The Queue

The holiday season brings to us many traditional experiences. Christmas music plays in retail centers. Bells clang near red donation pots. Twinkling lights outline homes and trees. Blow-up Santas wave on snowy lawns.  Mail increases in our boxes. Holiday cookies and candies tempt their way into our bellies. And queues form. Lots of queues. Queues can be short, long, annoying, entertaining or all of the above. Last week I found myself in many queues. Here are a few memorable moments.

I needed to get a package in the mail by a certain date so the clock was ticking. The line was fairly long at the customer service desk but I was in it to win it. The lady ahead of me started a conversation about the weather, always a safe and innocuous topic. We continued with a few remarks about the slow moving line we were in and that it was to be expected this time of year. When I finally made it to the counter, the frazzled clerk put my package on the scale and we waited for the information to pop up. And we waited. And we waited some more. The clerk looked at me and said, "It looks like the system is down." She looked at the long line behind me and yelled, "We're all going to have to wait with packages. The system is down." With a big sigh, I took my package and went home. Fortunately, a later attempt that day was successful.

I had a small international package that involved a trip to the main post office. The lines are usually long, especially this time of year. Two calm, I've-seen-it-all gentlemen were working the service counters. My plan was to complete the customs form by the work station and then queue up with my package. However, the work station was completely void of customs forms so I queued up without a completed form. When I finally made it to the counter, I asked for a customs form and the attendant apologetically handed me a stack and asked if I would restock the work station. I didn't want to hold up the line behind me so I gave up my spot and headed back to the work station. After completing my form, I lined up again and finally made it to the service counter. The clerk took my small package and after weighing it he said, "You won't need a customs form for this one. It's under the necessary weight." Well, okey, dokey, then. Good to know. While I had his attention, I asked for guidelines on international packages and he kindly educated me on such matters. I am a smarter person for it.

My favorite queue happened on an early morning run to the grocery store. The lone cashier was waiting on the only customer ahead of me. The customer was clearly a worker bee with his bright neon jacket and sandwich/Mountain Dew/candy bar purchase. The cashier politely asked him, "How are you?" The gentleman took a long a pause as if he was just asked to find Guam on a Geography quiz. He finally replied, "Not terrible." I giggled to myself and decided that "not terrible" is good enough for most days.

Merry Christmas to all of you! May your queues be short and entertaining.

Crumbs

By now most of us have sailed or slogged our way through the first of two end-of-year holidays. Thanksgiving seems to be all about the food. Traditionally, of course, there is the golden turkey decked out with mashed potatoes, gravy, green bean casserole and stuffing. An assortment of pies usually closes the deal with pumpkin leading the pack.

A less traditional event, but gaining in popularity, is Friendsgiving. Table guests are related by friendship rather than blood. Such events are intended to be more casual and can be a substitute or antidote for the traditional fanfare of larger gatherings. The striking component of a Friendsgiving is that expectations are more relaxed. It is no secret that holiday "failures"  are almost a sure thing when one tries to orchestrate family events according to a Norman Rockwell painting or Martha Stewart lifestyle book. If Thanksgiving is all about carving the perfect turkey with the perfect adults and children, we are missing the point.

I did not have a Friendsgiving this year, but I would not classify my holiday as traditional, either. In the days before Turkey Day, our house was grand central station for a few of my nieces and nephews as they connected with each other before moving onward to feasts in other states. Nasty weather made the process interesting, but everyone made it to their chosen destinations. Our time together did not include meals of turkey or cranberries but we enjoyed lots of laughter and good conversation with grain bowls, comfort casserole and raisin bread toast. And snacks. Lots of snacks.

By Thanksgiving Day, all our house guests were gone and we were off to my mother's assisted living facility to join her gang for a family style meal. Seating is always an interesting process because it is "open seating" which is challenging for residents who thrive on their own assigned chairs. We have learned to go early and stake territory near the end of the table. We were joined by another resident and her son. They were originally from our hometown so conversation swirled around the "old days" of our youth. We had turkey, potatoes, beans, corn, sweet potatoes and rolls. A good meal without a bird to carve in sight. A few of us were related by blood but for the most part we were really just a captive crowd connected by a place. We all agreed the best part of the meal was that we did not have to do any cooking or cleaning up.

I hope you had a good Thanksgiving this year, traditional or otherwise. My advice to all is to heed the words of Proverbs 17:1, "Better a dry crust with peace and quiet than a house full of feasting, with strife." Turkeys, tofu or tater tots, all are good with a little love and kindness.

