in the bag reserved for them and close the door before 30 seconds passed. Good plan and I did it within the time allotted and walked back into the living room. EEEEEEEIIIIIIIIEEEEEIIIII went the siren.
Took me a panicked second to realize that when I opened and shut the door, the alarm thought I had left the house and turned on the motion detectors which I tripped walking back into the living room.
When the phone rang, I answered, “My fault”
“Name and password, please” said the man.
When I gave the answers, he asked, “Is everything OK?”
“Yep,” I replied, “just me being blond.”
“I understand,” he said.
Say WHAT?
Most times it has been Ray, warring with raccoons, who has set off the alarm when he rushes out on the deck to shoo them away from the birdfeeder. He does the same thing with squirrels, but that is in the daytime when the alarm isn’t usually set unless we are away.
The other night the lapse was mine. I heard Ray set the alarm and figured I had better scurry to open the door, deposit recycling materials in the bag reserved for them and close the door before 30 seconds passed. Good plan and I did it within the time allotted and walked back into the living room. EEEEEEEIIIIIIIIEEEEEIIIII went the siren.
Took me a panicked second to realize that when I opened and shut the door, the alarm thought I had left the house and turned on the motion detectors which I tripped walking back into the living room.
When the phone rang, I answered, “My fault”
“Name and password, please” said the man.
When I gave the answers, he asked, “Is everything OK?”
“Yep,” I replied, “just me being blond.”
“I understand,” he said.
Say WHAT?
I put this label in
every copy of
Recognition Denied
I gave to family
Although the sentence on the label refers to my father's part in the unrecognized jump into an enemy-held airport, it applies to all those unrecognized Rangers on that mission. But it also applies to veterans in every war whose heroic efforts go unnoticed and unrecorded. God bless them all.
Full cover (back and front). Click to enlarge.
Recognition Denied
now in paperback
This is a little book with a big story. The electronic version hit Number 1 on Amazon's best seller list for Short History and Number 2 for World War II books. For those of you who prefer to hold a real book, this edition sells for $6.50, which was as low as I could possibly go. I have paid more than that for a greeting card and I'll bet you have, too. If you want to read more about it or purchase it, click HERE.
I hope someone can find the documentation that eluded me ... even better, perhaps I'll find it. I haven't given up, but my reason for putting it out now is the hope it will spark conversation about that long ago jump into pitch blackness by men who had never before parachuted out of an airplane. The courage that took is beyond my imagination.
These brave Rangers truly led the way.
I hope someone can find the documentation that eluded me ... even better, perhaps I'll find it. I haven't given up, but my reason for putting it out now is the hope it will spark conversation about that long ago jump into pitch blackness by men who had never before parachuted out of an airplane. The courage that took is beyond my imagination.
These brave Rangers truly led the way.
Happy 100th Birthday Mom!
February 10, 2017
Fox wearing a fox.
This is one of my favorite photos of my mother. It was taken during World War II and sent to my father who was fighting with the Rangers in Europe. It is amazing to me that Mom was able to cope with three young children for the three years that Dad was gone ... and still look this good.
Grandpa Henry always said that Mom could stretch a nickel farther than anyone. She made almost all of our clothes and hers, too. She may have made the suit she is wearing. The fox came from Grandpa who was a furrier. She made Valentine boxes, May baskets and costumes for our school plays. She even directed a play that I wrote as a freshman in high school and Bette's fifth grade produced.
It is impossible to think that, were she still with us, she would be a century old. Even then, she wouldn’t seem old to me. She’d tell jokes and be interested in world events. She'd definitely like to go for a ride to see how big our cedar trees had grown.
On one of her birthdays, I bought a running banner with birthday wishes for her on our local Cable TV station. When I realized she hadn’t seen it, I called and asked her to go on that channel and tell me what the temperature was. (I know that was pretty lame, but it was the only thing I could think of to get her on that station.) She gave me the temperature and still didn’t see the running banner that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO JUNE HENRY. I finally had to point it out to her.
I wish she were here to celebrate with us, but I know she is happy to be with Dad. Still, I'd like to be able to call her at midnight and sing Happy Birthday to her.
Grandpa Henry always said that Mom could stretch a nickel farther than anyone. She made almost all of our clothes and hers, too. She may have made the suit she is wearing. The fox came from Grandpa who was a furrier. She made Valentine boxes, May baskets and costumes for our school plays. She even directed a play that I wrote as a freshman in high school and Bette's fifth grade produced.
It is impossible to think that, were she still with us, she would be a century old. Even then, she wouldn’t seem old to me. She’d tell jokes and be interested in world events. She'd definitely like to go for a ride to see how big our cedar trees had grown.
On one of her birthdays, I bought a running banner with birthday wishes for her on our local Cable TV station. When I realized she hadn’t seen it, I called and asked her to go on that channel and tell me what the temperature was. (I know that was pretty lame, but it was the only thing I could think of to get her on that station.) She gave me the temperature and still didn’t see the running banner that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO JUNE HENRY. I finally had to point it out to her.
I wish she were here to celebrate with us, but I know she is happy to be with Dad. Still, I'd like to be able to call her at midnight and sing Happy Birthday to her.
A colorful afternoon visitor
This pheasant wasn't the least afraid later when we encountered him on our long drive. We had to drive on the grass because he wouldn't get over.
The coolest thing about living in the country is that you never know who or what is going to stroll by. We have a game preserve a short distance from us and they release pheasants and other birds for hunters. When they reach our place, they are home free. We call them "the prey that got away."
As I was snapping photos of the pheasant, four does raced through our back yard. I tried to snap a photo, but they were too quick for my camera. All I got was a picture of a tree; easy shot because it wasn't moving.
As I was snapping photos of the pheasant, four does raced through our back yard. I tried to snap a photo, but they were too quick for my camera. All I got was a picture of a tree; easy shot because it wasn't moving.
Ray spotted this pheasant strolling through our yard.
Whoa! My book is Number 1?
This is a first for me and probably won't last long so I want you to see the attached screen shot. If you haven't downloaded it for free, you can do so through Sunday, February 5th, by clicking on the book cover below.
Feel free to tell anyone who is interested in WW II history. This is my way of honoring those brave Rangers whose heroic feat was never acknowledged.
You can download Kindle for PC free on Amazon to use on your computer if you don't have a Kindle.his is a first for me and probably won't last long so I want you to see the attached screen shot. If you haven't downloaded it for free, you can do so through Sunday, February 5th, by clicking on the book cover below.
Feel free to tell anyone who is interested in WW II history. This is my way of honoring those brave Rangers whose heroic feat was never acknowledged.
You can download Kindle for PC free on Amazon to use on your computer if you don't have a Kindle.his is a first for me and probably won't last long so I want you to see the attached screen shot. If you haven't downloaded it for free, you can do so through Sunday, February 5th, by clicking on the book cover below.
Free electronic book
2/1/2017 through 2/5/2017
Click on the book to go to the Amazon website where you may download the book or read a few sample pages.
The only parachute jump by Darby's Rangers in World War II is a closely-held secret, although rumors of the mission have been whispered for decades. I have searched in vain for written documentation, but the manner in which I initially — and subsequently — learned of the mission is incontrovertible. Reading this short but important book will inform you of everything I know about the drop behind enemy lines. I am convinced it happened. You may decide for yourself.
My Father's 100th Birthday
Friday, January 13, 2017
The brick Mother bought for Dad at the entrance of the Dole Institute of Politics located on the University of Kansas Campus.
Do we ever stop missing our fathers? In my experience, no, we don't. I wish he were here to answer the questions I was never able to ask him in lifetime. I suspect that may be why I write so many articles about World War II veterans.
But I wouldn't just ask him about the war. I'd like to know what he'd think about current affairs (especially politics), the Internet and medical breakthroughs, including the ones that came too late to save his life. I'd like to see him interact with his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Happily, he did see the first manned moon landing. A private pilot, he loved the idea of man's conquering space. But he never saw the completions of Clinton Lake and the Wetlands with the resulting eagles, herons, egrets and pelicans. Neither did he see the house we built in the country, nor sit on our deck and watch deer and fireworks (not at the same time). He would have enjoyed all of it.
So Happy Birthday, Dad. In a perfect Heaven, Mom will bake you a big cake, sing Happy Birthday to you and give you a big kiss. We love you always and will miss you forever.
But I wouldn't just ask him about the war. I'd like to know what he'd think about current affairs (especially politics), the Internet and medical breakthroughs, including the ones that came too late to save his life. I'd like to see him interact with his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Happily, he did see the first manned moon landing. A private pilot, he loved the idea of man's conquering space. But he never saw the completions of Clinton Lake and the Wetlands with the resulting eagles, herons, egrets and pelicans. Neither did he see the house we built in the country, nor sit on our deck and watch deer and fireworks (not at the same time). He would have enjoyed all of it.
So Happy Birthday, Dad. In a perfect Heaven, Mom will bake you a big cake, sing Happy Birthday to you and give you a big kiss. We love you always and will miss you forever.
Our chilly Rose Parade
experience
Freezing or not, the floats and bands were magnificent and definitely worth the trip. Many sneaked blankets from the hotel but we bought ours at the Long Beach Wal-Mart and still have them (still have the long underwear, too).
Tomorrow morning when I watch the Rose Bowl Parade on television, I expect the crowd to be dressed for California’s relatively mild weather. That is definitely different from two years ago when our family watched it in person dressed in long underwear, coats, scarves and hats while swaddled in blankets. We even used our NASA metallic blanket to protect the backs of our legs as we sat in the stands waiting for the parade to begin. Wouldn’t you just know that our Rose Parade experience was the coldest on record?
Even colder was the night before in Disneyland where we rang in the New Year. At least we rang in the New Year’s ball drop in Times Square via broadcast, then headed for our hotel in Long Beach since we had to be on the bus to Pasadena by 4:00 a.m. It was worth the effort and chilly discomfort to see granddaughter Zoe march in the parade with the Blue Springs High School Band.
I have since learned that viewing the Rose Bowl Parade in person is on a great many bucket lists. It wasn’t on ours, but it is a trip we will remember forever.
You may read all about our trip, including Universal Studios, Disneyland, the parade and, yes, even the Long Beach Wal-Mart by clicking on Posts by Topic on the navigation bar, then clicking on Rose Bowl Trip.
Even colder was the night before in Disneyland where we rang in the New Year. At least we rang in the New Year’s ball drop in Times Square via broadcast, then headed for our hotel in Long Beach since we had to be on the bus to Pasadena by 4:00 a.m. It was worth the effort and chilly discomfort to see granddaughter Zoe march in the parade with the Blue Springs High School Band.
I have since learned that viewing the Rose Bowl Parade in person is on a great many bucket lists. It wasn’t on ours, but it is a trip we will remember forever.
You may read all about our trip, including Universal Studios, Disneyland, the parade and, yes, even the Long Beach Wal-Mart by clicking on Posts by Topic on the navigation bar, then clicking on Rose Bowl Trip.
New issue of Muzzleblasts
is on my WW II page
I will eventually have on my website all the Muzzleblasts I have produced.
It was a dark and
stormy night
Could you read in this light? Me neither!
Wednesday evening the rain, as forecasted, began, mixed with a little hail. The satellite pixelated as it is wont to do in heavy — or even not so heavy — weather. No worries. Nothing good on the tube anyway. Ray was downstairs using his computer and I was reading when Ka-POW! Everything went dark and stayed that way. Clearly, this was not one of those outages that blips the lights off just long enough so we have to reset everything: microwave, range, any electric clock in which we’ve forgotten to replace the backup battery. (That means all of them.)
Ray came up the stairs carrying one of those little battery-powered domed push lights. I had already retrieved two of them from our master bath and bedroom so we had dim light, enough to look up Westar’s phone number to alert them that our electricity was out. Uh-oh! As I looked out the windows, I could see through the trees that our rural neighbors’ yard lights were on. If our power is out, we want everyone’s to be so the repair guy will make getting us back on a priority.
In our previous home, a tornado skirted our area, stripping shingles from our roof, spiraling our 10 by 14 metal shed skyward and knocking out our electricity. We were without electricity for three days. Back then, a customer could report an outage to a human (now it’s automated). Problem was, every time I called, the human told me the lights were on in our neighborhood. “That’s correct,” I’d say, “for every house but ours.” When I became hysterical enough to shout, “TRUST ME ON THIS, IF MY ELECTRICITY WAS ON I WOULDN’T BE CALLING YOU!” a repairman was dispatched. Took him less than five minutes to stick a pole up in our transformer to flip a switch and restore our power.
Yet the automated voice told me that the “historical average” was that our power would be restored by 10:30 p.m. “I’m not buying it,” I said to Ray, “We’ll be lucky if it’s on by 10:30 tomorrow morning.”
Ray brought his LED lantern from the closet, placed it on a table and began to read. I tried to continue reading my book, but learned that I require more light than that generated by the lantern. The experience gave me a new appreciation for all those long-ago kids who did their homework with the light of oil lamps.
A couple of hours later, Ray announced, “There is a truck coming up our drive.” Sure enough, it was a Westar truck. A guy dressed in yellow overalls walked by our dining room windows carrying a flashlight. He wandered around the west side of our house, playing the light on our trees. Finally, he knocked on the door and asked the location of our transformer. A few minutes later, I looked out and saw him sticking the pole into the transformer. This time, it didn’t work.
Turned out it was a fuse in a transformer down by the road. He replaced that and our power was restored. He came back to the house where we thanked him and I told him I hoped he was paid what he was worth. “We do OK,” he said with a smile as he headed back to his truck and his next job.
Contrast that with AT&T. Our phone was restored today after three days with no service, just a loud buzzing every time we tried to use our landline. On Thursday, a repairman not only didn’t fix ours, but apparently made the situation worse. The repairman today said he didn’t know how anyone’s phones were working. Took some doing, but he finally fixed it for which I am grateful.
Ray came up the stairs carrying one of those little battery-powered domed push lights. I had already retrieved two of them from our master bath and bedroom so we had dim light, enough to look up Westar’s phone number to alert them that our electricity was out. Uh-oh! As I looked out the windows, I could see through the trees that our rural neighbors’ yard lights were on. If our power is out, we want everyone’s to be so the repair guy will make getting us back on a priority.
In our previous home, a tornado skirted our area, stripping shingles from our roof, spiraling our 10 by 14 metal shed skyward and knocking out our electricity. We were without electricity for three days. Back then, a customer could report an outage to a human (now it’s automated). Problem was, every time I called, the human told me the lights were on in our neighborhood. “That’s correct,” I’d say, “for every house but ours.” When I became hysterical enough to shout, “TRUST ME ON THIS, IF MY ELECTRICITY WAS ON I WOULDN’T BE CALLING YOU!” a repairman was dispatched. Took him less than five minutes to stick a pole up in our transformer to flip a switch and restore our power.
Yet the automated voice told me that the “historical average” was that our power would be restored by 10:30 p.m. “I’m not buying it,” I said to Ray, “We’ll be lucky if it’s on by 10:30 tomorrow morning.”
Ray brought his LED lantern from the closet, placed it on a table and began to read. I tried to continue reading my book, but learned that I require more light than that generated by the lantern. The experience gave me a new appreciation for all those long-ago kids who did their homework with the light of oil lamps.
A couple of hours later, Ray announced, “There is a truck coming up our drive.” Sure enough, it was a Westar truck. A guy dressed in yellow overalls walked by our dining room windows carrying a flashlight. He wandered around the west side of our house, playing the light on our trees. Finally, he knocked on the door and asked the location of our transformer. A few minutes later, I looked out and saw him sticking the pole into the transformer. This time, it didn’t work.
Turned out it was a fuse in a transformer down by the road. He replaced that and our power was restored. He came back to the house where we thanked him and I told him I hoped he was paid what he was worth. “We do OK,” he said with a smile as he headed back to his truck and his next job.
Contrast that with AT&T. Our phone was restored today after three days with no service, just a loud buzzing every time we tried to use our landline. On Thursday, a repairman not only didn’t fix ours, but apparently made the situation worse. The repairman today said he didn’t know how anyone’s phones were working. Took some doing, but he finally fixed it for which I am grateful.
Our Zoe is her own girl
Batman could have been Zoe 15 years ago.
When the above poster appeared on my Facebook page, it reminded me of granddaughter Zoe. Now a college pre-med student majoring in chemistry, as a child Zoe had a mind of her own. That was never more evident than when I accompanied Zoe and her mother Val on a shopping trip to buy a dress for Zoe’s preschool Christmas play.
Val tried to talk Zoe into one of the lovely jewel-toned — ruby red, sapphire blue, emerald green — velvet dresses, but Zoe was having none of that. She insisted on a red and green plaid dress with a white collar embroidered with Christmas trees. That night, every little girl on the stage, except one, was wearing a lovely jewel-toned velvet dress. Guess who stood out?
At another preschool event, each child on the stage was asked what they wanted to be when they grew up. The other little girls said they wanted to be mommies, nurses and teachers. Zoe said she wanted to be “a firegirl.”
In a world full of princesses, now as then, Zoe dares to be herself.
Val tried to talk Zoe into one of the lovely jewel-toned — ruby red, sapphire blue, emerald green — velvet dresses, but Zoe was having none of that. She insisted on a red and green plaid dress with a white collar embroidered with Christmas trees. That night, every little girl on the stage, except one, was wearing a lovely jewel-toned velvet dress. Guess who stood out?
At another preschool event, each child on the stage was asked what they wanted to be when they grew up. The other little girls said they wanted to be mommies, nurses and teachers. Zoe said she wanted to be “a firegirl.”
In a world full of princesses, now as then, Zoe dares to be herself.
Love + laughter = a long
and happy marriage
My friend John once asked me how Ray and I have managed to have such a long and happy marriage. I thought about it. Sure, I love him. But is love enough? Should be. But is it?
Finally, I answered, "He makes me laugh." That was never more evident than the other morning when I found this note on the kitchen counter.
Finally, I answered, "He makes me laugh." That was never more evident than the other morning when I found this note on the kitchen counter.
The previous night, during the wee hours, I heard a crash. I thought: a) I must be dreaming; or b) Could we have a mouse? Then I went back to sleep.
I wasn't dreaming and we do not have a mouse. The hook holding the eucalyptus wreath at the top of the stone fireplace had given way, allowing the wreath to sweep a framed picture and a Willow Tree angel off the mantle. Thank goodness the wreath spared the antique clock that my great-great-grandmother brought on a flatboat down the Ohio River, then by covered wagon, when the family moved to Kansas prior to the Civil War.
I wasn't dreaming and we do not have a mouse. The hook holding the eucalyptus wreath at the top of the stone fireplace had given way, allowing the wreath to sweep a framed picture and a Willow Tree angel off the mantle. Thank goodness the wreath spared the antique clock that my great-great-grandmother brought on a flatboat down the Ohio River, then by covered wagon, when the family moved to Kansas prior to the Civil War.
The wreath (20 inches in diameter) is larger than it looks in this photo.
I swept up the loose eucalyptus leaves while Ray glued the picture frame. He glued the angel's head back on as well as the little house she was holding (the angel was a housewarming gift from our friend Martha when we moved into our home). I do not know if we will place the wreath back on the fireplace because I do not want to risk the clock. However, I plan to keep Ray's note forever and will laugh every time I see it.
Remembering 9-11
I was still in bed when Mother called me before 8:00 a.m. on September 11 to tell me that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. “Turn on TV,” she said, “it’s on every station.” I complied and assumed, like most Americans, that a small plane had accidentally hit one of the towers.
I was watching a broadcast when the cameraman, following the roar of jet engines, pointed his camera skyward and captured the shot of United Airlines Flight 175 hitting the South Tower. It took a moment to comprehend that I had just watched people die . . . and another moment to realize that the first plane crashing into a tower was neither small nor an accident.
For the rest of the day, I was glued to the TV screen — watching as, in quick succession, a plane crashed into the Pentagon, the South Tower collapsed, another airliner was reported to have crashed into a field in Pennsylvania and the North Tower collapsed. I remember hearing what I thought were car alarms going off in the rubble of the twin towers, only later learning that they were the alarms on the first responders indicating that they were not moving . . . and would never move again.
Late in the afternoon, I walked down our long drive to meet Ray as he arrived home from work. Our country home is on a flight path to Kansas City International Airport and I am accustomed to hearing an occasional plane and seeing multiple contrails in the sky. That day there was nothing marring the beautiful blue sky with fluffy white clouds; all flights had been grounded.
On September 10, 2015, a new memorial opened at Shanksville, PA where 40 passengers and crew thwarted the hijackers in their attempt to fly into the US Capitol Building. But several years before, Ray and I drove to the East Coast and went out of our way to visit the site. I was surprised to notice that a farm house was just on the other side of the trees near the Flight 93 crater. A number of houses were less than a mile or so away. What was a great tragedy could have been even worse.
I liked the small homemade memorial overlooking the site that had sprung up to honor those brave souls who tried to take back the plane from those who intended to use it as a weapon. I hope they incorporated it into the larger memorial.
Never forget!
I was watching a broadcast when the cameraman, following the roar of jet engines, pointed his camera skyward and captured the shot of United Airlines Flight 175 hitting the South Tower. It took a moment to comprehend that I had just watched people die . . . and another moment to realize that the first plane crashing into a tower was neither small nor an accident.
For the rest of the day, I was glued to the TV screen — watching as, in quick succession, a plane crashed into the Pentagon, the South Tower collapsed, another airliner was reported to have crashed into a field in Pennsylvania and the North Tower collapsed. I remember hearing what I thought were car alarms going off in the rubble of the twin towers, only later learning that they were the alarms on the first responders indicating that they were not moving . . . and would never move again.
Late in the afternoon, I walked down our long drive to meet Ray as he arrived home from work. Our country home is on a flight path to Kansas City International Airport and I am accustomed to hearing an occasional plane and seeing multiple contrails in the sky. That day there was nothing marring the beautiful blue sky with fluffy white clouds; all flights had been grounded.
On September 10, 2015, a new memorial opened at Shanksville, PA where 40 passengers and crew thwarted the hijackers in their attempt to fly into the US Capitol Building. But several years before, Ray and I drove to the East Coast and went out of our way to visit the site. I was surprised to notice that a farm house was just on the other side of the trees near the Flight 93 crater. A number of houses were less than a mile or so away. What was a great tragedy could have been even worse.
I liked the small homemade memorial overlooking the site that had sprung up to honor those brave souls who tried to take back the plane from those who intended to use it as a weapon. I hope they incorporated it into the larger memorial.
Never forget!
Putting that degree
in theater to use
Gabriel Michael Goff
When grandson Gabe graduated from KU with a degree in theater, he knew he'd have to pay his dues. He's been doing that at Bob Evans and Cheddar's and, frankly, I think he's tired of it. But today he sent me a link to a health-related video he narrated. I think it's pretty good. Check it out and see whether I'm a good theater critic or a good grammy (I like to think I'm both). Click here to watch a cool video and hear the Gabester before he becomes famous.
Minnows better watch out!
Who knows what danger lurks among these lovely lilypads? Not the minnows.
Click on the photo to enlarge so you can see the happy little minnows swimming ... unaware of the danger stalking them.
It was cool enough yesterday that Ray and I walked in the Wetlands. Not much shade in the Wetlands so we walk the shady paths around nearby Mary's Lake when it is really hot and it has been hot a lot lately.
The lilypads obscure the muskrat huts that we know dot this large Wetlands pond, but from the windows in the man-made observation hut that extends over the water, I took this photo of minnows blissfully unaware that they are being watched.
Ray saw the snake first. It startled me when he pointed it out, but snakes always do startle me. It was much smaller than the five-foot blacksnake that crossed the path ahead of us at Mary's Lake one day, but I'm sure it was deadlier to the happy little minnows. Snakes gotta eat, but why do they have to eat happy little minnows?
The lilypads obscure the muskrat huts that we know dot this large Wetlands pond, but from the windows in the man-made observation hut that extends over the water, I took this photo of minnows blissfully unaware that they are being watched.
Ray saw the snake first. It startled me when he pointed it out, but snakes always do startle me. It was much smaller than the five-foot blacksnake that crossed the path ahead of us at Mary's Lake one day, but I'm sure it was deadlier to the happy little minnows. Snakes gotta eat, but why do they have to eat happy little minnows?
How many minnows do you suppose this snake ate?
Blue lives matter . . . a lot
In memory of the four Dallas police officers and one DART police officer who were shot and killed . . . simply for the job they held and the color they were.
Early in our marriage, my husband Ray was a police officer. I worried about him every time he walked out the door in uniform. He was a good officer. All these years later,
we'll be in a store or restaurant and someone will come up and say how he helped them (or gave them a warning ticket for a first traffic offense instead of the genuine article).
Are there bad policemen? Of course there are. Just like there are bad teachers, bad doctors, bad mechanics, even bad preachers (remember Rev. Tom Bird who was convicted of killing his wife and soliciting the murder of his mistress's husband?). Every line of work has a few bad apples.
But the fact is the vast majority of any profession consists of good men and women. That is especially true of law enforcement. Our leaders should be emphasizing that, but they're not. Most of the time when elected officials open their mouths, they exacerbate the problem. Recent exceptions are the Dallas police chief and mayor who have handled a difficult situation amazingly well.
I have never forgotten the academic who sat in our living room when Ray was on the police force and said, "When a black calls you a M-F [sorry, I can't make my fingers type out those words, but you know what they are], it is really a compliment."
"Really?" said Ray, "I've been called that many times, by whites as well as blacks, and it sure never felt like a compliment."
I think that communication is the answer, but first we have to be speaking the same language.
Early in our marriage, my husband Ray was a police officer. I worried about him every time he walked out the door in uniform. He was a good officer. All these years later,
we'll be in a store or restaurant and someone will come up and say how he helped them (or gave them a warning ticket for a first traffic offense instead of the genuine article).
Are there bad policemen? Of course there are. Just like there are bad teachers, bad doctors, bad mechanics, even bad preachers (remember Rev. Tom Bird who was convicted of killing his wife and soliciting the murder of his mistress's husband?). Every line of work has a few bad apples.
But the fact is the vast majority of any profession consists of good men and women. That is especially true of law enforcement. Our leaders should be emphasizing that, but they're not. Most of the time when elected officials open their mouths, they exacerbate the problem. Recent exceptions are the Dallas police chief and mayor who have handled a difficult situation amazingly well.
I have never forgotten the academic who sat in our living room when Ray was on the police force and said, "When a black calls you a M-F [sorry, I can't make my fingers type out those words, but you know what they are], it is really a compliment."
"Really?" said Ray, "I've been called that many times, by whites as well as blacks, and it sure never felt like a compliment."
I think that communication is the answer, but first we have to be speaking the same language.
A little publicity for my
latest book (and a
reminder not to wear
horizontal stripes)
Wind is blowing my hair, sun is in my eyes . . . and still I smile . . . what's wrong with me? Click on cover to read story.
At least until I lose 20 pounds! Kevin Groenhagen, who owns Senior Monthly and who quarterly inserts in it Amazing Aging, the newsletter I edit and primarily write for Jayhawk Area Agency on Aging, did a great job explaining what the book is about and how it will help almost anyone navigate the healthcare system. That certainly was my goal when I wrote the book.
Snakes gotta eat . . .
but why Killdeer eggs?
Only a shallow depression is left where four well-disguised killdeer eggs were once tended by their attentive mother who was no match for a snake
On a recent visit to the Wetlands to check on the Mama Killdeer and her eggs, we were shocked to see the eggs gone
. . . leaving just a shallow depression in the rocks where they had rested. We searched in vain for remnants of the shells, but found nothing, nada, zip. Ray immediately suspected a snake, giving him yet another reason to dislike the scaly reptiles.
As soon as we arrived home, I queried Google with the question, “Do mother Killdeers eat their hatchlings’ shells? I wasn’t the only person to think of that possibility; a number of similar questions popped up, including one that asked if the chicks ate their own shells (I didn’t even think of that). I was relieved to learn that the Killdeer do not stay near the nest after hatching and that the mother Killdeer carries the shells a short distance away from the nest.
But today, on our morning walk in the Wetlands, we met Roger Boyd, the individual I consider the Godfather of the Wetlands. He worked hard to make it happen and even harder now that it’s a reality. I took the opportunity to ask about the Killdeer nest we had been watching. He feared it was indeed a snake . . . or a raccoon . . . or even a kid. He said the Killdeer moms had bad luck this year. He knew of four where the eggs just disappeared overnight and had proof positive that the eggs of two were eaten by snakes.
It takes a good 24 hours, he says, for all four eggs to hatch, and the nest we were watching disappeared overnight. I would have loved to see “our” eggs hatching. And I wanted to post pictures of cute little Killdeer. Maybe our Mama Killdeer will try again next year.
I realize snakes play an important role in the balance of nature, but if Ray and I see a snake with four distinct little bumps in its belly (snakes eat eggs whole, shell and all), I cannot vouch for its longevity.
. . . leaving just a shallow depression in the rocks where they had rested. We searched in vain for remnants of the shells, but found nothing, nada, zip. Ray immediately suspected a snake, giving him yet another reason to dislike the scaly reptiles.
As soon as we arrived home, I queried Google with the question, “Do mother Killdeers eat their hatchlings’ shells? I wasn’t the only person to think of that possibility; a number of similar questions popped up, including one that asked if the chicks ate their own shells (I didn’t even think of that). I was relieved to learn that the Killdeer do not stay near the nest after hatching and that the mother Killdeer carries the shells a short distance away from the nest.
But today, on our morning walk in the Wetlands, we met Roger Boyd, the individual I consider the Godfather of the Wetlands. He worked hard to make it happen and even harder now that it’s a reality. I took the opportunity to ask about the Killdeer nest we had been watching. He feared it was indeed a snake . . . or a raccoon . . . or even a kid. He said the Killdeer moms had bad luck this year. He knew of four where the eggs just disappeared overnight and had proof positive that the eggs of two were eaten by snakes.
It takes a good 24 hours, he says, for all four eggs to hatch, and the nest we were watching disappeared overnight. I would have loved to see “our” eggs hatching. And I wanted to post pictures of cute little Killdeer. Maybe our Mama Killdeer will try again next year.
I realize snakes play an important role in the balance of nature, but if Ray and I see a snake with four distinct little bumps in its belly (snakes eat eggs whole, shell and all), I cannot vouch for its longevity.
We fear "our" killdeer eggs suffered this fate. Photo from www.pet-snake.com
Where does a poor bird
go in a deluge of
Biblical proportions?
Last night, the rain gauge on our deck measured 4 and 7/8 inches. The rain came down in sheets, blocking our satellite TV and limiting our vision to a few feet beyond the patio doors. Then it hailed, not the golf ball size hailstones that some neighboring towns suffered, but dime size that must have stung when they hit.
And where was the mother killdeer we've been watching in the Wetlands? We worried about her because we knew she was out in the open protecting her eggs at the risk of her own frail little body. “Too bad,” I said to Ray, “that we couldn’t have built a small lean-to over her nest.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied, “an umbrella would just blow away.”
And where was the mother killdeer we've been watching in the Wetlands? We worried about her because we knew she was out in the open protecting her eggs at the risk of her own frail little body. “Too bad,” I said to Ray, “that we couldn’t have built a small lean-to over her nest.”
“Uh-huh,” he replied, “an umbrella would just blow away.”
Click to enlarge and see the eggs she is protecting, undoubtedly an easier job than it was last night when she was being pelted with rain and hail.
When we walked by her nest today, she was sitting on her eggs, looking no worse for wear. I snapped a good photo of her there which also shows her eggs. We were careful not to disturb her, but on our walk back to the car, though we tried to be quiet, something alarmed her and she ran about the roadside, then pretended she was hurt. Killdeers do that in an attempt to entice potential predators to follow her, thus luring them away from the vulnerable eggs.
The mother killdeer flops around and cries piteously (note open beak) as she tries to lure us away from her nest.
She will surely be relieved when her eggs hatch. I know I will be!
Killdeers are good mothers
A killdeer is a shorebird that you don't have to go to a beach to see. This one is at the Wetlands, but we also see them in our yard.
The frantic cries of the mother killdeer in the above photo, along with her running around and pretending to have a broken wing, enabled my eagle-eyed husband to spot her nest of four eggs. Ray has often told me that killdeer make a well-camouflaged nest in the middle of rocks, but this is the first time I have seen one. A quick Internet search tells me that the eggs hatch in 24-28 days and that the babies are "hatch-fluffy" and ready to run, but cannot fly. Problem is, although we've been watching the nest for two days, we do not know when the eggs were laid.
If the rocks surrounding them were larger, the eggs would be even harder to distinguish.
I hope I will be able to snap some pictures of baby killdeer to post on this site. How cute would that be? I suspect the mother will be very protective and we have been reluctant to upset her too much.
In May 2004, I wrote a Mother's Day column in which I mentioned a killdeer mother we saw as we brought our mothers to our home for their weekly dinner with us: Last week, with our mothers in the back seat, Ray braked the car to a halt in our driveway, chased down on foot a baby killdeer and — gently cradling it in his hands — brought it back to the car to show our mothers. They loved it and they would have adored the sight of the mother killdeer the next morning, sitting with her wings outspread and sheltering a baby under each wing. You don’t have to be human to be a good mother.
In May 2004, I wrote a Mother's Day column in which I mentioned a killdeer mother we saw as we brought our mothers to our home for their weekly dinner with us: Last week, with our mothers in the back seat, Ray braked the car to a halt in our driveway, chased down on foot a baby killdeer and — gently cradling it in his hands — brought it back to the car to show our mothers. They loved it and they would have adored the sight of the mother killdeer the next morning, sitting with her wings outspread and sheltering a baby under each wing. You don’t have to be human to be a good mother.
Click to enlarge and see if you can spot the mother killdeer on her nest.
Just try to refinish
your deck during
Kansas Monsoon Season
Ray mixes Ultra Deck Cleaner pre-treatment containing about a million precautions on the label (note mask, boots, gloves)
Ray and I had to be nuts to decide to refinish our deck, not just paint, mind you, but refinish it with that expensive, fill up cracks, knock down splinters Pittsburgh Paints Revitalize that requires multiple steps to complete.
In the photo above, Ray is mixing the first step which is Ultra Deck Cleaner. Now, as a lawyer's kid, I know why they must put all kinds of warnings on products, but the warnings on this product were scary enough for us to don masks, goggles, shower caps, boots and protective clothing. We bought a special sprayer to apply it, then had to use copious amounts of water to neutralize it and wash it off the deck. The photo below shows me doing that.
In the photo above, Ray is mixing the first step which is Ultra Deck Cleaner. Now, as a lawyer's kid, I know why they must put all kinds of warnings on products, but the warnings on this product were scary enough for us to don masks, goggles, shower caps, boots and protective clothing. We bought a special sprayer to apply it, then had to use copious amounts of water to neutralize it and wash it off the deck. The photo below shows me doing that.
I am now the proud owner of "concrete boots" that reach my knees. I'm washing off the toxic stuff we put on the deck.
After the deck is dry, you have to power wash it. Here's where you get really wet, especially if you decide, as I did, that you might as well power wash the siding and gutters. I'm pretty sure our water bill is going to be through the roof. In the next photo, I am power washing the deck (did I mention that the deck is almost 500 square feet?
Power washing is fun . . . wet, but fun.
You would have thought the deck couldn't get any wetter. You would have been wrong. The next day it rained and the next and the next. We'd get a break and think Monsoon Season was over and it would rain again. Before we put on the two coats of Revitalizer, the deck has to be absolutely dry. How dry? Well, we have to tape a piece of plastic wrap on the deck in the sun and if no condensation appears after several hours, it will be dry enough. We're still waiting . . . but, in the meantime . . .
Turtles walk in the Wetlands,
too!
Turtles on parade.
Here's the thing about walking in the Wetlands. You have to walk! No driving . . . you have to park your car in a peripheral lot and walk inside the 927 acre area. There are miles of trails and we have walked most of them -- sometimes unintentionally.
Usually we walk a couple of miles total. But one day we walked two miles into the Wetlands and then had to walk two miles back to the car. That's four miles, folks, and that's too much. However, we wouldn't have seen the turtles had we not walked so far. We were surprised to see a bazillion or so turtles stacked on top of each other on the far bank of a waterway. There are only six in the above photo because it was taken after most of them jumped into the water when they heard us. We were on the other side of the waterway, screened by trees, so turtles must have ears like bunny rabbits.
My quest to snap an up-close photo of a muskrat has proved fruitless, but I did snap a photo of an enterprising Mother Goose who built her nest on a muskrat lodge. Soon I may have photos of baby geese to show you.
Usually we walk a couple of miles total. But one day we walked two miles into the Wetlands and then had to walk two miles back to the car. That's four miles, folks, and that's too much. However, we wouldn't have seen the turtles had we not walked so far. We were surprised to see a bazillion or so turtles stacked on top of each other on the far bank of a waterway. There are only six in the above photo because it was taken after most of them jumped into the water when they heard us. We were on the other side of the waterway, screened by trees, so turtles must have ears like bunny rabbits.
