New Year's Promise

Since becoming a blogger, I find myself reading and analyzing other blogs. I probably should have done that before I started blogging, but I am quite sure I would have been too intimidated to begin so I guess it all worked out in the end. I have no right whatsoever to be critical of other blogs but I have noticed a few features that can be a bit annoying.

One is the choice of advertisement styles. I understand that the only way to make a living at this business is to make it a business and that means having ads splashed across one's blog. I just don't want to read a blog that includes flashing, twirling or blinking ads hawking my attention. No words of wisdom are worth that kind of abuse in my estimation. A few tasteful ads placed along the edges of a blog is really all one should have to cope with during a reading experience.

The second annoyance button for me is the word "journey."  Many blogs invite their readers to join them on their journey as they:
a. bake pastries from Grandma's cookbook.
b. care for an adopted 3-legged dog.
c. find peace in fitness.
d. eat paleo, gluten-free and organic meals.
e. balance work, photography, writing cookbooks, raising kids and never sleeping.

No thank you. I will let those folks walk the road on their own. I like bacon, 4-legged cats and sitting.

A third red flag for me is reading paragraphs that are sprinkled with strike throughs and hashtags. Certainly blogging is a writing style that allows for a great deal of literary and grammatical freedom (I am exhibit A), but I need a little more formality so I don't feel like I am reading another paper from my 7th graders. Leave the strike throughs for editing and the hashtags for tweeting.

Finally, I bypass blogs that have formats that are hard on my old eyes. Fancy schmancy backgrounds can be a distraction if they are not balanced with the site's color scheme and font choices. Too many pictures and too little writing can also make my head spin with scrolling and re-focusing.

Therefore, my New Year's pledge to you, dear readers, is that this blog will never have twirling ads that promise to bust belly fat in 5 days. I will not use editing marks to get my point across. I won't use hashtags for effect because, quite frankly, I don't really know what a tweet is. And above all, I will not ask you to join me on a journey to somewhere, doing something that doesn't sound fun.

You, of course, are invited to join me for a cup of coffee and a bag of chocolate chips any day of the week. That's a promise I can keep.

Happy New Year!

Gifting

I am gifting challenged, plain and simple. The world of retail is a baffling and anxiety-ridden place for me and I tend to avoid such activity if at all possible. Gift cards and good old-fashioned cash are my go-to friends when I am faced with holidays, weddings and other such celebrations.

Despite my retail insecurities, there are times when I think I know a gift dud when I see one. Here are a few on my radar.

1) Duck Dynasty Chia Pet--My husband is a huge fan of the Duck boys but I think he would prefer a duck call over a sprouting figurine. Yes, you get your choice of watching Si or Willy grow a green beard, but is this how you want to spend your money and time? Buy a window herb garden if you feel the need for green and DVR your favorite episode so you can watch Si deliver Si-isms rather than Chia sprouts.

2) Ear Wax remover--I saw this jewel on a list of gift ideas in one of our local ads. Somehow I equate an ear wax remover with a nose hair trimmer. Personal, yes. Creepy, double yes. Grooming tools are best left out of the gifting arena in my estimation.

3) Sound amplifier (a.k.a rechargeable hearing aid)--Goodness me. It's bad enough to lose one's faculties, but to receive such an item as a gift is tantamount to pasting an "I'm feeble" placard on someone. Continue to yell at us old folks and leave it at that.

4) Tins--These are often filled with various delectables such as popcorn, candies and fruitcake. And of course, there is the added bonus of having something decorative when one is finished with the treat. And therein lies the problem. When was the last time you wanted to use a rust prone tin for decorating? Let Currier and Ives snazz up your greeting cards and call it good.

5) Gadgets--Cookie presses, salad shooters and Belgian waffle makers promise  to make your life tastier. And your counters full of clutter. Unless you know someone who has excess square footage for such gifts, beware. (Full disclosure: I have a Belgian waffle maker and love every syrup-laden moment it provides. It's nestled by the flashlights in my back closet.)

6) 96-count eyeshadow palette (not making this one up, folks)--If you want to look like one of my seventh graders experimenting with fashion, this is the gift for you. Personally, I don't think there's an eyelid out there that needs more than two or three tasteful adornments. I suggest leaving this wheel of color on the retailer's shelf.

7) Candles the size of tree trunks--Yes, they meet the under ten dollars criteria. No, I don't want my house to smell like pine cones for six years. They also get very difficult to light after they start imploding. A few simple votives are more practical and one doesn't need to adopt a life long fragrance.