Brains On

My mother loves puzzle books. In her retirement years she ordered crossword puzzle books by the case. It wasn't always easy to procure a new puzzle book in her small town so she made sure she always had a ready supply in her own closet. She secured the little books horizontally onto a clipboard so she had a good working surface. Most of her pencils had big pink erasers stuck on their ends. Fun for hours.

She still loves puzzles, despite her fuzzy brain. She has added word finds to her latest puzzle fun and I have seen her tackle word scrambles and hidden picture challenges as well. Her doctor loves to hear that she is into puzzles so everyone is happy.

Last week she was working on a puzzle book I hadn't seen before. She was unable to tell me the source of the book but she was busy working her way through it. The theme of the book was all things American and the mark on the book was "VFW" so I suspect it was a product of recent Veteran's Day events. She showed me some of the different puzzles she had finished and I was impressed with her accomplishments.

Three particular puzzles were left untouched. They were trivia questions pertaining to different aspects of America. We decided to make a game of it and see who could get the most questions correct. The American Flag was our first category. Epic fail. Out of twenty-four questions, we barely eked out four correct answers. Mom kept saying, "And we're teachers, we should know this stuff." To which I  replied, "I taught fourth grade and middle school science, not a lot of Star Spangled information embedded in those two fields."

We moved on to U.S. government. Our ego sails were filled on this one. We got all but two correct and we gave ourselves half points on both of them because we are teachers scoring our own test. One of the questions stunned me, however. The question was, "How many members are in the U.S. House of Representatives?" Without missing a beat, my mother replies, "435" and by Gumby, she was right. This is coming from someone who can't tell me if she just ate a cookie two seconds ago, despite the crumbs on her sweater and the napkin in her lap. I guess years of very active participation in politics etched information deeply into her brain. I'm afraid the only fact that will be etched in my brain will be the color of a Cheetoh.

We finished our puzzle challenge with general U.S. trivia. We gave ourselves a D+ on this one and that was probably grading on the curve. We realized we only knew the name of one city in Vermont. Wrong answer, anyway. We let our minds sketch the shorelines of different states so we could answer the question about which state has the most shoreline miles. It is Alaska, one point for us. Overall, we patted ourselves on the back for at least attempting to answer each question. Teachers know how to encourage, even if it is just ourselves.

Here is your U.S. Flag trivia question for the day. "Upon the admission of a new state to the union, when is a new star added to the flag?" (see below for the correct answer and give yourself a point, no matter the answer)

As per the Flag Act of 1818, a new star is added on the
 4th of July following the date of the state's admission.

Jackpot

Occasionally, I find myself drawn into an episode of a popular PBS show, Antiques Roadshow. Folks present their goods to appraisers, hoping to hear the pronouncement of treasure rather than trash. The ultimate insult is when a proud person is told that their "Ming dynasty" heirloom vase is just a knock-off of the real thing. The former proud-as-punch owner has to quickly recover with as much dignity as possible on national television. I am not sure if I feel bad for them or not. Usually, said vase owner has no skin in the game other than being the current owner of an object and a tale being passed along in a family. Said vase owner probably needs to remember the old adage "Don't count your chickens before they are hatched".

The most entertaining folks are the ones who share an item that has held no prominent place in a family's lore. It might be a little tin toy that was played with extensively throughout the years. Or an "ugly" painting stuck in a box in the attic. Or a weird looking chair that has gathered dust over time. When they are given an appraisal in the high five digit range or even six digits, the blood usually rushes out of their faces and they are completely tongue-tied. The lottery has been won without buying a ticket.

I'm sure many of us watching the show wonder whether we own anything of hidden worth. Since I come from a family of tossers rather than savers, my odds are not very great. And most of my family are loath to spend on anything considered impractical. The idea that one of my relatives would purchase a fancy vase during worldwide travels is quite humorous. My grandparents spent their honeymoon driving to a TB sanitarium where my grandmother's brother was a patient. They car camped and on top of it all, my grandmother's younger brother was along for the ride. These are my people, folks. No Ming dynasty vases in our attics.

Over the years, we have had a few things that appreciated in value. There was the bizarre little beanie baby incident when I sold a beanie baby for about hundred times what I paid for it. It was bittersweet for me because I found myself feeling sorry for the woman who bought it. I don't think any stuffed object is worth that kind of money. I certainly had no sentimental attachment to the little brown bear. My husband has also sold a few old items for a shekel or two more than was ever paid for them. Rest assured, most of our artwork, jewelry and furniture are depreciating as we speak.