My quest to snap an up-close photo of a muskrat has proved fruitless, but I did snap a photo of an enterprising Mother Goose who built her nest on a muskrat lodge. Soon I may have photos of baby geese to show you.
This body of water has many muskrat lodges, but this is the only one currently occupied by a goose.
Walking in the Wetlands
We've seen muskrats, Canada geese and herons here, but not this day.
Between our home on a country hill and Lawrence is the 927-acre Baker Wetlands. Few cities have a Wetlands nudged right up to the south side of town. We’re just lucky. Ray and I have walked nearly every trail through the Wetlands and learned the other day that when you walk two miles in, you have to walk two miles out. Four miles was a bit farther than we had planned and we were pushing dark by the time we returned to our car. The area is open from dawn to dusk and, while evening — and I suppose early morning — is a great time to see animals, there are some, like coyotes and a rumored cougar, that I wouldn’t want to come face to face with.
I always hope to see muskrats when I have a camera handy. I was cameraless when the opportunity arose while we were in the little blind built over the water with windows for viewing. A muskrat swam within three feet of me and gave me a big bucktoothy grin. Cute little guy (or gal, impossible to tell). I also didn’t have a camera the day the otters were playing what looked like Marco Polo near where the beavers had dammed a creek. So far, all I have captured with a camera have been landscapes and Canada geese. We have found the skeleton of a deer and a sad little dead muskrat stretched out on his back on dry land. No one wants to see a photo of the latter. Stay tuned and you’ll eventually see a photo of an interesting critter I snapped in the Wetlands. I guarantee it will not be a cougar!
I always hope to see muskrats when I have a camera handy. I was cameraless when the opportunity arose while we were in the little blind built over the water with windows for viewing. A muskrat swam within three feet of me and gave me a big bucktoothy grin. Cute little guy (or gal, impossible to tell). I also didn’t have a camera the day the otters were playing what looked like Marco Polo near where the beavers had dammed a creek. So far, all I have captured with a camera have been landscapes and Canada geese. We have found the skeleton of a deer and a sad little dead muskrat stretched out on his back on dry land. No one wants to see a photo of the latter. Stay tuned and you’ll eventually see a photo of an interesting critter I snapped in the Wetlands. I guarantee it will not be a cougar!
See the moon? We had about a half-mile to go and it was getting dark. I would take advantage of darkness if I were a cougar.
Easter snow
The snow had already begun to melt when I snapped this photo through the glass doors in the living room
When I awakened Sunday morning, the ground was covered with snow, making the landscape look more like Christmas than Easter. Ray measured four inches of snow on the deck. It didn't last long because the temperature rose to 50 degrees in the afternoon.
Sure fooled the hyacinths!
Who would have thought
bodily organs could
be so cute?
Looks like a girl to me!
Have you noticed all the cartoon organs lately frolicking around your TV and computer screens? There’s the Myrbetriq soulful-eyed bladder who is always dragging women to the bathroom (not even allowing one overactive bladder sufferer to put on her bowling shoes) until said women put down their collective feet and say, “That’s it! I’m talking to my doctor!” The assumption is that their doctors will prescribe Myrbetriq, thus freeing the women from their all-too-frequent bathroom breaks.
Pink turtle, right?
Then there’s the Xifaxan cartoon intestine that looks to me like a pink turtle. He doubles over to demonstrate the abdominal pain felt by those afflicted with digestive ailments. And if you’ve encountered Montezuma’s Revenge while visiting Mexico, I’m betting you can identify with him (I’m pretty sure he’s a boy turtle) as he runs to the bathroom.
Doesn't run like a turtle though!
I’m waiting for Aricept to run a commercial with a darling little gray brain struggling to remember. Or a caricature of a heart — aorta gaily flopping — as he (another boy) runs around advertising diuretics. It does seem that it is a man’s world when it comes to cartoon organs. However, I’m pretty sure the Merbetriq bladder is a girl.
Wouldn’t you just know it?
Wouldn’t you just know it?
Happy 99th Birthday, Mom!
One of my favorite pictures of Mom.
Why the pink title? Because Mom's favorite color was pink. She said when she was a little girl, she always wanted to eat her pink crayons because they were so pretty she thought they must taste as good as they looked.
We would be having a huge birthday party at our home tonight if Mom was still here to celebrate with us. Her cake would have pink sugar roses with "Happy Birthday, June!" written in pink icing. If I could find some pink candy crayons, she would have those, too! Her 80th birthday party here included family, friends and all of her visiting nurses. She had an absolute blast!
Mom was talented in so many ways. She studied music in college and could play any stringed instrument you put in front of her. Later in life, she learned that she was a natural teacher of children, something she always thought she didn't have the patience to do. She was a skilled cook and seamstress. In high school, I would design an outfit on notebook paper and come home to find the real deal hanging in my closet.
On Valentine's Day, my sisters and I would awaken to find she had made elaborate Valentine boxes for our school parties from yards and yards of ruffled red and white crepe paper strips. On St. Patrick's Day, she'd provide us with green glitter shamrocks to adorn our dresses.
I once wrote a column entitled "Mom is perfect in so many ways." If you'd like to read it, click here.
We would be having a huge birthday party at our home tonight if Mom was still here to celebrate with us. Her cake would have pink sugar roses with "Happy Birthday, June!" written in pink icing. If I could find some pink candy crayons, she would have those, too! Her 80th birthday party here included family, friends and all of her visiting nurses. She had an absolute blast!
Mom was talented in so many ways. She studied music in college and could play any stringed instrument you put in front of her. Later in life, she learned that she was a natural teacher of children, something she always thought she didn't have the patience to do. She was a skilled cook and seamstress. In high school, I would design an outfit on notebook paper and come home to find the real deal hanging in my closet.
On Valentine's Day, my sisters and I would awaken to find she had made elaborate Valentine boxes for our school parties from yards and yards of ruffled red and white crepe paper strips. On St. Patrick's Day, she'd provide us with green glitter shamrocks to adorn our dresses.
I once wrote a column entitled "Mom is perfect in so many ways." If you'd like to read it, click here.
Mom was taller than all of her daughters (here she is with me). She grows taller every year.
Almost 12 years after her death, I still think of picking up the phone to call her. Love for our mothers is like that.
Happy 99th Birthday, DAD
L. Lew Henry, my wise and funny father.
Oh, how I wish he was here to share it with us ... and that Mom was here to bake him one of her signature from scratch White Mountain three-tiered birthday cakes — the smallest tier of which was baked in a coffee can — decorated with sugar roses.
Dad crammed a lot of living into 56 years. He was a WW II Darby's Ranger, a Lawrence city councilman and commissioner and served two terms in the Kansas Legislature. He was also a lawyer, a sportsman and dog lover. Best of all, he was a devoted husband to Mom and a loving father to four daughters.
Dad provided me with a lot of material for my Jest for Grins columns and, though he was no longer with us when I started writing the column, I know he would have loved the stories I remembered about him (and he would have been shocked to learn that I recalled and later followed much of the advice I spurned as a teenager). If you'd like to read my column entitled Father's Day evokes memories of Dad, please click here.
I am posting below an old, scratched photo of Dad setting up my little sister Vicki's train. (Note the 1950s furnishings and new-to-the-market TV). Somewhere I have a photo of him playing with the train by himself, delaying heading to his law office although already dressed in his overcoat and Hamburg hat.
Dad crammed a lot of living into 56 years. He was a WW II Darby's Ranger, a Lawrence city councilman and commissioner and served two terms in the Kansas Legislature. He was also a lawyer, a sportsman and dog lover. Best of all, he was a devoted husband to Mom and a loving father to four daughters.
Dad provided me with a lot of material for my Jest for Grins columns and, though he was no longer with us when I started writing the column, I know he would have loved the stories I remembered about him (and he would have been shocked to learn that I recalled and later followed much of the advice I spurned as a teenager). If you'd like to read my column entitled Father's Day evokes memories of Dad, please click here.
I am posting below an old, scratched photo of Dad setting up my little sister Vicki's train. (Note the 1950s furnishings and new-to-the-market TV). Somewhere I have a photo of him playing with the train by himself, delaying heading to his law office although already dressed in his overcoat and Hamburg hat.
I'm sure that Vicki got to play with the train when Dad wasn't home.
I miss you every day, Dad.
Let's all tweet like
the birdies do!
The consensus is that — in order to promote my new book — I need to be a member of both Twitter and Facebook. Tweeting sounded easier so I joined . . . in 2009. I vaguely remember my newspaper saying about that time that I could follow some reporter who was tweeting about a tornado threatening our area. Unfortunately, before I figured out how to follow on Twitter, the tornado moved on and I managed to forget that I had joined until Twitter informed me I was already a member. So my first tweet said this:
Marsha Henry Goff @MarshaHenryGoff Dec 9 Member since 2009 and this is my first Tweet. Must be some kind of record!
My second tweet gave my follower (that's right, folks, three days on Twitter and I already have ONE follower) a link to read a long ago column containing my letter to Santa asking him not to give any presents to a doctor who wasn't nice to my mother. Here's tweet number 2:
Marsha Henry Goff @MarshaHenryGoff 14h14 hours ago Dear Santa. No gifts for naughty doctor:http://www2.ljworld.com/news/2003/dec/07/columnist_pens_wish/ …
I've kept my one follower pretty busy because my third tweet apprised him/her about my new book which was my reason for joining Twitter in the first place.
Marsha Henry Goff @MarshaHenryGoff 8h8 hours ago My new Kindle book: Everything I know about medicine, I learned on the Wrong Side of the Stethoscope. Naughty doctor in it? You bet!
I suppose I should be doing something to get more followers because I want to sell more than one book. But I'm hoping, if I just wait long enough, a little bird will tweet and tell me what to do.
Marsha Henry Goff @MarshaHenryGoff Dec 9 Member since 2009 and this is my first Tweet. Must be some kind of record!
My second tweet gave my follower (that's right, folks, three days on Twitter and I already have ONE follower) a link to read a long ago column containing my letter to Santa asking him not to give any presents to a doctor who wasn't nice to my mother. Here's tweet number 2:
Marsha Henry Goff @MarshaHenryGoff 14h14 hours ago Dear Santa. No gifts for naughty doctor:http://www2.ljworld.com/news/2003/dec/07/columnist_pens_wish/ …
I've kept my one follower pretty busy because my third tweet apprised him/her about my new book which was my reason for joining Twitter in the first place.
Marsha Henry Goff @MarshaHenryGoff 8h8 hours ago My new Kindle book: Everything I know about medicine, I learned on the Wrong Side of the Stethoscope. Naughty doctor in it? You bet!
I suppose I should be doing something to get more followers because I want to sell more than one book. But I'm hoping, if I just wait long enough, a little bird will tweet and tell me what to do.
My newest book now
available on Kindle
Everything I know about medicine I learned on the Wrong Side of the Stethoscope is a practical, informative and entertaining guide to navigating health care. How and why to change doctors. How to correct inaccurate medical records. How to choose a nursing home. This book tells you things you need to know about specialists, hospitals, prescription drugs, medical tests, dental health, aging in your own home. Also hospice and end of life issues along with insurance and litigation concerns. It contains important information mixed with helpful anecdotal lessons I have learned on the wrong side of the stethoscope. Appendices contain articles I have written on the subject, some humorous, some dramatic, but all factual. Click on the book cover to purchase or to read the table of contents and first chapter free of charge.
Dog of OZ
Danny (aka Dorothy) in his blue-checked pinafore.
Danny wasn't a happy camper on Halloween when my sister Vicki dressed him up in his Dorothy outfit. However, he would do anything for "Grandma Treats" and that name should tell you why.
She didn't make him wear the dress for long because she doesn't want people to think he's a "sissy dog." Maybe next year she can find three dogs who will dress up like the Tin Man, Scarecrow and Cowardly Lion. Danny might prefer to be in one of those costumes and let one of his doggie pals be Dorothy. Stay tuned.
Uh . . . do you think this site has gone to the dogs?
She didn't make him wear the dress for long because she doesn't want people to think he's a "sissy dog." Maybe next year she can find three dogs who will dress up like the Tin Man, Scarecrow and Cowardly Lion. Danny might prefer to be in one of those costumes and let one of his doggie pals be Dorothy. Stay tuned.
Uh . . . do you think this site has gone to the dogs?
Granddogs practice
synchronized
carpet swimming
Max is in the forefront, Mia is behind.
Our grandson Gabe took these snapshots of our granddogs Mia and Max practicing what son Greg calls their synchronized carpet swimming routine.
Mia is definitely the alpha dog and Max follows her lead in everything except carpet swimming. Mia is trained to accompany daughter-in-law Val on nursing home visits where residents love to pet her soft white coat.
Mia is definitely the alpha dog and Max follows her lead in everything except carpet swimming. Mia is trained to accompany daughter-in-law Val on nursing home visits where residents love to pet her soft white coat.
Carpet swimming on your back is hard to do.
Max does not take part in the nursing home visits because he is far too timid. As well as he knows us, when Ray and I come into their house in Blue Springs, MO, Max puts it in reverse and backs away from us as fast as he can. After a half-hour or so, he decides we're not there to hurt him and he is relaxed and friendly . . . until our next visit.
Vic with her granddog Danny.
As much as we love our granddogs, we can't match sister Vicki's love for her own granddog, Danny. He stays overnight with her about one night a week and she can drop serious money on goodies for him when she takes him to the pet store. That is probably why she is known to him as "Grandma Treats."
I can't imagine how much she will spoil a grandchild when she finally has one of the two-legged variety.
I can't imagine how much she will spoil a grandchild when she finally has one of the two-legged variety.
Why are those firetrucks
coming up our drive?
Three firetrucks responded to our nonexistent fire.
Talk about unintended consequences! On Tuesday our landline stopped working — no dial tone and the house phone didn’t ring when I called it from my cell. I immediately called our security alarm company because one time several years ago, I thought the phone had stopped working and paid AT&T a bundle to have the phone tech who came out tell me it was a problem with the alarm.
The man at the alarm company said he put our alarm on test and asked me to push the fire panic button which I did. The sirens in and outside the house wailed loudly, but the alarm didn’t get through to the security company. The man assured me the problem was AT&T’s fault.
I was inclined to think that myself because, just a few weeks ago, the phone lost its dial tone and when I called it from my cell, the message said our phone was disconnected. I called AT&T repair (no walk in the park that) and left a report. Within three hours the phone started working again. Several days later a tech from AT&T called to ask me if the phone was working. “Obviously,” I said, “but do you know what was wrong and why it started working again?” He said he had no clue.
I tried to make a report of the recent outage online and finally concluded that was an impossible task. The web site did, however, give me instructions on how to go to the outside box, open it with a screwdriver, unplug the house jack and plug in a jack from a working phone. When my office Garfield the Cat phone was plugged into the jack, there was no dial tone which meant the problem was with AT&T’s equipment, not ours.
I tried to talk (or even online chat) with a phone company human to give them that information. That was also impossible. I have decided that the contact link on the AT&T repair website is just a cruel ruse. I finally made the report on an automated line and the voice told me our phone would be fixed by Saturday.
The man at the alarm company said he put our alarm on test and asked me to push the fire panic button which I did. The sirens in and outside the house wailed loudly, but the alarm didn’t get through to the security company. The man assured me the problem was AT&T’s fault.
I was inclined to think that myself because, just a few weeks ago, the phone lost its dial tone and when I called it from my cell, the message said our phone was disconnected. I called AT&T repair (no walk in the park that) and left a report. Within three hours the phone started working again. Several days later a tech from AT&T called to ask me if the phone was working. “Obviously,” I said, “but do you know what was wrong and why it started working again?” He said he had no clue.
I tried to make a report of the recent outage online and finally concluded that was an impossible task. The web site did, however, give me instructions on how to go to the outside box, open it with a screwdriver, unplug the house jack and plug in a jack from a working phone. When my office Garfield the Cat phone was plugged into the jack, there was no dial tone which meant the problem was with AT&T’s equipment, not ours.
I tried to talk (or even online chat) with a phone company human to give them that information. That was also impossible. I have decided that the contact link on the AT&T repair website is just a cruel ruse. I finally made the report on an automated line and the voice told me our phone would be fixed by Saturday.
There when we need them . . . and when we don't.
I’m guessing AT&T wants kudos because it was fixed on Friday. Shortly after the phone began working, there was a knock on our door. There stood a fireman and coming up our long country drive were three firetrucks with sirens and flashing lights. Soon our entryway had a couple more firemen in boots and rubber pants ready to fight our nonexistent fire.
Have you guessed what happened? When the phone started working, it belatedly sent a fire alarm from the panic button I had pushed on Tuesday. I think we’ll reward the firemen for their speedy response because it is good to know that, if we ever have a real fire, they’ll be here.
Have you guessed what happened? When the phone started working, it belatedly sent a fire alarm from the panic button I had pushed on Tuesday. I think we’ll reward the firemen for their speedy response because it is good to know that, if we ever have a real fire, they’ll be here.
Great new book about WW II
When Micki Carroll set out to write a book about her World War II paratrooper / photographer / POW father, she initially thought it would be of interest primarily to family members. That may be true of the first part of the book which deals with past generations of her family, but those early chapters set the stage for the heroic All-American character of the three Wyoming cowboy brothers who fought — and one who died — in WW II.
However, anyone interested in history — especially WW II history — will be fascinated by the account of her father’s and uncles’ combat experiences. The two paratrooper brothers were captured during the Normandy D-Day invasion. The third brother was a submariner. I was honored to be asked to write the introduction to this amazing book which is rich in never-before-seen WW II photos. To read my introduction to A Wyoming Cowboy in Hitler's Germany on my WW II page, just click on WW II Articles on the navigation bar. If you'd like to purchase the book or learn more about it, just click on the book cover above and you will be taken to Amazon where you may buy it. To read more about it on Micki's website, go to http://maureencarroll.com/my-books-2/a-wyoming-cowboy-in-hitlers-germany/
However, anyone interested in history — especially WW II history — will be fascinated by the account of her father’s and uncles’ combat experiences. The two paratrooper brothers were captured during the Normandy D-Day invasion. The third brother was a submariner. I was honored to be asked to write the introduction to this amazing book which is rich in never-before-seen WW II photos. To read my introduction to A Wyoming Cowboy in Hitler's Germany on my WW II page, just click on WW II Articles on the navigation bar. If you'd like to purchase the book or learn more about it, just click on the book cover above and you will be taken to Amazon where you may buy it. To read more about it on Micki's website, go to http://maureencarroll.com/my-books-2/a-wyoming-cowboy-in-hitlers-germany/
“Miss Kitty” was a misnomer
When Miss Kitty wasn't on the front porch, she was on the back.
While I can’t prove a KU student dumped the pretty gray tabby that showed up at our door shortly after the spring semester ended, I suspect that was the case. It happens more often than you’d think, although how one can drive to the country and dump a pet they’ve cared for is beyond my imagination. Especially when that pet is declawed and — because she tried to push by us every time the door opened — obviously was accustomed to being in the house, not in the wild outdoors where coyotes roam at will.
Granddaughter Zoe, who, on one visit, played with her most of the weekend, named her Agatha and called her Aggie, for short. When Zoe pronounced her female and declawed, we assumed she was also spayed. Ray, who names all our pets, wild birds, cars and even houses, started calling her “Miss Kitty.”
Soon we were buying cat food. Perusing the wide selection of feline sustenance in Wal-Mart, I mentioned to the woman standing next to me that I figured it would be cheaper than the tuna I had been feeding her. “Oh, be careful about feeding her tuna!” she exclaimed in alarm. Before I could say, “Hey, I’m eating it,” she continued, “The mercury in it isn’t good for cats.”
She volunteered that she had several cats and suggested what brand of cat food I should buy. I asked her if she wanted another cat. She didn’t. And she wasn’t the only person I asked. I did everything but stop people on the street to ask if they needed a cat.
It was daughter-in-law Linda at our Fourth of July celebration who noticed a neighbor’s male cat hanging around. “She’d better be spayed,” Linda said, “or the way that tom is spraying, you’ll have more than one cat to give away.”
We knew that we’d have to find a home for Miss Kitty before winter because Ray’s asthma will not allow for a furry animal in the house. I was worried about taking her to our local shelter for fear she would be euthanized. Finally, daughter-in-law Val secured an appointment at a no-kill shelter in another city, but they couldn’t take her until October 16.
Then one day Ray said, “I think Miss Kitty is pregnant. She’s really getting fat.” I checked gestation periods online and knew, if she was, that she would have kittens before her appointment at the no-kill shelter.
Does Miss Kitty look pregnant? I rest my case.
We waffled back and forth about her pregnancy (I considered but decided against trying to find a pregnancy test for cats). Finally, she looked like she was about to pop and I knew we couldn’t wait any longer. I called the shelter. “You need to know that if we take her, we’ll spay her and that will terminate the pregnancy,” the man said.
“I don’t have strong feelings about cat abortions,” I said, “I just do not want kittens euthanized after they are born.” A few days later, we borrowed a cat carrier and took her to the shelter. “We won’t kill a healthy animal,” said the woman who gave me papers to fill out, “we only euthanize if they have feline leukemia.” She gave me a number designating Miss Kitty and said I could call in a few days to see if she checked out OK.
So I called and learned that Miss Kitty was perfectly healthy after being treated for round worms (yuk!), weighed 10 pounds, was two years old and . . . yes, was a neutered male who had been renamed Paul!
Paul went up for adoption last week. Someone is going to get a very loving cat who, though named Paul, will respond to Miss Kitty.
“I don’t have strong feelings about cat abortions,” I said, “I just do not want kittens euthanized after they are born.” A few days later, we borrowed a cat carrier and took her to the shelter. “We won’t kill a healthy animal,” said the woman who gave me papers to fill out, “we only euthanize if they have feline leukemia.” She gave me a number designating Miss Kitty and said I could call in a few days to see if she checked out OK.
So I called and learned that Miss Kitty was perfectly healthy after being treated for round worms (yuk!), weighed 10 pounds, was two years old and . . . yes, was a neutered male who had been renamed Paul!
Paul went up for adoption last week. Someone is going to get a very loving cat who, though named Paul, will respond to Miss Kitty.
Human Nature Calls ...
Jest for Grins is
now on Kindle.
Some of you may have the print edition of Human Nature Calls. Those of you who do not — or who do but would also like a digital copy — may acquire one from Amazon.
If you do not have a Kindle, you may download the free reading app for your computer, tablet or smartphone by clicking here.
To buy the book or read more about it, simply click on the book cover and you'll be connected to the Amazon site where you may download it.
If you download the book and like it (or even if you don't) I'd appreciate it if you would rate it and write a short review on Amazon. Feel free to share this with your family and friends. Writers don't write only for money . . . they write to be read. Below is one of the many essays in the book.
Life's Absolute Truths
I have lived long enough to know that life offers some absolute truths, among them:
Giving away your maternity clothes is a surefire way to get pregnant.
The higher the cost of a gallon of gas, the lower the mileage you get from it.
If a deer crosses the road in front of you, look out for the one following him.
Politicians and passenger balloons hold roughly the same quantity of hot air.
For women only: When you find exactly the right lipstick color or a bra that fits perfectly, the manufacturer will stop making it.
For men only: God gave you prostates to make up for giving women menopause.
For both: The bigger the rear end, the tighter the pants.
Washing your car really does make it rain.
What goes around comes around (be nice to the elderly for one day that old person will be you).
A mother’s job is to embarrass her children (a job at which I proudly excel).
When you have enough money to buy the cute clothes you couldn’t afford as a teenager, you no longer look cute wearing them.
You know your husband is a keeper when he compliments you on serving a meal of hot dogs, potato chips and pork ‘n beans.
A woman needs a pair of red shoes just for the fun of it.
And, at least once in his life, a man requires a pickup truck for the same reason.
Never discuss politics with your dentist when she/he is holding a drill.
When you can no longer find your computer keyboard, it is time to clean your desk.
Know-it-alls usually don’t.
Beware of the law enforcement officer who stops you for speeding and greets you by saying “This is my first day on the job.”
Some people who act like friends are not.
Setting the clock in your car 10 minutes ahead doesn’t make you early for meetings because you automatically subtract 10 minutes whenever you look at the clock.
Secretaries keep the world running.
A messy house attracts unexpected visitors.
Three-fourths of blondes aren’t.
It is not an equal playing field when you have to take off your clothes but your doctor doesn’t.
No matter what time you plan dinner, you cannot fool the telemarketer.
It is impossible to eat any farm animal you have named.
Your mother will stand up for you even when she knows you are wrong.
Your father serves as a good role model when you choose a husband.
You CAN go home again (it just won’t be the same).
You can never be rich enough or thin enough (but you’ll have a great life anyway).
The person taking 15 items through an express checkout allowing 8 items cannot count.
A logo that costs $20,000 is as good as one that costs $88,900. [I think those of you who aren't Jayhawk fans will find it as amusing as I do that The University of Kansas paid $88,900 for a KU logo virtually identical to the one Kutztown University in PA paid $20,000 for two years earlier.]
A bicyclist will sometimes stop at a stop sign.
A cat can occasionally (albeit rarely) be man’s best friend.
A dog will roll in anything that smells bad and then expect you to shake hands with him.
The funny noise you hear in your car engine isn’t really there until the mechanic hears it.
You do not have to own beautifully-colored maple trees in order to enjoy them.
A true friend will like you even when you are not being very likable.
Able persons who park in handicapped parking spaces are indeed handicapped (they can’t read).
“This is going to hurt me more than you” is highly improbable.
You’re never too old to make a snow angel.
Husband Ray will never achieve his desire to “buy someone for what they are worth and sell them for what THEY think they’re worth.”
Unless you can fly a 767, you have to trust the pilot (but you can help hold up the plane by keeping a firm grip on the armrests).
You’ve officially grown up when you recognize that you learned the most from your toughest teachers.
You really CAN’T eat just one.
And the number one absolute truth is: Sunrises, sunsets and rainbows are FREE. Be grateful.
If you do not have a Kindle, you may download the free reading app for your computer, tablet or smartphone by clicking here.
To buy the book or read more about it, simply click on the book cover and you'll be connected to the Amazon site where you may download it.
If you download the book and like it (or even if you don't) I'd appreciate it if you would rate it and write a short review on Amazon. Feel free to share this with your family and friends. Writers don't write only for money . . . they write to be read. Below is one of the many essays in the book.
Life's Absolute Truths
I have lived long enough to know that life offers some absolute truths, among them:
Giving away your maternity clothes is a surefire way to get pregnant.
The higher the cost of a gallon of gas, the lower the mileage you get from it.
If a deer crosses the road in front of you, look out for the one following him.
Politicians and passenger balloons hold roughly the same quantity of hot air.
For women only: When you find exactly the right lipstick color or a bra that fits perfectly, the manufacturer will stop making it.
For men only: God gave you prostates to make up for giving women menopause.
For both: The bigger the rear end, the tighter the pants.
Washing your car really does make it rain.
What goes around comes around (be nice to the elderly for one day that old person will be you).
A mother’s job is to embarrass her children (a job at which I proudly excel).
When you have enough money to buy the cute clothes you couldn’t afford as a teenager, you no longer look cute wearing them.
You know your husband is a keeper when he compliments you on serving a meal of hot dogs, potato chips and pork ‘n beans.
A woman needs a pair of red shoes just for the fun of it.
And, at least once in his life, a man requires a pickup truck for the same reason.
Never discuss politics with your dentist when she/he is holding a drill.
When you can no longer find your computer keyboard, it is time to clean your desk.
Know-it-alls usually don’t.
Beware of the law enforcement officer who stops you for speeding and greets you by saying “This is my first day on the job.”
Some people who act like friends are not.
Setting the clock in your car 10 minutes ahead doesn’t make you early for meetings because you automatically subtract 10 minutes whenever you look at the clock.
Secretaries keep the world running.
A messy house attracts unexpected visitors.
Three-fourths of blondes aren’t.
It is not an equal playing field when you have to take off your clothes but your doctor doesn’t.
No matter what time you plan dinner, you cannot fool the telemarketer.
It is impossible to eat any farm animal you have named.
Your mother will stand up for you even when she knows you are wrong.
Your father serves as a good role model when you choose a husband.
You CAN go home again (it just won’t be the same).
You can never be rich enough or thin enough (but you’ll have a great life anyway).
The person taking 15 items through an express checkout allowing 8 items cannot count.
A logo that costs $20,000 is as good as one that costs $88,900. [I think those of you who aren't Jayhawk fans will find it as amusing as I do that The University of Kansas paid $88,900 for a KU logo virtually identical to the one Kutztown University in PA paid $20,000 for two years earlier.]
A bicyclist will sometimes stop at a stop sign.
A cat can occasionally (albeit rarely) be man’s best friend.
A dog will roll in anything that smells bad and then expect you to shake hands with him.
The funny noise you hear in your car engine isn’t really there until the mechanic hears it.
You do not have to own beautifully-colored maple trees in order to enjoy them.
A true friend will like you even when you are not being very likable.
Able persons who park in handicapped parking spaces are indeed handicapped (they can’t read).
“This is going to hurt me more than you” is highly improbable.
You’re never too old to make a snow angel.
Husband Ray will never achieve his desire to “buy someone for what they are worth and sell them for what THEY think they’re worth.”
Unless you can fly a 767, you have to trust the pilot (but you can help hold up the plane by keeping a firm grip on the armrests).
You’ve officially grown up when you recognize that you learned the most from your toughest teachers.
You really CAN’T eat just one.
And the number one absolute truth is: Sunrises, sunsets and rainbows are FREE. Be grateful.
Being 108 is simply great!
Edna Zillner loves Elvis so much that I made this special card for her 108th birthday.
How many times have you been invited to a birthday party for a 108-year-old? Until yesterday, that number was a big fat ZERO for Ray and me.
When Edna Zillner was born on August 3, 1907, the average life expectancy was 47 years. Only 14 percent of homes boasted a bathtub and 8 percent had a telephone.
Automobiles numbered 8,000 and there were only 144 miles of paved roads. The speed limit was 10 miles an hour. A gallon of gas cost about 25 cents, as did a pack of cigarettes. Sugar cost 4 cents a pound, eggs were 14 cents a dozen and coffee sold for 15 cents a pound. Those prices sound cheap until you consider that the average wage was 22 cents an hour and the average worker made $200-$400 annually.
Two out of ten adults could not read or write. Edna could. She taught school in a one-room schoolhouse. Later, she worked as a “lunch lady” at a junior high school, retiring when she was a youthful 89.
An appearance at her party by Elvis (our friend and classmate Bob Lockwood) made Edna’s eyes light up. She loves Elvis, knows the words to all his songs and wanted to sing with Bob. “We don’t need music,” she told him. “We can just sing.”
So, together, they sang “Love me Tender.”
The smile never left her face when we all serenaded her with Happy Birthday. What a gloriously happy day for her . . . and for us, too! I wouldn't have missed her party for the world.
Our trip to Pittsburgh, PA
was Just Ducky
Ray waves while standing in front of our DUCK.
Mostly. Getting there was challenging, however. Our Lemon’s cruise control has been worked on THREE times recently, so Ray was edgy about driving it 883 miles to Pittsburgh and another 883 miles home. “I don’t want to drive that far without a cruise control,” he stated flatly.
I am cautiously optimistic that the third time was a charm and the cruise control is finally fixed, but Ray is going to require a few more miles on the odometer before he fully trusts it. So we rented a car, a small SUV Toyota RAV2 with 25,000 miles on its odometer. What could go wrong? Well, sure, it wasn’t as roomy and comfortable as our Lemon, but the cruise control worked . . . almost to St. Louis before it quit working. Ironic, huh? What are the odds?
When I called AVIS Roadside Service and they talked to their rental agent at St. Louis’ International Airport, she suggested we go back to Kansas City for an exchange (clearly that person didn’t realize Kansas City was on the other side of Missouri). We finally exchanged the RAV for the only vehicle in its class that was available: A Jeep Patriot . . . seriously underpowered according to Ray. Every time we’d start up a hill, Ray would chant, “I think I can, I think I can.”
Still, it got us to the Hilton DoubleTree in downtown Pittsburgh where we relied on its complimentary shuttle to take us where we wanted to go. We didn’t have time to ride the incline to the top of Mount Washington this trip, but we did reprise last year’s Just Ducky tour of Pittsburgh’s three rivers (the Monongahela and the Allegheny create the Ohio River) after a tour of the beautiful city that was once so polluted the streetlights burned day as well as night. I liked being on the Ohio because the antique clock on our mantle was brought down the Ohio on a flatboat by my great-great-grandmother Mary Sly when the family moved from New York to Ohio. The clock made the trek from Ohio to Kansas by covered wagon . . . and it’s still ticking.
We had a great trip in spite of the Jeep. Nothing is better than visiting with friends you see only once a year. I’m trying to convince our Pennsylvania friends to visit Kansas. Lawrence has only one big river, but — if they are expecting our area of Kansas to be flat — they’re in for a big surprise. About a mile from us is Blue Mound, an exceptionally high hill that an enterprising entrepreneur once renamed Mont Bleu, brought in snow-making machines, installed ski lifts and sold T-shirts that proclaimed SKI KANSAS. I’m still sorry I didn’t buy one.
I am cautiously optimistic that the third time was a charm and the cruise control is finally fixed, but Ray is going to require a few more miles on the odometer before he fully trusts it. So we rented a car, a small SUV Toyota RAV2 with 25,000 miles on its odometer. What could go wrong? Well, sure, it wasn’t as roomy and comfortable as our Lemon, but the cruise control worked . . . almost to St. Louis before it quit working. Ironic, huh? What are the odds?
When I called AVIS Roadside Service and they talked to their rental agent at St. Louis’ International Airport, she suggested we go back to Kansas City for an exchange (clearly that person didn’t realize Kansas City was on the other side of Missouri). We finally exchanged the RAV for the only vehicle in its class that was available: A Jeep Patriot . . . seriously underpowered according to Ray. Every time we’d start up a hill, Ray would chant, “I think I can, I think I can.”
Still, it got us to the Hilton DoubleTree in downtown Pittsburgh where we relied on its complimentary shuttle to take us where we wanted to go. We didn’t have time to ride the incline to the top of Mount Washington this trip, but we did reprise last year’s Just Ducky tour of Pittsburgh’s three rivers (the Monongahela and the Allegheny create the Ohio River) after a tour of the beautiful city that was once so polluted the streetlights burned day as well as night. I liked being on the Ohio because the antique clock on our mantle was brought down the Ohio on a flatboat by my great-great-grandmother Mary Sly when the family moved from New York to Ohio. The clock made the trek from Ohio to Kansas by covered wagon . . . and it’s still ticking.
We had a great trip in spite of the Jeep. Nothing is better than visiting with friends you see only once a year. I’m trying to convince our Pennsylvania friends to visit Kansas. Lawrence has only one big river, but — if they are expecting our area of Kansas to be flat — they’re in for a big surprise. About a mile from us is Blue Mound, an exceptionally high hill that an enterprising entrepreneur once renamed Mont Bleu, brought in snow-making machines, installed ski lifts and sold T-shirts that proclaimed SKI KANSAS. I’m still sorry I didn’t buy one.
Good going, American
Pharoah!
Ak-sar-ben was beautiful and it was fun to win!
American Pharoah is the first horse to win the triple crown in 37 years. What a horse! But he is not so good as the horse that won me several hundred dollars at the now defunct Ak-sar-ben (Nebraska spelled backward) race track in Omaha. I have forgotten the horse’s number, but I will never forget her? his? name: Plaza Star.
I do not own horses. I do not ride horses. But I love to watch them race. And I like to bet on the outcome. Ray and my brother-in-law Dick, who accompanied Lesta and me to the race track in Omaha that long ago day, told me I was doing it all wrong. First, I bet no more than $2 dollars. Second, I bet only on the long shots. And third, I bet them to win.
Before the horses raced, we watched greyhounds run around the track chasing a mechanical rabbit which they never caught. When I saw the name Plaza Star in the horse races, I told my family that I had spent a lot of money at the Kansas City Plaza shops and restaurants and thought I was due a payback. Besides, of all the horses racing that day, Plaza Star was the longest of long shots.
When the horses came onto the track and began to line up at the gate, even I was shocked at how small Plaza Star was. “Hey,” said one of the guys (I forget which), “she looks like the rabbit the dogs were chasing.”
“Yeah,” said the other, “her legs are about two-thirds the length of the other horses' legs.”
You’ll notice that the guys identified Plaza Star as female. They must have gotten a better look that I did. Or perhaps they decided she was a girl because of her small stature.
Then the bell sounded and the gates opened. Plaza Star did indeed look like the rabbit. He? She? came out of the gate in the lead and never looked back. Plaza Star maintained the lead on the far side of the track and coming around the corner heading for the finish line, crossing the line well in front of the other horses.