Please forgive me if you've already purchased one of the above items for your loved ones. As stated earlier, I'm a gift selecting idiot and not to be trusted. And no worries if you've wrapped up a salad shooter for me. My Belgian waffle maker needs a friend and I'm not afraid to re-gift if I can find a gift bag that is the right size.

Happy shopping!

Traditions

I gave my staff time off for the Thanksgiving holiday which meant that the bulk of the cooking was left up to me. And if you believe I actually have a staff, you might believe in Norman Rockwell feasts as well. My guess is that many of you belong to a family like mine, one that operates in organic spasms of change and revision. We don't follow a script that always includes perfectly roasted turkey, lumpless gravy and homemade pumpkin pie being served to a beaming family of impeccably groomed recipients.

There was a time when we gathered together as a large family unit with both my parents, all six of my siblings, the spouses and the grandkids. Extra tables were set up and bowls and bowls of food were passed. The little ones squirmed as we coaxed them into trying a little bit of the sweet potato dish and maybe a cranberry or two. The adults kept their forks and mouths in motion as food and conversation flowed throughout the afternoon. Snoozes in the easy chair (by the menfolk, if I recall correctly) were followed by more pie.

Time marches on and the feasts continue to change. Grandkids marry and have families of their own. Siblings move around the world from Peru to Papua New Guinea. Black Friday inches its way into Thursday's festivities. And, in the Midwest, the weather doles out the final verdict for all travelers.

This year, the cast of characters included two nephews from Peru, a nephew and his wife from North Carolina, my mother and mother-in-law, my husband, my brother and me. The setting was grandma's kitchen table near a large picture window with a grand view of her backyard birds. The dialogue was all improvised as we sampled our way through turkey, cornbread stuffing, orange jello and pumpkin dessert with Cool Whip. Intermission included a little TV football, more conversation and maybe a quick nap before the next round of snacking.

Norman Rockwell we might not be, but willing to keep the drama alive, that we can do. Whether you are gathering around tables full of kids and centerpieces or eating Chinese takeout with a few friends, rest assured, blessings can be found for the grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

My kitchen the day before Thanksgiving. Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart!

Here is a favorite pumpkin dessert of mine. I clipped it out of a newspaper the year the dinosaurs disappeared. Enjoy.

Pumpkin Dessert

Crust:

1 box yellow cake mix

1 beaten egg

½ c. margarine, melted

Remove 1 cup of cake mix and set aside. Add egg and margarine to rest of mix.  Place in bottom of greased 9x13 pan.

Filling

1 (15 oz,) can of pumpkin

¾ c. sugar

1-2 teaspoons apple pie spice

2 large eggs

1 (12 oz.) can evaporated milk
pinch of salt

Mix pumpkin, sugar, salt and spices thoroughly. Add other ingredients and mix well. Pour over crust.

Topping:

1 c. reserved cake mix

½ c. sugar

1 tsp. cinnamon

2 Tbs. margarine (melted)

Mix and sprinkle over filling. Bake at 350 degrees for 45-50 minutes. Serve with whipped cream.

Country Mouse

Even though I have spent the majority of my life in urban settings, I still consider myself a country girl. Modern day interpretations of what it means to be a country girl often imply all things wholesome and tenacious. My perception of such a classification differs a bit. For me, being a country girl is an awkward, naive feeling that bubbles up whenever I'm thrown into a situation that feels urban and sophisticated.

Mind you, the urban setting I started my married life in was a town of 1,000 people. Hardly a bustling metropolis, but worlds away from the country house I grew up in that looked out on to the prairie. Night sounds in the country were filled with the banging of hog feeder lids and the rustlings of wildlife scurrying about. A towering yard light was the sentinel of security and illumination on our farm place. The day began with hearty breakfasts, ended with satisfying suppers and included two lunches and a dinner in between. We didn't worry about eating fat, clearing sidewalks or wearing the wrong shoes after Labor Day. The demands of the day were dictated by the needs of a farm family. There were garden beans to be picked, chickens to be butchered, peaches to be canned and weeds to be subdued. Meal preparation relied on the farmhouse cache and the weekly trip to the nearest town's lone grocery store. Life wasn't glamorous. Just necessary and practical.