Antiques Roadshow does a great job of tapping into a nerve as old as the miners in the great gold rush. The risk of finding fool's gold is outweighed by the dream of fabulous riches. But when all is said and done, most of us instinctively know what is of true value in our lives. No appraiser needed.

And if you have a pretty vase in your attic, I promise not to judge.

Smorgasboard

My state is awash with orange this time of year. And it is not just the trees providing bursts of color. It is hunting season for our state bird, the pheasant. Hunters from near and far don bright orange safety vests, jackets and caps as they gear up for another season. Men, women, dogs and children of age tromp around in fields hoping to flush out a cackling bird or two or three. Gone are the days of an abundance of pheasants but the zeal of hunters has not diminished. There is a festive atmosphere as towns across the state set out the welcome mats and embrace one and all for the tradition of pheasant hunting.

A tradition that is seared into my memory is the annual Dutch Smorgasboard held shortly after the arrival of hunters in my hometown. My high school, steeped in Dutch traditions, hosted the smorgasbord as a fundraising event. Our saintly mothers did most of the heavy lifting by preparing massive amounts of food for the meal. My mom's specialty was Pigs in the Blanket (Saucijzebroodjes). The recipe was a far cry from the current day process of wrapping a wienie in a square of crescent dough. Mom made the dough from scratch, lard most likely involved. The filling was usually a mixture of hamburger, sausage, bread crumbs and egg. The dough was rolled out and cut into squares. A dollop of filling was wrapped up in a little dough blankie and baked until golden. Amazingly delicious and amazingly time consuming. I never heard my mom complain about the huge undertaking each year as she made dozens of piggies for the event and kept seven kids fed at the same time. I, on the other hand, whimpered my way through the 12 dozen pecan tassies I was required to make for my daughter's school fundraiser years later. I am weak.

Students were also required to participate in the smorgasboard. The guys and gals dressed up in Dutch costumes, sans the wooden shoes. Our task was to take marching orders from our mothers. We helped people with their trays, cleaned up spills and and kept the tables tidy. It was always crazy busy with swarms of folks queued up for their meal. A gymnasium filled with people and tables of steaming food made for a very long and warm evening.

The best part was getting to eat after your shift was completed. I was not a fan of all the Dutch offerings. I easily passed on the Snert (pea soup). I am sure it was good but it always seemed a little grainy to me, never mind the subsequent gastrointestinal issues. I also passed on the fruit soup (krentjebrij). My memory of the concoction is hazy but I do remember chunks of prunes, raisins and other dried fruits globbed together in a bowl. Seemed sketchy to me. My food radar was zoned in on the tried and true favorites. Hutspot, a mashed potatoes and carrots mixture was always on my plate as well as the meatballs swimming in gravy (gehaktballen). Pigs in a blanket were also on my go-to list, if there were any left by the time I went through the line. And for a little color and kick, I added cooked red cabbage (rode kool). For dessert, I gobbled up the little fried donut balls (vet bollen) covered in sugar. Our urge to go back for more was always met with a cautionary glance from the mothers, reminding us that the supply of food was not infinite.

As the years marched onward, the Dutch Smorgasboard tradition finally came to an end. I don't know the exact reason but I suspect it had to do with a decrease in the number of school supporters available to make the labor intensive foods. And, as with all traditions, there often comes a time for a change. I am sure many folks still miss it but I doubt very many want to crank out dozens of pigs in the blanket any more.

Here is my highly technical recipe for hutspot (mashed potatoes and carrots).

Boil potatoes and carrots until tender. Add salt, pepper and milk/cream. Cream is best, of course. Add copious amounts of butter. Mash until desired consistency is attained. Then add more butter. 

Shriveled

A recent news post reported that our country's raisin industry is experiencing a decline in sales as they compete with other countries. I know enough about economics to fill a pistachio shell so I won't comment on imports and exports but I think I know how to fix the problem. Marketing, people, marketing.

No surprise the last time raisins experienced a spike in sales happened in the 1980's when a wildly famous commercial was rolled out. It featured wrinkly raisin characters belting out a song by Marvin Gaye, "I Heard It Through the Grapevine." Not only did the little food gems experience popularity but toys and other merchandise were generated in the process. The props in the commercial were so revered that some of them now hold a place in the Smithsonian Institute. Not bad for a bunch of raisins.