I counted my money over and over again just like Scrooge McDuck and, while I no longer have one thin dime of it, I will never forget that glorious day and the speedy little horse named Plaza Star.
I do not own horses. I do not ride horses. But I love to watch them race. And I like to bet on the outcome. Ray and my brother-in-law Dick, who accompanied Lesta and me to the race track in Omaha that long ago day, told me I was doing it all wrong. First, I bet no more than $2 dollars. Second, I bet only on the long shots. And third, I bet them to win.
Before the horses raced, we watched greyhounds run around the track chasing a mechanical rabbit which they never caught. When I saw the name Plaza Star in the horse races, I told my family that I had spent a lot of money at the Kansas City Plaza shops and restaurants and thought I was due a payback. Besides, of all the horses racing that day, Plaza Star was the longest of long shots.
When the horses came onto the track and began to line up at the gate, even I was shocked at how small Plaza Star was. “Hey,” said one of the guys (I forget which), “she looks like the rabbit the dogs were chasing.”
“Yeah,” said the other, “her legs are about two-thirds the length of the other horses' legs.”
You’ll notice that the guys identified Plaza Star as female. They must have gotten a better look that I did. Or perhaps they decided she was a girl because of her small stature.
Then the bell sounded and the gates opened. Plaza Star did indeed look like the rabbit. He? She? came out of the gate in the lead and never looked back. Plaza Star maintained the lead on the far side of the track and coming around the corner heading for the finish line, crossing the line well in front of the other horses.
I counted my money over and over again just like Scrooge McDuck and, while I no longer have one thin dime of it, I will never forget that glorious day and the speedy little horse named Plaza Star.
In defense of those who
protect and serve
Rest in peace, Brian Moore. What a terrible thing to say to a forever-25-year-old New York police officer who was recently shot and killed in Queens.
Early in our marriage, Ray served our city as a police officer. He was 21 when he joined the force and 27 when he left for a better career. There wasn’t a day during his six and a half years in law enforcement that I didn’t worry about him, mainly because he always said he would never shoot first and I knew that he might not have the opportunity to shoot second.
He only drew and pointed his gun at an individual once during his time on the police force. He and his partner, Ben, were answering a nighttime domestic disturbance call and, while Ray was speaking to the man who initiated the call, Ben headed next door where the disturbance had occurred. When Ray followed, he noticed Ben had stopped in the middle of the yard. The reason? A man standing on the porch had an automatic rifle pointed at Ben. Ray drew his gun and aimed his flashlight at the man’s face.
“Get that light out of my face,” snarled the man, “or I’ll shoot him. I have 13 shells in this gun and I’ll use all of them.”
Ray lowered the light, but kept his gun pointed at the man. The standoff lasted for several minutes until Ray and Ben convinced the inebriated man that they were police officers who just wanted to talk to him. When he finally gave them the gun, it was not loaded. Later that night, Ray agonized over what would have happened if the man had followed through on his threat to shoot Ben. “I could have saved Ben by shooting the guy,” he said. “On the other hand, even though we firmly believed he had 13 bullets, had I shot him, the public would have wanted to crucify me because the gun wasn’t loaded.”
Brian Moore never had the chance to consider whether to shoot his killer. He will never have the chance to tell a future wife, children and grandchildren some of the funny things that happened to him as a police officer. Ray has related many of those stories. Like combat veterans, police officers choose to tell the funny things that occur as part of their duties. The sad and the dangerous stories they often keep to themselves.
One other thing: you’ll notice I refer to the man with a gun as a “man” — not a “gentleman.” Police officers are trained to use that polite, politically correct term and it bothers me to hear an officer say on television or while testifying in court, “I pursued and caught the gentleman after he struck the elderly lady and ran off with her purse.”
A man who will assault an elderly woman is no gentleman. Neither is the man who murdered Brian Moore.
A senseless tragedy like this is why I believe there must be a Heaven . . . and also a Hell.
Early in our marriage, Ray served our city as a police officer. He was 21 when he joined the force and 27 when he left for a better career. There wasn’t a day during his six and a half years in law enforcement that I didn’t worry about him, mainly because he always said he would never shoot first and I knew that he might not have the opportunity to shoot second.
He only drew and pointed his gun at an individual once during his time on the police force. He and his partner, Ben, were answering a nighttime domestic disturbance call and, while Ray was speaking to the man who initiated the call, Ben headed next door where the disturbance had occurred. When Ray followed, he noticed Ben had stopped in the middle of the yard. The reason? A man standing on the porch had an automatic rifle pointed at Ben. Ray drew his gun and aimed his flashlight at the man’s face.
“Get that light out of my face,” snarled the man, “or I’ll shoot him. I have 13 shells in this gun and I’ll use all of them.”
Ray lowered the light, but kept his gun pointed at the man. The standoff lasted for several minutes until Ray and Ben convinced the inebriated man that they were police officers who just wanted to talk to him. When he finally gave them the gun, it was not loaded. Later that night, Ray agonized over what would have happened if the man had followed through on his threat to shoot Ben. “I could have saved Ben by shooting the guy,” he said. “On the other hand, even though we firmly believed he had 13 bullets, had I shot him, the public would have wanted to crucify me because the gun wasn’t loaded.”
Brian Moore never had the chance to consider whether to shoot his killer. He will never have the chance to tell a future wife, children and grandchildren some of the funny things that happened to him as a police officer. Ray has related many of those stories. Like combat veterans, police officers choose to tell the funny things that occur as part of their duties. The sad and the dangerous stories they often keep to themselves.
One other thing: you’ll notice I refer to the man with a gun as a “man” — not a “gentleman.” Police officers are trained to use that polite, politically correct term and it bothers me to hear an officer say on television or while testifying in court, “I pursued and caught the gentleman after he struck the elderly lady and ran off with her purse.”
A man who will assault an elderly woman is no gentleman. Neither is the man who murdered Brian Moore.
A senseless tragedy like this is why I believe there must be a Heaven . . . and also a Hell.
An untrue, but funny,
surprise!
In my entire writing life, I have penned only one mystery and recently that short story, Until Death Do Us, was selected to be published in Esther Luttrell's first volume of Cheap Detective Stories which will be electronically available in the next week or so.
I am excited to have a story in that genre published, especially when it was chosen by an excellent mystery writer like Esther, so I did a Google search last night to see if the book was available and turned up this photo with the inaccurate adjective. Ray, who has paid for a few "I-just-had-to-buy-it" extravagances, will assure you that cheap I am not. However, I'm pretty sure that a few car dealers we have negotiated with over the years will insist that I am.
Happy Valentine's Day
to Lovers Everywhere!
Ray, then and noiw . . . still cute.
Tomorrow when Ray opens his Valentine, he will find inside a Valentine contest entry, the deadline of which I missed. I thought I had until midnight last Tuesday, but instead entries had to be in by noon. Rats!
The contest had some pretty cool prizes: a dinner, night at a bed and breakfast, flowers and lots more . . . including an hour long couples massage at a spa. Yeah, like that's going to happen with a guy who won't even let me rub his head if he has a headache.
And then there's the chance I might not have won had I beaten the deadline. Alas, we'll never know. He's getting pecan turtles so he'll be happy. I hope you and your Valentine say you love each other with flowers and chocolate . . . and, if you're so inclined, with a couples massage at a spa. Someone's gotta love that.
Happy Heart Day!
HAPPY TURKEY DAY!
from Marsha and Ray
Our wild turkeys are thankful they are not on the menu for Thanksgiving Dinner!
Count your blessings!
Charmin short-sheeted me
Old roll on the left, new on the right.
Remember Mr. Whipple? He was the bespectacled, mustachioed guy who admonished toilet tissue shoppers in long ago commercials to “please don’t squeeze the Charmin.”
Well, he’d be pretty disappointed to learn that presently there isn’t as much Charmin to squeeze. That’s right, ladies and gents: Charmin is short-sheeting us. I have photographic evidence to prove it.
Well, he’d be pretty disappointed to learn that presently there isn’t as much Charmin to squeeze. That’s right, ladies and gents: Charmin is short-sheeting us. I have photographic evidence to prove it.
Old roll fits nicely in holder.
Certainly, manufacturers don’t charge less for diminished products. The price for the smaller quantity may remain the same for a little while, but it soon begins climbing the old price ladder. Less for more makes them happy and us sad.
I guess manufacturers of all kinds of products — from toilet tissue to tuna fish, soup to candy bars — think consumers are too dumb to notice the difference. We’re not . . . but what to do about it? A few ideas about toilet tissue, too gross to seriously consider, come to mind.
Each sheet measures about 4 inches deep. Rulers don't lie.
For all the good it will do, I think I will write Charmin. Perhaps if we all did, they’d reconsider. In the meantime, if I find a manufacturer of toilet tissue that hasn’t yet resorted to short-sheeting customers, I’ll be their happy new customer. When it comes right down to it, quoting another old commercial, I’d rather switch than fight.
Hopper, the terra-cotta
eating bunny
Hopper chews on the rims of terra cotta pots.
I’ve fooled a few people into thinking I’m good with words, but it is Ray who names our wild critters and cars, even the property on which our house was built that he dubbed Willow Run. He recently named a new critter that’s been hanging around the front of our house eating — I kid you not — terra-cotta pots holding a powder puff tree that has never bloomed and a bird of paradise plant that has.
He's contemplating chewing on the plant now.
If he’s actually ingesting the clay from the pots, I think his diet must be lacking some critical nutrient. On the other hand, it has occurred to me that he is sharpening his teeth to bite someone . . . and I don’t want it to be me.
The only person I know of who was attacked by a “killer rabbit” was President Jimmy Carter when he was fishing in a boat and had to beat off a sinister swimming bunny with an oar. According to The Washington Post, the incident occurred
The only person I know of who was attacked by a “killer rabbit” was President Jimmy Carter when he was fishing in a boat and had to beat off a sinister swimming bunny with an oar. According to The Washington Post, the incident occurred
Time to relax after a terra cotta snack.
when Carter’s popularity was at a low ebb and some believe it encouraged Sen. Edward Kennedy to challenge the president's renomination in the primary. Carter secured the Democrat nomination, but lost the election to President Ronald Reagan in a landslide. I’m pretty sure the bunny who set that all in motion was a Republican.
I snapped these photos of Hopper. I think you’ll agree he’s as cute as a bunny!
I snapped these photos of Hopper. I think you’ll agree he’s as cute as a bunny!
Blood Moon
Blood moon photos all look alike: BEAUTIFUL!
Did you see it? Neither did I. I awakened sometime between 4:30 and 5:00 a.m., sleepily looked out the bedroom window, noticed the full white moon had a big bite out of its left side, turned over and went back to sleep.
My dad would be really put out with me. With a little help from Mom, he brought my sisters and me into the world and was determined to show it to us at all hours. He dragged us out of bed to see eclipses of the moon, geese flying over in V formation, their white bellies reflecting the city lights as they honked their way North, and lightning jumping from cloud to cloud.
Ray, who is a lark — not an owl like me -- and rises well before the sun did see the blood moon, but knew better than to wake me. Would I have liked to see it? You bet! But would I have been happy to be awakened and leave my warm bed? I think you know the answer to that question.
My dad would be really put out with me. With a little help from Mom, he brought my sisters and me into the world and was determined to show it to us at all hours. He dragged us out of bed to see eclipses of the moon, geese flying over in V formation, their white bellies reflecting the city lights as they honked their way North, and lightning jumping from cloud to cloud.
Ray, who is a lark — not an owl like me -- and rises well before the sun did see the blood moon, but knew better than to wake me. Would I have liked to see it? You bet! But would I have been happy to be awakened and leave my warm bed? I think you know the answer to that question.
Eye-yi-yi: Part Deux
Stick a needle in MY eye?
Red and green eye (shots partially visible lower right).
Cross my heart,
Hope to die,
Stick a needle
in my eye!
That rhyme made me keep my promises during my entire childhood. It wasn't the dying part so much as the thought of a needle piercing my eye. And yet today, Dr. B., retina specialist, did exactly that . . . twice.
My exuberance over recent cataract surgery – and my near 20/20 vision – lasted a week and a half. Then the vision in my left eye became progressively blurred. Two days of that sent me back to my ophthalmologist who, after documenting my vision at 20/50 and performing an eye scan, diagnosed me with CME (cystoid macular edema), increased my steroid eye drop to 4 times daily and added an anti-inflammatory eye drop.
My vision continued to decrease which resulted in a panicky Sunday phone conversation with the on-call ophthalmologist who increased my steroid eye drop to every two hours. By Tuesday, my vision had decreased to 20/100 and the eye scan showed further swelling of the macula prompting a referral and subsequent visit to Dr. B. He ordered more tests, including one where dye was injected – remember I hate needles? – into my hand, a bright light flashed into my eye while what looked to me like 3-D color pictures were taken of my eyeball. For about 10 minutes post dye injection, everything was bathed in a rosy glow . . . even people.
The diagnosis was Irvine Gass Syndrome, the name for CME that is caused by cataract surgery. Who knew? Drs. Irvine and Gass, that's who! Depending which doctor you talk with and what website you visit, the condition is rare . . . or not. Smart too late again: I learned that preoperative treatment might have prevented this condition. Studies are precious few, but those that exist show that an anti-inflammatory drop in the eye a day before surgery and continuing for a few days after resulted in no I-G Syndrome for those in control groups receiving the drop, while I-G Syndrome occurred in varying percentages in control groups without the drop. Dang!
There is no protocol for preoperative treatment for cataract surgery patients who have no risk factors, such as diabetes. Treatment is considered expensive: $183 with coupon (I checked), but some surgeons routinely pre-treat by giving patients samples of the drop. As a patient who paid $750 out-of-pocket for laser surgery because it is safer than a blade, in retrospect I wish I had been offered the option to decide for myself whether to have the preoperative drop. And if my right eye ever requires cataract surgery, you can bet the bank I'll have that pretreatment drop.
Sure would be better than the two injections I had in my eye today. However, if a needle in my eye restores my near 20/20 vision, I'll be a happy camper. Consider this posting a public service message to all of you who may one day be candidates for cataract surgery. It is the article I wish I had read before I had mine.
Hope to die,
Stick a needle
in my eye!
That rhyme made me keep my promises during my entire childhood. It wasn't the dying part so much as the thought of a needle piercing my eye. And yet today, Dr. B., retina specialist, did exactly that . . . twice.
My exuberance over recent cataract surgery – and my near 20/20 vision – lasted a week and a half. Then the vision in my left eye became progressively blurred. Two days of that sent me back to my ophthalmologist who, after documenting my vision at 20/50 and performing an eye scan, diagnosed me with CME (cystoid macular edema), increased my steroid eye drop to 4 times daily and added an anti-inflammatory eye drop.
My vision continued to decrease which resulted in a panicky Sunday phone conversation with the on-call ophthalmologist who increased my steroid eye drop to every two hours. By Tuesday, my vision had decreased to 20/100 and the eye scan showed further swelling of the macula prompting a referral and subsequent visit to Dr. B. He ordered more tests, including one where dye was injected – remember I hate needles? – into my hand, a bright light flashed into my eye while what looked to me like 3-D color pictures were taken of my eyeball. For about 10 minutes post dye injection, everything was bathed in a rosy glow . . . even people.
The diagnosis was Irvine Gass Syndrome, the name for CME that is caused by cataract surgery. Who knew? Drs. Irvine and Gass, that's who! Depending which doctor you talk with and what website you visit, the condition is rare . . . or not. Smart too late again: I learned that preoperative treatment might have prevented this condition. Studies are precious few, but those that exist show that an anti-inflammatory drop in the eye a day before surgery and continuing for a few days after resulted in no I-G Syndrome for those in control groups receiving the drop, while I-G Syndrome occurred in varying percentages in control groups without the drop. Dang!
There is no protocol for preoperative treatment for cataract surgery patients who have no risk factors, such as diabetes. Treatment is considered expensive: $183 with coupon (I checked), but some surgeons routinely pre-treat by giving patients samples of the drop. As a patient who paid $750 out-of-pocket for laser surgery because it is safer than a blade, in retrospect I wish I had been offered the option to decide for myself whether to have the preoperative drop. And if my right eye ever requires cataract surgery, you can bet the bank I'll have that pretreatment drop.
Sure would be better than the two injections I had in my eye today. However, if a needle in my eye restores my near 20/20 vision, I'll be a happy camper. Consider this posting a public service message to all of you who may one day be candidates for cataract surgery. It is the article I wish I had read before I had mine.
Cataract surgery? Eye-yi-yi!
Left eye, not right. Mirror image. Parrot on right shoulder.
taract surgery? Me? At my age? Yep. I blame years of sunbathing while reading without the protection of sunglasses. Smart too late on two counts. Don’t you just hate that?
Back in the day, I spent hours in the sun — either in the backyard or at the pool while watching the kids swim and dive. My friend Jean often met me at the pool and we would lounge on our beach towels and talk about all the leisure time we would have when our kids were grown. "How," I recently asked her, "should we have known that those werethe days when we had leisure time?" I sure haven’t had much downtime since.
Only my left eye required surgery. I suspect it is because I favored lying on my left side causing the sun to bounce off the white pages into my left eye. Only thing I can figure anyway.
You need to know this: I am scared of needles, blood and surgery. And I amreally scared of anesthesia. True, with my cataract surgery there was no general anesthesia, just Versed and a pain reliever (likely Fentanyl), which together provide "conscious sedation" or "twilight sleep." Together, the two drugs are supposed to prevent pain and anxiety during the surgery . . . and, since it’s a memory blocker, if you do suffer pain or stress, you won’t remember it. OK, where was this stuff when I was giving birth to two kids?
I put off cataract surgery for a couple of years, even though Dr. Mary P, my ophthalmologist, walks on water as far as I’m concerned. She operates in our local hospital (a place I’m glad I went since Joan Rivers’ tragic experience with anesthesia in a doctor’s clinic). I opted for laser surgery requiring that I pay $750 out of pocket because Medicare will pay only for surgery by a blade (I forgot to mention I’m also scared of blades). Insureds who want laser surgery have to pay the difference. If you noticed the word Medicare, you probably have concluded that I’m not too young to have cataract surgery. As for me, I think I am and I’m sticking to it.
I went home shortly after surgery with a shield taped to my left eye. The next day in Dr. Mary P’s office, the seven of us who had surgery the previous day showed up for our individual unveilings. The waiting room looked like a pirate convention. One woman with her right eye shielded said that was her second surgery in two weeks since she was already seeing 20/20 in the first eye.
I was spooked when my vision wasn’t anywhere close to 20/20 at my unveiling. However, five days later, I was nearly 20/20 and I expect to have perfect vision in my left eye when I see Dr. Mary P in a couple of weeks. As for my right eye which doesn’t require surgery, I’m wearing a contact in it for far vision which I didn’t need when I was younger. That may indeed be an "age thing" but I can’t help thinking how fortunate I am to live in a time and place where vision can be restored . . . even if I did have to look like a pirate for a day.
Back in the day, I spent hours in the sun — either in the backyard or at the pool while watching the kids swim and dive. My friend Jean often met me at the pool and we would lounge on our beach towels and talk about all the leisure time we would have when our kids were grown. "How," I recently asked her, "should we have known that those werethe days when we had leisure time?" I sure haven’t had much downtime since.
Only my left eye required surgery. I suspect it is because I favored lying on my left side causing the sun to bounce off the white pages into my left eye. Only thing I can figure anyway.
You need to know this: I am scared of needles, blood and surgery. And I amreally scared of anesthesia. True, with my cataract surgery there was no general anesthesia, just Versed and a pain reliever (likely Fentanyl), which together provide "conscious sedation" or "twilight sleep." Together, the two drugs are supposed to prevent pain and anxiety during the surgery . . . and, since it’s a memory blocker, if you do suffer pain or stress, you won’t remember it. OK, where was this stuff when I was giving birth to two kids?
I put off cataract surgery for a couple of years, even though Dr. Mary P, my ophthalmologist, walks on water as far as I’m concerned. She operates in our local hospital (a place I’m glad I went since Joan Rivers’ tragic experience with anesthesia in a doctor’s clinic). I opted for laser surgery requiring that I pay $750 out of pocket because Medicare will pay only for surgery by a blade (I forgot to mention I’m also scared of blades). Insureds who want laser surgery have to pay the difference. If you noticed the word Medicare, you probably have concluded that I’m not too young to have cataract surgery. As for me, I think I am and I’m sticking to it.
I went home shortly after surgery with a shield taped to my left eye. The next day in Dr. Mary P’s office, the seven of us who had surgery the previous day showed up for our individual unveilings. The waiting room looked like a pirate convention. One woman with her right eye shielded said that was her second surgery in two weeks since she was already seeing 20/20 in the first eye.
I was spooked when my vision wasn’t anywhere close to 20/20 at my unveiling. However, five days later, I was nearly 20/20 and I expect to have perfect vision in my left eye when I see Dr. Mary P in a couple of weeks. As for my right eye which doesn’t require surgery, I’m wearing a contact in it for far vision which I didn’t need when I was younger. That may indeed be an "age thing" but I can’t help thinking how fortunate I am to live in a time and place where vision can be restored . . . even if I did have to look like a pirate for a day.
Termites gave us
Peace in the Valley
Lesta's favorite photo of Dick.
"You have termites," is not something a homeowner wants to hear, and yet many Californians like my sister Lesta hear that bad news. Termite treatment is expen$ive, invasive and a lot of work for the homeowner who must clear the basement for the drilling that ensues.
If you have read all my posts on this site, you know that I lost my brother-in-law Dick in March. One of a great many things that Dick liked to do was sing. He sang in church, at nursing homes and performed as Elvis in shows and benefits. Lesta thought most recordings of Dick’s songs were lost, but a few days ago she sent me a CD of two of his songs she found by happy accident.
Many years ago, Dick recorded on tape two of his mother’s favorite songs. Flo listened to that tape every single day so, in addition to being more than two decades old, the tape was well used. While moving the boxes for the termite treatment, Lesta found the tape in one of the unopened boxes of Flo’s belongings that were stored in their basement after her death. Lesta was afraid to play the tape so she took it to a friend who saved it on several CDs, one of which was sent to me.
Dick was a good guy who loved kids and entertained them (and adults) by talking like Donald Duck. I always liked him, but I learned to love him like a brother when our son Greg knocked out his daughter’s tooth in a backyard baseball game. All the kids were young and Greg was just three years older than Kym. Greg was batting when Kym, who had only played T-ball and didn’t know batters swung the bat in an arc, ran up behind him and was struck full in the mouth by the bat. We hunted for Kym’s permanent front tooth a long time, hoping it could be saved. We found it, but implanting it was a hopeless cause.
Greg felt awful and was afraid Dick and Lesta would be angry with him, but as soon as they returned from the dentist, Dick made a bee-line for Greg, hugged him and told him it wasn’t his fault. You have to love a guy like that.
If you’d like to hear Dick sing Peace in the Valley, click HERE. We hope he has found it.
If you have read all my posts on this site, you know that I lost my brother-in-law Dick in March. One of a great many things that Dick liked to do was sing. He sang in church, at nursing homes and performed as Elvis in shows and benefits. Lesta thought most recordings of Dick’s songs were lost, but a few days ago she sent me a CD of two of his songs she found by happy accident.
Many years ago, Dick recorded on tape two of his mother’s favorite songs. Flo listened to that tape every single day so, in addition to being more than two decades old, the tape was well used. While moving the boxes for the termite treatment, Lesta found the tape in one of the unopened boxes of Flo’s belongings that were stored in their basement after her death. Lesta was afraid to play the tape so she took it to a friend who saved it on several CDs, one of which was sent to me.
Dick was a good guy who loved kids and entertained them (and adults) by talking like Donald Duck. I always liked him, but I learned to love him like a brother when our son Greg knocked out his daughter’s tooth in a backyard baseball game. All the kids were young and Greg was just three years older than Kym. Greg was batting when Kym, who had only played T-ball and didn’t know batters swung the bat in an arc, ran up behind him and was struck full in the mouth by the bat. We hunted for Kym’s permanent front tooth a long time, hoping it could be saved. We found it, but implanting it was a hopeless cause.
Greg felt awful and was afraid Dick and Lesta would be angry with him, but as soon as they returned from the dentist, Dick made a bee-line for Greg, hugged him and told him it wasn’t his fault. You have to love a guy like that.
If you’d like to hear Dick sing Peace in the Valley, click HERE. We hope he has found it.
I pity those who lack
a sense of humor
There are people who lack a sense of humor. I know because I have encountered them. Can you imagine going through life without seeing the funny side of things? It would be hard. For me it would be impossible.
It is true I have sometimes made a spectacle of myself when I think something is funny and those around me do not. Take the time my friend Jean talked me into going to a meeting where the school district introduced a national public health official sent to our state to study sexually transmitted diseases and educate high school students about the danger of unprotected sex. The audience was made up primarily of folks who opposed the idea . . . not of STDs, but of telling kids about them. Nothing funny about that subject until a very serious woman introduced him to the crowd by saying, "And now I'd like to introduce the man who is responsible for all the VD in Kansas."
I tried not to laugh, but wasn't successful even with all the faces around me — except Jean's — frowning in my direction. I got myself under control just in time to hear the speaker say, "I'd like to thank her for that glowing introduction, but I want you to know that it is a gross exaggeration!"
I was practically rolling in the aisles after his remark and I'm pretty sure Jean was deciding she wouldn't invite me to accompany her to any more meetings.
My friend Heather recently ran into a highway trooper with no sense of humor who ticketed her for speeding on two consecutive days. The second day, he approached her car and said, "Haven't we talked before?"
"Yes," she said, "but if you wanted my number, you could have asked me yesterday and wouldn't have had to pull me over today." Her court date is pending.
And my friend Jackie ran into a surgeon who lacked a funny bone when she required a breast biopsy and labeled the healthy boob: NOT THIS ONE! He let her know in no uncertain terms that he was not amused. How much happier his — and I suspect his wife's — life would have been if he could have gone home and said with a big grin, "You'll never guess what a patient did!"
I hope you find something to smile at today.
It is true I have sometimes made a spectacle of myself when I think something is funny and those around me do not. Take the time my friend Jean talked me into going to a meeting where the school district introduced a national public health official sent to our state to study sexually transmitted diseases and educate high school students about the danger of unprotected sex. The audience was made up primarily of folks who opposed the idea . . . not of STDs, but of telling kids about them. Nothing funny about that subject until a very serious woman introduced him to the crowd by saying, "And now I'd like to introduce the man who is responsible for all the VD in Kansas."
I tried not to laugh, but wasn't successful even with all the faces around me — except Jean's — frowning in my direction. I got myself under control just in time to hear the speaker say, "I'd like to thank her for that glowing introduction, but I want you to know that it is a gross exaggeration!"
I was practically rolling in the aisles after his remark and I'm pretty sure Jean was deciding she wouldn't invite me to accompany her to any more meetings.
My friend Heather recently ran into a highway trooper with no sense of humor who ticketed her for speeding on two consecutive days. The second day, he approached her car and said, "Haven't we talked before?"
"Yes," she said, "but if you wanted my number, you could have asked me yesterday and wouldn't have had to pull me over today." Her court date is pending.
And my friend Jackie ran into a surgeon who lacked a funny bone when she required a breast biopsy and labeled the healthy boob: NOT THIS ONE! He let her know in no uncertain terms that he was not amused. How much happier his — and I suspect his wife's — life would have been if he could have gone home and said with a big grin, "You'll never guess what a patient did!"
I hope you find something to smile at today.
One gutsy stowaway
Hangin' on for dear life on a very slick car hood.
Driving home from our walk at Clinton Lake the other morning, I noticed a stowaway on the hood of our Lemon. "Look at that grasshopper!" I exclaimed, "He’s hanging on for dear life."
He was, too, at 30 mph. "He’ll blow off as we accelerate," Ray said. But he didn’t . . . even at a burst of speed up to 74 mph. Blowing backward and from side to side in the wind, his antennae acted much as a windsock does. Periodically, he would lift a front leg to straighten an antena. Each time he did so, he lost a little ground and slid nearer the passenger-side edge of the hood. Several times I thought he was a goner, but he maintained his grip.
Our little stowaway lasted an amazing 27 miles, jumping (or falling off) by our mailbox as Ray slowed to turn in our drive. "I only hope," I said to Ray as we pulled into the garage, "that he and our grasshoppers speak the same language." (Click on photo to see antennae.)
He was, too, at 30 mph. "He’ll blow off as we accelerate," Ray said. But he didn’t . . . even at a burst of speed up to 74 mph. Blowing backward and from side to side in the wind, his antennae acted much as a windsock does. Periodically, he would lift a front leg to straighten an antena. Each time he did so, he lost a little ground and slid nearer the passenger-side edge of the hood. Several times I thought he was a goner, but he maintained his grip.
Our little stowaway lasted an amazing 27 miles, jumping (or falling off) by our mailbox as Ray slowed to turn in our drive. "I only hope," I said to Ray as we pulled into the garage, "that he and our grasshoppers speak the same language." (Click on photo to see antennae.)
Climate change?
Ask the dinosaurs
The Ice Age surprised dinosaurs who woke up covered in snow and icicles.
The only thing settled about Climate Change — sometimes dubbed Global Warming — is that it isn't. Settled, I mean. We all know that the climate has been changing for eons. Just ask the dinosaurs whose tropical climes became the Ice Age almost overnight. And when the Ice Age retreated, we were left with cool memories of it . . . like the Rocky Mountains and Utah's Great Salt Lake. We might have had that latter feature in Kansas — and all been swimming to work — but our inland sea evaporated or flushed (I'm not sure which), leaving us with sharks' teeth free for the finding in arid Western Kansas.
If my facts are a little fuzzy, know this: I am not a scientist nor do I portray one on television. But neither is Al Gore who won a Nobel Prize for warning us in An Inconvenient Truth that polar bears were going to drown because they would have no ice floes to sit upon and that New Yorkers would be swimming to work. I never really warmed up to Al, so I am predisposed to believe the report that he has made a lot of money — and is poised to make more (greed is GOOD) — on remedies to prevent man-made climate change.
And there's the rub. I do believe the climate is ever-changing (Kansas is presently very cool in July, which I presume is why the "Global Warming" term went out of fashion), but I do not believe man has a lot to do with it. Too much extreme change occurred before man even appeared on the planet. And I'm not alone in that belief because Dr. Patrick Moore, Canadian scientist, co-founder and former director of Greenpeace, says, "There is no scientific proof that human emissions of carbon dioxide (CO2) are the dominant cause of the minor warming of the Earth’s atmosphere over the past 100 years." Moore left Greenpeace in 1986, claiming the other Greenpeace directors were not scientists, but political activists or environmental entrepreneurs who abandoned scientific objectivity in favor of political agendas. The directors, in turn, called Moore heretic and traitor. Sticks and stones.
A United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change report released last September indicates that global surface temperatures have not increased for the past 15 years, yet subsequent reports by that panel continued to forecast doom and destruction (but wait, were those reports written by open-minded scientists or environmental crusaders with an agenda?). Sometimes it is hard to tell. NASA reported that this year's maximum wintertime extent of Antarctic sea ice was the largest on record, even greater than the previous year's record amount. But before the ink was dry on that report, some were theorizing that while decreasing ice in the Arctic was meaningful, increasing ice in the Antarctic was meaningless in the context of global warming. Why is that? I'm confused.
Apparently, those who believe the earth is warming and that man is the main cause of it are not persuaded by such scientific data as stable surface temperatures and increasing Antarctic ice. I once read that scientists who subscribe to the Gore Theory of Global Warming base their belief on computer models, not actual data. Say WHAT? Surely, that can't be true. And yet it might be. If you were a scientist who staked your reputation on an inconvenient truth that turned out to be a huge fib, would you admit you were wrong? Or, like Gilda Radner's Emily Litella persona, would you simply smile and say, "Never mind."
If my facts are a little fuzzy, know this: I am not a scientist nor do I portray one on television. But neither is Al Gore who won a Nobel Prize for warning us in An Inconvenient Truth that polar bears were going to drown because they would have no ice floes to sit upon and that New Yorkers would be swimming to work. I never really warmed up to Al, so I am predisposed to believe the report that he has made a lot of money — and is poised to make more (greed is GOOD) — on remedies to prevent man-made climate change.
And there's the rub. I do believe the climate is ever-changing (Kansas is presently very cool in July, which I presume is why the "Global Warming" term went out of fashion), but I do not believe man has a lot to do with it. Too much extreme change occurred before man even appeared on the planet. And I'm not alone in that belief because Dr. Patrick Moore, Canadian scientist, co-founder and former director of Greenpeace, says, "There is no scientific proof that human emissions of carbon dioxide (CO2) are the dominant cause of the minor warming of the Earth’s atmosphere over the past 100 years." Moore left Greenpeace in 1986, claiming the other Greenpeace directors were not scientists, but political activists or environmental entrepreneurs who abandoned scientific objectivity in favor of political agendas. The directors, in turn, called Moore heretic and traitor. Sticks and stones.
A United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change report released last September indicates that global surface temperatures have not increased for the past 15 years, yet subsequent reports by that panel continued to forecast doom and destruction (but wait, were those reports written by open-minded scientists or environmental crusaders with an agenda?). Sometimes it is hard to tell. NASA reported that this year's maximum wintertime extent of Antarctic sea ice was the largest on record, even greater than the previous year's record amount. But before the ink was dry on that report, some were theorizing that while decreasing ice in the Arctic was meaningful, increasing ice in the Antarctic was meaningless in the context of global warming. Why is that? I'm confused.
Apparently, those who believe the earth is warming and that man is the main cause of it are not persuaded by such scientific data as stable surface temperatures and increasing Antarctic ice. I once read that scientists who subscribe to the Gore Theory of Global Warming base their belief on computer models, not actual data. Say WHAT? Surely, that can't be true. And yet it might be. If you were a scientist who staked your reputation on an inconvenient truth that turned out to be a huge fib, would you admit you were wrong? Or, like Gilda Radner's Emily Litella persona, would you simply smile and say, "Never mind."
It's hard for the rest of us to know who or what to believe. I have studied it all, from man-made climate change activists' articles ("OMG, the sea is rising!") to man-made climate change deniers' articles ("What are those idiot alarmists talking about?"). For now, I am skeptical of those who see everything as an indication of global warming. Hot summers? Global warming. Cool summers? Global warming. Warm winters? Global warming. Bitterly cold winters? Global warming. So I plan to take a calm wait-and-see attitude toward global warming, but if I start walking down our hill and find myself dog-paddling to the mailbox, all bets are off.
Our beautiful, but incredibly
stinky, flower
Beautiful, yes, but too stinky to keep.
Imagine my surprise to read in this morning’s newspaper an Associated Press story about a corpse flower set to bloom at Southwestern College in Winfield, Kansas. Biology professor and greenhouse supervisor Max Thompson is very excited about it and thinks it’s the first-ever to bloom in Kansas. Corpse flower (Latin name: Amorphophallus titanum which gives you an idea what it smells like) may indeed be the first of that Latin name to bloom in Kansas, but in 2008, our solarium hosted it’s younger brother’s beautiful, but unbelievably stinky, flowers.
I documented its blooming in a Jest for Grins column, published November 8, 2009, after we had torn up the family room looking for a dead mouse (make that a whole family of dead mice with a bunch of deceased cats thrown in). We finally located the stench in the adjoining solarium and realized it was coming from the lovely 12-inch-in-diameter blooms on Ray’s prized starfish cactus. Suppressing the gag reflex I couldn’t, he carted it outdoors. I never saw it again and assume it succumbed to our Kansas winter’s harsh weather . . . and . . . I . . . DON’T . . . CARE! I looked up "starfish cactus" on the Internet and found its Latin name (Stepelia gigantea) as well as the names corpse flower and carrion flower. What do you think the likelihood is of Ray paying good money for a flower bearing those two monikers? You got it: slim and none.
If you’d like to read, "Household odor spurs great mouse hunt," click HERE. You will read more about mice encounters than our stinky flower incident, but — if you keep reading — you’ll get there.
I documented its blooming in a Jest for Grins column, published November 8, 2009, after we had torn up the family room looking for a dead mouse (make that a whole family of dead mice with a bunch of deceased cats thrown in). We finally located the stench in the adjoining solarium and realized it was coming from the lovely 12-inch-in-diameter blooms on Ray’s prized starfish cactus. Suppressing the gag reflex I couldn’t, he carted it outdoors. I never saw it again and assume it succumbed to our Kansas winter’s harsh weather . . . and . . . I . . . DON’T . . . CARE! I looked up "starfish cactus" on the Internet and found its Latin name (Stepelia gigantea) as well as the names corpse flower and carrion flower. What do you think the likelihood is of Ray paying good money for a flower bearing those two monikers? You got it: slim and none.