Life in the city has a different heartbeat. There is a communal interdependence that demands a skill set that occasionally baffles me. If snow falls, one has 48 hours to get it removed. The sidewalk you paid for doesn't belong to you, it belongs to the city. Vegetation is more aesthetic than utilitarian. Water, fertilizer and weed control are used to maintain the look that neighborhoods demand. Retail centers are tucked into every available space, beckoning all passersby to come in and make a purchase. Streetlights punctuate the night with never ending illumination and vehicles rumble by no matter the hour on the clock. Wildlife sounds are limited to a few chattering birds and an occasional barking dog. Daily meals can be easily accessed with a trip to the nearest drive-thru, upscale restaurant or neighborhood grocery store. Supper is called dinner, dinner is called lunch and lunch is called break time.

Truth to be told, my years of urban living have softened me. I do not kill chickens for my dinner. I buy them in prepackaged trays at a grocery store that is less than two minutes from my house. I don't worry about getting into town because of the latest snowstorm. Snowplows are scraping by my house within 48 hours of a winter weather event. I don't need to milk a cranky cow for my dairy requirements. I can choose from 1%, 2% and skim (nasty stuff, I might add). I can find a gas station every few blocks when my vehicle is rolling along on fumes. I don't need to call the fuel company to make a trip into the country to fill a bulk gas tank for me.

Every once in awhile, though, I am reminded that I am just a little country mouse visiting the big city. My package of pre-cut chicken never includes the gizzard, a favorite of mine. When I step outside my front door I know that I will mostly like encounter human beings other than my family so it's time to put on a happy face and say, "Hi, how are you?"  My backyard is not a section of cropland, it is a tiny rectangle of carefully manicured grass.

So, whether I am in the city or the country, it is probably wise to remember the advice of Aesop's little rodent, "It is better to have beans and bacon in peace than cakes and ale in fear."

Daybreak

There is a serene promise that comes with a sunrise. In the early morning glow of the soft velvety light, we have a sneak peek into the possibilities that are ours for the taking. No matter how long or dark or harsh the night hours are, a new day is kissed with the hope of better things to come. Yes, I love sunrises. Not the kind where I hike to the top of some plateau in Namibia and wait for a burst of solar epicness to appear before me. I'm more in love with that moment of the day when it is just me, my cup of coffee and the gentle washing of light sneaking in through the window panes.

The winter hours are best. There is plenty of time to have the coffee made and  all senses firing before dawn releases its first hiccup of light. The birds join me in revelry as they gossip away about the latest happenings in birdland. A few ravens announce their presence with piercing caws and fly-bys. Service trucks and buses rumble into action. Folks blearily grab newspapers off their front steps and dogs of all sizes tug at their leashes while their owners (servants) gingerly follow behind.

Sunrises on vacation are certainly the easiest to behold and savor. The start of a new day among the Ponderosa pines begins with the sprinkling of light filtering its way in with muted color palettes. Sunrises over the ocean glisten off the incoming waves with reflected contortions. Lakes provide the perfect mirror for a double exposure of light popping forth. Mountains play peek-a-boo with the first light of day while wide open prairies give ostentatious views of the action on the horizon.

My most memorable sunrise, however, did not happen in any place exotic or particularly notable. It was on a Saturday morning in the parking lot of my local grocery store. I like to finish my weekly grocery shopping trip before the rest of the city wakes up. That means I am meandering down the bread aisle visiting with the delivery folks before the break of day. One particular morning, I exited the grocery store and was immediately greeted by an array of color tones that I believe are impossible to create by human hands. The colors enshrouded the car wash across the street, changing the ubiquitous building into a work of art. The swirl of radiance was jaw-droppingly glorious and challenging to the senses. I stopped for a moment and inhaled the beauty of the moment, thanking my Creator for such a wondrous gift during such a mundane task.

Life is funny that way. We bump along through our everyday tasks, doing whatever is on our to-do lists and then suddenly, without warning, we are greeted with the light of newness. Sometimes it happens in bursts of grandeur, but more often than not, it slips in through our windows with unpretentious potential, reminding us that it's okay to let the darkness go for awhile.

Piano Lessons

My very wise mother made sure that I, as well as my brothers and sisters, took at least a few piano lessons so we wouldn't be completely illiterate in the world of music. I don't want to point fingers, but I'm afraid some of her money was wasted on a few of us (sorry, little bro). I must confess that I, too, had moments of rebellion as I occasionally posted "I Quit" signs around the house, hoping my mother would reconsider her investment on such a recalcitrant child. Alas, she ignored my pleas for keyboard freedom and for that I am forever grateful. To this day, playing piano is one of my greatest joys.