But, commercials are not free and the funding dollars eventually dried up. The high cost of commercial production needed full support from the players in the game and that was not to be as time marched onward. Without airing the dirty laundry of the industry, let's just say the playground got a little nasty.

Fast forward to today. New faces agree that raisins need a makeover in the commercial world if there is going to be an incentive for growers to continue. The highly coveted land needed for raisin production could be converted into almond orchards if action isn't taken. Nothing against almonds but their ad campaign for almond milk is apparently working (Don't get me started on nut "milks". God bless the cow!).

It is time to convince folks that raisins are the next best nutritional savior. It's been done before.  Let's take a look at kale as an example. In my opinion, no amount of crisping, chopping or massaging can make that green palatable, but the industry convinced folks that it would save lives with its magnificent nutrients. The campaign worked and kale sales skyrocketed. The same goes for coconut oil. Nutritionists knew that it was a mixed bag of good and bad fats but apparently no one was speaking out as marketing gurus began touting the oil as the giver of life. Finally, the voices of science spoke out and put a stop to that nonsense.

Our little raisin friends have a lot going for them already. They are small and snackable. They have a great shelf life. They come in different colors and sizes. And they taste good. What's not to love? If we can convince John and Janice Q. Public that raisins have secret nutritional powers, the raisin is back in business. That shouldn't be too difficult given that raisins are little powerhouses of energy and vitamins. The words "natural sugar" alone might be enough to start the ball rolling. Throw in some healing testimonies, a hip celebrity and a catchy phrase or song and the needle starts moving.

I, for one, need no convincing. Raisins will always be on my shelf. Bread pudding is not the same without a few thrown in for a burst of goodness. Moroccan chicken gets a little punch with a cup of golden raisins. And the mid-afternoon slump gets a wake-up call when raisins are at the ready. Move over kale, raisins are back in town.

(Below are photos of my grandmother's Gold Medal Flour cookbook from 1910. If you have time, and you can cope with my bad photography, read the information in their ad campaign. Makes me chuckle every time.)

Respite

Vacations are often a cornucopia of expected and unexpected events. A recent trip my husband and I took was certainly filled with all of the above. No surprise for us that the days before departure were a little frantic but we did not anticipate the three EF-2 tornadoes touching down in our city the day before we had planned to leave. We delayed our departure so we could clean up some of the storm's aftermath. Blessedly, we were spared the worst of it. Then a deluge of rain hit our state and many of the main arteries to our destination were closed due to flooding. Despite my maudlin moments prior to leaving, we were able to carve out a detour plan around the flooded roads. It added an hour to our trip, but we were grateful to find a work around. As we made our way across the state, a headwind picked up with such fury that we spent the rest of the drive bucking against a wall of moving air. Gas mileage was abysmal but we finally arrived at our destination, looking like dog spit and ready for a break.

Here are a few moments from the trip. No extra charge for the poor photography skills.

I know I am in the right place when I see a sign like this in the window. What a relief to see folks looking at each other rather than down at a little screen and scrolling away. Stroll not scroll, people!

Everyday I took a walk in and around the woods. Quite a stretch for me as I am not very outdoorsy but I loved peeking into nature's purse of goodies. Little wildflowers never fail to please.

If you look carefully, you can see a stream gurgling in the background. It was my go-to spot each day. The sound alone is enough to keep one sane and centered. 

I couldn't resist the calling of this little chapel in the woods. No preachers when I was there but plenty of birds giving me advice. 

Speaking of birds, look carefully at all the ospreys in the sky. Not. My hopes of watching ospreys skydancing were dashed by maintenance closings near the trail and 90 degree weather, both of which made me one cranky chick. We did, however, see more turkey vultures than we could count everywhere we went. All God's creatures. 

Another creature that always fascinates me is the Pollenia rudis, also known as a cluster fly. They love to bumble their way into warm places when fall arrives. Their loud buzzing is as if they have a summer's worth of stories to tell. Soon enough they are on their backs in the throes of death or a bad landing. 

My reading chair. My favorite spot. Enough said. 

The cabin on our veranda was my husband's favorite spot. Shade if it was warm. Sunshine if it was cool. I joined him if it was a Goldilock's moment, temperature just right. 

Sadly, the time comes when the trek homeward must begin. Rest stops were our friends. And snacks. Lots of them.