If you’d like to read, "Household odor spurs great mouse hunt," click HERE. You will read more about mice encounters than our stinky flower incident, but — if you keep reading — you’ll get there.
Thank you to veterans
of all wars for
keeping America Free!
To those living veterans who served our country, whether under a flag with 48 stars or 50, THANK YOU!
To the Rangers and 83rd Chemical Mortar Battalion veterans who served with Dad through Africa, Sicily, Italy, France, Belgium, Germany and Austria, THANK YOU!
To those who served in later wars, Korea, Vietnam, Desert Storm, Operation Iraqi Freedom, and those who serve today, THANK YOU!
But how can we thank those who died under foreign skies and did not have the opportunity to grow old? There is only one way: Never forget their sacrifice. Remember always!
To the Rangers and 83rd Chemical Mortar Battalion veterans who served with Dad through Africa, Sicily, Italy, France, Belgium, Germany and Austria, THANK YOU!
To those who served in later wars, Korea, Vietnam, Desert Storm, Operation Iraqi Freedom, and those who serve today, THANK YOU!
But how can we thank those who died under foreign skies and did not have the opportunity to grow old? There is only one way: Never forget their sacrifice. Remember always!
My friend Franck Maurouard and his family, who live in Normandy, France, haven't forgotten. Each year on Memorial Day, they decorate the graves of two Rangers who died there on D-Day. If you'd like to read my article about Franck and his family, and a soldier from Kansas whose grave they decorate, click HERE.
Tech Support: Send in
the clowns!
They aren't all clowns, but too many are!
It has happened to all of us. Sooner or later we require technical support . . . for a webpage, satellite TV or even a brand new lawnmower that doesn’t work as advertised. And yet we hesitate. Why? First, because we fear we won’t be able to understand the heavily-accented English of someone in a far off country to whom the job has been outsourced. Second, if we can understand them, we often realize they are reading from a script and their answers — like those from your Congressman/woman — don’t relate at all to the reason you have contacted them. Third, and it has happened to me, you realize you are speaking to someone who is even more clueless about the problem than you are.
Late last night, after realizing the stunning (for me) number of visitors to my website had not updated for a couple of days, I contacted support. The automatic update has failed before and the person I called has been able to fix it. This time, I decided to use the 24/7 chat, figuring I could eliminate any problem with understanding speech if it were written. It started out great with Godson (I decided he is male, but I can’t be sure of that) who told me that in those two static days an additional 535 people had visited my site. He said he would manually change the visitor statistics and if I was happy with him, would I rate him at 9 or 10? I happily gave him a 10. BIG mistake. That was before I checked my statistics page and saw he had reduced my visitor count to a pittance and screwed up the graph as well.
Not to worry. I tried the chat again and was connected with Poornima (I decided she is female, but who knows; could be, could be not). I explained the problem and asked if she could help. "Sure," she replied confidently. But she couldn’t and the chat went downhill to the point that I realized, Hey, I freely admit I am clueless, but she is making me look like Einstein!
When she told me how many days were left in the month, I was reminded of the time I called for support from my satellite TV provider and, after being instructed several times to unplug the receiver, wait 30 seconds and plug it back in, the man (he was a man . . . or a woman with an uncommonly deep voice) suggested I wasn’t doing it correctly. I told him there were only so many ways one could unplug and plug in a receiver and to send me up to a higher level. You can read my newspaper column about that experience, if you wish, by clicking HERE.
When, in desperation, I phoned webpage support, I was connected to Zach, a nice guy who appeared a tad bored (it was after midnight my time), but who did send a report to "Tier Two." Later, I heard from Sudheer (Male? Female? Beats me!) at "Tier Two" who said the website was now updated . . . but it’s not and I fear it never will be. It was going to be a great month, too. Rats!
I am tenacious, if nothing else, so this morning I talked to support person Joseph. He sent it back to "Tier Two" marked priority. I haven’t heard anything yet, but I suspect if the problem is corrected, it will be because it has reached "Tier Two Thousand Twelve" or higher. Stay tuned . . . but don’t hold your breath. I'm not.
Late last night, after realizing the stunning (for me) number of visitors to my website had not updated for a couple of days, I contacted support. The automatic update has failed before and the person I called has been able to fix it. This time, I decided to use the 24/7 chat, figuring I could eliminate any problem with understanding speech if it were written. It started out great with Godson (I decided he is male, but I can’t be sure of that) who told me that in those two static days an additional 535 people had visited my site. He said he would manually change the visitor statistics and if I was happy with him, would I rate him at 9 or 10? I happily gave him a 10. BIG mistake. That was before I checked my statistics page and saw he had reduced my visitor count to a pittance and screwed up the graph as well.
Not to worry. I tried the chat again and was connected with Poornima (I decided she is female, but who knows; could be, could be not). I explained the problem and asked if she could help. "Sure," she replied confidently. But she couldn’t and the chat went downhill to the point that I realized, Hey, I freely admit I am clueless, but she is making me look like Einstein!
When she told me how many days were left in the month, I was reminded of the time I called for support from my satellite TV provider and, after being instructed several times to unplug the receiver, wait 30 seconds and plug it back in, the man (he was a man . . . or a woman with an uncommonly deep voice) suggested I wasn’t doing it correctly. I told him there were only so many ways one could unplug and plug in a receiver and to send me up to a higher level. You can read my newspaper column about that experience, if you wish, by clicking HERE.
When, in desperation, I phoned webpage support, I was connected to Zach, a nice guy who appeared a tad bored (it was after midnight my time), but who did send a report to "Tier Two." Later, I heard from Sudheer (Male? Female? Beats me!) at "Tier Two" who said the website was now updated . . . but it’s not and I fear it never will be. It was going to be a great month, too. Rats!
I am tenacious, if nothing else, so this morning I talked to support person Joseph. He sent it back to "Tier Two" marked priority. I haven’t heard anything yet, but I suspect if the problem is corrected, it will be because it has reached "Tier Two Thousand Twelve" or higher. Stay tuned . . . but don’t hold your breath. I'm not.
HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!
If you'd like to read
a Father's Day
column, Every father
is special to
his children, please
click HERE.
A link to another
Father's Day
column is found in
WW II Articles.
Hazmat suits can be scary!
When husband Ray and I walked in the park one recent beautiful morning, I expected to see barefoot children playing on swings and people walking their dogs. What I didn’t expect to see only a couple hundred feet away from said kids swinging and playing tag was a man digging in the ground while wearing what appeared to be a full hazmat suit. It gives one pause, doesn’t it?
Well, consider how I felt when — just a few years after moving into the new home we built on a hill in the country — I went to the large, carpeted double-closets in a downstairs bedroom of our walkout to get a pair of seldom-worn dressy sandals and discovered the shoebox had mold on it. Within seconds I was on the phone scheduling an appointment with the mold abatement folks. Meanwhile, Ray found the culprit . . . a rogue bunny rabbit who had made a nest in one end of the foundation drain that surrounded the lower outside walls of our basement, causing water to back up along the exterior of the closet wall.
I thought I was coping fairly well with the situation until the mold abatement people showed up in white suits and helmets with clear plastic face shields. I was standing in a hallway talking to them in their protective gear when I realized, Hey, I’m standing here in shorts and a T-shirt breathing moldy air. Heck, Ray and I are living here, eating here, sleeping here. And that was the moment when I stopped coping and started freaking!
Well, consider how I felt when — just a few years after moving into the new home we built on a hill in the country — I went to the large, carpeted double-closets in a downstairs bedroom of our walkout to get a pair of seldom-worn dressy sandals and discovered the shoebox had mold on it. Within seconds I was on the phone scheduling an appointment with the mold abatement folks. Meanwhile, Ray found the culprit . . . a rogue bunny rabbit who had made a nest in one end of the foundation drain that surrounded the lower outside walls of our basement, causing water to back up along the exterior of the closet wall.
I thought I was coping fairly well with the situation until the mold abatement people showed up in white suits and helmets with clear plastic face shields. I was standing in a hallway talking to them in their protective gear when I realized, Hey, I’m standing here in shorts and a T-shirt breathing moldy air. Heck, Ray and I are living here, eating here, sleeping here. And that was the moment when I stopped coping and started freaking!
The double-closets sans sheetrock and oak molding.
Ray contends that was also the moment when I decided it was perfectly reasonable to spend $20,000 to have all the furniture in that bedroom (including Ray’s computer) stored in a warehouse for a couple months, to rip up and replace bedroom carpet, tear out sheetrock and insulation, clean every carpet in the house, wipe down and purify every surface (including ceilings), run air purifiers 24/7 on both levels and double wash, dry-clean or throw out every item of clothing and shoes in the affected closets.
New carpet, closet doors, furniture back = $20,000.
The result was a home certified to be as mold-free as a house can get and a husband who regularly checks the foundation drain to be sure it’s free of rogue bunny rabbits.
As for what was going on in the park, I haven't a clue. I just hope the parents of those equally clueless kids haven't noticed them glowing in the dark!
As for what was going on in the park, I haven't a clue. I just hope the parents of those equally clueless kids haven't noticed them glowing in the dark!
My vintage dress
A short fat Elvis might have made me look thinner.
Some women visit a vintage clothing store when they want something old to wear. Not me! I go to my closet where I have a versatile summery dress in a small-flowered print trimmed in lace — complete with shawl — that I have worn on momentous occasions (weddings, dinner theaters and parents’ night at the kids’ schools).
(Click on photos for larger images.)
The other night I wore it to a charity fundraiser/dance where Elvis performed. No one complimented me on the dress, although one woman did stop me to ask if I had made it. "No, I said, "I bought it a long time ago, either 35 or 36 years. This dress has been worn to several weddings and outlasted more than a few of those marriages."
(Click on photos for larger images.)
The other night I wore it to a charity fundraiser/dance where Elvis performed. No one complimented me on the dress, although one woman did stop me to ask if I had made it. "No, I said, "I bought it a long time ago, either 35 or 36 years. This dress has been worn to several weddings and outlasted more than a few of those marriages."
The dress goes casual with bare feet.
The dress has traveled to Cancun a couple of times and to a great many states (including Hawaii, but not Alaska). It’s a game to me now to see exactly how long I can get by wearing it. But the time may almost be up because when — after spending several days looking in three cities for something to wear to the dance — I decided I liked
I'll bet my friends aren't still wearing their dresses.
www2.ljworld.com/news/2002/jul/14/these_clothes_are/the vintage dress best and tried it on. Grandson Gabe, studying for college final exams, looked up from his laptop long enough to say, "That’s pretty."
"Can you tell it’s almost 40 years old?" I asked.
"I don’t think you’ll like the answer," he replied.
I wore it anyway and now I have a picture taken with Elvis to add to my collection of photos where I’m wearing that dress. How cool is that?
After wearing it to a wedding several years ago, I wrote a newspaper column about my heirloom clothes. If you’d like to read it, click HERE.
"Can you tell it’s almost 40 years old?" I asked.
"I don’t think you’ll like the answer," he replied.
I wore it anyway and now I have a picture taken with Elvis to add to my collection of photos where I’m wearing that dress. How cool is that?
After wearing it to a wedding several years ago, I wrote a newspaper column about my heirloom clothes. If you’d like to read it, click HERE.
Mickey and Mandy:
Show Biz Royalty
Older, but still has that smile.
In a column I penned a decade or two ago, I wrote about Mickey Rooney and Mandy Patinkin, the latter of whom is scheduled to appear at KU’s Lied Center this coming season. More recently, I wrote on this website that Mickey Rooney is alive. Sadly, that is no longer true. The 93-year-old had been in showbiz 90 years when he died. The top box office star for many years in the ‘30s and ‘40s, Mickey is known to kids today only for his bad guy role inNight at the Museum with Ben Stiller and Dick Van Dyke.
Patinkin in Princess Bride.
Mandy Patinkin is much better known to America’s youth. He has starred in numerous movies, among them Princess Bride (my favorite of his movie roles), Yentl and Dick Tracy, TV shows (Chicago Hope,Criminal Minds, Homeland), as a guest on late night talk shows and on Broadway where his amazing voice won him a Tony for Evita as well as several Tony nominations for other shows.
However, in our family, Patinkin is best known for stiffing my kids. When he was a student at KU, he lost Sebastian, his much loved dog. He posted flyers which pictured the dog doing tricks and offered a $100 reward for his return.
As luck would have it, a few days later Sebastian showed up in our suburban yard. King, our Shepherd-Husky pooch, was getting the best of trespassing Sebastian when the kids intervened so — not only did they find Patinkin’s dog — they probably saved his sorry life. Butch and Spike (I know, I know, the boys’ nicknames sound like dogs’ names) were already counting the ways they’d spend the reward money as they dialed Patinkin’s number.
His roommate answered and said he’d come after the dog. Within 15 minutes, he’d departed with Sebastian after casually informing the kids, "Sorry, no reward. This is the second time he’s been lost. The reward was paid the first time he was found."
Years later, it occurred to me that if the roommate was a nefarious sort, he might have told Patinkin he paid the reward and collected $100 for his trouble. In that case, it would be the nameless roommate who stiffed my kids. Unless he’s a bigger star than Patinkin, that wouldn’t be worth writing about.
Note: If you want to read the column about all of my brushes with greatness, click HERE.
However, in our family, Patinkin is best known for stiffing my kids. When he was a student at KU, he lost Sebastian, his much loved dog. He posted flyers which pictured the dog doing tricks and offered a $100 reward for his return.
As luck would have it, a few days later Sebastian showed up in our suburban yard. King, our Shepherd-Husky pooch, was getting the best of trespassing Sebastian when the kids intervened so — not only did they find Patinkin’s dog — they probably saved his sorry life. Butch and Spike (I know, I know, the boys’ nicknames sound like dogs’ names) were already counting the ways they’d spend the reward money as they dialed Patinkin’s number.
His roommate answered and said he’d come after the dog. Within 15 minutes, he’d departed with Sebastian after casually informing the kids, "Sorry, no reward. This is the second time he’s been lost. The reward was paid the first time he was found."
Years later, it occurred to me that if the roommate was a nefarious sort, he might have told Patinkin he paid the reward and collected $100 for his trouble. In that case, it would be the nameless roommate who stiffed my kids. Unless he’s a bigger star than Patinkin, that wouldn’t be worth writing about.
Note: If you want to read the column about all of my brushes with greatness, click HERE.
A fun day with Dad
Zoe and some friends (and foes) from Star Wars.
Granddaughter Zoe walked with her dad in the Kansas City Corporate Challenge kick-off walk held in a big parking lot serving Arrowhead and Royals stadiums at the Truman Sports Complex. Greg, who walks in the challenge every year, said it was the first time any member of his family walked with him and added, "It was a good time!"
In addition to enjoying the day with her dad, Zoe was rewarded by having her photo taken with Star Wars characters. When Greg emailed the photo to Zoe’s siblings, Gabe and Sammi, Gabe — busy cramming for college finals — noticed that Zoe was holding Jango Fett’s Westar-34 pistol blaster and morosely responded. "My life feels so empty!"
Note: I’m told that Jango Fett is the guy in the blue helmet standing behind Zoe. (Click on photo for larger image.)
In addition to enjoying the day with her dad, Zoe was rewarded by having her photo taken with Star Wars characters. When Greg emailed the photo to Zoe’s siblings, Gabe and Sammi, Gabe — busy cramming for college finals — noticed that Zoe was holding Jango Fett’s Westar-34 pistol blaster and morosely responded. "My life feels so empty!"
Note: I’m told that Jango Fett is the guy in the blue helmet standing behind Zoe. (Click on photo for larger image.)
Hey, look! Turkeys!
Proud as a peacock!
We never know what we are going to see in our back yard when we glance out a window. Yesterday, Ray said, "Hey, look! Turkeys!" We’ve seen more of them — 29 in our yard once — but yesterday’s lovelorn Toms were putting on a show for the ladies among them. I was disappointed that none were dancing. Sometimes, when their tails are spread, they will dance in a circle around the hens.
He's tryin', but she's not buyin'.
Until we built our home on a hill in the country, I never realized wild turkeys had blue heads. I don’t know why God put that single dangling feather in the front chest of a male turkey, but the color and pattern of their feathers are an artist’s dream.
Ray says he is curious about how wild turkeys taste, but hasn’t tried to shoot one to find out. I am told that their drumsticks are very tough because, unlike their domesticated cousins, they use their legs a lot (probably running from guys with guns or the coyotes that roam the country).
Ray says he is curious about how wild turkeys taste, but hasn’t tried to shoot one to find out. I am told that their drumsticks are very tough because, unlike their domesticated cousins, they use their legs a lot (probably running from guys with guns or the coyotes that roam the country).
Now HE's playing hard to get!
I doubt we'll be tasting wild turkey any time soon, because Ray is not much of a hunter. If he were, he could shoot some of the pheasants, chuckers and quail that make it to our land from the hunting preserve just up the road from us. We call them "the prey that got away."
(Click on photos for larger images.)
(Click on photos for larger images.)
My new best friend, Regina
Something
have a new best friend and her name is Regina. I don’t know her last name but she works for TurboTax and is from Savannah, Georgia. She is the fourth TurboTax expert I have spoken with in recent days . . . and she is the one I believe will keep me out of Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary..
Since 2005, I have relied on TurboTax and, until this year, it has been slick as a whistle to import tax information. Oh, it imported dividends and interest this year, but once the information was imported, the amounts inexplicably doubled. If only those figures were real! I think I’d like to be stinking rich.
The first TurboTax expert I spoke to was a man who fixed it so everything wasn’t doubled. Unfortunately, I later noticed that there was one form, a Foreign Tax Credit form, where the amounts were still doubled. It wouldn’t allow me to manually change it (BAD TurboTax!) so I called the support number again and talked to a man whose English I couldn’t understand. It was a two-way street because he couldn’t understand me either. I’ll bet I spent 20 minutes trying to give him my email address. I use my Netscape address for things like that and our conversation still rings in my ears:
Me: Netscape. N-E-T-S-C-A-P-E.
Him: N-A
Me: No, E . . . N-E
Him: N-E-C
Me: No, No, T . . . N-E-T
I could go on, but I’m sure you get the picture. He was a nice man and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I finally said, "I’ll try again later. Thanks. ‘Bye."
The next TurboTax expert was a woman from Texas. She, too, was very nice and finally resorted to consulting the company's tax experts in Illinois to help with the problem, but it did me little good because, after I had invested almost two hours, I was disconnected.
Later, I tried again, hoping I’d get a native English speaker. Yippee! I got Regina, who said it would be a simple fix . . . and it was. All she had to do was find the correct amount entered twice, have me delete the untitled form containing duplicate information and miraculously the Foreign Tax Credit form was corrected.
Savannah is a big city and River Street is a busy one with tourists (think me) buying souvenirs for family and friends, but I hope I’ll run into her there one day. I’ll recognize her by her voice and, after our long conversation, she will recognize me the same way.
As for you, TurboTax, my new best friend Regina deserves a raise.
Since 2005, I have relied on TurboTax and, until this year, it has been slick as a whistle to import tax information. Oh, it imported dividends and interest this year, but once the information was imported, the amounts inexplicably doubled. If only those figures were real! I think I’d like to be stinking rich.
The first TurboTax expert I spoke to was a man who fixed it so everything wasn’t doubled. Unfortunately, I later noticed that there was one form, a Foreign Tax Credit form, where the amounts were still doubled. It wouldn’t allow me to manually change it (BAD TurboTax!) so I called the support number again and talked to a man whose English I couldn’t understand. It was a two-way street because he couldn’t understand me either. I’ll bet I spent 20 minutes trying to give him my email address. I use my Netscape address for things like that and our conversation still rings in my ears:
Me: Netscape. N-E-T-S-C-A-P-E.
Him: N-A
Me: No, E . . . N-E
Him: N-E-C
Me: No, No, T . . . N-E-T
I could go on, but I’m sure you get the picture. He was a nice man and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I finally said, "I’ll try again later. Thanks. ‘Bye."
The next TurboTax expert was a woman from Texas. She, too, was very nice and finally resorted to consulting the company's tax experts in Illinois to help with the problem, but it did me little good because, after I had invested almost two hours, I was disconnected.
Later, I tried again, hoping I’d get a native English speaker. Yippee! I got Regina, who said it would be a simple fix . . . and it was. All she had to do was find the correct amount entered twice, have me delete the untitled form containing duplicate information and miraculously the Foreign Tax Credit form was corrected.
Savannah is a big city and River Street is a busy one with tourists (think me) buying souvenirs for family and friends, but I hope I’ll run into her there one day. I’ll recognize her by her voice and, after our long conversation, she will recognize me the same way.
As for you, TurboTax, my new best friend Regina deserves a raise.
March Sadness . . . once again
March Madness has turned to March Sadness again for Jayhawk fans. I don’t even have a joke to make of it like I did when the University of Texas El Paso knocked us out in the NCAA tournament. At that time, I created cards for friends with a Jayhawk flat on his back, legs sticking up in the air. On the front of the card were the words How do you kill a Jayhawk? Inside the card read U TEP on it!
That was the year then Coach Roy Williams mentioned he felt like stepping in front of a bus or something similar. I sent him a card with a Jayhawk wearing a black armband and carrying a sign that said BIG 12 — or was it 8 then? — CHAMPS. The card was decorated with musical notes and the lyrics "No, no, they can’t take that away from you!"
Received a nice card in return from him saying that he realized they couldn’t take the conference championship away. I haven’t read about Coach Bill Self wanting to off himself because our team lost so I won’t be sending him a card. Nor will I create cards to send to friends because I can’t think of anything funny to say about our defeat by Stanford.
Once KU was out of it, we had only a couple more hours to cheer on Wichita State with their amazing 35-0 record prior to meeting Kentucky. We hoped they’d go all the way, but not so my sister Lesta. That’s because on a long ago day, Lesta, Dick, Ray and I were sitting in the KU stadium watching Wichita State defeat us in football as planes circled overhead filming the sold-out crowd for the movie The Day After (later they added ballistic missiles lifting off in the background).
An odious Shocker fan sat beside Ray. Now I expect fans to cheer for their team, but this guy insisted on yelling insults at the Jayhawk players. When he finally yelled, "KU stinks," Ray turned to him and said cooly, "Something stinks here but it’s not KU!" I quickly persuaded Lesta to change places with Ray, but it didn’t help because she got into it with the guy. All teams have bad fans like him, but Lesta isn’t forgetting or forgiving his insults.
There’s always hope that next year will bring us March Gladness! Go Hawks 2015!
That was the year then Coach Roy Williams mentioned he felt like stepping in front of a bus or something similar. I sent him a card with a Jayhawk wearing a black armband and carrying a sign that said BIG 12 — or was it 8 then? — CHAMPS. The card was decorated with musical notes and the lyrics "No, no, they can’t take that away from you!"
Received a nice card in return from him saying that he realized they couldn’t take the conference championship away. I haven’t read about Coach Bill Self wanting to off himself because our team lost so I won’t be sending him a card. Nor will I create cards to send to friends because I can’t think of anything funny to say about our defeat by Stanford.
Once KU was out of it, we had only a couple more hours to cheer on Wichita State with their amazing 35-0 record prior to meeting Kentucky. We hoped they’d go all the way, but not so my sister Lesta. That’s because on a long ago day, Lesta, Dick, Ray and I were sitting in the KU stadium watching Wichita State defeat us in football as planes circled overhead filming the sold-out crowd for the movie The Day After (later they added ballistic missiles lifting off in the background).
An odious Shocker fan sat beside Ray. Now I expect fans to cheer for their team, but this guy insisted on yelling insults at the Jayhawk players. When he finally yelled, "KU stinks," Ray turned to him and said cooly, "Something stinks here but it’s not KU!" I quickly persuaded Lesta to change places with Ray, but it didn’t help because she got into it with the guy. All teams have bad fans like him, but Lesta isn’t forgetting or forgiving his insults.
There’s always hope that next year will bring us March Gladness! Go Hawks 2015!
Smart of us to have
an IT Genius
Butch grew up to be our IT genius.
Back in the days of yore when I was having babies, the conventional wisdom was that you should have a girl first so you’d have a babysitter for subsequent children. Sexist I know, but that was before the feminist movement, as we know it today, was in vogue.
Today’s wisdom should tell us to first have a baby who’ll grow up to be an IT genius. Even without knowing I’d need one, that’s what I did. Ray, Jr. (aka Butch) has saved my hi-tech bacon on numerous occasions, but never more so than yesterday when I couldn’t find my 2012 Turbo Tax file. The desktop showed 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010 and 2011 tax files, but 2012 was gone, apparently the victim — like Word 2010 — of an earlier computer crash which fried my hard drive.
It took two internal hard drives (the current one and the one that was toast), an Ubuntu Linux disc, one external hard drive and a flash drive to find and restore the lost file. Something about taking a snapshot of Windows 32 from a previous backup, locating orphan files . . . hey, I don’t have to know how it was done, just that he did it and I can stop sweating bullets thinking I’d have to redo our 2012 taxes before doing our 2013 taxes.
Thanks to our IT Genius, 2013 Turbo Tax was able to import important info like depreciation and carry-overs from our 2012 taxes, saving me a ton of time and trouble. Is it any wonder I love that kid?
Today’s wisdom should tell us to first have a baby who’ll grow up to be an IT genius. Even without knowing I’d need one, that’s what I did. Ray, Jr. (aka Butch) has saved my hi-tech bacon on numerous occasions, but never more so than yesterday when I couldn’t find my 2012 Turbo Tax file. The desktop showed 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010 and 2011 tax files, but 2012 was gone, apparently the victim — like Word 2010 — of an earlier computer crash which fried my hard drive.
It took two internal hard drives (the current one and the one that was toast), an Ubuntu Linux disc, one external hard drive and a flash drive to find and restore the lost file. Something about taking a snapshot of Windows 32 from a previous backup, locating orphan files . . . hey, I don’t have to know how it was done, just that he did it and I can stop sweating bullets thinking I’d have to redo our 2012 taxes before doing our 2013 taxes.
Thanks to our IT Genius, 2013 Turbo Tax was able to import important info like depreciation and carry-overs from our 2012 taxes, saving me a ton of time and trouble. Is it any wonder I love that kid?
The downside of love
Wouldn’t it be great if life was just one big grin after another? Sadly, it is not. My sister Lesta called yesterday morning to give us the news we had expected, but dreaded: "We lost Dick at 6:15."
Dick waged a valiant battle, but Big C was a foe he could not best. Now he is soaring with the eagles or so we like to think. Especially our son Butch who, while today driving to work over a long bridge spanning Lake Perry, noticed an eagle flying over the water beside him, keeping pace the entire length of the bridge. Could it have been Dick trying out his new wings?
Many tears have been shed in California and Alabama and Kansas, but more and more my thoughts are turning to the many funny moments when we were with Lesta and Dick. Like the time Dick had to take a business trip in the middle of a visit to Kansas. Lesta and I transported him to the airport in Kansas City and picked him up. But when he came out of the gates, I was standing with the limo drivers, each of whom held a card with their passenger’s name neatly printed. My card, scrawled in pencil, read DICKIE KLINE.
Or the time in Cancun when Hurricane Hugo was in the offing and we were caught in a heavy downpour waiting for the aquaboat. Ray and Dick removed their T-shirts and wrung them out only to have to do that again and again. Our most recent trip with them was a cruise to Alaska. Our mini-suite was luxurious but the potty smelled even after I had watched a crew member clean it. Finally, I asked Lesta, "Does your toilet smell?" When she said no, Dick explained, "That’s because I sprayed it with Febreeze."
Dick waged a valiant battle, but Big C was a foe he could not best. Now he is soaring with the eagles or so we like to think. Especially our son Butch who, while today driving to work over a long bridge spanning Lake Perry, noticed an eagle flying over the water beside him, keeping pace the entire length of the bridge. Could it have been Dick trying out his new wings?
Many tears have been shed in California and Alabama and Kansas, but more and more my thoughts are turning to the many funny moments when we were with Lesta and Dick. Like the time Dick had to take a business trip in the middle of a visit to Kansas. Lesta and I transported him to the airport in Kansas City and picked him up. But when he came out of the gates, I was standing with the limo drivers, each of whom held a card with their passenger’s name neatly printed. My card, scrawled in pencil, read DICKIE KLINE.
Or the time in Cancun when Hurricane Hugo was in the offing and we were caught in a heavy downpour waiting for the aquaboat. Ray and Dick removed their T-shirts and wrung them out only to have to do that again and again. Our most recent trip with them was a cruise to Alaska. Our mini-suite was luxurious but the potty smelled even after I had watched a crew member clean it. Finally, I asked Lesta, "Does your toilet smell?" When she said no, Dick explained, "That’s because I sprayed it with Febreeze."
Dick wore a white hat.
Dick was a good guy. Ray always said he wished Dick and Vicki’s husband Steve had been his brothers instead of brothers-in-law. Both are gone now.
But not really gone, not as long as we remember and love them. And that will be forever.
But not really gone, not as long as we remember and love them. And that will be forever.
A Short Jog Over the Hill
Because you read all that mushy Valentine's Day stuff without complaining, I figure I owe you something. Here's one of my favorite stories from my book entitled Life is more fun when you live it . . . Jest for Grins. If you want to read "A Short Jog Over the Hill," please click HERE.
Still THE ONE . . .
after all these years
Cute at 8.
Had I met Ray in third grade when this photo was taken, I’m sure I would have known then that he was THE ONE. But, as third graders, he rode his horse to a country school while I walked to a town school, so I had to wait six years to meet him in Miss Black’s ninth grade English class where he sat in the desk right in front of me.
Not every 14-year-old girl falls in love at first sight with a boy whom she decides she will one day marry. Do you remember the stories of school boys in days past dunking braids of the girls sitting in front of them in ink wells to show their interest? Well, although Ray sat in front of me, he didn’t have braids and ink wells were long gone, so I improvised. He contends it was my yellow No. 2 pencil poking him in the back that sealed the deal for him.
Not every 14-year-old girl falls in love at first sight with a boy whom she decides she will one day marry. Do you remember the stories of school boys in days past dunking braids of the girls sitting in front of them in ink wells to show their interest? Well, although Ray sat in front of me, he didn’t have braids and ink wells were long gone, so I improvised. He contends it was my yellow No. 2 pencil poking him in the back that sealed the deal for him.
Even cuter at 18.
We dated all through high school (except when we were broken-up which we learned wasn’t all that hard to do despite Neil Sedaka singing that it was). One day my Spanish teacher asked me to come in after school. I thought I was in trouble but she, a maiden lady approaching retirement, — who had once taught high school English to my father in Sabetha, Kansas — simply wanted to give me some advice: "You shouldn’t be dating that farm boy." It was advice well-meant, but I am so glad I didn’t follow it.
Still cute!
Two sons and four grandchildren later . . . he’s still THE ONE!
Can you blame me?
Didn't think so!
Happy Valentine's Day!
(Click on photos for larger images.)
Our bird dependents know
where to go when it snows!
When birdbaths are frozen, snow quenches thirst.
Seven inches of snow already and three more inches expected. Our birds have been hitting the feeders as if their lives depended on it . . . and actually they do.
But the bluebird in the photo isn't interested in the feeders. He was drinking snow. I think bluebirds hang around here because of the little blue berries on the cedar trees which appear to be to bluebirds like catnip is to cats. (Click on photos for larger images.)
But the bluebird in the photo isn't interested in the feeders. He was drinking snow. I think bluebirds hang around here because of the little blue berries on the cedar trees which appear to be to bluebirds like catnip is to cats. (Click on photos for larger images.)
So many birds, it's hard to keep the feeder full.
The bluebirds may shun the feeders, but other birds do not. When the snow is a near whiteout as it was today, it is hard to see their colorful feathers . . . except, of course, for the cardinals.
The suet feeder was empty today because a rogue raccoon ate the entire cake last night, but, as I have frequently told Ray, coons have to eat, too. I like all of our country critters, even the possums. Ray once took a video of deer (eight bucks and six does) that frolicked through our back yard. When I learn to post video files, I'll show them to you.
For now, we're staying warm and cozy indoors and I hope you are, too!
The suet feeder was empty today because a rogue raccoon ate the entire cake last night, but, as I have frequently told Ray, coons have to eat, too. I like all of our country critters, even the possums. Ray once took a video of deer (eight bucks and six does) that frolicked through our back yard. When I learn to post video files, I'll show them to you.
For now, we're staying warm and cozy indoors and I hope you are, too!
Mickey Rooney is ALIVE!
(I know because I Googled it.)
Old photo of Great-uncle Lew with Mickey Rooney.
I've been thinking a lot about Mickey Rooney lately. If you are over 40, you're probably thinking WHY? If you're under 40, you're likely wondering WHO?
I think my Mickey Rooney musings started around Christmastime when Ray and I became tired of watching the same holiday movies over and over. We remembered a movie — I think it was "It came upon a Midnight Clear" — in which he starred. Ted Turner must not own the rights to it (or perhaps he just doesn't like Mickey Rooney) because I haven't seen that flick in years.
I never met Mickey (although Ray and I did meet his mother whose name was Nell Pankey when, while visiting California, Uncle Lew took us to her home). Uncle Lew and Mickey were such good friends that Uncle Lew and his wife accompanied Mickey to Omaha when he was making the movie "Boys Town" with Spencer Tracy. His mom was as close as I got to Mickey, but that was OK because she was a real hoot!
However, the hero of this posting isn't Mickey or his mom, but my Great Uncle Lewis Sly Moriarty. Everyone should have an uncle like him even though most of what I know is family legend and occurred before my time. One story is that -- during the filming of "Boys Town" -- Uncle Lew lost $80,000 gambling in Omaha. Could be. He was a gambler until the end of his days. But my favorite Uncle Lew story was of the time he visited his family in Sabetha and drove his Dusenberg down the short main street at 100 mph. Arrested later (he wasn't chased and caught), the judge fined him a then astronomical $50 . . . at which point Uncle Lew threw down a $100 bill and said, "Keep the change. I may want to do it again."
Mickey would be 93 now. I wonder if his memory is good enough to recall Uncle Lew and the adventures they shared. Sure hope so.
I think my Mickey Rooney musings started around Christmastime when Ray and I became tired of watching the same holiday movies over and over. We remembered a movie — I think it was "It came upon a Midnight Clear" — in which he starred. Ted Turner must not own the rights to it (or perhaps he just doesn't like Mickey Rooney) because I haven't seen that flick in years.
I never met Mickey (although Ray and I did meet his mother whose name was Nell Pankey when, while visiting California, Uncle Lew took us to her home). Uncle Lew and Mickey were such good friends that Uncle Lew and his wife accompanied Mickey to Omaha when he was making the movie "Boys Town" with Spencer Tracy. His mom was as close as I got to Mickey, but that was OK because she was a real hoot!
However, the hero of this posting isn't Mickey or his mom, but my Great Uncle Lewis Sly Moriarty. Everyone should have an uncle like him even though most of what I know is family legend and occurred before my time. One story is that -- during the filming of "Boys Town" -- Uncle Lew lost $80,000 gambling in Omaha. Could be. He was a gambler until the end of his days. But my favorite Uncle Lew story was of the time he visited his family in Sabetha and drove his Dusenberg down the short main street at 100 mph. Arrested later (he wasn't chased and caught), the judge fined him a then astronomical $50 . . . at which point Uncle Lew threw down a $100 bill and said, "Keep the change. I may want to do it again."
Mickey would be 93 now. I wonder if his memory is good enough to recall Uncle Lew and the adventures they shared. Sure hope so.
And you are?
I save nametags from interesting and fun experiences.
"And you are?" the man asked as he scanned my left bosom for a nonexistent name tag.
I hate those see-and-be-seen events, don’t you? — the ones where people close enough to read your name tag can pretend they have known who you are all along. For one thing, as my friend Jean noticed, "You can always tell social climbers at such events because, while they are talking to you, they’re always scanning the door to see if someone more important is coming in."
I once tried having a meaningful conversation at one such affair, but gave it up after the man who had initially engaged me in conversation appeared to lose attention as his eyes swept the room. "Am I boring you?" I finally asked. "Yes, yes," he replied distractedly, smiling all the while and completely unaware of the insult he’d just handed me.
So now I usually just hit the hors d’oeurve table and find a quiet corner where I can scarf down a plate of catered cuisine while avoiding conversation altogether. At one gathering, however, I found my corner occupied by another woman who had the same idea. Sensing a kindred spirit, I introduced myself and said, "I really hate these functions where everyone is trying to figure out if I’m important enough for them to try to impress me."
"Tell me about it!" she exclaimed. "Someone just introduced me to my husband!"
Her name was Sandra and she had the misfortune to be married to a locally popular District Attorney, known by everyone in the room. Like my late mother, who was the wife of a state legislator, Sandra preferred to avoid the limelight by staying at home with her children, a choice that made her unimportant and anonymous in that particular crowd. Their loss because Sandra and I had a great time. Well, yeah, a lot of time was spent picking out and making fun of the phoniest among us. It was the best time I ever had at one of those functions.