Not to say that the journey was easy. My first round of lessons began with a short hike from my elementary school once a week to an old two-story house. I was always sure lightning was going to strike me at any moment as I entered the creaky, dimly lit, smoky interior. Mrs. S. had been teaching little Mozartlings for many, many years by the time I arrived on the scene and I think she was beginning to wane in enthusiasm. I handed her my quarter and started what I hoped would be a successful rendition of My Birthday Party from John Thompson's bright red Teaching Little Fingers To Play. Sometimes I performed my lessons with all the finesse of a fourth grader who had practiced before my arrival and other times, it was quite obvious that I had been lax in my obligations. One particular memory involved me struggling away on a piece that I had no love for (Song of the Volga Boatman, ugh) and just as I was about to hit one more misguided note, I saw Mrs. S. reach for my hand and quickly give me a rap on the wrist. I guess she had hit her quota of sour notes for one day and I was the lucky target. Needless to say, I proceeded with caution after that event.

Two more teachers followed Mrs. S. and I learned more than just piano lessons from each of them. Mrs. VB. made sure my sister and I knew how to play piano without looking down at our fingers. We were given a bib-like drape that covered our hands and asked to play one of our pieces for her. This was before Snapchat so there are no pictorial records of such a fashion statement. I think the bib marked the end of one of my sister's musical career, however. I learned that not all of us are born with the same gene for piano practicing. I moved on to the next teacher by myself.

Mrs. St. was my final piano teacher. She introduced me to the incessant and unwavering tick-tock of the metronome. Rhythm is and always will be my nemesis. I prefer a more free-spirited approach to the keyboard, rubato if you please. Despite my protests, I began each lesson with a series of scale repetitions, synchronized with an ever increasing metronome speed. I probably deserved a few raps on the wrist for my feeble attempts in the beginning, but I somehow managed to work my way through a few years of a very disciplined approach to the art of playing piano. I learned that playing Chopin doesn't start with Chopin. It starts with good old-fashioned drill and skill. Lots of it.

I regret that I never took the time to thank my past teachers (and my mother!) enough for their contributions along the way. In fact, I probably did more grumbling than was necessary. Let me say it publicly now.

Thanks, Mrs. S., Mrs. VB., Mrs. St. and Mom for believing that I could make music out of 88 keys. My years of playing for choirs, soloists, church bands and entertaining in nursing homes are the result of a few good women who invested time and money in my future.

D.C. al fine......

One Hundred

Two years ago, on a hot steamy August afternoon, my fingers started moving across my computer keyboard, writing my first blog post. I still have no idea why this happened. I had never entertained the idea of being a blogger and up until that point the number of blogs I had personally read numbered in the low single digits. Truly, I have no business entering into the world of cyberspace writing. But, here I am, fingers still pecking away at a keyboard as I write my one hundredth post.

I suppose this is the part where I announce a grand giveaway drawing for a free harpsichord or curling iron to reward you, my faithful readers, for being a part of my blogging community. Alas, there will be no drawings or free trips from this chick. Be assured, however, that I would love to reward all of you for your words of encouragement and willingness to look the other way when my grammar is less than stellar, my spell check fails me and my love of commas takes over. You are, indeed, a kind group and for that I am grateful.

I am not sure if I have another one hundred posts in me or not. Honestly, after each post I write, I am always quite sure that there will be no more. My muse is a fickle one and I am either inspired by a turn of events or I am staring at a blinking cursor, wondering why nothing is happening after the first sentence. Perhaps it is time for me to buckle down and establish a true focus for my blog (I think that is a Blogging for Dummies basic rule). Here are a few suggested possibilities.

1) Politics--Oh, gag me. I know enough about this subject to fill a tea bag. I am a faithful and loyal voter, but I am not ready to get aboard the HMS Partisanship. It is best for me to let others lead the charge in this arena.

2) Cooking--Intriguing idea due to my love of all things culinary. Unfortunately, I do not have the patience or photography skills to snap a photo of the 38 steps it takes to make dinner. I would also have to start measuring ingredients and that's a deal breaker for now.

3) Travel--ummm, gotta go places for that one. I greatly enjoyed writing my Oregon mini-blog series but once our vehicle was parked in the home garage, it's been back to reality. Work and...and....and....work. Hard to drum up a story with that route.

4) Teaching--certainly rife with new material. It is best, however, for me to keep things a bit more diverse. All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl and sometimes I just need to step off the hamster wheel for a few moments.