My trip souvenir. Shortly before returning home, I broke out in a nasty case of hives. Nothing says creepy like a bunch of welts erupting over your face, arms and neck. I blame it on my tromping around in the woods, but the truth of the matter is I don't think I will ever know for sure what was the cause. I do know our trip was worth the hurdles of storms, flooding, delays and lesions.  

Especially when we could end the day with this.

Six Eyes

It was my birthday last week and I have to say it was a top five day. Nothing flashy or dashy. No surprise parties or fancy cakes or city proclamations. It was just a day awash with love sent my way. It started with texts from my siblings reminding me to enjoy a day of cake and fun. Then, my former co-workers sent me a picture of them celebrating my birthday with doughnuts and smiles (and a puppet, but that is a story for another day). One of my nieces joined us for lunch and conversation. I attended church with my mom at her assisted living home and we enjoyed tea and cookies in celebration of the day of my birth. When I returned home from mom's assisted living home, a package filled with birthday goodies from my sister-in-law awaited me. She knows I love Cheetos more than cake and my fingers soon glowed with neon orange dust. The day continued with phone calls sharing birthday wishes with me.

My day ended with dinner out at a favorite eatery. As we neared the end of our meal, my husband suggested we go to the sports store next door for a present he had spotted for me. I nearly choked on my bacon as I tried to process what in the world I would want in a sports store. I balked a bit and reminded him that I have yet to wear out a pair of sneakers and expensive sport clothing is lost upon the likes of me. He smirked and said it was nothing like that and he was pretty sure it was something I might enjoy. I still had visions of hiking boots and heavy duty socks as we entered the sports store, but sometimes one has to just let go and trust that one's spouse may be right. We took the escalator up to the second floor and I followed my husband to a corner niche filled with binoculars. He looked at me and said, "You always say we need better binoculars, so let's get a good pair." I broke into a smile of relief and let him know that he was indeed on to something with his birthday idea.

We own an array of hand-me-down binoculars of varying degrees of ineffectualness. One pair has no option for adjustment, one has an adjuster that provides blurry or blurrier views and one pair is a big beast from many decades ago. I fuss every time I use them but I am too cheap to do anything about it. Making the purchase a birthday gift solves the problem. My husband had done his homework so the selection was fairly simple. We did not purchase a pair from the locked display case filled with the serious bad boys of the binocular realm. We settled for a modest pair based on the answer to the clerk's question, "What do you want to use them for?" I replied that they would be used for birdwatching. And the neighbors, occasionally.

We returned home with our new toy ready for action. Oh my, what an improvement. I still need some practice, especially in light of my myopically challenged eyes and trifocal glasses. But I'm sure six eyes are better than two. And birthdays should always make you smile.

New Jacket

The school buses rumbling by my house each week day remind me that something is different this year. I am no longer using the arrival or departure of buses to determine my work day, rather I am wearing the new jacket of retirement. I confess that my new jacket feels very strange and sometimes I feel like Ferris Bueller without an excuse. I certainly miss my friends at school but I am grateful I had a career and colleagues that I cherish.

My days have a different rhythm to them now. Instead of being driven by the clock, I am driven by opportunities as they unfold. Certainly there are the usual demands of life such as exercising (yuck), cleaning (super yuck) and life's paperwork (yuck on steroids). But, the sweet moments are easier to capture when one is not tethered to a job. This past week I was able to enjoy lunch with my sister, have coffee with a dear friend and celebrate my sister-in-law's birthday at a new Ethiopian restaurant (I'm a sucker for injera). Another fun event happened with my mother at her assisted living facility.

Recently, a small town in our state suffered a devastating tornado which did considerable damage to the school in the town. My mother's assisted living has a resident who was a former volunteer fireman from that town so the staff decided to host a fundraiser for the damaged school. The fireman had a collection of firemen's memorabilia set up for a display and a few local firemen brought a firetruck to the assisted living so residents could get a tour of the truck and ask the firemen questions. My mom was excited that we could attend this event together and on a week day, no less. She ran a comb through her fluffy white hair and we slowly made our way outdoors. The sun kissed us with pleasantness as mom's walker scraped across the parking lot toward the firetruck. A sweet fireman patiently showed us all the moving parts of the firetruck and I could see the love of learning ignite in my mom's eyes. After the truck tour, we made our way to the tables of memorabilia. The first thing she said was, "Oh, wouldn't a little boy just love this stuff!"  Neither of us knows a lot about firemen's artifacts but we enjoyed perusing the display tables. And, of course, all good events have food, too. We each selected a doughnut and settled into the chairs on the sidewalk. We enjoyed visiting with others at the event while we soaked up a little sun and finished our snack.