I haven’t attended a see-and-be-seen event in a long, long time and I’m betting Sandra hasn’t either.
I hate those see-and-be-seen events, don’t you? — the ones where people close enough to read your name tag can pretend they have known who you are all along. For one thing, as my friend Jean noticed, "You can always tell social climbers at such events because, while they are talking to you, they’re always scanning the door to see if someone more important is coming in."
I once tried having a meaningful conversation at one such affair, but gave it up after the man who had initially engaged me in conversation appeared to lose attention as his eyes swept the room. "Am I boring you?" I finally asked. "Yes, yes," he replied distractedly, smiling all the while and completely unaware of the insult he’d just handed me.
So now I usually just hit the hors d’oeurve table and find a quiet corner where I can scarf down a plate of catered cuisine while avoiding conversation altogether. At one gathering, however, I found my corner occupied by another woman who had the same idea. Sensing a kindred spirit, I introduced myself and said, "I really hate these functions where everyone is trying to figure out if I’m important enough for them to try to impress me."
"Tell me about it!" she exclaimed. "Someone just introduced me to my husband!"
Her name was Sandra and she had the misfortune to be married to a locally popular District Attorney, known by everyone in the room. Like my late mother, who was the wife of a state legislator, Sandra preferred to avoid the limelight by staying at home with her children, a choice that made her unimportant and anonymous in that particular crowd. Their loss because Sandra and I had a great time. Well, yeah, a lot of time was spent picking out and making fun of the phoniest among us. It was the best time I ever had at one of those functions.
I haven’t attended a see-and-be-seen event in a long, long time and I’m betting Sandra hasn’t either.
How cold is it?
This winter sunset is pretty, but very, very cold.
Not as cold as it was the other day when the high was two degrees and the low was minus ten! Those aren't wind chills, but the actual air temperatures. Brrrrrr!
On cold, snowy days, our avian dependents can empty the feeders in short order as shown by the photo below. Often birds of many colors occupy every perch on the feeder, while their bird buddies line up on the deck railing waiting their turn.
On cold, snowy days, our avian dependents can empty the feeders in short order as shown by the photo below. Often birds of many colors occupy every perch on the feeder, while their bird buddies line up on the deck railing waiting their turn.
It's unusual to see so many cardinals sharing the feeder.
Cardinals are supposed to be territorial, or so I've been told. But you wouldn't know it by this photo. Cardinals love black oil sunflower seeds, but Woody, our yellow-bellied woodpecker prefers the suet cake in cold weather as does what Ray calls "the upside- down bird" which, according to the bird guide, is a nuthatch. Ray's description, however, is accurate because the only thing that silly bird does right-side-up is fly.
Their fluffed-out feathers show the birds think it's as cold as I do. I think we should all fly south for the winter!
Their fluffed-out feathers show the birds think it's as cold as I do. I think we should all fly south for the winter!
A fool and her money . . .
Magic trick: turn $35 into $1 and a free ticket.
Once a year, at Christmas time, I buy lottery tickets for Ray's stocking. I started out buying $10 worth, then jumped to $20 in subsequent years. This year, I went nuts and bought ten $1 tickets, ten $2 tickets and one $5 ticket because it had Santa Claus on it and provided 30 options to win. If you've done the math, you know that is $35 dollars worth of lottery tickets.
What a waste of my money . . . and Ray's scratching time. Except for the Santa ticket, I relied on the woman in the gas station to pick the type of tickets (there were many choices except for dollar tickets on which there had evidently been a run by women eager to part with their money). The clerk said, "I'll give you crossword tickets for the $2 tickets because they're fun to play."
Sounded good to me because Ray works the newspaper's crossword puzzles before even reading the news and sports sections. Turns out, crossword lottery tickets are much more difficult and time-consuming to play and I wouldn't recommend anyone buying them even though it is claimed that you can win multiple times up to $20,000. Fat chance!
Out of $35 worth of tickets, Ray won one free ticket and one lousy dollar. He didn't even do as well as sister Vicki, for whom we purchased ten $1 lottery tickets. She won $2 and I thought that was a bad return on our money until Ray's scratching proved nearly fruitless. As for Kansas lottery officials? They laughed all the way to the bank.
What a waste of my money . . . and Ray's scratching time. Except for the Santa ticket, I relied on the woman in the gas station to pick the type of tickets (there were many choices except for dollar tickets on which there had evidently been a run by women eager to part with their money). The clerk said, "I'll give you crossword tickets for the $2 tickets because they're fun to play."
Sounded good to me because Ray works the newspaper's crossword puzzles before even reading the news and sports sections. Turns out, crossword lottery tickets are much more difficult and time-consuming to play and I wouldn't recommend anyone buying them even though it is claimed that you can win multiple times up to $20,000. Fat chance!
Out of $35 worth of tickets, Ray won one free ticket and one lousy dollar. He didn't even do as well as sister Vicki, for whom we purchased ten $1 lottery tickets. She won $2 and I thought that was a bad return on our money until Ray's scratching proved nearly fruitless. As for Kansas lottery officials? They laughed all the way to the bank.
Neither a tenant nor
a landlord be
This 12-foot evergreen was run over by a city bus.
It was my idea to buy the new little rental duplex we owned for over a decade. For the most part, it was a good investment although owning any property brings challenges— like the time the driver of a city bus lost control turning the corner, ran up into our duplex's yard and knocked over a 12-foot tall evergreen tree (a lovely scotch pine, if I remember correctly).
Recently, our city commissioners have been considering expanding the rental inspection program and I felt that the discussion was ignoring the owners of rental property from whom the city hopes to collect a fee for inspection. Though no longer a landlord, I haven't forgotten the perils of being one, so I wrote an op-ed piece for the newspaper describing the final straw that caused us to divest ourselves of the duplex and vow to never own another rental property. If you'd like to read about it, click here.
Recently, our city commissioners have been considering expanding the rental inspection program and I felt that the discussion was ignoring the owners of rental property from whom the city hopes to collect a fee for inspection. Though no longer a landlord, I haven't forgotten the perils of being one, so I wrote an op-ed piece for the newspaper describing the final straw that caused us to divest ourselves of the duplex and vow to never own another rental property. If you'd like to read about it, click here.
Never say never!
I freely admit I am needle nutty.
Today, I did something I said I would never, never, never do. When my friend Cyrene said she planned to get a cortisone shot in her ankle before her cruise to Hawaii, I reaffirmed, "That’s something I will neverdo." The fact is, if I had a book for every time I have been offered a cortisone shot, I could open a library. You might say I am prone to injury.
In the last six months, I have thrice twisted my right knee which I initially injured years ago in Yellowstone when I tripped while running back from the car with my camera to take a photo of a pretty blue boiling thermal pool. I shredded my palms, skinned my face, scratched my sunglasses and tore my meniscus in addition to permanently scarring my knee. Those scars are just a couple of inches from the scars resulting from trying to ride my son’s motorcycle in our front yard, doing a wheelie and — while crawling out from under the cycle — falling on the still-spinning tire.
In the last six months, I have thrice twisted my right knee which I initially injured years ago in Yellowstone when I tripped while running back from the car with my camera to take a photo of a pretty blue boiling thermal pool. I shredded my palms, skinned my face, scratched my sunglasses and tore my meniscus in addition to permanently scarring my knee. Those scars are just a couple of inches from the scars resulting from trying to ride my son’s motorcycle in our front yard, doing a wheelie and — while crawling out from under the cycle — falling on the still-spinning tire.
You could see the scars better were I still tanning.
Most of my injuries do not result in scars. Dropping a ten-pound weight on my bare foot hurt a lot, but didn’t scar. I injured my Achilles in Costco when I (wearing Crocs) stopped quickly and, behind me, Ray (wearing sharp-toed cowboy boots) did not, giving me a solid kick in the heel. Almost all my injuries resulted in cortisone shot offers which I declined.
However, I injured my knee again (November, 2013) even though I was wearing a knee brace as I rehabbed my latest (September, 2013) knee sprain from stepping in a hole at Central City, CO, which occurred as I was almost recovered from twisting my knee (April, 2013) by slipping on the wet floor of our jetted tub. I was merely walking through Costco — wait, isn’t that where I received my Achilles injury? — when I stepped wrong and suffered a pain that took my breath away. (Ray wants you to know he had very little culpability the first time and absolutely none this time.)
By the time we exited the store, I could no longer put weight on my right knee. Ray left me sitting at the door, retrieved our car and helped me hop to the front seat. At home, he loaded me into my late mother’s wheelchair and pushed me into the house. After icing my leg, I tried out my late mother-in-law’s walker and found I could walk if I put most of my weight on the walker and just used the heel of my right foot to balance. I called Dr. Sean, world’s greatest orthopedic diagnostic physician, who worked me into his busy schedule. He again mentioned a cortisone shot. I said to Ray, "You’d do it, wouldn’t you?"
"Darn right!" he replied. So I did, but only after asking a multitude of questions, two of which were "Will I cry?" and "Will I wet my pants?"
"Maybe we should get her a chuck," he said to Ray. And that is one of the reasons he is the only doctor I would allow to give me a cortisone shot. He used an ultrasound to target the injection site and rubbed a cooling gel on my knee to reduce the pain of the shot. Guess what? I won’t say it didn’t hurt, but it didn’t hurt much. I felt a sting and bit of pressure and it was done (no crying, no wetting). I used the walker to arrive at the desk where I scheduled a follow-up appointment after my MRI next Thursday, and then — because there was also a numbing agent in the cortisone shot — I was able to walk on my own two feet to the car. Amazing!
Dr. Sean says that the cortisone shot doesn’t work for everyone, but I most sincerely hope it works for me. It is late at night as I write this and my knee is beginning to hurt as the numbing agent wears off. He said it may take a day or two for the cortisone to fully kick in and to know if it will work. If I am really lucky, I may be pain free for up to three months.
So don’t be scared if you need a cortisone shot. And if you want to be certain it doesn’t hurt, contact me and I’ll give you Dr. Sean’s number.
However, I injured my knee again (November, 2013) even though I was wearing a knee brace as I rehabbed my latest (September, 2013) knee sprain from stepping in a hole at Central City, CO, which occurred as I was almost recovered from twisting my knee (April, 2013) by slipping on the wet floor of our jetted tub. I was merely walking through Costco — wait, isn’t that where I received my Achilles injury? — when I stepped wrong and suffered a pain that took my breath away. (Ray wants you to know he had very little culpability the first time and absolutely none this time.)
By the time we exited the store, I could no longer put weight on my right knee. Ray left me sitting at the door, retrieved our car and helped me hop to the front seat. At home, he loaded me into my late mother’s wheelchair and pushed me into the house. After icing my leg, I tried out my late mother-in-law’s walker and found I could walk if I put most of my weight on the walker and just used the heel of my right foot to balance. I called Dr. Sean, world’s greatest orthopedic diagnostic physician, who worked me into his busy schedule. He again mentioned a cortisone shot. I said to Ray, "You’d do it, wouldn’t you?"
"Darn right!" he replied. So I did, but only after asking a multitude of questions, two of which were "Will I cry?" and "Will I wet my pants?"
"Maybe we should get her a chuck," he said to Ray. And that is one of the reasons he is the only doctor I would allow to give me a cortisone shot. He used an ultrasound to target the injection site and rubbed a cooling gel on my knee to reduce the pain of the shot. Guess what? I won’t say it didn’t hurt, but it didn’t hurt much. I felt a sting and bit of pressure and it was done (no crying, no wetting). I used the walker to arrive at the desk where I scheduled a follow-up appointment after my MRI next Thursday, and then — because there was also a numbing agent in the cortisone shot — I was able to walk on my own two feet to the car. Amazing!
Dr. Sean says that the cortisone shot doesn’t work for everyone, but I most sincerely hope it works for me. It is late at night as I write this and my knee is beginning to hurt as the numbing agent wears off. He said it may take a day or two for the cortisone to fully kick in and to know if it will work. If I am really lucky, I may be pain free for up to three months.
So don’t be scared if you need a cortisone shot. And if you want to be certain it doesn’t hurt, contact me and I’ll give you Dr. Sean’s number.
A shared nest is best
One of my few cross-stitch efforts.
Ray and I never suffered from "empty nest syndrome." I remember once reading about a woman who, when her last daughter married, cried and cried, moaning, "I'm all alone. What am I going to do?" Her husband inquired, "Have you thought about getting married?"
We love our boys dearly and enjoyed every stage — well, almost every stage — they passed through on their journey to adulthood. But when it was time for them to marry and move on, we were happy for them and eagerly awaited the grandchildren who would be in our future.
But when grandson Gabe moved in with us to finish his last two years of college at the University of Kansas, we wondered how it would work. I'm pretty sure he did, too. One year and counting, so far, so good. Part of the reason the arrangement has been successful, I believe, is because the house we designed on a napkin at Perkin's 18 years ago and built on a hill outside of town offers plenty of privacy for everyone. We all need some alone time . . . but, wait, maybe that's just me.
We love our boys dearly and enjoyed every stage — well, almost every stage — they passed through on their journey to adulthood. But when it was time for them to marry and move on, we were happy for them and eagerly awaited the grandchildren who would be in our future.
But when grandson Gabe moved in with us to finish his last two years of college at the University of Kansas, we wondered how it would work. I'm pretty sure he did, too. One year and counting, so far, so good. Part of the reason the arrangement has been successful, I believe, is because the house we designed on a napkin at Perkin's 18 years ago and built on a hill outside of town offers plenty of privacy for everyone. We all need some alone time . . . but, wait, maybe that's just me.
Gabe clowns around with a Jayhawks on Parade sculpture.
I wrote about our no longer empty nest for the newspaper I serve as editor. If you'd like to read it, please click HERE.
Our luck while traveling
hasn't always been bad
tunnel similar to the one that collapsed.
Well, sure, our timing was off when we arrived at Estes Park the afternoon before the flood, but our timing was great driving up Highway 36 while it was still there.
That experience made me think of the many times we avoided disaster by a day. On one trip down Highway 67 to Cripple Creek, Colorado, we were forced onto a hastily constructed dirt road detour around a tunnel that had collapsed on a car the day before.If I recall correctly, that tunnel was very primitive, constructed of dirt and wooden supports. Thankfully, the driver of the car wasn't injured and, even more thankfully, the tunnel didn't collapse on us.
That experience made me think of the many times we avoided disaster by a day. On one trip down Highway 67 to Cripple Creek, Colorado, we were forced onto a hastily constructed dirt road detour around a tunnel that had collapsed on a car the day before.If I recall correctly, that tunnel was very primitive, constructed of dirt and wooden supports. Thankfully, the driver of the car wasn't injured and, even more thankfully, the tunnel didn't collapse on us.
These water taxis are so much fun to ride.
One great example of our good luck in avoiding catastrophe occurred the day before we arrived in Laughlin, Nevada. The Colorado River separates Laughlin's casinos from the state of Arizona and some enterprising company set up pontoon boats which zigzagged gamblers from casino to casino by transporting them across the swiftly-flowing river to the Arizona side, then allowing them to board another pontoon boat to the Laughlin casino of their choice. We eagerly embraced this fun mode of transportation even after learning that, the previous day, a pontoon dumped its passengers into the river, It was actually the fault of the passengers. The boat's motor quit a few yards from the Arizona side and it started to drift back toward the dock. Seeing the dock approaching, all of the passengers panicked and rushed to the far side of the boat, flipping it. Fortunately, all were rescued and one witness told me the passengers were lined up at lawyers' offices before their wallets were dry.
It wasn't a close call for us — or any call at all — but I remember the tragic November 1980 fire at MGM Grand in Las Vegas because the summer before the fire, we stayed at a nice little hotel just south of the MGM. I was in the pool floating on my back and looking up at the top floor of the MGM when I told Ray, "I sure wouldn't want to be up there in case of a fire."
In the early 90s, Ray and I stayed at Bally’s, the hotel that purchased the MGM Grand after it was rebuilt. That stay was memorable because, first, we were mistaken for high rollers and given a room with a huge round bed, a big sunken tub, two bathrooms (one of which contained a bidet and both of which had telephones) and — I kid you not — a walk-in closet. Second, Hollywood was there making "Honeymoon in Vegas," complete with James Caan, Nicholas Cage, Sarah Jessica Parker and about a million Elvis impersonators, including the "Flying Elvi" who parachuted out of a plane in the wee hours onto a target painted in the middle of the parking lot. And who was there videotaping their feat? We were.
We still have the video and it will be good luck for us if the 21-year-old tape hasn’t turned to dust.
It wasn't a close call for us — or any call at all — but I remember the tragic November 1980 fire at MGM Grand in Las Vegas because the summer before the fire, we stayed at a nice little hotel just south of the MGM. I was in the pool floating on my back and looking up at the top floor of the MGM when I told Ray, "I sure wouldn't want to be up there in case of a fire."
In the early 90s, Ray and I stayed at Bally’s, the hotel that purchased the MGM Grand after it was rebuilt. That stay was memorable because, first, we were mistaken for high rollers and given a room with a huge round bed, a big sunken tub, two bathrooms (one of which contained a bidet and both of which had telephones) and — I kid you not — a walk-in closet. Second, Hollywood was there making "Honeymoon in Vegas," complete with James Caan, Nicholas Cage, Sarah Jessica Parker and about a million Elvis impersonators, including the "Flying Elvi" who parachuted out of a plane in the wee hours onto a target painted in the middle of the parking lot. And who was there videotaping their feat? We were.
We still have the video and it will be good luck for us if the 21-year-old tape hasn’t turned to dust.
Evacuation from Estes Park
The Big Thompson began flooding on Thursday.
Being part of an emergency evacuation was not a good way to end our annual trip to Estes Park. But Ray and I realize that what was merely an inconvenience to us was tragic for the many Colorado residents who lost their jobs, businesses, homes and, in some cases, lives.
We spent three nights in Idaho Springs before driving to Estes Park on Wednesday, September 11. Except for a light rain, everything appeared normal as we passed Longmont and Lyons and drove up Highway 36 to Estes. I would have noticed if the streams were overly full because I take seriously the signs I have seen in mountainous areas that say CLIMB TO SAFETY IN CASE OF FLOODING. I definitely would have noticed rising water that Wednesday because the Monday prior, I stepped in a hole in Central City and badly sprained my knee. Climbing would have been difficult for me but I certainly would have given it a good try.
Our Estes Park visits always include a morning trip to the General Store in Glen Haven, located a few miles northeast of Estes Park, to buy cinnamon rolls, 25-cent coffee for Ray and tea for me to take down the canyon to a park by the Big Thompson River. Late Wednesday afternoon, after we had checked for elk in Rocky Mountain National Park, we decided to scope out Glen Haven in preparation for our next morning cinnamon roll run.
The word "hamlet" is a descriptive name for the pretty little town with its few businesses and the rustic homes and cabins that line the banks of the river. Glen Haven is reached by driving down Devil’s Gulch Road, an apt name for the steep road with multiple hairpin turns. We drove through Glen Haven and a little farther down the canyon to the park where we would breakfast the next day. The river at the park was higher than we had ever seen it and moving fast, but was well within its banks.
We spent three nights in Idaho Springs before driving to Estes Park on Wednesday, September 11. Except for a light rain, everything appeared normal as we passed Longmont and Lyons and drove up Highway 36 to Estes. I would have noticed if the streams were overly full because I take seriously the signs I have seen in mountainous areas that say CLIMB TO SAFETY IN CASE OF FLOODING. I definitely would have noticed rising water that Wednesday because the Monday prior, I stepped in a hole in Central City and badly sprained my knee. Climbing would have been difficult for me but I certainly would have given it a good try.
Our Estes Park visits always include a morning trip to the General Store in Glen Haven, located a few miles northeast of Estes Park, to buy cinnamon rolls, 25-cent coffee for Ray and tea for me to take down the canyon to a park by the Big Thompson River. Late Wednesday afternoon, after we had checked for elk in Rocky Mountain National Park, we decided to scope out Glen Haven in preparation for our next morning cinnamon roll run.
The word "hamlet" is a descriptive name for the pretty little town with its few businesses and the rustic homes and cabins that line the banks of the river. Glen Haven is reached by driving down Devil’s Gulch Road, an apt name for the steep road with multiple hairpin turns. We drove through Glen Haven and a little farther down the canyon to the park where we would breakfast the next day. The river at the park was higher than we had ever seen it and moving fast, but was well within its banks.
Dairy Queen, the day after our Blizzard visit.
Back at the Columbine Inn — situated on a hill where we always stay high and dry (I am too cautious to book near a River) — we decided to go to the Dairy Queen on Elkhorn Avenue (Estes Park’s main drag). The parking lot was wet because of the light rain but a few puddles contained the only standing water.
We flatlanders went to bed with no worries, but, as clueless as we were, we weren’t alone. Governor John Hickenlooper was quoted as saying that Coloradans went to bed Wednesday night with no inkling that overnight rain could be heavy enough to flood canyons and send rivers of water throughout the front range. They call them "flash floods" for a reason. Many residents had little or no warning of the wall of water approaching them.
We flatlanders went to bed with no worries, but, as clueless as we were, we weren’t alone. Governor John Hickenlooper was quoted as saying that Coloradans went to bed Wednesday night with no inkling that overnight rain could be heavy enough to flood canyons and send rivers of water throughout the front range. They call them "flash floods" for a reason. Many residents had little or no warning of the wall of water approaching them.
Big Thompson River rages in the background.
The next morning, we decided not to go to Glen Haven because it was still raining and we were beginning to hear of flooding in the areas through which we had driven the day before. Although no one knew it, the clock was ticking out Glen Haven's last hours. The charming little town was destroyed by a flash flood that struck in the wee hours of Friday the 13th. Neighbors reported that one elderly woman, perhaps two, were killed when their homes were washed downstream in the cold, dark night. However, subsequent reports say there was no loss of life in Glen Haven and I am hoping those latter reports are correct because the image of someone struggling in that raging water is almost more than I can take.
In the photo at left, taken in Estes Park, you can recognize the actual river in the background by its turbulence. The river then was rushing above both sides of a bridge contributing to the flooded streets and businesses. Sandbags were stacked high in doorways by owners who unsuccessfully tried to protect their businesses. Back at the Inn, we discovered we no longer had cell signals or Internet connections. Landline phones were unusable because the circuits were busy. Ray and I didn’t realize until then how dependent we are on the ability to instantly communicate. We felt totally isolated. Leaving then wasn’t an option because all of the roads leading to Estes — except Trail Ridge Road over the mountain, which Ray has driven many times but doesn’t like — were washed out or impassible due to high water. Officials were advising people to stay at home and not travel.
In the photo at left, taken in Estes Park, you can recognize the actual river in the background by its turbulence. The river then was rushing above both sides of a bridge contributing to the flooded streets and businesses. Sandbags were stacked high in doorways by owners who unsuccessfully tried to protect their businesses. Back at the Inn, we discovered we no longer had cell signals or Internet connections. Landline phones were unusable because the circuits were busy. Ray and I didn’t realize until then how dependent we are on the ability to instantly communicate. We felt totally isolated. Leaving then wasn’t an option because all of the roads leading to Estes — except Trail Ridge Road over the mountain, which Ray has driven many times but doesn’t like — were washed out or impassible due to high water. Officials were advising people to stay at home and not travel.
Small creeks flooded streets and parking lots.
We decided to head to the Big Horn restaurant for lunch and that is when we found Elkhorn Avenue blocked off due to flooding. We detoured around the flooded area and found the Big Horn on higher ground was closed. By Friday, the term "hell and high water" applied. Many of us, both residents and tourists, learned on Friday that City Hall had a Fiber-Optic Internet connection which we could use to let family and friends know we were safe. After using the Internet, we walked a half block to Elkhorn which looked more like a river than a street.
Ray stands in front of Elkhorn's receding waters.
After consulting with rangers at the Park, who advised against trying to evacuate that day — Trail Ridge Road was wet with scattered debris and the trip was taking up to five hours — but suggested we leave the next morning. Saturday we were up bright and early and headed for the dreaded Trail Ridge Road. I was worried because the normal route to the Park’s south entrance was impassible. We had to take a convoluted path which crossed the Big Thompson River. One woman told me that she had heard reports that the bridge in question was getting "spongy" on the approaches. A policeman assured me that was one of the many worrisome but untrue rumors people were spreading.
We were glad to reach the ranger station where we were asked, "Where are you heading?" Only people who were evacuating or driving emergency vehicles were allowed in the Park from the Estes side. We answered, "Kansas! As fast as we can get there!"
We were glad to reach the ranger station where we were asked, "Where are you heading?" Only people who were evacuating or driving emergency vehicles were allowed in the Park from the Estes side. We answered, "Kansas! As fast as we can get there!"
Trail Ridge Road feels like the top of the world.
It wasn’t fast. The trip over Trail Ridge Road, about which we decided we had worried overly much, took us two hours. We only met one vehicle headed east as we were driving west through the Park because, at the west entrance, no one was allowed to go to Estes Park unless they lived there or were transporting needed supplies. The detours on I-70 added both time and distance to our trip but we made it home at 1 a.m. Sunday morning. We were tired, but oh so happy to be home.
If you believe in the power of prayer, please say one for the victims of the flooding in Colorado. They need them badly.
If you believe in the power of prayer, please say one for the victims of the flooding in Colorado. They need them badly.
Oil spill — invisible but
very slippery
Dawn is good for cleaning ducks in oil spills.
It would be an exaggeration to say that the oil spill that occurred in our bathroom last night rivaled that of the Exxon Valdez. And it would be hyperbole to claim that I had to clean oil off the rubber duckies with Dawn dishwashing soap. Still, it was quite a slippery mess as I discovered when I hit it with my bare foot and did my best Hamill Camel into the lavatory cabinet. (Click on photos for larger images.)
Though invisible, the oil is there and slippery as ice.
Were the oil the black messy stuff, I would have seen it on the floor and avoided it. But, no, this clear oil is billed as good for skin and hair and professes to contain three fruit oils: olive, avocado and shea. What kind of fruit is a shea? Can you imagine going into Denney’s and ordering a slice of shea pie? I think not.
I am a sucker for spontaneity so, when I spotted the oil in Wal-Mart while wandering the shampoo aisle, it was just pricey enough for me to figure it would do what it said it would: namely, make my hair shiny. Who doesn’t want shiny hair?
But did I get it? No, I did not. Too late, I realize I should have taken a photo of my hair before I washed it FOUR times to remove the oil I sprayed on it. My hair dangled in long, thin, oily strands. I looked like I was wearing an overcooked angel hair pasta wig. It was when I approached the lavatory to wash my hair that I hit the oil spill and realized, as oily as my hair was, even more of the oil had landed on the floor.
So, what to do with this oil that’s reported to be good for hair and skin and smells — at least to me — like bug repellent. I once heard Oprah say that she had recommended mayonnaise as a conditioner to a white friend and learned that what worked on her hair did NOT work on white girl hair. So I might give the oil to my black and beautiful friend Joy and see if it works like mayonnaise does on Oprah hair. Then again, I like Joy a lot and she might not be as adept at doing a Hamill Camel as I am.
I am a sucker for spontaneity so, when I spotted the oil in Wal-Mart while wandering the shampoo aisle, it was just pricey enough for me to figure it would do what it said it would: namely, make my hair shiny. Who doesn’t want shiny hair?
But did I get it? No, I did not. Too late, I realize I should have taken a photo of my hair before I washed it FOUR times to remove the oil I sprayed on it. My hair dangled in long, thin, oily strands. I looked like I was wearing an overcooked angel hair pasta wig. It was when I approached the lavatory to wash my hair that I hit the oil spill and realized, as oily as my hair was, even more of the oil had landed on the floor.
So, what to do with this oil that’s reported to be good for hair and skin and smells — at least to me — like bug repellent. I once heard Oprah say that she had recommended mayonnaise as a conditioner to a white friend and learned that what worked on her hair did NOT work on white girl hair. So I might give the oil to my black and beautiful friend Joy and see if it works like mayonnaise does on Oprah hair. Then again, I like Joy a lot and she might not be as adept at doing a Hamill Camel as I am.
The story that wasn't published
Click on the cover to read the story.
Every writer, I suspect, has a favorite article that was never published. This is mine. It is the story of a boy whose heart was pierced by a wire and the doctor who was determined to save him. Jere was lifeless when he reached the hospital. He had no pulse and was not breathing. His eyes were slightly dilated, but his pupils responded to the light the doctor flashed in his eyes. That tiny flicker of life was enough for the doctor.
"You're not going to die, Kid!" Dr. Wayne Hird promised, "I'm not going to let you die!" Working with a team of medical professionals as dedicated as he was, the doctor kept his promise. If you would like to read the story, click on the cover at left to download a PDF of "Something's Stuck in His Heart!".
I have kept the rejection letter from Reader's Digest for three decades. It still hurts.
"You're not going to die, Kid!" Dr. Wayne Hird promised, "I'm not going to let you die!" Working with a team of medical professionals as dedicated as he was, the doctor kept his promise. If you would like to read the story, click on the cover at left to download a PDF of "Something's Stuck in His Heart!".
I have kept the rejection letter from Reader's Digest for three decades. It still hurts.
Our prevaricating GPS
My father always said that thieves are better than liars because when you are watching thieves, you know they are not stealing from you. But with liars, anytime their mouths are moving, you can’t be sure they aren’t lying to you. Our onboard GPS fits into the latter category. Take our recent trip to Georgia and how we were led far astray by the Navteq GPS in our car that, instead of directing us to our Best Western hotel in Macon, navigated us into another county in the opposite direction. I have the pictures to prove it!
Yay! We will reach our destination in 3.4 miles!
We are tired and ready to find our hotel, get some dinner and crash for the night, so when the GPS says we are within 3.4 miles of our hotel, we are happy -- even though we can't see the city for the trees. (See photo below. Click to enlarge photos.)
Nothing but road and trees.
The view through our windshield for miles has shown only a tree-lined two-lane road.Once in a while, we see a house, but no gas station where we can ask for directions. We seek help at one house with two cars in the carport, but no one answers the door.
Only 6/10 of a mile to go and no cell signal?
Only 6/10 of a mile to our destination according to the GPS. However, we are concerned that we still appear to be deep in the Boondocks. I try to phone our hotel but cannot get a cell signal. We haven't seen another vehicle for miles. Except for the paved road and trees, we might as well be on the moon. But not to worry because the GPS assures us that we have arrived at our
DESTINATION!
We have arrived? I don't think so!
But where is that familiar blue and yellow sign that says Best Western? We continue driving down the road looking for our hotel or anything that indicates we are nearing civilization. But what is this? The GPS is recalculating. We have turned off "Aunt Blabby," as Ray has dubbed our voice navigator, but I know what is coming. If we could hear her, she would be saying,
"Recalculating"
Recalculating . . . RATS!
in an exasperated voice followed by the dreaded, "Make a legal u-turn!" If we could figure out which tree is Best Western, we might follow her instruction to make a u-turn and head back, but we have lost all faith in the GPS and keep driving until we reach a service station where the clerk tells us we are in another county far from our destination. She draws directions on a sheet of paper which we follow and eventually find our hotel.
Aunt Blabby wants us to make a u-turn.
Her directions cost us nothing but a thank you; updating the GPS CD each year costs us a cool $199 and still doesn't get us where we want to go. We haven't purchased an update in a couple years so it is possible this foul-up in directions may have been corrected, but I am skeptical . . . mainly because when I type "Navteq Sucks" in Google search, I turn up a bunch of sites with multiple pages of complaints, including one site that claims 90% of people hate Navteq. Can that many people be wrong? Frankly, I don't think so.
For all the good dads I know
Ray's Father's Day card.
Ask either of our sons what they remember best about their childhood and both will say it is playing in the yard with their dad. Sports played varied by season and neighborhood kids were frequently accepted or recruited for football or baseball games.
My three guys were practicing football techniques when Ray, Jr. (aka Butch) broke his ankle. Later that year, Butch and Greg were scrimmaging sans Dad, who was at work, when Butch broke his front tooth on his younger brother’s football helmet. “Hey, Mom, look!” he said, running into the kitchen, “I’ve got a canine tooth!” It was an expensive summer. (Click on photos for larger images.)
Ray was — and is — a hands-on dad. He changed poopy diapers before it was fashionable. And he took the boys to the doctor at shot time when needle-nutty I was too wimpy to do it. But one of the best things about Ray was that he encouraged the boys in their interests. That is why, at age 14, Butch was presented with a small Hodaka motorcycle. Ray bought a bigger Suzuki for himself so they could ride together on country roads.
Ray does not — repeat NOT — like snakes. Greg does. So, one snowy Christmas morning, Ray picked up a large Burmese python we purchased for Greg, then in junior high. My friend Darlene reminds me that I told her, "I don't believe I'm thinking beyond Greg opening his present and saying, 'Wow, a snake!'" The snake eventually attained a length of 14 feet living in our guest bedroom with a heating pad to warm him when he was feeling chilly. That is what Dads do for their kids.
My three guys were practicing football techniques when Ray, Jr. (aka Butch) broke his ankle. Later that year, Butch and Greg were scrimmaging sans Dad, who was at work, when Butch broke his front tooth on his younger brother’s football helmet. “Hey, Mom, look!” he said, running into the kitchen, “I’ve got a canine tooth!” It was an expensive summer. (Click on photos for larger images.)
Ray was — and is — a hands-on dad. He changed poopy diapers before it was fashionable. And he took the boys to the doctor at shot time when needle-nutty I was too wimpy to do it. But one of the best things about Ray was that he encouraged the boys in their interests. That is why, at age 14, Butch was presented with a small Hodaka motorcycle. Ray bought a bigger Suzuki for himself so they could ride together on country roads.
Ray does not — repeat NOT — like snakes. Greg does. So, one snowy Christmas morning, Ray picked up a large Burmese python we purchased for Greg, then in junior high. My friend Darlene reminds me that I told her, "I don't believe I'm thinking beyond Greg opening his present and saying, 'Wow, a snake!'" The snake eventually attained a length of 14 feet living in our guest bedroom with a heating pad to warm him when he was feeling chilly. That is what Dads do for their kids.
Dad and Vicki playing with her train.
One of my favorite photos of my father shows him playing with my sister Vicki’s train set that he couldn’t wait to buy her. To this day, Vicki will tell you, “I LOVED that train set, but it was very hard to put the tracks together.” Well, sure, she was only two, but she had Dad to help her. I took the photo with a Brownie Hawkeye camera I received the same Christmas Vicki got the train.
Dad had four daughters — no sons to carry on his name — which is the reason I include my maiden name in my byline. I can remember being awakened in the middle of the night by Dad to watch lightning jumping laterally from cloud to cloud. “You don’t see this too often,” Dad said. He was right, I haven’t seen it since. He also rousted us out of bed one night to see a huge flock of geese flying over, their bellies a ghostly white in the reflected lights of town. The city lights had apparently confused the geese who were flying in circles and Dad used his duck caller to lure them away from the lights and across the river to the periphery of town, where we lived, so they could continue their journey North.
On Father’s Day I salute my late father, our sons, both of whom are great dads, and especially Ray, who wouldn’t be the father he is without me.
Dad had four daughters — no sons to carry on his name — which is the reason I include my maiden name in my byline. I can remember being awakened in the middle of the night by Dad to watch lightning jumping laterally from cloud to cloud. “You don’t see this too often,” Dad said. He was right, I haven’t seen it since. He also rousted us out of bed one night to see a huge flock of geese flying over, their bellies a ghostly white in the reflected lights of town. The city lights had apparently confused the geese who were flying in circles and Dad used his duck caller to lure them away from the lights and across the river to the periphery of town, where we lived, so they could continue their journey North.
On Father’s Day I salute my late father, our sons, both of whom are great dads, and especially Ray, who wouldn’t be the father he is without me.
Remembering Steve at
Relay for Life
Last days: Steve smiles from his hospital bed.
Had my brother-in-law Steve Julian survived his rare cancer, he would be walking in the Relay for Life Survivor’s Lap tomorrow night. And I am confident he would be the most enthusiastic walker on the track. Steve lived life with gusto and approached every task with cheerful enthusiasm.
When Ray and I were readying my mother’s house for sale after her death in 2004, we went there one day to find Steve, just six months after extensive and complicated surgery, attacking with a rake the high grass edging Mom’s large back yard. He worked alongside Ray and me for a couple of hours before raking up a huge — and very much alive — blacksnake. The snake encounter took the fun out of raking for Steve and he packed it in for that day, but he was back the next day, rake in hand.
Before his death two and a half years after surgery, my sister Vicki told Steve, who had been fascinated by space exploration long before Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, that she would send a portion of his ashes into space orbit. She fulfilled her promise last year. Steve’s ashes, contained in a small capsule, orbited the Earth 576 times before reentering the atmosphere over the South China Sea.