5) Old lady stuff--obvious. Doesn't take much thought on my part for my age to seep into my writing. I'm up front about my advancing place on the number line but I'm not sure I want to write a series of blog posts about flu shots and early onset dementia (quite sure I have that one).

6) Arts and Crafts--giggle. I am aesthetically challenged and certainly not known for creating anything more than a dust storm when I finally get around to cleaning. I will continue to admire the works of others.

So, where does that leave the future of my blog? Do I continue to wander in the wilderness of blurred focus? Is it time to shut the whole business down? Is there a lucrative book deal looming on the horizon (another giggle) that will take me away from all of this nonsense?

I suspect my blog will continue as it always has. One post at a time with me still wondering what it is that makes my fingers move across the keyboard.

You have been warned.

 

Keep Driving

Teaching is hard. Very hard. Each year is like playing a card game. There are years when the hand you are dealt is manageable. And then there are years when you are given a hand that you are quite sure will need a miracle intervention in order to survive. This year is one of the challenging ones. I have been blessed with a couple of relatively good years so it is my turn in the cosmos of educational card decks to hit the speed bump. The phrase “Hit me” has taken on new meaning. There are days when I would rather take a physical hit or two than face down one more session of thirty students who need more than one person could ever possibly provide.

Let me describe a sample middle school class period.

Topic: How to use a dichotomous key.

Level of difficulty: Effort and application of a new skill required.

Me: Working like a mad woman, trying to demonstrate, explain, model and guide.

Student One (30 seconds into the lesson): "I don't get this."

Student Two: "Can I to go to the bathroom?"

Student Three: "Student One is looking at me."

Student Four (moving into to my personal space): "I feel like I’m going to throw up."

Student Five (head down on the desk): "I’m not going to do this."

Student Six (giving me the stink eye and muttering under her breath): "This sucks."

Student Seven: "I don’t have a pencil."

Student Eight (sneaking one more round of Cookie Crush on his Chromebook): "I still don’t know what you’re talking about."

Student Nine (walking in late): "I lost my binder."

Student Ten: "Student Seven just said a bad word."

Student Eleven: "I don't have an eraser."

Student Twelve (tapping pencil furiously): "What time does this class get over?"

Me (still teaching like a mad woman): "I believe we can do this. Let's try again."

Well, you get the point. It’s exhausting and I wish I was making this all up. I’m not. That was Friday. I've blanked out the other four days of the week.

Before you feel too sorry for me, please know that I willingly signed up for this gig and, by Gumby, I intend to persevere. Teaching is not for the faint of heart and despite the fact that I have at least one day a week that I long to be the sample lady at my local grocery store, I still believe in my profession. I also have many little peeps who are counting on me to provide them with an education that will take them into a future they aren't even sure about yet. For every "I don't get this", there is a "I want to know more." 

No surprise that the squeaky wheel is louder than the smooth rolling, fully functioning tires. It is my job to find a way to safely and productively drive this vehicle to the end of another academic year, speed bumps and all. 

Student Thirteen (intently following along): "You know, I think we're just having trouble with this because it's Friday."

Thank you, Student Thirteen. I'm going to cling to your words of encouragement and continue to believe in another new day.

Virtual World

Our school district recently adopted a 1:1 technology initiative. Translation: each student now has his or her own techno device. The little peeps are using I-Pads, the middlers are using Chromebooks and the oldsters are bringing their Chromebooks home like checked out library books. Gone are the days of teachers scrambling for a limited number of computer labs. No more early morning intercom announcements, "Whoever has mobile lab C, please return it immediately." Missing are the spicy e-mails scolding the boorish behavior of those who use mobile labs and neglect to plug them in so they are charged up for the next day.

Despite the obvious advantages of having student troughs filled with technology, I am mourning the loss of simpler times. For years I watched angst ridden middle schoolers wobble their way through the halls, leaving a trail of pencils, gum wrappers and scraps of paper. Now, they flash fearful eyes as they precariously balance a computer on top of their worldly possessions. One misstep and they know they are in for more hurt than just a skinned knee and bruised pride. Many have resorted to carrying yet another bag to protect the god-of-all-knowledge-and-goodness.

Unfortunately, many of the students view computers as game dispensers rather than educational tools. They are baffled by usage procedures that don't involve instant gratification. It's natural for them to post responses such as, "hey girl, what's up" or "LOL, check this YouTube video." It's not so natural for them to be assigned websites filled with actual paragraphs of information that need to be read and digested.