Soon enough, it was time to make our way back to mom's room. On the way in, I remarked how the event was a win-win. We got a little fresh air and sunshine and we were able to donate to a good cause. My mom looked at me and said, "And we you were here. That's another win."

Win-win-win.

Peace

Fifty years ago, a mass of humanity gathered on the fields of a farmer in upstate New York. It was an area not meant for more than 50,000, much less the estimated half a million plus who did attend. Due to a plethora of snags along the way, the venue organizers (all in their twenties) were woefully unprepared for the hordes of people who made their way to a 3-day music festival of "peace and love." There were no organized gates ready for collecting ticket sales so an announcement had to be made by the organizers, "This will be a free concert." The masses stood on their feet and resoundingly clapped with joy. And the rest is history.

I am old enough to remember bits and pieces of the event. The 60's were turbulent times and political unrest was rampant. The Vietnam War and the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and two Kennedys added fuel to the fire. I guess the time was right for a music concert with a lineup of powerhouse bands with a counterculture message. And the flower children were ready to load up their psychedelic vans and VW bugs to make it happen. I suspect many of them didn't have jobs so no worries there.

It is hard to imagine such an event happening today. Many elements have stayed the same such as political unrest, counterculture messages and people's love of music. But a few key components are very different. Today, our cellphones make it almost impossible for folks to attend concerts without the distractions of looking down at their devices, looking up for selfie poses, posting to social media, downloading fun apps and using Google maps for directions to the nearest port-a-potty. Venue ticket sales are primarily completed electronically. Concerts are one means of enjoying music but there is no end of "free" music available to the masses at any given time today. Venue producers and hosts also need to "lawyer up" in preparation for the inevitable lawsuits at the tamest of events. The hippie commune culture essentially failed so we have a few less caftans currently, and eventually, some of the flower children had to get jobs so taxes could be paid to the government that was feeding them. Adults frolicking naked at the nearest river may not be decade specific but an event such as Woodstock certainly was ripe for such activity.

One thing I know for sure, Woodstock was never on my radar. I am not an avid music buff to begin with and the very thought of attending a loose-ended concert in the middle of a field with anti-deodorant folks who love to smoke pot is far beyond my comfort zone. I am also not comfortable in the midst of a teeming sea of people and don't even get me started about dealing with a limited number of port-a-potties. And last, but not least, I do best when I am fed and hydrated at regular intervals. I am not against granola for three days but I prefer a little variety in my diet. I also find dehydration disconcerting at best.

Woodstock was one for the history books and maybe it is good if it stays that way. So, Happy Birthday, Woodstock. May you rest in peace and love.

Tripping

"You Betcha" Stick Sculpture at Minnesota Arboretum. Amazing!

My husband and I recently returned from a quick trip to Minneapolis with our daughter and her husband from Oregon. We had a grand time. The weather was exceptionally calm for the month of July with moderate temperatures, low humidity and nary a storm cloud in the sky. Our itinerary was action packed and we made the most of every minute. Here are a few insights I learned from our trip.

1) I am not a share-a-family's-home Airbnb person. In an attempt to find a non-hotel place for our little family to hang out, I dipped my toe into this world. Unfortunately, my selection was a disaster. The messages I started receiving from the host 48 hours before arriving should have sent me running but it was too late to make changes, so I hoped for the best. The psycho cat yowling behind a random door, the daughter's boyfriend making non-stop noise on the floor above us, the host's boyfriend clomping around at 4:00 a.m., a non-existent second bedroom and kitty cat #2 invading our space resulted in a restless night for all. We packed our bags and checked into a hotel. Lesson learned. I prefer staying at places where hosts have at least an hour or two of training in hospitality.

2) If you were bad at bowling a decade ago, you will still be bad at bowling ten years later. Our daughter selected a cute little retro-pub/bowling alley for our entertainment one evening. I knew that my role was to make everyone else feel successful. Mission accomplished. My score was abysmal. My dear husband ( a league bowler for many years) attempted to give me tips for improvement. Keep your eyes on the little dots on the lane floor. Keep your thumb pointed upwards. Don't lob the ball. Relax, Etc. Etc. All this was good advice, but my skill level makes me a rather hopeless participant. I had a good support team as they cheered me through all my gutter balls and wobbly single pins refusing to fall. Despite my ineptness, I am looking forward to my next round of bowling. Ten years from now.