That is why the luminary I decorated for him shows him as an astronaut. I will see it burning brightly when I circle the track tomorrow night. Steve cannot walk in Relay for Life, but I can walk for him. I will also be walking for those, like I, who survived cancer . . . and those others, like Steve, who did not.
Note: You may read my newspaper article about Steve’s journey into space by clicking on Feature Stories in navigation at the top of this website.
When Ray and I were readying my mother’s house for sale after her death in 2004, we went there one day to find Steve, just six months after extensive and complicated surgery, attacking with a rake the high grass edging Mom’s large back yard. He worked alongside Ray and me for a couple of hours before raking up a huge — and very much alive — blacksnake. The snake encounter took the fun out of raking for Steve and he packed it in for that day, but he was back the next day, rake in hand.
Before his death two and a half years after surgery, my sister Vicki told Steve, who had been fascinated by space exploration long before Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, that she would send a portion of his ashes into space orbit. She fulfilled her promise last year. Steve’s ashes, contained in a small capsule, orbited the Earth 576 times before reentering the atmosphere over the South China Sea.
That is why the luminary I decorated for him shows him as an astronaut. I will see it burning brightly when I circle the track tomorrow night. Steve cannot walk in Relay for Life, but I can walk for him. I will also be walking for those, like I, who survived cancer . . . and those others, like Steve, who did not.
Note: You may read my newspaper article about Steve’s journey into space by clicking on Feature Stories in navigation at the top of this website.
My predominately purple paw
People ask, "Does it hurt?" What do you think?
I have a purple paw and I'm blaming spiders. Rather, I'm blaming my fear of spiders. Ray and I were walking on a breezy cool Wednesday when I decided to retrieve a light jacket from the trunk of our car. I have never seen a spider in the car, but I figure if one is there, it would likely be in the trunk. I gave the jacket a hard shake, capable of making a tarantula lose its grip, and the end of the zipper hit me on the top of my right hand just above the knuckle of my naughty finger.
Before we had walked 20 steps, my hand began to develop a blue bump that grew larger by the second. A smarter woman would have followed her husband's advice to return to the car and go find an ice pack. But, no, I thought if I held my hand at shoulder level, the swelling would be minimal. I was wrong. Ray glanced at my upraised hand and exclaimed, "It looks like you're growing a NOSE on your hand!"
I would have been as horrified as Ray had I not suffered the same injury in Cancun a dozen years ago when an elevator door slammed into my hand. By the time I reached the eighth floor, I had a nose of Cyrano proportions growing on my hand. An encounter with the hotel manager had him insisting that I see the hotel doctor. "I'll let him look at my hand," I said, "but I won't let him touch it." Within a week, my hand healed itself and looked normal . . . until last Wednesday.
Every day I learn something new. Now I know ice should be applied immediately if swelling is to be avoided. While the swelling is abating (today, two days later, I can see my knuckles, something I couldn't do yesterday), my hand is becoming quite colorful: predominately purple with swatches of red, green and yellow.
I don't think I'll be shaking any more jackets in the effort to free them of arachnids. Hard to think a spider bite could do more damage than the zipper did to my painful purple paw.
Before we had walked 20 steps, my hand began to develop a blue bump that grew larger by the second. A smarter woman would have followed her husband's advice to return to the car and go find an ice pack. But, no, I thought if I held my hand at shoulder level, the swelling would be minimal. I was wrong. Ray glanced at my upraised hand and exclaimed, "It looks like you're growing a NOSE on your hand!"
I would have been as horrified as Ray had I not suffered the same injury in Cancun a dozen years ago when an elevator door slammed into my hand. By the time I reached the eighth floor, I had a nose of Cyrano proportions growing on my hand. An encounter with the hotel manager had him insisting that I see the hotel doctor. "I'll let him look at my hand," I said, "but I won't let him touch it." Within a week, my hand healed itself and looked normal . . . until last Wednesday.
Every day I learn something new. Now I know ice should be applied immediately if swelling is to be avoided. While the swelling is abating (today, two days later, I can see my knuckles, something I couldn't do yesterday), my hand is becoming quite colorful: predominately purple with swatches of red, green and yellow.
I don't think I'll be shaking any more jackets in the effort to free them of arachnids. Hard to think a spider bite could do more damage than the zipper did to my painful purple paw.
Iowa's Great Lake Area is great!
Cabin 420 feels like home to us.
Ray and I recently returned from our annual spring trip to Iowa where the corn that will eventually grow as high as an elephant’s eye was just beginning to show in neat rows. Our destination, as always, was Cabin 420 at Fillenwarth Beach on the shores of Lake Okoboji, only a few miles from Minnesota. (Click on photos for larger images.)
Every May, for many years, Ken Fillenwarth and his family have hosted a WW II Ranger reunion. This year, there were only two Rangers of that era, but several more who served as Rangers in more recent times, as well as families of deceased Rangers -- like Ray and I -- who attend to honor those WW II Rangers still living.
A 94-year-old Ranger who made the day-long trip from Missouri became ill on the drive. His driver called 911 and he spent the night in the hospital of a small Iowa town. The next morning, he insisted on traveling on to Fillenwarth Beach which shows how important the annual reunion is to him. Rangers of any age are tough!
Every May, for many years, Ken Fillenwarth and his family have hosted a WW II Ranger reunion. This year, there were only two Rangers of that era, but several more who served as Rangers in more recent times, as well as families of deceased Rangers -- like Ray and I -- who attend to honor those WW II Rangers still living.
A 94-year-old Ranger who made the day-long trip from Missouri became ill on the drive. His driver called 911 and he spent the night in the hospital of a small Iowa town. The next morning, he insisted on traveling on to Fillenwarth Beach which shows how important the annual reunion is to him. Rangers of any age are tough!
The painted quilts show well on weathered barns.
I love the drive up to Okoboji and kept Ray busy u-turning so I could snap photos of the quilt patterns on picturesque barns. Ray found something new to love at the Chatterbox Café, a small roadside restaurant in Audubon voted to have the best tenderloins in Iowa. We are told that people drive from as far as Des Moines just to eat there. My carnivore husband tried a hamberloin which, if you haven’t guessed, is a tenderloin with the addition of a hamburger patty. He liked it and I liked my BLT so much that we were forced to split a slice of homemade coconut custard pie.
Cabin 420 is our home away from home. I originally booked it so that Rangers could have the lakefront apartments. Turns out we quickly bonded with 420 and have opted to make it our residence while there. Once unpacked, we headed for Spirit Lake where the pelicans that migrate through Kansas — stopping briefly at our lakes — go to breed. I was surprised that male pelicans develop a big knot on their beaks at breeding time and have no idea why that is unless it is to grab attention as turkeys do by spreading their tails or bullfrogs by puffing out their throats. But, whoa, I just looked it up and girl pelicans also develop that knot. The theory is that, for both sexes, it shows their interest in breeding, happily removing all guesswork.
Cabin 420 is our home away from home. I originally booked it so that Rangers could have the lakefront apartments. Turns out we quickly bonded with 420 and have opted to make it our residence while there. Once unpacked, we headed for Spirit Lake where the pelicans that migrate through Kansas — stopping briefly at our lakes — go to breed. I was surprised that male pelicans develop a big knot on their beaks at breeding time and have no idea why that is unless it is to grab attention as turkeys do by spreading their tails or bullfrogs by puffing out their throats. But, whoa, I just looked it up and girl pelicans also develop that knot. The theory is that, for both sexes, it shows their interest in breeding, happily removing all guesswork.
Who's in front . . . Mom or Dad?
I snapped of a photo of Canada geese taking their goslings for a swim, one parent in front and the other guarding the rear. I always wonder whether the mom or dad leads the way. I wish I could show you photos of the otters we watched playing in a slough. Sadly, I caught only the roiling of water after they dived. Perhaps next year . . .
El Potro the Great
"Would you like to have dinner at El Potro?" Ray asked.
"Would I? Yes! I mean, Sí!"
The reason Ray’s question is such a big deal to me is because I love Mexican food and he does not. Oh, he’ll take me to a Mexican restaurant if I suggest it — and always on my birthday — but for him to initiate the idea of eating Mexican cuisine is a real rarity, or it was until we discovered El Potro. We have my sister Vicki to thank for that happy change because, had she not given us a $20 gift certificate to that restaurant, we likely never would have tried it.
Ray grew up on a farm eating American food that his family raised (both vegetables and meat). Pizza was about as adventuresome as he got until, early in our marriage while visiting relatives, we ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Oklahoma City. Driving back to Kansas on I-35 the next morning, Ray desperately and painfully searched for a rest stop . . . so painfully, in fact, that he swears our Buick’s steering wheel still had his fingerprints etched in it when we traded it off.
Ray was a happy man when he parked the car and ran into the roadside men’s room. I was happy for him for about 30 minutes until I began to worry he had passed out inside the potty. Men went in and came out during that 30 minute period and, after a smiling man in shorts and a colorful Hawaiian shirt walked out, got in his car and drove off, I berated myself for not asking him to check on Ray. I made up my mind that I would ask the next man who entered or exited the potty to make sure my husband was okay.
Happily, the next man to walk out was a greatly relieved Ray. "I was commiserating with a man in there," Ray confided, "who had Mexican food in Amarillo last night."
"Was he wearing a Hawaiian shirt?" I inquired.
"I don’t know," Ray said, "all I saw were his sandals."
For years, Ray blamed the spiciness of Mexican food for his digestive system’s inability to tolerate it. Then one day we were dining at a Chinese restaurant (it appears my cooking has made Ray much more adventuresome while eating out) and our order was so spicy it was making my lips numb. Ray ate his and mine, causing me to exclaim, "It’s not the spice in Mexican food; this is much spicier!"
Turns out the culprit was the beans, but Ray was still wary until El Potro, where they allow him to substitute papas fritas for the beans and rice and where he adores their shrimp fajitas. Pretty impressive for a man who ate club sandwiches and papas fritas for every lunch in Cancun and lobster for every dinner. My favorite at El Potro is chicken flautas and, even though I tried a cactus taco in Cancun, I’m really glad they are not on the menu. Seems I don’t like all Mexican food . . . just most of it.
"Would I? Yes! I mean, Sí!"
The reason Ray’s question is such a big deal to me is because I love Mexican food and he does not. Oh, he’ll take me to a Mexican restaurant if I suggest it — and always on my birthday — but for him to initiate the idea of eating Mexican cuisine is a real rarity, or it was until we discovered El Potro. We have my sister Vicki to thank for that happy change because, had she not given us a $20 gift certificate to that restaurant, we likely never would have tried it.
Ray grew up on a farm eating American food that his family raised (both vegetables and meat). Pizza was about as adventuresome as he got until, early in our marriage while visiting relatives, we ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Oklahoma City. Driving back to Kansas on I-35 the next morning, Ray desperately and painfully searched for a rest stop . . . so painfully, in fact, that he swears our Buick’s steering wheel still had his fingerprints etched in it when we traded it off.
Ray was a happy man when he parked the car and ran into the roadside men’s room. I was happy for him for about 30 minutes until I began to worry he had passed out inside the potty. Men went in and came out during that 30 minute period and, after a smiling man in shorts and a colorful Hawaiian shirt walked out, got in his car and drove off, I berated myself for not asking him to check on Ray. I made up my mind that I would ask the next man who entered or exited the potty to make sure my husband was okay.
Happily, the next man to walk out was a greatly relieved Ray. "I was commiserating with a man in there," Ray confided, "who had Mexican food in Amarillo last night."
"Was he wearing a Hawaiian shirt?" I inquired.
"I don’t know," Ray said, "all I saw were his sandals."
For years, Ray blamed the spiciness of Mexican food for his digestive system’s inability to tolerate it. Then one day we were dining at a Chinese restaurant (it appears my cooking has made Ray much more adventuresome while eating out) and our order was so spicy it was making my lips numb. Ray ate his and mine, causing me to exclaim, "It’s not the spice in Mexican food; this is much spicier!"
Turns out the culprit was the beans, but Ray was still wary until El Potro, where they allow him to substitute papas fritas for the beans and rice and where he adores their shrimp fajitas. Pretty impressive for a man who ate club sandwiches and papas fritas for every lunch in Cancun and lobster for every dinner. My favorite at El Potro is chicken flautas and, even though I tried a cactus taco in Cancun, I’m really glad they are not on the menu. Seems I don’t like all Mexican food . . . just most of it.
Global warming?
You gotta be kidding!
Snowing on Gabe's car and Mr. Ugly.
May 2 and it is snowing in Kansas. What's up with that?Grandson Gabe's car and Ray's tractor Mr. Ugly, parked nose to nose, must brave the elements which includes May snow. The temperature is just above freezing so the snow is melting in most places, but the tulips have to be wondering what the heck is going on? I know I am! (Click on photos for larger images.)
Poor chilly tulips hang their sorrowful heads.
Yes, the white stuff next to the house is snow and ice. I'm sure that is what is making the tulips look so sad. Is a little sunshine in May too much to ask for?
It has been a very weird spring, but we are relatively lucky. I-70 was closed yesterday in Western Kansas due to snow that didn't melt, but stuck. And that is Kansas . . . just like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates: you never know what you're going to get.I love the change of seasons here. I just wish winter would be winter and spring would be spring.
It has been a very weird spring, but we are relatively lucky. I-70 was closed yesterday in Western Kansas due to snow that didn't melt, but stuck. And that is Kansas . . . just like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates: you never know what you're going to get.I love the change of seasons here. I just wish winter would be winter and spring would be spring.
Quilling IS an old art form, but
that doesn’t mean I’m dead
Butterfly now belongs to granddaughter Zoe.
I had a lot of fun during my time in school, but little of that fun was in the classroom. However, that is not the case with one of my grandson’s university courses. That particular course sounds like a super fun class I might take … if only the professor did not think I was dead. I freely admit that, had I been in said professor’s classroom when one studly student stripped down to his boxer shorts, I might have had a heart attack that killed me. But no, I missed his provocative show so I am still on the green side of the grass.
The confusion about my early death arose when Gabe shared with his design class a quilled butterfly project I long ago created. Quilling is an art form dating back to the Renaissance, initiated by French and Italian nuns and monks who apparently didn’t have anything else to do. Several centuries later, when my artistic friend Blossom showed me some of her lovely quilled projects, I decided I must try it … and that is why I have enough colored strips of thin paper in the basement to open my own hobby store. I made several quilled projects, but — unlike the nuns and monks — I had other things to do and didn’t need to ease my frustration by wrapping tiny strips of paper around a corsage pin.
The professor admired my butterfly project, Gabe reported, then queried: "If you don’t mind my asking, how old was your grandmother when she passed?"
"She’s still alive," Gabe answered.
"Oh, well," said the embarrassed professor, "then bless her."
The confusion about my early death arose when Gabe shared with his design class a quilled butterfly project I long ago created. Quilling is an art form dating back to the Renaissance, initiated by French and Italian nuns and monks who apparently didn’t have anything else to do. Several centuries later, when my artistic friend Blossom showed me some of her lovely quilled projects, I decided I must try it … and that is why I have enough colored strips of thin paper in the basement to open my own hobby store. I made several quilled projects, but — unlike the nuns and monks — I had other things to do and didn’t need to ease my frustration by wrapping tiny strips of paper around a corsage pin.
The professor admired my butterfly project, Gabe reported, then queried: "If you don’t mind my asking, how old was your grandmother when she passed?"
"She’s still alive," Gabe answered.
"Oh, well," said the embarrassed professor, "then bless her."
I used thick watercolor paper for the peacock.
I laughingly related the story to Gabe’s parents when we met for lunch in Kansas City, adding that, "I told Gabe he should have said, ‘We don’t know yet. We can’t get her to pass.’"
Gabe’s dad, Greg, took a more practical approach: "Gabe should have asked, ‘Which answer will get me an A?’ A sympathy A is as good as an earned A."
I am posting photos of a couple of my quilled projects, but I will not post a photo of the young stud in his boxers (Gabe took a photo with his cell phone). Why? The kid may decide to run for the US Senate someday and that photo needs to remain in the closet. However, if he becomes a Chippendale dancer, I'll bring it out of the closet and you will see it here. Stay tuned. (Click on photos for larger images.)
Gabe’s dad, Greg, took a more practical approach: "Gabe should have asked, ‘Which answer will get me an A?’ A sympathy A is as good as an earned A."
I am posting photos of a couple of my quilled projects, but I will not post a photo of the young stud in his boxers (Gabe took a photo with his cell phone). Why? The kid may decide to run for the US Senate someday and that photo needs to remain in the closet. However, if he becomes a Chippendale dancer, I'll bring it out of the closet and you will see it here. Stay tuned. (Click on photos for larger images.)
Laxatives, Guthrie tornado
and tarantulas
Doesn't the above title sound like a Carnac the Magnificent answer to one of Ed McMahon’s questions?
But, no, this is the tale of an Oklahoma day when Aunt Vera (whose home we were visiting) and I decided to take Butch and Greg to Guthrie — mainly, I suppose, because there wasn’t a lot to do in Coyle (pop. 250). We promised the boys ice cream cones and a trip to the dime store, but first Aunt Vera steered us to a main street drugstore.
She was pondering which laxative to buy when the tornado sirens sounded. I calmly asked the pharmacist if he had a place we could take shelter. "No," he said, shaking his head, "we don’t have a basement." Aunt Vera, meanwhile, was terrified. So scared was she that I figured a laxative would be the last thing she required. "We can go to my daughter’s sister-in-law’s house," she cried in a shaky voice.
We herded the boys, who thought they were experiencing a great adventure, out the door toward the car. Across the street, I noticed my cousin Nancy’s husband, standing outside his shoe store, scanning the sky as the sirens screamed. And that’s when I lost my cool and embraced panic. Accustomed to being able to see the horizon from home during tornado scares, I realized I wouldn’t see the approaching tornado until the 2- and 3-story buildings across the street were leveled.
As Aunt Vera directed me to Patsy’s sister-in-law’s home, we witnessed three wrecks while I managed to avoid drivers as scared as I who were also trying to reach safety. We pulled up in front of the house, jumped out of the car and barged through the front door to find the house deserted and food still cooking on the stove. I flung open every door in sight without finding stairs to the basement. Finally, we heard a voice from below: "Who’s up there?"
"Vera Smith!" I yelled, realizing they wouldn’t know my name, "How do we get down there?"
"The stairs to the basement are outside at the back of the house," the voice answered. Once in the basement, I learned that Oklahomans really know how to do tornadoes. A radio announced that the tornado was making its way through the town . . . at which point, my claustrophobic aunt said, "I can’t stay down here with all these pipes. The tornado’s not coming in this direction, so let’s go home!"
The 12 mile drive to Coyle was hair-raising. I remember instructing the boys that, if we spotted a tornado, I would stop the car, they should lie down in a ditch and Aunt Vera and I would lie on top of them. Aunt Vera, who was supposed to be watching the sky for approaching tornadoes, worried more about my driving . . . and well she should. Suddenly, I braked hard and stopped the car in the middle of the deserted highway. "Why are you stopping?" she asked.
"S-s-s-s-spiders!" I exclaimed, pointing to five arachnids crossing the road. "They’re as big as turtles!"
"Drive over them," she ordered.
So I did. Just their bad luck. They might have survived the tornado.
But, no, this is the tale of an Oklahoma day when Aunt Vera (whose home we were visiting) and I decided to take Butch and Greg to Guthrie — mainly, I suppose, because there wasn’t a lot to do in Coyle (pop. 250). We promised the boys ice cream cones and a trip to the dime store, but first Aunt Vera steered us to a main street drugstore.
She was pondering which laxative to buy when the tornado sirens sounded. I calmly asked the pharmacist if he had a place we could take shelter. "No," he said, shaking his head, "we don’t have a basement." Aunt Vera, meanwhile, was terrified. So scared was she that I figured a laxative would be the last thing she required. "We can go to my daughter’s sister-in-law’s house," she cried in a shaky voice.
We herded the boys, who thought they were experiencing a great adventure, out the door toward the car. Across the street, I noticed my cousin Nancy’s husband, standing outside his shoe store, scanning the sky as the sirens screamed. And that’s when I lost my cool and embraced panic. Accustomed to being able to see the horizon from home during tornado scares, I realized I wouldn’t see the approaching tornado until the 2- and 3-story buildings across the street were leveled.
As Aunt Vera directed me to Patsy’s sister-in-law’s home, we witnessed three wrecks while I managed to avoid drivers as scared as I who were also trying to reach safety. We pulled up in front of the house, jumped out of the car and barged through the front door to find the house deserted and food still cooking on the stove. I flung open every door in sight without finding stairs to the basement. Finally, we heard a voice from below: "Who’s up there?"
"Vera Smith!" I yelled, realizing they wouldn’t know my name, "How do we get down there?"
"The stairs to the basement are outside at the back of the house," the voice answered. Once in the basement, I learned that Oklahomans really know how to do tornadoes. A radio announced that the tornado was making its way through the town . . . at which point, my claustrophobic aunt said, "I can’t stay down here with all these pipes. The tornado’s not coming in this direction, so let’s go home!"
The 12 mile drive to Coyle was hair-raising. I remember instructing the boys that, if we spotted a tornado, I would stop the car, they should lie down in a ditch and Aunt Vera and I would lie on top of them. Aunt Vera, who was supposed to be watching the sky for approaching tornadoes, worried more about my driving . . . and well she should. Suddenly, I braked hard and stopped the car in the middle of the deserted highway. "Why are you stopping?" she asked.
"S-s-s-s-spiders!" I exclaimed, pointing to five arachnids crossing the road. "They’re as big as turtles!"
"Drive over them," she ordered.
So I did. Just their bad luck. They might have survived the tornado.
Winter is over, now it's
tornado season
The nearest tornado siren to our country home is about three and a half miles away. Nonetheless, I heard it the other day when the county ran a tornado siren test. The sound is eerie, but I am not fearful of prospective tornadoes … only actual ones.
I can’t count how many times my friend Darlene and her young sons — packing pillows, flashlight and a battery-operated radio — huddled in the basement of our previous home on the outskirts of the city while Ray was at work and I was upstairs looking out our picture window. Please do not think I was stupid or fool-hardy. My view of the western sky from that window stretched to the horizon and I was confident that I could see an approaching tornado while it was still miles away.
Then came a day when I persuaded son Greg to join me in the basement as I prepared for a garage sale. Husband Ray called me upstairs where he was standing on the front porch. The sky was a sickly green and rumbling loudly. Ray asked, "What is that sound?"
"Thunder," I replied confidently.
"But it never quits," he said.
"That’s because one peal begins before the other finishes." I said. "Why don’t you come help us in the basement?"
He agreed and that is why we were all underground when the tornado struck, forever imprinting on my memory what a tornado sounds like. When the rain and wind began, I told Ray I had opened all the windows so he headed up the basement stairs into the garage, then through the screened porch to the dining room. He later related that — just as he looked out the dining room’s patio doors — our 10 x 14 shed twisted into an aluminum pretzel. He hurriedly reversed course to the basement and met Greg and me in the middle of the stairs as we bravely headed up to save him.
We were fortunate to lose only our shed and half of the shingles off our roof. Once the tornado passed, I phoned my widowed mother several miles northeast and advised her to take cover. "I can’t go down in my basement!" Mother exclaimed, "Who knows how long I might be trapped down there if a tornado hits?"
"Trust me, Mom," I said, "if a tornado hits your area, it wouldn’t be more than a week or two before Vicki or I would call the other to ask, ‘Hey, have you heard from Mom since that tornado hit her neighborhood?’"
Lucky for me, my late mother had a sense of humor.
March SADNESS at our house
Losing SUCKS!
There are only two rhyming ways for March Madness to end for Jayhawk fans — sadness and gladness. Oh, that it had been the latter.
Armchair coaches are still trying to figure out how KU, up 10 with 2:22 to go, fell to Michigan. Why didn’t Johnson take the final shot instead of kicking it out to Tharpe? Why didn’t KU foul Michigan late in regulation play, ensuring they didn’t tie the game with a 3-point shot (yes, Mario, they did, causing history to repeat itself . . . but not in a good way). Even if Michigan made the free throws which they were having a struggle doing, KU would have the ball with about 9 seconds to play and a one point lead. Michigan would have to foul and KU was doing a better job making their free throws.
I am sure the players and coaches are asking the same questions, second-guessing their decisions. Even Coach Self said, in retrospect, he wished they had fouled. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. No one feels worse than the players and coaches. We armchair coaches have an advantage over players and actual coaches … sort of like we have the advantage over Wheel of Fortune contestants. Have you ever watched that show, known the answers and wondered why they were not equally obvious to the contestants? Husband Ray is especially good at figuring out the puzzle answers, but freely admits it would be much harder were he actually spinning the wheel on the game show.
During Roy Williams tenure as Jayhawk coach, a hard loss in the NCAA tournament caused him to say he felt like getting hit by a truck. I sent him a hand drawn card, on the front of which was a little Jayhawk wearing a black armband, holding our Big 8 Championship pennant and singing, "No, no, they can’t take that away from me!" Inside, I wrote, "We were sad, too, Coach . . . and then we remembered . . . nobody died."
That brought me a nice note from Coach Williams which I am sure I still have . . . if only I knew where. I also sent out cards to other Hawk lovers (but I was smart enough not to send it to the coach) when the University of Texas, El Paso upset us in one NCAA tournament. A long-legged Jayhawk wearing sneakers lay on the front of the card with his legs sticking up in the air. Inside I wrote:
Q: How do you kill a Jayhawk?
A: UTEP on it.
Some of us need to laugh to keep from crying. Especially now.
Armchair coaches are still trying to figure out how KU, up 10 with 2:22 to go, fell to Michigan. Why didn’t Johnson take the final shot instead of kicking it out to Tharpe? Why didn’t KU foul Michigan late in regulation play, ensuring they didn’t tie the game with a 3-point shot (yes, Mario, they did, causing history to repeat itself . . . but not in a good way). Even if Michigan made the free throws which they were having a struggle doing, KU would have the ball with about 9 seconds to play and a one point lead. Michigan would have to foul and KU was doing a better job making their free throws.
I am sure the players and coaches are asking the same questions, second-guessing their decisions. Even Coach Self said, in retrospect, he wished they had fouled. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. No one feels worse than the players and coaches. We armchair coaches have an advantage over players and actual coaches … sort of like we have the advantage over Wheel of Fortune contestants. Have you ever watched that show, known the answers and wondered why they were not equally obvious to the contestants? Husband Ray is especially good at figuring out the puzzle answers, but freely admits it would be much harder were he actually spinning the wheel on the game show.
During Roy Williams tenure as Jayhawk coach, a hard loss in the NCAA tournament caused him to say he felt like getting hit by a truck. I sent him a hand drawn card, on the front of which was a little Jayhawk wearing a black armband, holding our Big 8 Championship pennant and singing, "No, no, they can’t take that away from me!" Inside, I wrote, "We were sad, too, Coach . . . and then we remembered . . . nobody died."
That brought me a nice note from Coach Williams which I am sure I still have . . . if only I knew where. I also sent out cards to other Hawk lovers (but I was smart enough not to send it to the coach) when the University of Texas, El Paso upset us in one NCAA tournament. A long-legged Jayhawk wearing sneakers lay on the front of the card with his legs sticking up in the air. Inside I wrote:
Q: How do you kill a Jayhawk?
A: UTEP on it.
Some of us need to laugh to keep from crying. Especially now.
March Madness at our house
Click for larger view of Jayhawk birdhouse.
March Madness time at our house. You can tell by the little blue cloud that hovers over our home if our Jayhawks are not doing well . . . or if Ray thinks the referees are calling fouls at the wrong end of the floor. We are Hawkaholics, no question about it. If you look carefully at the photo I snapped yesterday afternoon during our most recent snow storm, you will note that even our birds are Jayhawk fans. The little Jayhawk birdhouse hanging from the sycamore is the only spot of color in our black and white world.
While our Hawks gave us quite a scare against Western Kentucky on Friday, we are hoping they will do much better against North Carolina — and KU’s former coach Roy Williams — today. If not, it will be a very bad day in Snowville. My bracket sheet has the Hawks going all the way, defeating Louisville in the championship game. Hey, it could happen. No one expected us to win the NCAA championship in 1988, but we did and somewhere I still have a couple of now-faded T-shirts proclaiming "The Hawks Spread Their Wings When the Fat Lady Sings" in commemoration of that victory.
Speaking of my bracket sheet, I’m glad I didn’t bet any money on my picks! Who expected Harvard to beat Georgetown? However, I am proud to say that I did pick Iowa State and Wichita State in the early going. But I also picked my mother’s alma mater OSU, my birth state Oklahoma, K-State and even former Big 12 Missouri before they deserted us for the SEC (those picks really messed up my bracket sheet).
While our Hawks gave us quite a scare against Western Kentucky on Friday, we are hoping they will do much better against North Carolina — and KU’s former coach Roy Williams — today. If not, it will be a very bad day in Snowville. My bracket sheet has the Hawks going all the way, defeating Louisville in the championship game. Hey, it could happen. No one expected us to win the NCAA championship in 1988, but we did and somewhere I still have a couple of now-faded T-shirts proclaiming "The Hawks Spread Their Wings When the Fat Lady Sings" in commemoration of that victory.
Speaking of my bracket sheet, I’m glad I didn’t bet any money on my picks! Who expected Harvard to beat Georgetown? However, I am proud to say that I did pick Iowa State and Wichita State in the early going. But I also picked my mother’s alma mater OSU, my birth state Oklahoma, K-State and even former Big 12 Missouri before they deserted us for the SEC (those picks really messed up my bracket sheet).
The cookie box in front of Garfield is empty.
My little office is filled with Jayhawk paraphernalia as the photo of one tiny corner attests. The balloon was made by my late sister Bette and the embroidered Jayhawk is my work (amazingly so, given my lack of talent with a needle). I’d like to find a Blue Devil fan who would buy that small piece of the floor on which the 1991 NCAA championship game was played where KU lost to Duke 72 to 65. What was I thinking to spend good money on that bit of loser wood?
We’re pulling for our Hawks. I hope they win, but, if they don’t, I’ll remember the words of Hubert Humphrey (or was it Adlai Stevenson) when he lost the presidential election: "It hurts too much to laugh and I’m too big to cry." Doesn’t mean I won’t though.
Click HERE if you’d like to read my column entitled "Family boasts true blue (and red hot) Hawk fans" and HERE if you want to read "Showing one’s true colors not advisable in Missouri."
We’re pulling for our Hawks. I hope they win, but, if they don’t, I’ll remember the words of Hubert Humphrey (or was it Adlai Stevenson) when he lost the presidential election: "It hurts too much to laugh and I’m too big to cry." Doesn’t mean I won’t though.
Click HERE if you’d like to read my column entitled "Family boasts true blue (and red hot) Hawk fans" and HERE if you want to read "Showing one’s true colors not advisable in Missouri."
Spring!
Click on the chilly hyacinths for a larger image.
I snapped this photo yesterday near our front sidewalk on the last day of winter. Just the Friday before, Ray (bare chested) and I (not) walked at the lake in balmy 75 degree weather. Since then, we have hit the treadmill rather than brave temperatures in the 20s. This is typical Kansas weather and we are accustomed to it. We have learned there is real truth in the statement that if you don’t like the weather here, wait a day — or sometimes only an hour — and it will change.
Today, the first day of spring, the sun has melted the snow, but the temperatures are very cold. I am happy, however, because my photo of hyacinths in the snow reminds me that spring's coming will not be denied. I am ready!
Today, the first day of spring, the sun has melted the snow, but the temperatures are very cold. I am happy, however, because my photo of hyacinths in the snow reminds me that spring's coming will not be denied. I am ready!
Eat your heart out, Imelda!
Fuzzy crocs for winter; Crocbands for summer.
I received two pair of pink Crocs for my recent birthday, bringing my Crocs total to six pairs.
If God had equipped me with brake lights, I wouldn’t have a closet full of backless shoes that even Imelda Marcos would have envied. There’s everything from backless strappy heels to backless sneakers … all necessary because of an Achilles tendon injury suffered at Costco. I was wearing red Crocs and Ray was in his customary sharp-pointed-toe cowboy boots when I stopped abruptly and he didn’t, giving me a solid kick in my right heel. (Click on photos for larger images.)
If God had equipped me with brake lights, I wouldn’t have a closet full of backless shoes that even Imelda Marcos would have envied. There’s everything from backless strappy heels to backless sneakers … all necessary because of an Achilles tendon injury suffered at Costco. I was wearing red Crocs and Ray was in his customary sharp-pointed-toe cowboy boots when I stopped abruptly and he didn’t, giving me a solid kick in my right heel. (Click on photos for larger images.)
Only a centipede needs this many backless shoes.
I turned down offers to see a surgeon or have the bump on my Achilles drained with a HUMONGOUS needle. "Hey," I said, "people have had these injuries for centuries and they either got over them or became crippled. If I get to the point I can’t do what I want to do, then I’ll see a surgeon."
After visiting two specialists (one orthopedic diagnostician, one podiatrist), having multiple x-rays and months of therapy, my heel still hurt and a doctor ordered an MRI. The MRI report suspected a tumor . . . which speculation sent me to a surgical specialist, who diagnosed my bump as scar tissue. "As much as I like to earn my living doing surgery," that blessed surgeon said, "I wouldn’t do surgery on your heel. It would be purely cosmetic and would make your Achilles tendon much more likely to rupture."
It was a "no brainer" decision to do nothing. Time is a great healer and my Achilles no longer pains or limits me in any way. Sure, I still have a bumpy right heel but I can live with that. Several years later, though, I am still afraid to wear enclosed heels, resulting in all these backless shoes.
But I’m keeping all my shoes with enclosed heels. By the time I get up the nerve to wear them again, they’ll probably be back in style!
After visiting two specialists (one orthopedic diagnostician, one podiatrist), having multiple x-rays and months of therapy, my heel still hurt and a doctor ordered an MRI. The MRI report suspected a tumor . . . which speculation sent me to a surgical specialist, who diagnosed my bump as scar tissue. "As much as I like to earn my living doing surgery," that blessed surgeon said, "I wouldn’t do surgery on your heel. It would be purely cosmetic and would make your Achilles tendon much more likely to rupture."
It was a "no brainer" decision to do nothing. Time is a great healer and my Achilles no longer pains or limits me in any way. Sure, I still have a bumpy right heel but I can live with that. Several years later, though, I am still afraid to wear enclosed heels, resulting in all these backless shoes.
But I’m keeping all my shoes with enclosed heels. By the time I get up the nerve to wear them again, they’ll probably be back in style!
Bridging my fear
A bird's-eye view of the KU basketball court.
A bird's-eye view of the KU basketball court
The best sports photographer I know just admitted in print to being terrified of heights … especially when he must access the catwalks multiple stories high in KU’s Allen Fieldhouse. When Nick wrote that he worried whether the structural steel could support him, I had a flashback to the time I walked across the bridge spanning the Mississippi River from Davenport, Iowa, to Rock Island Arsenal.
I was in the area because I accompanied husband Ray on his week-long seminar in Davenport. That trip taught me that I could only visit so many art museums and antique shops before a boredom set in that even shopping couldn’t cure (surprised me!). I no longer remember, but I suspect I decided to walk across the bridge because I was afraid to drive across it.
It’s a long way across the Mississippi and I was well onto the bridge before I looked down and was startled to see the river flowing far beneath my feet. I was walking on a metal grating; worse, I had recently read about a woman who was killed by falling through the metal steps of an escalator. To my right, I saw a dam and wondered if I fell through the grating whether I could hang on to the dam wall long enough to be rescued. Did I mention that above me on the bridge were railroad tracks? As if I didn’t have enough to worry about with my concern the grating wouldn’t support me, I also had to worry whether the bridge would support me, cars AND a train. Fat chance of swimming to the dam if a train fell on me.
The best sports photographer I know just admitted in print to being terrified of heights … especially when he must access the catwalks multiple stories high in KU’s Allen Fieldhouse. When Nick wrote that he worried whether the structural steel could support him, I had a flashback to the time I walked across the bridge spanning the Mississippi River from Davenport, Iowa, to Rock Island Arsenal.
I was in the area because I accompanied husband Ray on his week-long seminar in Davenport. That trip taught me that I could only visit so many art museums and antique shops before a boredom set in that even shopping couldn’t cure (surprised me!). I no longer remember, but I suspect I decided to walk across the bridge because I was afraid to drive across it.
It’s a long way across the Mississippi and I was well onto the bridge before I looked down and was startled to see the river flowing far beneath my feet. I was walking on a metal grating; worse, I had recently read about a woman who was killed by falling through the metal steps of an escalator. To my right, I saw a dam and wondered if I fell through the grating whether I could hang on to the dam wall long enough to be rescued. Did I mention that above me on the bridge were railroad tracks? As if I didn’t have enough to worry about with my concern the grating wouldn’t support me, I also had to worry whether the bridge would support me, cars AND a train. Fat chance of swimming to the dam if a train fell on me.