It's easy for me to go down roads of fear as I worry that someday I might be lying on a gurney with a doctor googling, "Where is the spleen?"  This generation has no problem texting every thought that comes to mind, instagramming all their memorable moments and downloading apps that entertain them into the wee hours of the morning. The line between virtual and real can be blurry at best.

A poignant moment occurred when I announced to my class that we would be going outside for a classification activity. Usually, such an announcement is met with cheers as we leave the confines of our classroom. This year, a young man stopped me on the way out and asked, "Do I have to do this? Can't I just GoogleEarth it and call it good?" My jaw dropped in a speechless stupor. It never entered my mind that one could use a computer to feel the wind or touch a dragonfly's exoskeleton.

Yes, indeed, it's going to be an interesting year as we meander our way through technology land. I'm going to take a cue from my students and download the coolest wallpaper background possible, watch a YouTube video of someone eating chocolate and wait for my troubles to melt like lemon drops. If you're not sure what any of that means, I think you can google it.

The Birds

Growing up in a world without video games, Facebook and televisions with a thousand channels meant my siblings and I had to make our own fun with what was available.  I was not an outdoorsy kid but I quickly discovered that if I wanted a break from folding mounds of diapers and performing other household chores I would have to escape into the spaces beyond my front door. My sibs and I made up our own games like “Hide the Can” in our grove of trees where we imitated treasure seekers of old and searched for each other’s hidden cans. We crunched along on gravel roads with our creaky old bikes, destinations to be determined. Wild plums and mulberries beckoned us when they were in season and we filled our stomachs full of their rich juices. We poked around the old cemetery near our farm and scared each other with creepy tales.

One of my favorite activities was bird watching. My mother purchased a field guide of North American birds and suddenly a new world of opportunities opened up. We would head out into the fields with our little book and a pair of binoculars, hoping to see or hear a new bird to identify. I loved hearing the beautiful trill of the Eastern Meadowlark and watching the flight patterns of the Red-Winged Blackbirds as they flitted from fence post to fence post. We didn't have to set up fancy bird feeders because our backyard was one gigantic feeder with everything our rural birds needed.

Since that time, I have lived in urban settings, often without any established trees and I abandoned my overt birdwatching habits. That is, until the horrific ice storm we endured last spring. I felt so sorry for our feathered little friends that I put out an old cookie sheet with some bread crumbs and hoped that I could help just a few of them find a meal.

Now I’m hooked. I was only going to help them out during the ice storm but they convinced me otherwise. Truth to be told, we need each other. I can think of nothing more calming than watching and listening to birds. The little chickadees chatter away while they pick at the tray of seeds. The male cowbirds puff up as they try to woo the somewhat unimpressed females. The bossy blackbirds bully their way into the crowd and have their way with the food choices. The mourning doves plop themselves down on the feeder and take an after dinner nap. The cardinals make their presence known with their bright colors and loquacious manners. The goldfinches bippety-bop their way to the feeder for a snack and quickly flit away. And of course, the squirrels move in like playground bullies, taking away the lunch money of others.

My garage sale field guide is now dog-eared and always at the ready as I reacquaint myself with my in-flight neighbors. I hope to graduate to something more high tech than a cookie sheet for my feeder, but so far, the birds haven’t complained. After all, that same pan fed us with many delicious treats so why not continue the tradition with my new found friends?

Bon appetit!

Grateful

Getting back to reality after a long and exciting trip takes a little transitional decompression time. The piles of suitcase scrunched clothes and life-on-the-road detritus seem a little overwhelming, but above all else, I am filled with gratitude.

I am grateful for:

• 4,000 miles of safe travel. Mercifully, we were spared any harm as we meandered through unfamiliar territory and long stretches of highways and interstate roads.
• America. Our country is a wonderland of natural delight. Tall prairie grasses, stately coniferous trees, chunky lava beds, windswept high deserts, tumbling waterfalls, massive mountains and thunderous ocean waves are just a few sights we were able to experience and enjoy. Get the atlas out (or smartphone app) and get going! 
• a new son-in-law. What fun to be a part of a new chapter in our daughter's life. We are looking forward to making memories with them.
• kind strangers. They gave us tips on where to eat, best roads to travel and interesting sights to see. Their generosity reminds me to be aware of others who might be in need of a little helpful advice.
• friends and family. They took time out to help us celebrate a wedding in Oregon and an open house by South Dakota's Missouri River. We were able to meet many new folks and reconnect with a host of others.
•  a patient husband. My fretting tendencies make me a challenging passenger at best. I never once heard him complain...out loud.
• cuisine diversity. Golden baby beets, elephant garlic, obsidian berries, tiger prawns and fish tacos are just a few of the treats I will miss.
• the Welcome to South Dakota sign. As we enjoyed a cup of coffee and watched a storm thunder bang along the banks of the Missouri River, it was easy to understand why Dorothy of the Wizard of Oz clicked her heels and said, "There's no place like home."