The Government Bridge in motion.
I only had an extra long span to go when a warning horn sounded and metal gates blocked the pedestrian walkway and driving lanes. Then the end of the bridge swung sideways, leaving me trapped on a bridge that was no longer bridging the river. I was thrilled when the span swung back in place after a barge floated through the locks and I was able to continue my trek to Rock Island. Once there, I visited another museum and watched from the safety of the shore as a number of ships, barges and boats navigated the locks. I still remember the name of one boat: Our Tuition.
I spent the entire afternoon at Rock Island Arsenal, leaving only when I knew Ray would be returning to our hotel. The bad thing about walking to the island over the bridge was that I had to walk back across it to get to Ray and our hotel. The next day, Ray and I drove across the bridge to visit the island. It was still scary, but much faster than walking. Best of all the swing-span stayed in place.
If you would like to see a longer (and larger) time-lapse video of the bridge in motion click HERE. Don't blink or you will miss the train.
I spent the entire afternoon at Rock Island Arsenal, leaving only when I knew Ray would be returning to our hotel. The bad thing about walking to the island over the bridge was that I had to walk back across it to get to Ray and our hotel. The next day, Ray and I drove across the bridge to visit the island. It was still scary, but much faster than walking. Best of all the swing-span stayed in place.
If you would like to see a longer (and larger) time-lapse video of the bridge in motion click HERE. Don't blink or you will miss the train.
Snow no more!
Somewhere out there is a driveway.
Hard to believe that in late January, Ray and I were walking at the lake in 75 degree sunny weather when today, February 26, the ground is covered with our second foot of snow in five days. Snow no more, Mother Nature, I’m sick of the white stuff. Sure, it is pretty as long as we’re looking at the snow from the cozy indoors and do not have to go out in it. But there’s the rub, sometimes you do.
The bluebird provides a little spot of color in a gray and white world.
Ray used his little 4-wheel-drive Toyota pickup to make tracks down our long drive, but when he turned around and started up our hill, the tracks were already filled with snow. When it is snowing at the rate of a couple inches an hour with high winds, conditions resemble a whiteout. Ray was a frozen, unhappy camper when he came in after shoveling our driveway pad, but on our deck I noticed a little avian critter braving the elements who looked even more miserable than Ray. I titled the photo I snapped of him "The Bluebird of Unhappiness." (Click on photos for larger images.)
Silo of Love
Ray and I met in Miss Black’s English class when we were 14. I took one look at the cute black-haired, blue-eyed, deeply-tanned farm boy and decided he was the one for me. Way too lovey-dovey, I know, but I meant to post this on Valentine’s Day (I’m just a little late). We went steady all through high school — if you can call it steady when breaking up wasn’t really all that hard for us to do. We practiced it so much we made it into an art form. Thankfully, we got it out of our system before we were married.
When we were 16, Ray’s parents had a brand-new concrete-block silo erected at their farm. Ray told me that one of the workers, a former paratrooper, made it a practice to jump off every silo he worked on once it was completed. Then, figuring if that guy could do it, so could he, Ray jumped off the 35-foot silo. He related his feat to me, skipping the part about almost driving his knees through his chin when he landed in the big pile of sand.
"Neato!" I exclaimed, proud of him. And that, dear readers, is the difference between a girlfriend and a wife. As a wife, I would have said, "You idiot! You might have broken your neck!"
But that is not the reason this piece is titled "Silo of Love." The incident that prompted the title occurred when Ray and I crawled into the empty silo. And if you think you know what the incident was, I will bet you serious money that you are wrong.
As we stood inside the empty silo, I noticed a bird nest sitting on the rung of a built-in ladder leading up to the rounded top. "Hey," I said to Ray, "why don’t you climb up and see if there are any baby birds in the nest?"
When we were 16, Ray’s parents had a brand-new concrete-block silo erected at their farm. Ray told me that one of the workers, a former paratrooper, made it a practice to jump off every silo he worked on once it was completed. Then, figuring if that guy could do it, so could he, Ray jumped off the 35-foot silo. He related his feat to me, skipping the part about almost driving his knees through his chin when he landed in the big pile of sand.
"Neato!" I exclaimed, proud of him. And that, dear readers, is the difference between a girlfriend and a wife. As a wife, I would have said, "You idiot! You might have broken your neck!"
But that is not the reason this piece is titled "Silo of Love." The incident that prompted the title occurred when Ray and I crawled into the empty silo. And if you think you know what the incident was, I will bet you serious money that you are wrong.
As we stood inside the empty silo, I noticed a bird nest sitting on the rung of a built-in ladder leading up to the rounded top. "Hey," I said to Ray, "why don’t you climb up and see if there are any baby birds in the nest?"
My little piece of the Silo of Love.
Ray scaled the ladder, reached over his head into the nest and pulled out a yard-long blacksnake. I learned two important lessons that day. First, Ray will hold a snake about as long as Minnie Pearl’s brother will hold a hot horseshoe. Second, when someone drops a snake on you in a silo, there’s no place to run except in tight circles.
I know that many women make it a policy not to marry any man who drops a snake on them. But I obviously will, so that is love to me. I even have a souvenir of that silo. Although my illustration shows hearts, the actual silo had large white diamond-shapes in a band at the top. Decades later, when Ray’s family farm, once so far from town, was developed for residential homes, I rescued a piece of the silo after it was torn down. It is, after all, a part of the Silo of Love. Sweet memories . . . except for the snake part.
I know that many women make it a policy not to marry any man who drops a snake on them. But I obviously will, so that is love to me. I even have a souvenir of that silo. Although my illustration shows hearts, the actual silo had large white diamond-shapes in a band at the top. Decades later, when Ray’s family farm, once so far from town, was developed for residential homes, I rescued a piece of the silo after it was torn down. It is, after all, a part of the Silo of Love. Sweet memories . . . except for the snake part.
A memorable last bath
in Mom's tub
Filling Mom's tub for my bubble bath.
Last week our 80 gallon water heater, with a loud roar, turned into Old Faithful. I’m told that when your average water heater springs a leak, the water seeps out the bottom and, if you are lucky, runs down the drain. Ours wasn’t average. A small hole appeared in the top and the pressure sprayed water about 12 feet in every direction. Everything within range was soaked!
Ray, around the corner and out of range, was walking on the treadmill which makes its own noise and didn’t hear the water heater rupture. Once it was brought to his attention, he quickly shut off the water and called the plumber. Lenny diagnosed the problem as unrepairable and ordered a new water heater which would arrive and be installed the next day.
The good news was that, after he left, we had water. The bad news: it was cold water. No nice long pre-bed soak in a hot bath for me. It reminded me of the time when, after working a year to get my late mother’s house ready to sell, I told everyone that the night before closing on the sale, I was going to take a bath in the bathtub my parents had installed decades previously. The bathtub was square with seats on either side — large enough so that my sisters and I, when younger and in a hurry, often bathed together. (Click on photos for larger images.)
Ray, around the corner and out of range, was walking on the treadmill which makes its own noise and didn’t hear the water heater rupture. Once it was brought to his attention, he quickly shut off the water and called the plumber. Lenny diagnosed the problem as unrepairable and ordered a new water heater which would arrive and be installed the next day.
The good news was that, after he left, we had water. The bad news: it was cold water. No nice long pre-bed soak in a hot bath for me. It reminded me of the time when, after working a year to get my late mother’s house ready to sell, I told everyone that the night before closing on the sale, I was going to take a bath in the bathtub my parents had installed decades previously. The bathtub was square with seats on either side — large enough so that my sisters and I, when younger and in a hurry, often bathed together. (Click on photos for larger images.)
A very chilly bubble bath.
I drove to Mom’s house alone that night, brought a fluffy towel and bubble bath, filled the tub and stepped in for my long-anticipated "last bath in Mom’s tub." Problem was, I forgot that Ray had lowered the temperature on the hot water heater and the water was freezing! A smarter and less-determined woman would have abandoned the bath and settled for the foot test. Not I. I lay down in the tub and took a picture. I am still surprised that my shivering and teeth-chattering didn’t blur the photo and that my feet aren’t Smurf blue. My last bath in Mom’s tub was memorable in a way I didn’t expect.
By 10:00 a.m. the morning after our water heater rupture, we had a new water heater, hot water and $1,236.63 less in our checking account. It may have been some of the best money we ever spent.
By 10:00 a.m. the morning after our water heater rupture, we had a new water heater, hot water and $1,236.63 less in our checking account. It may have been some of the best money we ever spent.
Nothing but trouble from . . .
In a perfect world, no one would ever need a root canal. But we don’t live in a perfect world. However, I think in our imperfect world that root canals, once done, should last forever. They don’t. Who knew? Certainly not I.
If I told you how long ago I had a root canal on Tooth #30, you’d think I was talking in dog years … so I’ll only say that when I had it, both boys were still living at home. We were at a swimming pool when a small filling fell out of Tooth #30. The next day, the dentist replaced the filling. No big deal . . . until the tooth started to HURT. I had never had a toothache and was an unhappy camper on my return trip to the dentist. He said I needed a root canal but he only did single root canals, so he sent me to a dentist who did multiple root canals.
In case you have never needed a root canal, the procedure is to deaden the tooth (make that the whole side of your face), drill out the nerves in the roots and fill the canals with some unknown compound after which the tooth, sans nerves, is never supposed to hurt again. But mine did which necessitated another trip to the dentist who "opened it up" and left it that way for a couple of days before filling it once again.
In the decades that followed, I felt that something about the tooth wasn’t quite right, but I never had a jumping pain that would have landed me in a dentist’s chair for exploratory drilling. Ray and I are diligent about seeing the hygienist and dentist twice a year and between us have had enough dental x-rays to light up a small city, but no hygienist or dentist ever noticed anything unusual until recently when the tip of the back root of Tooth #30 looked cloudy. Cloudy, I learned, is not good. Cloudy means infection, bone loss. YUK!
You should know that I hate, hate, HATE going to the dentist. When I once said that to a dentist, he looked puzzled and replied, "But you are a wonderful patient."
"Sure," I agreed, "I lie in the chair, open my mouth, shut my eyes and do not move again until you say, ‘Okay, we’re done’ — but do you notice that the small of my back never touches the chair?"
Tooth #30’s infection sent me to an endodontist (a super dentist who does root canals and re-treats old troublesome root canals). If a plain old dentist scares me, imagine how much more a super dentist does. As a lawyer’s kid, I read every warning sheet anyone hands me. I shouldn’t have read the one at the endodontist’s office — very scary stuff about root surgery, broken instruments, all the things that might go wrong.
Happily, the worst part of the visit was the bazillion shots in the back of my mouth. The endodontist discovered three canals in Tooth #30, the first properly filled with the unknown compound, the second drilled but not filled at all, and the third canal undrilled and containing dead nerve tissue which caused the infection. Two days and a mere six aspirins later, I was feeling great! I am left with a healing Tooth #30 that doesn’t hurt and a lower lip that does where I bit it while deadened.
I hope you never need a re-treat on a root canal, but if you do I hope you purchased dental insurance. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.
If I told you how long ago I had a root canal on Tooth #30, you’d think I was talking in dog years … so I’ll only say that when I had it, both boys were still living at home. We were at a swimming pool when a small filling fell out of Tooth #30. The next day, the dentist replaced the filling. No big deal . . . until the tooth started to HURT. I had never had a toothache and was an unhappy camper on my return trip to the dentist. He said I needed a root canal but he only did single root canals, so he sent me to a dentist who did multiple root canals.
In case you have never needed a root canal, the procedure is to deaden the tooth (make that the whole side of your face), drill out the nerves in the roots and fill the canals with some unknown compound after which the tooth, sans nerves, is never supposed to hurt again. But mine did which necessitated another trip to the dentist who "opened it up" and left it that way for a couple of days before filling it once again.
In the decades that followed, I felt that something about the tooth wasn’t quite right, but I never had a jumping pain that would have landed me in a dentist’s chair for exploratory drilling. Ray and I are diligent about seeing the hygienist and dentist twice a year and between us have had enough dental x-rays to light up a small city, but no hygienist or dentist ever noticed anything unusual until recently when the tip of the back root of Tooth #30 looked cloudy. Cloudy, I learned, is not good. Cloudy means infection, bone loss. YUK!
You should know that I hate, hate, HATE going to the dentist. When I once said that to a dentist, he looked puzzled and replied, "But you are a wonderful patient."
"Sure," I agreed, "I lie in the chair, open my mouth, shut my eyes and do not move again until you say, ‘Okay, we’re done’ — but do you notice that the small of my back never touches the chair?"
Tooth #30’s infection sent me to an endodontist (a super dentist who does root canals and re-treats old troublesome root canals). If a plain old dentist scares me, imagine how much more a super dentist does. As a lawyer’s kid, I read every warning sheet anyone hands me. I shouldn’t have read the one at the endodontist’s office — very scary stuff about root surgery, broken instruments, all the things that might go wrong.
Happily, the worst part of the visit was the bazillion shots in the back of my mouth. The endodontist discovered three canals in Tooth #30, the first properly filled with the unknown compound, the second drilled but not filled at all, and the third canal undrilled and containing dead nerve tissue which caused the infection. Two days and a mere six aspirins later, I was feeling great! I am left with a healing Tooth #30 that doesn’t hurt and a lower lip that does where I bit it while deadened.
I hope you never need a re-treat on a root canal, but if you do I hope you purchased dental insurance. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.
Fifty shades of technology
Between us, Ray and I have three desktop computers, one laptop, two netbooks, an iPod and a Kindle Fire HD. Do we know how to use them to their full capabilities? Not a clue! If we didn’t have an IT son, we’d have Geeks on Wheels on a monthly retainer.
I regard computers the way I do my car. I know pushing on the accelerator makes it go and stomping on the brake pedal makes it stop. I don’t have to know HOW it does it and, furthermore, I don’t care. But the problem with computers is that I often achieve a result without knowing how I did it. Sometimes it is a result I want, other times not. So I am clueless if I want to repeat the action that brought me the result I want and equally clueless how to reverse it if it is a result I don’t want … which is usually the case.
Because of that, I could readily identify with our friend Heather’s problem. Heather is currently the owner of two Kindle Fires. She explains that she loved her first Kindle Fire so much that she bought each of her young sons Kindles of their own so she could upload their elementary school textbooks onto them. Sounds easy enough and after a lot of trial and error, she managed to do it and was pretty proud of herself once she had their school books locked in. Proud until she discovered that, in addition to her second-grader’s text books, she had also locked in her Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. She couldn’t figure out how to unlock and remove her three Fifty Shades books so she headed to the store and bought a new Kindle for him. Good plan since Fifty Shades was not on his approved reading list.
And there’s the rub. How do you get out of something if you don’t know how you got into it in the first place? In a recent panicky call to IT son, I explained that I had uploaded to my computer, by cutting not copying from my SD card, photos that I desperately needed for the newspaper I edit. When I couldn’t find them where I thought I saved them, a search revealed a bunch of internet shortcuts, one for each photo. I couldn’t open them and I couldn’t save them to another folder.
After having me try several procedures, IT son said, "Mom, put your SD card back in your computer. The photos will be there."
"No they won’t," I protested, "I cut them and they’re not showing up on the camera viewer."
"They are still on the card," he insisted.
And they were. Who knew? My IT son, that’s who. How smart we were to have him … and how lucky for him that pregnancy doesn’t require technology.
I regard computers the way I do my car. I know pushing on the accelerator makes it go and stomping on the brake pedal makes it stop. I don’t have to know HOW it does it and, furthermore, I don’t care. But the problem with computers is that I often achieve a result without knowing how I did it. Sometimes it is a result I want, other times not. So I am clueless if I want to repeat the action that brought me the result I want and equally clueless how to reverse it if it is a result I don’t want … which is usually the case.
Because of that, I could readily identify with our friend Heather’s problem. Heather is currently the owner of two Kindle Fires. She explains that she loved her first Kindle Fire so much that she bought each of her young sons Kindles of their own so she could upload their elementary school textbooks onto them. Sounds easy enough and after a lot of trial and error, she managed to do it and was pretty proud of herself once she had their school books locked in. Proud until she discovered that, in addition to her second-grader’s text books, she had also locked in her Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. She couldn’t figure out how to unlock and remove her three Fifty Shades books so she headed to the store and bought a new Kindle for him. Good plan since Fifty Shades was not on his approved reading list.
And there’s the rub. How do you get out of something if you don’t know how you got into it in the first place? In a recent panicky call to IT son, I explained that I had uploaded to my computer, by cutting not copying from my SD card, photos that I desperately needed for the newspaper I edit. When I couldn’t find them where I thought I saved them, a search revealed a bunch of internet shortcuts, one for each photo. I couldn’t open them and I couldn’t save them to another folder.
After having me try several procedures, IT son said, "Mom, put your SD card back in your computer. The photos will be there."
"No they won’t," I protested, "I cut them and they’re not showing up on the camera viewer."
"They are still on the card," he insisted.
And they were. Who knew? My IT son, that’s who. How smart we were to have him … and how lucky for him that pregnancy doesn’t require technology.
A letter to my spammers
Dear Viagra, Want a Hot Date, Cialis,
Phone Hot Babes, etc., etc., etc.,
I wish I could convince you and all the other spammers in my email inbox that I am a GIRL! And to the dozens of device and potion inventors who send email messages offering to enlarge a portion of anatomy that I do not possess, STOP IT! As for you, Cialis, I do not own even one claw-foot bathtub, let alone two, so you’re wasting your time!
Curiously, my husband doesn’t receive these shady email messages. I cannot figure out why I do, but I’m blaming the two times I have accidentally visited pornographic websites. The first time, I attempted to show my IT son a music site I liked. I typed in the address and up popped a bunch of naked ladies. "I see your mistake, Mom," he said cooly. "You typed wave instead of wav. Quite frequently, porno sites will use a name similar to a popular website, so if you make a mistake typing the address of that site, you’ll wind up on the porno site."
How embarrassing! Who knew?
Phone Hot Babes, etc., etc., etc.,
I wish I could convince you and all the other spammers in my email inbox that I am a GIRL! And to the dozens of device and potion inventors who send email messages offering to enlarge a portion of anatomy that I do not possess, STOP IT! As for you, Cialis, I do not own even one claw-foot bathtub, let alone two, so you’re wasting your time!
Curiously, my husband doesn’t receive these shady email messages. I cannot figure out why I do, but I’m blaming the two times I have accidentally visited pornographic websites. The first time, I attempted to show my IT son a music site I liked. I typed in the address and up popped a bunch of naked ladies. "I see your mistake, Mom," he said cooly. "You typed wave instead of wav. Quite frequently, porno sites will use a name similar to a popular website, so if you make a mistake typing the address of that site, you’ll wind up on the porno site."
How embarrassing! Who knew?
Zoe with Little Girlfriend dolls. Click for larger image.
The second time, I was looking for a "Zoe the Outdoor Explorer" doll for my little granddaughter, Zoe. But when I searched for the brand name of the doll — My Little Girlfriend — I turned up tons of porno site options.
It is true that the only email account (out of four) on which I get these suggestive messages is the one that was published in the newspaper so readers of my humor column could contact me. But readers knew my gender so I’m pretty sure they are not sending the unwanted offers. Readers who wrote were divided into two groups. My favorites were those who wrote to compliment my column or tell me about something similar they experienced.
Then there were those who wrote to complain: the snakes' rights guy who angrily objected to Ray killing a snake that attacked him, the body modification folks who furiously reacted to my column about piercings and wanted to tell me in graphic language exactly what (you wouldn’t believe it) they had pierced, and the woman who misunderstood my column in support of boys to mean that I was advocating "getting rid" of girls.
Of course I wasn’t doing that. As mentioned above, I AM A GIRL!
Take me off your list. Pleeeese! I’m begging you.
Sincerely,
Marsha H. Goff
Girl, not a guy
If you’d like to read the column about my accidental porno site visits, click HERE.
It is true that the only email account (out of four) on which I get these suggestive messages is the one that was published in the newspaper so readers of my humor column could contact me. But readers knew my gender so I’m pretty sure they are not sending the unwanted offers. Readers who wrote were divided into two groups. My favorites were those who wrote to compliment my column or tell me about something similar they experienced.
Then there were those who wrote to complain: the snakes' rights guy who angrily objected to Ray killing a snake that attacked him, the body modification folks who furiously reacted to my column about piercings and wanted to tell me in graphic language exactly what (you wouldn’t believe it) they had pierced, and the woman who misunderstood my column in support of boys to mean that I was advocating "getting rid" of girls.
Of course I wasn’t doing that. As mentioned above, I AM A GIRL!
Take me off your list. Pleeeese! I’m begging you.
Sincerely,
Marsha H. Goff
Girl, not a guy
If you’d like to read the column about my accidental porno site visits, click HERE.
Swiss Army knife not
always useful
Sure, it looks innocent now . . .
Husband Ray learned an important lesson on Christmas Eve: If you drop an open Swiss Army knife, do not, repeat NOT, try to catch it. He wouldn’t have had the knife out to begin with if those serrated strips on boxes which are designed to cut plastic wrap actually did the job.
Ray was wrapping plates of candy with sheets of clear plastic when the accident happened. The falling knife might have cut his finger off instead of just slicing it, so it could have been worse. Still, it was bad enough with lots of blood. I hate seeing blood! Especially when it is Ray's.
Son Greg, who was visiting with his family when the cruelest cut occurred, shared a similar story about a man he knew who was showing a friend a combat knife when he dropped it onto his sock-clad foot, severing two tendons. So what is it with guys and knives?
I bet there aren’t many women who have been hurt by knives they drop. I’ve dropped knives a few times and, for said knives to have injured me, they’d have had to chase me across the kitchen floor. It took only a nanosecond for me to put it in reverse and be far, far away when those knives hit the floor.
So listen to me and learn from Ray. If you drop a knife, retreat fast and far and let it fall. You'll be glad you did!
Ray was wrapping plates of candy with sheets of clear plastic when the accident happened. The falling knife might have cut his finger off instead of just slicing it, so it could have been worse. Still, it was bad enough with lots of blood. I hate seeing blood! Especially when it is Ray's.
Son Greg, who was visiting with his family when the cruelest cut occurred, shared a similar story about a man he knew who was showing a friend a combat knife when he dropped it onto his sock-clad foot, severing two tendons. So what is it with guys and knives?
I bet there aren’t many women who have been hurt by knives they drop. I’ve dropped knives a few times and, for said knives to have injured me, they’d have had to chase me across the kitchen floor. It took only a nanosecond for me to put it in reverse and be far, far away when those knives hit the floor.
So listen to me and learn from Ray. If you drop a knife, retreat fast and far and let it fall. You'll be glad you did!
The further adventures of
Huckleberry and Ray
This part of the lake is usually far under water.
Ray and I were so inspired by our hike to the island that we decided to walk another portion of the lake perimeter that is usually under water. Our goal was to walk along the shoreline to the western edge of Clinton Lake. Problem was, we started waytoo far east. (Click on photos for larger images.)
We learned the hard way that when you are walking away from your car — or in this case, Guppy Rojo, Ray’s beloved red four-wheel drive Toyota pickup — you should walk only half as far as you think you can. I don’t know how many miles we walked yesterday, but we were already exhausted before we turned back without reaching our goal.
We learned the hard way that when you are walking away from your car — or in this case, Guppy Rojo, Ray’s beloved red four-wheel drive Toyota pickup — you should walk only half as far as you think you can. I don’t know how many miles we walked yesterday, but we were already exhausted before we turned back without reaching our goal.
White head, white tail . . . it's a bald eagle!
Ray thought we didn't see as many neat things as we observed on our island trek, but we spied something we missed on the island. "Can you tell what kind of bird is in that tree?" Ray asked, pointing to a large bird perched in a dead tree far out in the lake. I couldn't identify the bird so I zoomed in and snapped this photo.
Pelicans and gulls on the other side of the lake (thank goodness for zoom).
Shell and shell.
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Deer track (we saw many which may explain the shotgun shell).
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We left this evidence of our time on the mud-cracked beach. It's just our form of "Kilroy was here."
Late in the afternoon, we found the overgrown path we had taken to the beach and were glad that Ray had marked the entrance with a screwdriver or we might still be trying to find it. Guppy Rojo was certainly a sight for sore eyes and tired feet.
Guppy Rojo waiting patiently for our return.
Tomorrow we may try to walk in the other direction . . . and then again . . .
Ray's Guppy Rojo really is beloved. If you don't believe me, you may click HERE to read "Husband maintains lifelong relationship with cars," a column in which Ray's love for Guppy Rojo is oh so evident.
Call me Huckleberry
That little tree-covered spot way out in the lake is our goal.
Have you ever yearned to do something for a long time and then, when you finally did, it exceeded your expectations? I had that experience a few days ago and it was fantastic! Clinton Lake, a reservoir with a surface area of 7,000 acres, where Ray and I frequently walk, has a small, round, tree-covered island far out in the lake. (Click on photos for larger images.) Last year, when I realized the drought had lowered the lake so much that we likely could access the island by walking to it, I began telling Ray that the Huckleberry Finn side of me would like to explore it.
He seemed cool to the idea until the other day when he suggested we give it a shot. We began our trek to the island via a path atop a breakwater that was clogged with weeds, brush and thorny trees. Huckleberry might have put up with that without complaint, but not I, so we exited down a pile of big rocks to a wide strip of land that is usually covered with water. I snapped photos of the remnants of human habitation (the lake covers many farmsteads): the crumbling foundation of a house or barn, an auto gas tank, tractor tires and pipes sticking out of the ground (I found one when I tripped over it).
He seemed cool to the idea until the other day when he suggested we give it a shot. We began our trek to the island via a path atop a breakwater that was clogged with weeds, brush and thorny trees. Huckleberry might have put up with that without complaint, but not I, so we exited down a pile of big rocks to a wide strip of land that is usually covered with water. I snapped photos of the remnants of human habitation (the lake covers many farmsteads): the crumbling foundation of a house or barn, an auto gas tank, tractor tires and pipes sticking out of the ground (I found one when I tripped over it).
I have more close-up photos than I'll ever need of iridescent clam shells and long-dead fish with empty eye-sockets. We were thrilled to see dozens of pelicans ranged along the perimeter of our little beach. I took many photos of them, forgetting to change the macro setting — terrific for taking close-ups of dead fish — on my camera. You'll just have to imagine how great this pelican photo would be were it in focus.
I suspect the whisky bottle I photographed was abandoned by a previous visitor (we saw footprint evidence) to the strip of land leading to the island. We dubbed one visitor Bigfoot after I fitted my Croc into his footprint in the soft dirt. But Ray and I had that land and island all to ourselves that beautiful unseasonably warm day (imagine 72 degrees on a Kansas November day).
Ray poses at the east end of the small island with the nearly 2-mile long dam in the background.
I photo-graphed Ray with a lure he found and pelican and goose feathers he picked up. I would have asked him why he picked up the feathers, but I was afraid he'd question why I have photos of a dozen dead fish.
We explored the island and the land leading to it long enough to sate my spirit of adventure. As we walked the long way around the breakwater back to our car, we passed a beaver lodge (I know that's what it was because the beaver exited as we neared it and swam away from us). And, yes, I also snapped a photo of him (or her, hard to tell), but he is just a small black dot in a really big lake. That is because I wanted to be sure he wouldn't return to his lodge and decide to bite me with those big, scary teeth that can chew down trees. I'm pretty sure Huckleberry wouldn't have been scared of a beaver, but then Huckleberry wasn't a girl, was he?
Proud as a peacock about our
family turkeys
Thanksgiving, with family gathered around the table, is a great time to learn about your ancestry … especially if your family, like mine once did, boasts a resident genealogist. Our family relied on our late sister Bette to tell us about the peacocks and turkeys roosting in our family tree. Ancestor turkeys, in my opinion, are far more interesting than ancestor peacocks.
Granddad Josh sans still.
Without Bette’s research, we would never have known why Great-grandad Joshua Henry left the hills of Somerset County, Pennsylvania in 1879 to travel by train to Kansas, with Grandpa Marsh a baby on his knee. The family’s sudden departure was caused by a dispute over stills (one of them Grandad’s). Threats were made, shots were fired and Grandad decided there was one too many bootleggers in them thar hills. I think that Grandad, a Civil War veteran, must have regarded bootleggers a much scarier foe than Johnny Reb.
Bette surprised all of us by reporting that Moses and Susan Johnson, Mom’s grandparents — along with Mom’s mother, aunts and uncles — were listed on the Dawes Commission rolls, showing them to be part American Indian. We were excited to discover we had the blood of Choctaw, Cherokee and Creek running through our veins, but disappointed to learn that our Indian heritage didn’t include oil rights.
In a photo Bette gave me, Great-grandma Susan’s left hand — missing two fingers — is prominently displayed on a table. She easily could have hidden the mutilation, but didn’t. Good for her! We would love to know how she lost her fingers, but that is knowledge we likely will never have.
Further, Bette learned that we have Huron (Mohawk) blood on Dad’s side of the family. No oil rights there, either. My late father never knew about the American Indian blood or we would have heard about it. He greatly admired Indians like Cochise, Chief Joseph, Sequoyah, Sacagawea and others … so much so that my sisters and I wanted to be Indians when playing Cowboys and Indians. Shortly before he died, Dad was attempting to learn the Sioux language to complement the German, French, Italian, Hebrew and Arabic languages which he spoke.
According to Bette, our family tree includes many peacocks, among them: William the Conqueror, Catherine the Great and Captain John Johnson. Also, Eystien the Noisy. (I don’t know who he is, but husband Ray says it figures I’d be related to someone with a name like that.)
Are you impressed yet? No? How about Anne Boleyn? Although the issue of Anne having a sixth finger on her right hand is still debated, Bette thought that’s why granddaughter Zoe was born with six fingers on each hand. A surgeon’s scalpel took care of Zoe’s extra fingers, which was way better than the body part poor Anne lost when Henry VIII found a new love.
When I asked Bette if we were related to any currently living peacocks, she named Dick Cheney as a distant relative. Attaining the office of vice-president certainly qualifies him as a peacock, but shooting a friend while hunting may signify he’s a turkey. The fact is most of us are a combination of peacock and turkey.
I recently read that Barack Obama, Sarah Palin, George Bush and Rush Limbaugh share a common ancestor. And there’s the rub: you can’t pick your ancestors. I’m sure most of those people would rather not claim relationship to one another.
My own knowledge of ancestors goes back only four generations: parents, grandparents, great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents. They are relatives I have known personally or, in the case of my greats and great-greats, through the writings they left. Those are the ancestors I love and care about.
My late cousin Patsy eschewed turtlenecks and asserted that we must have had a horse thief in our family who met justice at the end of a rope. If so, Bette never found him.
This year, I invite your family to join mine in a new Thanksgiving tradition: Celebrate your family turkeys!
Bette surprised all of us by reporting that Moses and Susan Johnson, Mom’s grandparents — along with Mom’s mother, aunts and uncles — were listed on the Dawes Commission rolls, showing them to be part American Indian. We were excited to discover we had the blood of Choctaw, Cherokee and Creek running through our veins, but disappointed to learn that our Indian heritage didn’t include oil rights.
In a photo Bette gave me, Great-grandma Susan’s left hand — missing two fingers — is prominently displayed on a table. She easily could have hidden the mutilation, but didn’t. Good for her! We would love to know how she lost her fingers, but that is knowledge we likely will never have.
Further, Bette learned that we have Huron (Mohawk) blood on Dad’s side of the family. No oil rights there, either. My late father never knew about the American Indian blood or we would have heard about it. He greatly admired Indians like Cochise, Chief Joseph, Sequoyah, Sacagawea and others … so much so that my sisters and I wanted to be Indians when playing Cowboys and Indians. Shortly before he died, Dad was attempting to learn the Sioux language to complement the German, French, Italian, Hebrew and Arabic languages which he spoke.
According to Bette, our family tree includes many peacocks, among them: William the Conqueror, Catherine the Great and Captain John Johnson. Also, Eystien the Noisy. (I don’t know who he is, but husband Ray says it figures I’d be related to someone with a name like that.)
Are you impressed yet? No? How about Anne Boleyn? Although the issue of Anne having a sixth finger on her right hand is still debated, Bette thought that’s why granddaughter Zoe was born with six fingers on each hand. A surgeon’s scalpel took care of Zoe’s extra fingers, which was way better than the body part poor Anne lost when Henry VIII found a new love.
When I asked Bette if we were related to any currently living peacocks, she named Dick Cheney as a distant relative. Attaining the office of vice-president certainly qualifies him as a peacock, but shooting a friend while hunting may signify he’s a turkey. The fact is most of us are a combination of peacock and turkey.
I recently read that Barack Obama, Sarah Palin, George Bush and Rush Limbaugh share a common ancestor. And there’s the rub: you can’t pick your ancestors. I’m sure most of those people would rather not claim relationship to one another.
My own knowledge of ancestors goes back only four generations: parents, grandparents, great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents. They are relatives I have known personally or, in the case of my greats and great-greats, through the writings they left. Those are the ancestors I love and care about.
My late cousin Patsy eschewed turtlenecks and asserted that we must have had a horse thief in our family who met justice at the end of a rope. If so, Bette never found him.
This year, I invite your family to join mine in a new Thanksgiving tradition: Celebrate your family turkeys!
VOTE — It’s the American
thing to do!
Old photo, but I still have the hat.
I descend from a long line of politically active citizens. My great-great-grandmother, Mary Hammond Sly, was active in the Women Suffrage movement. In her journal she wrote that a woman from her church asked her to "bake a chicken pie toward feeding the people on election day."
A few days later she wrote that if her minister was "too conscientious to vote for Women Suffrage, the church may bake its own chicken pie."
My father served our city as councilman and city commissioner and our state as a legislator. Back in the days when lawyers were prohibited from advertising (now those were the days), many new lawyers publicized their names by running for public office. While that wasn’t Dad’s primary reason — he already was a dedicated public servant — he may have thought a little extra name recognition wouldn’t hurt.
I’m glad campaigns then weren’t as vicious as they are now. Today’s ads make me wonder why all politicians aren’t in jail. The most negative thing that happened in Dad’s race was a flyer distributed by his opponent, a long-time incumbent, which implored the public not to vote for Dad because "we don’t want lawyers making our laws."
At a pre-election meeting sponsored by the League of Women Voters, my always courteous father approached his opponent, held out his hand, and said, "May the best man win."
"That’ll be me," his opponent replied as he turned away. When the rural vote reported first, putting Dad well behind his opponent, he graciously conceded the election. But his concession was premature. The city vote came in strong for Dad and he won!
Gotta go. We’re headed to the township fire station where we vote, then we’re going out for Chinese, after which we’ll celebrate our patriotism with a blizzard at DQ. We do not count calories on Election Day.
Click HERE if you’d like to read my column on elections: "Frogs, sacrificial lambs make strange political bedfellows."
And, if you're still game, click HERE for "Elections are meaner than they used to be."
A few days later she wrote that if her minister was "too conscientious to vote for Women Suffrage, the church may bake its own chicken pie."
My father served our city as councilman and city commissioner and our state as a legislator. Back in the days when lawyers were prohibited from advertising (now those were the days), many new lawyers publicized their names by running for public office. While that wasn’t Dad’s primary reason — he already was a dedicated public servant — he may have thought a little extra name recognition wouldn’t hurt.
I’m glad campaigns then weren’t as vicious as they are now. Today’s ads make me wonder why all politicians aren’t in jail. The most negative thing that happened in Dad’s race was a flyer distributed by his opponent, a long-time incumbent, which implored the public not to vote for Dad because "we don’t want lawyers making our laws."
At a pre-election meeting sponsored by the League of Women Voters, my always courteous father approached his opponent, held out his hand, and said, "May the best man win."
"That’ll be me," his opponent replied as he turned away. When the rural vote reported first, putting Dad well behind his opponent, he graciously conceded the election. But his concession was premature. The city vote came in strong for Dad and he won!
Gotta go. We’re headed to the township fire station where we vote, then we’re going out for Chinese, after which we’ll celebrate our patriotism with a blizzard at DQ. We do not count calories on Election Day.
Click HERE if you’d like to read my column on elections: "Frogs, sacrificial lambs make strange political bedfellows."
And, if you're still game, click HERE for "Elections are meaner than they used to be."
Backwards is not the way
to fall down stairs
If you had looked down these stairs the other night, you would have seen me lying crumpled at the bottom. Trust me: it is never a good idea to put it in reverse on stairs when you notice you’ve left a bedroom light on
. . . especially if you’re carrying a laundry basket full of clothes. (Click on photo for larger image.)
My brain didn’t keep track of my feet so I thought I was on the bottom tread, but, no, I was three or four stairs up. When I stepped back with my left foot, expecting to step on tile, I found only air, giving me time to scream loudly in anticipation of hurting myself. I landed on my left hip, hit my head on the door and somehow managed to injure my left foot and right wrist.