Travel Math

Life on the road means calculating distances, estimated times of arrival and gas station stops.  It has been wise for us to add at least two hours to our travel time calculations due to alternate route decisions, points of interest and frequent breaks. Our day in Wyoming, however, stretched us to a near breaking point with a few miscalculations.

There are three mountain passes on the route we chose from the edge of Idaho through Wyoming. I'm a bit squeamish (okay. a lot squeamish) when it comes to mountain driving, but a moment of weakness made me think I was strong enough to persevere. Shortly after leaving Idaho, we made it through our first summit, 8,431 feet. One down, two to go. It was time for our routine lunch break of sandwiches and fruit so we pulled into the parking lot at a convenience store and shortly thereafter eased out onto the road again. We continued onward through summit two and I sighed with relief. One to go.

There is a point in every trip that will forever go down in history and this was it. As we rounded the curve at the base of the mountain, I saw the "Welcome to Idaho" sign. Few words were exchanged between my husband and me but we both knew what had happened. We had mentally turned ourselves around in the C-store parking lot and had just crossed the same summit twice. Two summits down, three to go. Inhale deeply. Summit again and again.

By late afternoon, I was mainlining Cheese curls and my husband was looking for an illegal-in-some-states size soda pop so we could maintain our sanity. Our last push was through the highest summit of all, 9665 feet. The scenery was absolutely stunning but my husband had seen enough curvy roads with a skittish passenger for one day. We also had a slow moving caravan of three RVs ahead of us and a renegade Cujo RV with fuming diesel pushing us from behind.

More Cheese curls, please.

Finally, we limped into our hotel, looking like a couple of jellyfish washed up along the shore.

Our final calculation: one more travel day. That's a number that's looking mighty good.

Fly Me To The Moon

We officially crawled back into our silver shuttle and we are headed homeward. I don't even want to look at a map because I know how many pages I have to turn in the Atlas to arrive at our destination. We (I, that is) decided not to kill ourselves with outrageously long days and take a more modest approach so we can decompress at a slower pace. I know my husband is envisioning our lawn burning to a crisp for each minute that ticks by, but, oh well.

We took a scenic route called the Old McKenzie Highway through the McKenzie Pass in the Cascade Mountains. After we wound our way through curve after curve, my husband remarked that he probably would not take this road again because "all we are seeing is more trees." A few curves later we saw a feature that puzzled us. It looked like a dump truck had backed up and unloaded tons and tons of rubble in a very large pile along the side of the road. A sign indicated that this was a crater site. As we continued along the way we saw more and more of the rich black obsidian rock piled up in a helter skelter fashion around us. It was evident that we were passing through the rubble of a volcanic mountain. The landscape looked eerily like a moonscape. Life seemed to be screeching to a halt, but for a few scrappy trees and the birds soaring overhead. It was truly a magnificent place.

We continued down the mountain and entered the high plains of Oregon. I discovered that one does not need a volcano to slow down the pace of life. We drove for miles with nothing but sagebrush and the shadows of hawks reflecting on the highway ahead of us. I was waiting for the credits of a John Wayne movie to start rolling on my Garmin. Hot and dry and more of it.

We finished our day with a chicken dinner from the local Safeway (only store open on a Sunday evening in a tiny town on the high plains).  It was a gourmet feast for two weary travelers who had been to the moon and back.

 

Firsts

Our trip has certainly been filled with firsts. Many were expected such as our first three week road trip, our first time on the Pacific Ocean beach, our first time driving through four states in one day and our first time tidepooling. Other firsts, however, cannot be anticipated. One, in particular, was and could NEVER have been expected.

My husband and I were put in charge of our daughter's new home on their wedding night. There were still a few houseguests lingering around and doors needed to be unlocked and locked for the evening. One duty, however, put me on a new learning curve trajectory. My daughter and her husband just adopted a new  golden retriever puppy. Along with the duties of the house came the duties of the dog for the night and next morning before our departure. The groom gave me last minute instructions after the wedding, concluding with, "and he will wake you in the morning when he has to go to the bathroom, usually around 6:00." Alarms went off in my head at that moment. My husband is not a morning person and so it was inevitable that I would be in charge of the doggie do-do business. According to the groom it would go like this. Dog wakes you up. Dog goes outside and does the tinkle thing. Dog comes in. Dog eats a scoop of puppy chow. Dog goes back out and does poo-poo. Simple enough.

As with all instructions, steps are missed. I sailed through the first three steps thinking that I'm quite the dog charmer. And then the chain of events started to unravel. Apparently, Charlie needs to play before he can do the poo-poo thing. I do not play with dogs. I don't understand the nipping, the head shaking with toys, the tail waving in the face, the plaintive eyes begging for attention. Simply stated, I just don't know how to read dog signals.

After the tenth trip to the lawn, hoping for some action, I finally had to let him loose on my sleeping husband. Fortunately, he loves dogs and was kind enough to give him a little doggie love. Back to the lawn we went and voila, a prize was rendered. Holding my breath and thinking happy thoughts, I picked up the the treasure with a plastic bag wrapped tightly around my hand and gave Charlie a little high paw. A first, indeed.

Oh, and we also had our first wedding in a barn on a gorgeous Oregon evening with a beautiful bride and beaming groom. We sat on hay bales for the ceremony and played "You Are My Sunshine" on our kazoos for the processional, accompanied by the local Hoe Down Band. The evening was extraordinary and it will be a first that will always be a divine memory.

Kissing booth in the barn

Moving Inland

We are packing up and heading inland. Here are a few things I will most certainly miss.


The Luna Sea House--best fish and chips in the area. I also had my first fish taco here, oh so good. Low on ambiance, high in class.

The "Hobbit trail" from our cottage to the ocean. Always an adventure.

The Green Salmon Coffee Shop--best cup of coffee and fruit danish, hands down. The oh-so-friendly counter guy made it even more inviting.

Ona's Restaurant--serving saffron laced bouillabaisse and tempura tiger prawns that will be forever seared in my brain as a divine food memory.

The brightly colored rhododendrons, lovin' their acidic soil.

Beachcombing. So much to find. So little time.

The view of the ocean from our deck. High tide, low tide and everything in between, a sight to behold.

Our vehicle rarely leaving the driveway. Enough entertainment by foot or staying put.

Yes, it's time to hang up our lazy bum shoes and don our gettin'-ready-for-a-wedding frocks. In a couple of short days we will welcome a son into our family. Sweet dreams.

Sneakers

My old sneakers are in a state of shock this week. They usually sit very quietly in the back of my closet for days, okay, weeks on end. Now they have been commissioned back into action due to a shoreline begging for discovery and a little coastal town that has everything we need within walking distance.

One of my favorite walking adventures is checking out the local tidepools, albeit, there is a skill set involved. First of all, one needs to be able to read the tide charts. Thanks to Ranger Clameron we are able to navigate the foreign looking tables and determine when the lowest tide time of the day is and thus, we know the best time to be on the beach. Walking on the slippery rock formations is another story. The tip sheet says, "Step on bare rock only. A "crunch" or a "squish" could mean death to a living creature." Oops. Midwestener coming through. Sorry, little creatures.

Secondly, tiidepooling is not a binoculars activity. One has to get down, nose to water and patiently observe the small ponds of life. A small stick is helpful so you can gently nudge whatever looks interesting. Your patience will be rewarded. We were able to observe thousands of tiny Acorn Barnacles, hitchhiking on mussels or patiently awaiting on rocks for the next high tide.

Colonies of Aggregating Anemonies huddled among the red Coralline Algae.

Kelp of all colors and varieties laced the rocks and puddles.

Vibrant Green Anemones nestled in among the purple and ochre sea stars.

Brilliant Purple Sea Urchins flexed their spines in search of another snack of seaweed salad.

Large animals can be discovered as well, but mostly from afar. Harbor seals slip on and off the rocks as they lollygag their day away. (Look very carefully for a couple of white blobs on the rock ledge in the center of the picture.)

Yes, much can be seen while walking along the ocean. And it is good to follow the advice of J.R. Beaver and the Oregon State Parks--Never turn your back on the ocean. Sneaker waves appear suddenly and will certainly cut your walk short. Walker, beware and be safe.