As I lay there taking stock of what hurt and what didn’t, I could hear Ray’s boots upstairs racing through the house as he hollered, "WHERE ARE YOU?"
When he finally found me, he said, "Let’s get you to the emergency room." I declined because, as it turns out, I wasn’t really hurt at all — No osteoporosis for me! — except for my pride. I suffered a little residual soreness, but not enough to stop us from walking our daily two miles the next morning.
This makes the second time I’ve tumbled down those stairs, the first time a decade or so ago when I was rushing down to open the back door for Ray to bring in a piece of antique furniture we’d just purchased. At the top of the stairs, I dropped my purse, decided it was prudent to check to make sure I wouldn’t tangle my foot in its strap and missed the first step entirely. I only had time to think "This is gonna hurt!" and make a grab at a spindle about half-way down which caused my only injury: a sprained thumb.
As a child, I lived with perpetual skinned knees, the result of my tomboy lifestyle. As an adult, I’ve only skinned my knee once (and tore my meniscus at the same time) when I tripped over a curb while running to take a photo at Yellowstone Park. I learned then that I needn’t have hurried because the bubbling spring could be relied on to stay put. My recent fall down the stairs taught me that, since I’m not equipped with backup mirrors, I should not go down backwards. So I won’t . . . anymore.
. . . especially if you’re carrying a laundry basket full of clothes. (Click on photo for larger image.)
My brain didn’t keep track of my feet so I thought I was on the bottom tread, but, no, I was three or four stairs up. When I stepped back with my left foot, expecting to step on tile, I found only air, giving me time to scream loudly in anticipation of hurting myself. I landed on my left hip, hit my head on the door and somehow managed to injure my left foot and right wrist.
As I lay there taking stock of what hurt and what didn’t, I could hear Ray’s boots upstairs racing through the house as he hollered, "WHERE ARE YOU?"
When he finally found me, he said, "Let’s get you to the emergency room." I declined because, as it turns out, I wasn’t really hurt at all — No osteoporosis for me! — except for my pride. I suffered a little residual soreness, but not enough to stop us from walking our daily two miles the next morning.
This makes the second time I’ve tumbled down those stairs, the first time a decade or so ago when I was rushing down to open the back door for Ray to bring in a piece of antique furniture we’d just purchased. At the top of the stairs, I dropped my purse, decided it was prudent to check to make sure I wouldn’t tangle my foot in its strap and missed the first step entirely. I only had time to think "This is gonna hurt!" and make a grab at a spindle about half-way down which caused my only injury: a sprained thumb.
As a child, I lived with perpetual skinned knees, the result of my tomboy lifestyle. As an adult, I’ve only skinned my knee once (and tore my meniscus at the same time) when I tripped over a curb while running to take a photo at Yellowstone Park. I learned then that I needn’t have hurried because the bubbling spring could be relied on to stay put. My recent fall down the stairs taught me that, since I’m not equipped with backup mirrors, I should not go down backwards. So I won’t . . . anymore.
Pheasants and peacocks, both
birds -- but not always!
In Autumn, my lawyer/politician father loved to hunt pheasants. He hunted with several groups of men, including a band of brothers, self-described as Missouri hillbillies, whose tendency to get into brawls kept Dad busy trying to keep them out of jail. We knew and liked all of the brothers and Dad said he learned more about biology and botany from them, unschooled as they were, than he ever learned in college courses.
Dad was on a hunting trip to Western Kansas with a group of businessmen and our female household was quiet that evening as we awaited his return. Mom was taking a bath, my sisters Lesta and Bette were in their bedroom and Vicki, a toddler, was sound asleep. I was alone in the living room, sitting on the couch doing my homework, when a loud knock at the door startled me.
We never knew when we answered the door whether we’d greet a US Senator asking for Dad’s support or a client who needed fast legal help. This time it was the third oldest of the band of brothers who I knew had also been pheasant hunting, though not with Dad. The man was obviously drunk and sobbing when I invited him to come in and sit down. "What’s the matter?" I asked as soothingly as a 14-year-old could.
"My wife has been unfaithful!" he blurted.
"Oh, no," I replied, denying the possibility.
"Yes," he cried, "when I left to go hunting I had five peacocks and now I only have three."
"You mean pheasants," I corrected.
Dad was on a hunting trip to Western Kansas with a group of businessmen and our female household was quiet that evening as we awaited his return. Mom was taking a bath, my sisters Lesta and Bette were in their bedroom and Vicki, a toddler, was sound asleep. I was alone in the living room, sitting on the couch doing my homework, when a loud knock at the door startled me.
We never knew when we answered the door whether we’d greet a US Senator asking for Dad’s support or a client who needed fast legal help. This time it was the third oldest of the band of brothers who I knew had also been pheasant hunting, though not with Dad. The man was obviously drunk and sobbing when I invited him to come in and sit down. "What’s the matter?" I asked as soothingly as a 14-year-old could.
"My wife has been unfaithful!" he blurted.
"Oh, no," I replied, denying the possibility.
"Yes," he cried, "when I left to go hunting I had five peacocks and now I only have three."
"You mean pheasants," I corrected.
"No, peacocks."
"Pheasants," I repeated, and looked up to notice Lesta standing in the archway to the kitchen. A year younger, and supposedly a year more innocent than I, Lesta’s eyes were as round as saucers and her mouth formed a capital O. It was then I realized that he did indeed mean peacocks . . . the kind that my sisters and I once found in Dad’s dresser drawer and tried to blow up, thinking they were white balloons.
At this point, Mom, freshly bathed and dressed, entered the living room and the man, still crying, turned to her to spill his marital woes. But, first, he motioned to Lesta and me, saying protectively: "You girls get out of here. You shouldn’t hear this."
"Pheasants," I repeated, and looked up to notice Lesta standing in the archway to the kitchen. A year younger, and supposedly a year more innocent than I, Lesta’s eyes were as round as saucers and her mouth formed a capital O. It was then I realized that he did indeed mean peacocks . . . the kind that my sisters and I once found in Dad’s dresser drawer and tried to blow up, thinking they were white balloons.
At this point, Mom, freshly bathed and dressed, entered the living room and the man, still crying, turned to her to spill his marital woes. But, first, he motioned to Lesta and me, saying protectively: "You girls get out of here. You shouldn’t hear this."
October's bright blue weather
The photo I snapped of this month’s colorful drive down our hillside causes me to believe that Helen Hunt Jackson said it best: Love loveth best of all the year October’s bright blue weather. I suspect it is the brilliant colors of the foliage that make the blue of the sky appear so intense.
Autumn was my father’s favorite season, but whether it was because of the vivid ever-changing colors or the advent of pheasant season remains in question. Likely it was both. Every afternoon after school I’d fly with him in his little plane over the hills north of town because he wanted to see how much the colors of trees had changed overnight. Sweet memories! I’ll bet you have some of your own, like jumping in a pile of leaves, carving a jack-o'-lantern or watching a high school football game on a crisp Autumn evening. I hope you glory in those memories and thoroughly enjoy this beautiful season.
Autumn was my father’s favorite season, but whether it was because of the vivid ever-changing colors or the advent of pheasant season remains in question. Likely it was both. Every afternoon after school I’d fly with him in his little plane over the hills north of town because he wanted to see how much the colors of trees had changed overnight. Sweet memories! I’ll bet you have some of your own, like jumping in a pile of leaves, carving a jack-o'-lantern or watching a high school football game on a crisp Autumn evening. I hope you glory in those memories and thoroughly enjoy this beautiful season.
Buddy the Tripawd
and other dogs
Regis loves living at the lake campground.
Regis loves living at the lake campground
One of the best things about walking at the lake most mornings are the dogs we encounter. Early last spring when the campground opened, we met this little cutie named Regis, owned by Sam, a volunteer, and his wife, Kathy. Today, as I snapped this photo, they were preparing their motorhome for the long trip home. (Click on photo for larger image.)
While I love dogs, I tend to be a coward around canines I don’t know by name. Being chased by a nameless growling Rottweiler with big scary teeth will do that to you. But dogs at the lake must be leashed, allowing me to brave even the fiercest looking and loudest barking dog . . . unless, of course, I can’t see a restraint. "Whoa!" I exclaimed to Ray, cowering behind him, "Is that dog loose?"
Turned out the big black Lab was loose and headed our way, but his owner quickly grabbed him and brought him over to politely introduce him to us as "Junior, who really likes people." Since we qualify as people, that meant he liked us and greeted us each morning with a big sloppy grin as long as he camped at the lake.
Buddy the Tripawd was loose the other day, but that was okay because we know him. We met Buddy, missing his back left leg to his hip, and his mom, missing one of her front legs, earlier this summer. I remember asking their owner if the dogs were Pointers. He said they weren’t, but they certainly look like my dad’s Pointer hunting dogs.
One of the best things about walking at the lake most mornings are the dogs we encounter. Early last spring when the campground opened, we met this little cutie named Regis, owned by Sam, a volunteer, and his wife, Kathy. Today, as I snapped this photo, they were preparing their motorhome for the long trip home. (Click on photo for larger image.)
While I love dogs, I tend to be a coward around canines I don’t know by name. Being chased by a nameless growling Rottweiler with big scary teeth will do that to you. But dogs at the lake must be leashed, allowing me to brave even the fiercest looking and loudest barking dog . . . unless, of course, I can’t see a restraint. "Whoa!" I exclaimed to Ray, cowering behind him, "Is that dog loose?"
Turned out the big black Lab was loose and headed our way, but his owner quickly grabbed him and brought him over to politely introduce him to us as "Junior, who really likes people." Since we qualify as people, that meant he liked us and greeted us each morning with a big sloppy grin as long as he camped at the lake.
Buddy the Tripawd was loose the other day, but that was okay because we know him. We met Buddy, missing his back left leg to his hip, and his mom, missing one of her front legs, earlier this summer. I remember asking their owner if the dogs were Pointers. He said they weren’t, but they certainly look like my dad’s Pointer hunting dogs.
If I had a dollar for every dog I have seen heist his leg at a tree this summer, I’d be well off. Easy for a dog with two back legs to do. It would be easy for Buddy, too, if he approached a tree from the right where he needn’t even heist his non-existent leg. But, no, Buddy moved up to a tree and heisted his left back leg to do his business (see illustration at right). "How’d he DO that?" I asked. "He doesn’t have a leg to stand on."
"He must be balancing on his front legs," Ray said.
"That," I agreed, "or he’s got the world’s strongest back muscles!"
Buddy’s owner appeared at his motorcoach door. "Is he bothering you?" he asked.
"No," I replied, "but he just baptized a tree by raising his LEFT leg!"
"I know. I think I ought to videotape him doing that and send it to America’s Funniest Videos."
I can’t wait to see Buddy on AFV. I’ll bet he wins the $100,000 prize.
"He must be balancing on his front legs," Ray said.
"That," I agreed, "or he’s got the world’s strongest back muscles!"
Buddy’s owner appeared at his motorcoach door. "Is he bothering you?" he asked.
"No," I replied, "but he just baptized a tree by raising his LEFT leg!"
"I know. I think I ought to videotape him doing that and send it to America’s Funniest Videos."
I can’t wait to see Buddy on AFV. I’ll bet he wins the $100,000 prize.
Lucy's "Gratitude Attitude"
I am really bad at guessing people’s age. Are you? How old do you think the woman in the photograph is?
This photo of Lucy, my late father’s older cousin, was taken in 2005 when she was 97 years old. Last Friday, Ray and I drove to Sabetha, Kansas, where we attended her graveside service. If you are quicker at math than I, you have already figured out that Lucy was 104.
Because Lucy lived in Colorado, we expected very few people would attend her service. Boy, were we wrong! And here’s the kicker: last May, Lucy traveled over 600 miles to Sabetha to attend her 86th high school reunion. Her daughter and granddaughter drove her around the small town in a car decorated with signs: CHEERLEADER! MY 86th HIGH SCH00L REUNION! At a reunion she attended several years previously, similar signs left observers awestruck. Many were overheard exclaiming, "What? That can’t be right!"
I shouldn’t have been surprised that so many people attended her service. Life wasn’t always easy for her. She was widowed as a young housewife and went to work to support herself and her daughter. But Lucy’s lifelong motto was "Gratitude Attitude" and she lit up every room she entered. She bowled on leagues well into her late 90s and visited the casinos well beyond that.
Most fitting, at her service, four Sabetha High School students — dressed as football player, soccer player, cheerleader and jeans-clad student — sang the school song for the alumna who, in addition to being a cheerleader, instituted the Pep Squad and helped initiate the school song still in use.
Here’s to Lucy and her long productive life!
This photo of Lucy, my late father’s older cousin, was taken in 2005 when she was 97 years old. Last Friday, Ray and I drove to Sabetha, Kansas, where we attended her graveside service. If you are quicker at math than I, you have already figured out that Lucy was 104.
Because Lucy lived in Colorado, we expected very few people would attend her service. Boy, were we wrong! And here’s the kicker: last May, Lucy traveled over 600 miles to Sabetha to attend her 86th high school reunion. Her daughter and granddaughter drove her around the small town in a car decorated with signs: CHEERLEADER! MY 86th HIGH SCH00L REUNION! At a reunion she attended several years previously, similar signs left observers awestruck. Many were overheard exclaiming, "What? That can’t be right!"
I shouldn’t have been surprised that so many people attended her service. Life wasn’t always easy for her. She was widowed as a young housewife and went to work to support herself and her daughter. But Lucy’s lifelong motto was "Gratitude Attitude" and she lit up every room she entered. She bowled on leagues well into her late 90s and visited the casinos well beyond that.
Most fitting, at her service, four Sabetha High School students — dressed as football player, soccer player, cheerleader and jeans-clad student — sang the school song for the alumna who, in addition to being a cheerleader, instituted the Pep Squad and helped initiate the school song still in use.
Here’s to Lucy and her long productive life!
Meeting cousins and making
waffles in Guthrie, Oklahoma
Mike, Ray, Marsha, Nancy, Picture Crasher (we have no idea who this woman is) and Naoma (Mike's wife). Sadly, both Mike and Nancy are deceased
(we don't know about the Picture Crasher.)
My mother was the youngest of 12 highly prolific children of Jacob and Maud Shellhammer (who were obviously pretty prolific themselves). Consequently, I have SIX cousins born the same year as I. Ray and I recently caught up with two of them in Guthrie, the Oklahoma town where Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise filmed portions of the movie Rainman — including one of my favorite scenes where Hoffman stops in the middle of crossing the street when the light DON’T WALK begins flashing.
I have such great childhood memories of Nancy and Mike. When my family visited Grandma and Grandpa in Coyle, Nancy’s home in the country was where I stayed so we could go down to the creek and try to find quicksand. As adventuresome as that sounds, I’m not sure we ever found anything but boggy ground, but WE thought it was quicksand.
As preteens, I stayed busy scaring myself reading Mike’sTales of the Crypt comic books, while Mike and my sister Lesta practiced one-upsmanship. I remember the time Mike dropped a water balloon on Lesta from his perch high in a tree. Lesta retaliated by smashing a ripe banana on his head. It took a while before he got revenge by locking her in the little pantry off Aunt Vera’s kitchen, then shooting a hose at her through the small window. Sure, Lesta, the pantry and kitchen floor were all water-logged, but Mike’s retaliation was so creative we talked about it for years.
While having dinner with my cousins at a restaurant was the best thing about our recent trip, the second best thing was the great complimentary hot breakfast at our motel. I LOVE those automatic flip waffle makers. I filled the paper measuring cup with batter and poured it into the waffle maker. When I lowered the lid and flipped the appliance to begin the cooking process, it quickly became apparent that I had used too much batter. As the tray underneath began filling with batter, I decided someone had substituted larger cups. Just then I noticed that the drips from the machine were starting to cook, looking like cave stalactites. When the beep signaled my waffle was ready and I flipped it over to remove it to the plate, the stalactites became stalagmites.
Photo illustration of my weird waffle.
A female traveler fixing a bowl of Cheerios stared in amused wonder at my waffle. When I learned that she was returning to Dallas from her 100-year-old mother’s funeral in Nebraska, I empathized and told her about my mother’s funeral. "I’d tell you how my family handles tragedy with humor," I said, "but you might think I’m weird."
"I thought you were weird," she said with conviction, "as soon as I saw your waffle."
Click HERE if you would like to read "Sometimes grins are hard to come by," the article about my family using humor to cope with tragedy.
"I thought you were weird," she said with conviction, "as soon as I saw your waffle."
Click HERE if you would like to read "Sometimes grins are hard to come by," the article about my family using humor to cope with tragedy.
Humor may make
sorrow bearable
Steve's ashes ride to Topeka in a cupholder.
When a loved one dies, there is so much to do that time seems to rush by in a blur. Operating on little sleep and incoming relatives, I tend to get slap-happy. Such was the case when husband Ray and I traveled to Topeka on behalf of our sister Bette’s siblings to settle her remaining expenses at the crematorium and cemetery.
Riding in our car’s cupholder was a small decorative personal urn that sister Vicki had purchased to hold some of her husband Steve’s ashes, then decided not to use. His ashes are in a larger urn, a portion of which were sent into Earth orbit when SpaceX’s Falcon 9 rocket blasted off from Florida last May. (You may read a story about Steve’s posthumous astronaut experience by clicking on Articles in the above navigation bar.)
Vicki, Ray and I were unsuccessful in our attempts to open the urn so we delivered it to the crematorium and asked the gentleman there to place some of Bette’s ashes in it for her daughter Sheli. He couldn’t open it either and said, "I believe something is in here."
"No," I replied confidently, "Vicki decided not to use it."
He shook the urn and we could hear that something (or someone, apparently Steve) was indeed inside. "It’s been filled and sealed," the gentleman said solemnly.
As we drove to the adjacent cemetery, I called Vicki and totally lost it when she answered and I tried to tell her that Steve’s ashes were in the little urn. Because I was simultaneously laughing and crying, it took three tries for her to understand me when I gasped, "We j-j-just gave S-s-steve a ride to T-t-topeka!"
It didn’t help that Ray commented, "He thinks his trip into space was much more exciting."
"He w-w-wants to go to the m-m-mall," I stammered.
"And Schlotsky’s," added Ray.
At home, Vicki was doubled over with laughter. "I gave away my husband?" she asked.
The small urn now has a place of honor next to the large urn on Vicki’s mantle and she purchased a small (and happily empty) urn for Bette’s ashes which Sheli now has.
Note: Not every family handles tragedy the way our family does, but it seems to work for us. Click HERE if you want to read "Sometimes grins are hard to come by," a column about how humor helped us deal with the tragedy of our mother’s passing.
_______________________
I much prefer to write the light and humorous articles you are accustomed to reading on this website, but life isn't always funny. I wish it was. On Thursday, August 9, my sister Vicki phoned to inform me that our sister Bette had died. I am sure that in the coming days our tears will be tempered by laughter as Lesta, Vicki and I remember our sister's irrepressible sense of humor and loving manner. This article is:
Riding in our car’s cupholder was a small decorative personal urn that sister Vicki had purchased to hold some of her husband Steve’s ashes, then decided not to use. His ashes are in a larger urn, a portion of which were sent into Earth orbit when SpaceX’s Falcon 9 rocket blasted off from Florida last May. (You may read a story about Steve’s posthumous astronaut experience by clicking on Articles in the above navigation bar.)
Vicki, Ray and I were unsuccessful in our attempts to open the urn so we delivered it to the crematorium and asked the gentleman there to place some of Bette’s ashes in it for her daughter Sheli. He couldn’t open it either and said, "I believe something is in here."
"No," I replied confidently, "Vicki decided not to use it."
He shook the urn and we could hear that something (or someone, apparently Steve) was indeed inside. "It’s been filled and sealed," the gentleman said solemnly.
As we drove to the adjacent cemetery, I called Vicki and totally lost it when she answered and I tried to tell her that Steve’s ashes were in the little urn. Because I was simultaneously laughing and crying, it took three tries for her to understand me when I gasped, "We j-j-just gave S-s-steve a ride to T-t-topeka!"
It didn’t help that Ray commented, "He thinks his trip into space was much more exciting."
"He w-w-wants to go to the m-m-mall," I stammered.
"And Schlotsky’s," added Ray.
At home, Vicki was doubled over with laughter. "I gave away my husband?" she asked.
The small urn now has a place of honor next to the large urn on Vicki’s mantle and she purchased a small (and happily empty) urn for Bette’s ashes which Sheli now has.
Note: Not every family handles tragedy the way our family does, but it seems to work for us. Click HERE if you want to read "Sometimes grins are hard to come by," a column about how humor helped us deal with the tragedy of our mother’s passing.
_______________________
I much prefer to write the light and humorous articles you are accustomed to reading on this website, but life isn't always funny. I wish it was. On Thursday, August 9, my sister Vicki phoned to inform me that our sister Bette had died. I am sure that in the coming days our tears will be tempered by laughter as Lesta, Vicki and I remember our sister's irrepressible sense of humor and loving manner. This article is:
In Memory of Bette
Bette June Henry Mallonee Hulser
Bette loved Facebook! It provided an outlet from her self-imposed isolation during the many years she cared for her son who succumbed to MS two and a half years ago. Bette gave up a challenging, well-paying job and turned her home into a hospital as Mike's illness progressed. We watched in amazement as she learned to feed him through a stomach tube and suction his breathing tube. And she did it all without any sign of resentment or self-pity.
Last Thursday afternoon Bette posted these words on her Facebook page.
Never take your loved ones
for granted because you never
know when their hearts will stop
beating, and you won't have
a chance to say goodbye.
Then she lay down to take a nap before dinner. It was a nap from which she didn't awaken. I remember the simple prayer we recited each night as children:
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
I like to think He did exactly that.
Note: Click HERE if you would like to read “For the Love of Mike,” a column about Bette and her son.
Last Thursday afternoon Bette posted these words on her Facebook page.
Never take your loved ones
for granted because you never
know when their hearts will stop
beating, and you won't have
a chance to say goodbye.
Then she lay down to take a nap before dinner. It was a nap from which she didn't awaken. I remember the simple prayer we recited each night as children:
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
I like to think He did exactly that.
Note: Click HERE if you would like to read “For the Love of Mike,” a column about Bette and her son.
The saga of Shaky Pig
During this morning’s walk, I noticed some small pink and white flowers and asked husband Ray to identify them. "Oh, that’s bindweed," he said, causing me to immediately think of Shaky Pig.
Long ago, when the boys were little and Ray’s parents were phasing out of farming and livestock, Ray decided to supplement our income by raising pigs in one of his folks’ vacated barns. He purchased six bred gilts (first-time mama pigs) and waited for piglets to arrive.
Unbeknownst to us, the bred gilts had a disease called lepto which causes pregnant pigs to abort or — if they carry to term — their babies, few in number, are stillborn or often non-viable. Ray expected litters of twelve, the number of teats on his soon-to-be mama pigs, and was hugely disappointed when they began delivering litters of three to five.
Long ago, when the boys were little and Ray’s parents were phasing out of farming and livestock, Ray decided to supplement our income by raising pigs in one of his folks’ vacated barns. He purchased six bred gilts (first-time mama pigs) and waited for piglets to arrive.
Unbeknownst to us, the bred gilts had a disease called lepto which causes pregnant pigs to abort or — if they carry to term — their babies, few in number, are stillborn or often non-viable. Ray expected litters of twelve, the number of teats on his soon-to-be mama pigs, and was hugely disappointed when they began delivering litters of three to five.
Ray feeds Chet Similac from a bottle.
One of the non-viable pigs, dubbed Chet, moved to our suburban home, drank Similac, ate corn chips, pushed my red shoe across the floor and became viable indeed. (Click on photo for larger image.) Poor Shaky Pig, neurologically injured shortly after birth when his mother laid on him, stayed at the farm. The veterinarian advised Ray to dispose of Shaky Pig and not waste food on him, but Ray refused, saying he couldn’t kill any animal that was trying to live by eating.
And Shaky Pig ate everything in sight, including bindweed. Given his tremor, Ray said Shaky Pig looked like a mowing machine, his head moving right to left, as he munched on his preferred bindweed.
Ray kept Shaky Pig through three more breeding seasons and didn’t sell him until — deciding the pig business wasn’t as profitable as anticipated — he sold all his pigs. When Ray took Shaky Pig to the sale barn, the pig had trouble getting from the truck’s tailgate to the loading chute. Trying to help him, Ray put his hand on Shaky Pig’s bottom to give him a boost and inadvertently ran his middle finger up Shaky Pig’s . . . uh . . . well, you know.
As Ray looked in dismay at his soiled finger, the sale barn owner shoved the consignment document toward him and handed him a pen. When Ray signed the paper and tried to return the pen, the man took one look at it and said, "No, that’s okay, you can keep it."
Shaky Pig sold for 75 cents — not per pound — total. I hope whoever bought him kept him for a pet and allowed him to eat all the bindweed he wanted.
And Shaky Pig ate everything in sight, including bindweed. Given his tremor, Ray said Shaky Pig looked like a mowing machine, his head moving right to left, as he munched on his preferred bindweed.
Ray kept Shaky Pig through three more breeding seasons and didn’t sell him until — deciding the pig business wasn’t as profitable as anticipated — he sold all his pigs. When Ray took Shaky Pig to the sale barn, the pig had trouble getting from the truck’s tailgate to the loading chute. Trying to help him, Ray put his hand on Shaky Pig’s bottom to give him a boost and inadvertently ran his middle finger up Shaky Pig’s . . . uh . . . well, you know.
As Ray looked in dismay at his soiled finger, the sale barn owner shoved the consignment document toward him and handed him a pen. When Ray signed the paper and tried to return the pen, the man took one look at it and said, "No, that’s okay, you can keep it."
Shaky Pig sold for 75 cents — not per pound — total. I hope whoever bought him kept him for a pet and allowed him to eat all the bindweed he wanted.
The night the closet fell
Night before last, about 2 a.m., a loud crash and a series of smaller ones awakened us. Husband Ray thought it was thunder. I was sure something had fallen. We searched the main floor of the house, seeing nothing amiss, until I opened the door of the walk-in closet. What a mess! (Click on photos for larger images.)
One side of five shelves had given way, spilling the contents of the top two shelves into the middle of the floor and crushing clothes on the bottom three shelves, as well as the blouses and short jackets hanging on the rod below.
There would have been no problem had the top two shelves contained clothing instead of an eclectic mix of heavy, breakable treasures. So, I’m wondering, what was the final weighty straw that caused the collapse? Was it the Jayhawk bobblehead? Or perhaps the iron I bought when Ray and I first married that I keep purely for sentimental reasons. I suspect that the heaviest item — and therefore the likeliest cause of the disaster — is the can of old coins that sat on the top shelf. It couldn’t possibly be the feather-weight plastic pump that blows up my exercise ball. Or the shoebox of empty jewelry boxes. The sack of Happy Birthday balloons weighed nearly nothing and certainly didn’t cause the nighttime havoc.
One side of five shelves had given way, spilling the contents of the top two shelves into the middle of the floor and crushing clothes on the bottom three shelves, as well as the blouses and short jackets hanging on the rod below.
There would have been no problem had the top two shelves contained clothing instead of an eclectic mix of heavy, breakable treasures. So, I’m wondering, what was the final weighty straw that caused the collapse? Was it the Jayhawk bobblehead? Or perhaps the iron I bought when Ray and I first married that I keep purely for sentimental reasons. I suspect that the heaviest item — and therefore the likeliest cause of the disaster — is the can of old coins that sat on the top shelf. It couldn’t possibly be the feather-weight plastic pump that blows up my exercise ball. Or the shoebox of empty jewelry boxes. The sack of Happy Birthday balloons weighed nearly nothing and certainly didn’t cause the nighttime havoc.
A few items awaiting placement on the newly-repaired closet shelves.
I was surprised by some items I picked up from the floor; many of which I had forgotten we owned . . . like the traveler’s alarm for use on hotel doors that I bought in a rash moment because it was on sale. And what is up with that Coke bottle? Why did I have that on the top shelf? Then there is that stupid neti pot I used one time to rinse my sinuses. I haven’t a clue why I thought that was a good idea, but I shelved the neti pot long before I read about two people who used tap water in theirs and died from the "brain-eating" amoeba Naegleria fowleri which enters the body through the nose
By early afternoon, Ray had the shelves back in place, secured by multiple toggle bolts, and I had reloaded the shelves with everything that hadn’t broken in the fall. Now I only have to worry about the 15 shelves and four drawers that are affixed to the other walls in the closet. I can’t speak for Ray, but, as for me, the next time something goes bump in the night, I hope it’s "goulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties." Wouldn’t take nearly so long to clean up!
Note: Click HERE to read my column about previous household repairs . . . including a toilet that had the potential to explode.
Note: Click HERE to read my column about previous household repairs . . . including a toilet that had the potential to explode.
Pretty red toenails: good on
a woman, but bad on a man
Last night, I used up all my miracles and persuaded husband Ray to massage my tired little feet. It was then — as he sat on the couch and I reclined on it with my feet in his lap — that he complimented my prettily painted toenails. Why, I wonder, did it take him so long to notice them when my natural state around the house is barefoot and, when I am shod, my summer shoes of choice are sandals?
"Would you like me to paint yours?" I asked. When he hastily declined my offer, I told him about the time my father scheduled a trip to Roaring River in Southwestern Missouri with some of his fishing buddies. They were leaving in the wee hours of the morning and Dad decided to snatch a few hours of sleep on the couch so he wouldn’t awaken Mom when he left.
As he snored away, Mom took the opportunity to paint his toenails bright red. He might have noticed the adornment had he turned on the light when his buddies came to pick him up. But, no, he pulled on his socks in the dark and hustled out to the car. After their four hour drive, the men stood along the river bank at dawn, waiting for the sound of the siren that announced the start of trout fishing. It was then that one man suggested they take off their boots and socks.
No one was more surprised than Dad to see his fire-engine red toenails. He was even more surprised when his buddies, acting as one, picked him up and threw him into the river. I have always believed it was a good thing that Mom was safely 225 miles away and that, by the time Dad returned, his clothes were dry and he was able to laugh about her joke.
Did he retaliate with a joke on her? It took years, but you bet he did!
When traveling by air,
timing is everything!
Have you ever checked your tickets while you and your husband were driving 60 miles to the airport and noticed that your flight was an hour earlier than you thought? Or been standing in a long security check line and heard last call for boarding for your flight? Don’t you just hate that?
Our $10/each early bird status on Southwest Airlines did us no good when we were the last two people to board … even though we shunned the cheaper satellite parking and left our car in the expensive center parking lot. We made our way down the aisle to the back of the plane. Only middle seats were left. I have nothing against middle seats (that’s where I’m always parked) as long as Ray is beside me . . . because it is absolutely essential that I have a death grip on him during takeoffs and landings.
Turning around, we walked to the front of the plane where two men occupied aisle and window seats at the bulkhead. We must have looked pitiful, because, without our asking, the man at the window stood up and graciously relinquished his seat. I could have kissed him!
The only other time we almost missed a plane was on the last leg of a flight returning from Cancun with sister Lesta and brother-in-law Dick. We had a bit of a dust-up with security in Mexico when they unpacked my new embroidered tote filled with protectively wrapped purchases because they were curious about a souvenir at the very bottom. I blame the little guy resting on the tote in the above photo. (Click on photo for larger image.) Once the guard examined the small stone jaguar I had purchased in Tulum, he astonished Dick by following Ray’s admonition to carefully repack the tote in the same order.
We breezed through customs in Houston, flew to Chicago where we had three hours to wait until our flight to Kansas City. Dick and Lesta weren’t flying to California until the next day so we accepted their invitation to wait in their hotel room instead of at the airport. Near time to board the bus back to O’Hare, Ray — the only one among us who hadn’t been a victim of Montezuma during our two weeks in Mexico — learned that he hadn’t escaped the emperor’s revenge after all.
I frantically pounded on the bathroom door, exclaiming, "The bus is LEAVING!"
And Ray replied, "I . . . DON’T . . . CARE!"
A second bus took us to the airport with minutes to spare. We hurried to our gate where security agents decided they, too, needed to look at the jaguar at the bottom of my tote. Once they examined him, they left repacking up to me. I tossed my treasures in the tote and we took off running. Out of breath, we boarded our plane, found our seats, buckled in and were airborne.
Later, we speculated why my jaguar sparked so much interest from both Mexican and American security agents. I thought they may have suspected I was smuggling an artifact, but a law enforcement friend guessed that they believed I had drugs concealed in him. You would think security agents would recognize that I was too much of a goody-two-shoes to do either. However, I’ve never met a smuggler so perhaps they all look like me.
Click HERE if you would like to read a column about my first commercial airline flight.
Our $10/each early bird status on Southwest Airlines did us no good when we were the last two people to board … even though we shunned the cheaper satellite parking and left our car in the expensive center parking lot. We made our way down the aisle to the back of the plane. Only middle seats were left. I have nothing against middle seats (that’s where I’m always parked) as long as Ray is beside me . . . because it is absolutely essential that I have a death grip on him during takeoffs and landings.
Turning around, we walked to the front of the plane where two men occupied aisle and window seats at the bulkhead. We must have looked pitiful, because, without our asking, the man at the window stood up and graciously relinquished his seat. I could have kissed him!
The only other time we almost missed a plane was on the last leg of a flight returning from Cancun with sister Lesta and brother-in-law Dick. We had a bit of a dust-up with security in Mexico when they unpacked my new embroidered tote filled with protectively wrapped purchases because they were curious about a souvenir at the very bottom. I blame the little guy resting on the tote in the above photo. (Click on photo for larger image.) Once the guard examined the small stone jaguar I had purchased in Tulum, he astonished Dick by following Ray’s admonition to carefully repack the tote in the same order.
We breezed through customs in Houston, flew to Chicago where we had three hours to wait until our flight to Kansas City. Dick and Lesta weren’t flying to California until the next day so we accepted their invitation to wait in their hotel room instead of at the airport. Near time to board the bus back to O’Hare, Ray — the only one among us who hadn’t been a victim of Montezuma during our two weeks in Mexico — learned that he hadn’t escaped the emperor’s revenge after all.
I frantically pounded on the bathroom door, exclaiming, "The bus is LEAVING!"
And Ray replied, "I . . . DON’T . . . CARE!"
A second bus took us to the airport with minutes to spare. We hurried to our gate where security agents decided they, too, needed to look at the jaguar at the bottom of my tote. Once they examined him, they left repacking up to me. I tossed my treasures in the tote and we took off running. Out of breath, we boarded our plane, found our seats, buckled in and were airborne.
Later, we speculated why my jaguar sparked so much interest from both Mexican and American security agents. I thought they may have suspected I was smuggling an artifact, but a law enforcement friend guessed that they believed I had drugs concealed in him. You would think security agents would recognize that I was too much of a goody-two-shoes to do either. However, I’ve never met a smuggler so perhaps they all look like me.
Click HERE if you would like to read a column about my first commercial airline flight.
For 15 years, I wrote a humor column titled Jest for Grins for my local Lawrence, Kansas Journal-World
newspaper.While I stay busy with speaking engagements, writing articles and books and serving as editor and primary writer of a newspaper for a non-profit agency, I really miss writing about the funny things life throws my way. This website allows me to do that.
I freely admit to being a control freak who wants to do things on my own, but my good friend Ruth has been a tremendous help to me. I kept trying to make this website perfect before publishing, but finally decided that was like waiting to have children until you can afford them: it will never happen. So here it is; you'll get to watch it improve.
If you develop into a frequent Jest for Grins visitor, you'll quickly become familiar with my usual cast of characters: husband Ray, sons Ray, Jr. (aka Butch) and Greg, daughters-in-law Linda and Valerie, grandchildren B.J., Gabe, Sammi and Zoe, sisters Lesta, Bette and Vicki, as well as a host of family and friends (not one of whom is boring). If the topic has the potential to be embarrassing to them, be assured that they read it and gave it their OK (otherwise, sister Lesta has threatened to sue me).
Marsha
newspaper.While I stay busy with speaking engagements, writing articles and books and serving as editor and primary writer of a newspaper for a non-profit agency, I really miss writing about the funny things life throws my way. This website allows me to do that.
I freely admit to being a control freak who wants to do things on my own, but my good friend Ruth has been a tremendous help to me. I kept trying to make this website perfect before publishing, but finally decided that was like waiting to have children until you can afford them: it will never happen. So here it is; you'll get to watch it improve.
If you develop into a frequent Jest for Grins visitor, you'll quickly become familiar with my usual cast of characters: husband Ray, sons Ray, Jr. (aka Butch) and Greg, daughters-in-law Linda and Valerie, grandchildren B.J., Gabe, Sammi and Zoe, sisters Lesta, Bette and Vicki, as well as a host of family and friends (not one of whom is boring). If the topic has the potential to be embarrassing to them, be assured that they read it and gave it their OK (otherwise, sister Lesta has threatened to sue me).
Marsha