3) Food plans must stay flexible. Due to the Airbnb debacle and a tight entertainment schedule we had no time to pick up ice for the cooler, therefore, our cache of fruits, vegetables and hummus had to be sacrificed to the trash gods. No complaints as we noshed our way through food truck cheese curds, pulled pork sandwiches, fish and chips, brats, nachos, popcorn and chocolate chip cookies. Tasty and not a green leaf in sight. Vacation cuisine, for sure.

4) It's always a good day when the Minnesota Twins beat the New York Yankees. We ended our whirlwind trip with a night at Target Field. The seats were good, the weather was great and the game was spectacular. I know just enough about baseball to cheer when I am supposed to and groan when necessary. When the game ended, we almost needed a tether to keep my husband from floating away as we left the stadium. Good had triumphed over evil and we were there to witness it.

Much too soon, it was time to say good-bye and head homeward. Lawns needed mowing, gardens needed tending and real life needed attention. Our trip was not about hotels with perfect photo ops, or stunning local excursions or trendy cuisine scenes (unless you count the cheese curds). We were content with our happy memories with the people we love.

Final Score: Twins-8  Yankees-6

50

Fifty is a number with significance, often prompting celebrations. I have long since passed that number for my birthdays, gulp. My husband and I are careening closer to that number for years married, another gulp. This blog post just passed the two hundred and fiftieth number, good gracious. I just retired from fifty years of teaching. Okay, that's not true, but it felt like it some days.

Today does mark the real deal for a 50th anniversary worth noting. On July 20, 1969, the Apollo 11 landed on the moon, a feat only dreamed about up until that point. At 9:30 p.m. (CST), Neil Armstrong stepped foot on the lunar surface, joined by Buzz Aldrin shortly thereafter. Such an astounding event was cause for celebration on so many levels. Amazing amounts of technological challenges were conquered in an era when computers and space travel were rudimentary at best. Adjectives such as courageous, brave and heroic were aptly used for not only the astronauts, but also for the support teams involved in the mission.

A recent feature on a news show highlighted some of the behind-the-scenes players in the Apollo 11 mission. My favorite was an interview with four women who were on the sewing team for the astronaut's spacesuits. They were trained to sew a different garment in high demand back then and that was the girdle. If you are under the age of fifty-five, you may have to Google this bondage wardrobe piece (warning: images may be disturbing to some). Apparently the girdle plant snagged the contract for designing the first spacesuits for a lunar walk due to their ability to design flexible garments with heavy duty material. The women in the interview shared how profound the task was to them. They knew that every stitch they made had the potential to be a life or death moment for the astronauts. One stray pin or puncture in the suit could have serious, if not fatal, consequences. Each woman was extremely proud of her accomplishments and each one shared how special it was to support the mission to the moon.

The theme that is quite evident with all the players in the Apollo 11 mission is teamwork. Through the Apollo events our nation was given moments of thinking outside our little plot of land on the earth and we were invited to look upward toward the great frontier called space. Mind you, our country at that time was in the throes of much discord with the Vietnam war, civil rights riots, an assassination of a president and the Cold War. If ever there was a time to pull together as a country, it was then.

Fast forward fifty years and we are reminded that some things haven't changed. Where two or three are gathered, there will be squabbling. And that is why a fiftieth anniversary of a monumental event in our history is worth noting. Let's strike up the band, start the parades and share the great stories of problem solving and teamwork. Happy Birthday, Apollo 11.

And look out Mars, here we come.

Fourth

Our country's official birthday has come and gone for another year. I live in a state that loves its fireworks so there was much snap, crack and popping going on. Of course, fireworks are illegal within city limits but, of course, that ordinance is only adhered to by the rule followers. The urge to play with explosives is strong, indeed.

My early memories of 4th of July celebrations also included fireworks. I grew up on a farm so the sky was the limit, literally, with fireworks. We were given a strict budget for how much we could purchase at the local fireworks stand and if you wanted something extra, you had best dig into your own piggy bank. My brothers loved the firecrackers with the loudest noise and at that time, Black Cats were the way to go. My bros would weave several of them together, light the fuse and run. We all waited in anticipation for the domino sound effects to begin and delighted in each and every loud pop.

My sisters and I were into less noise and more flash. We enjoyed the smudgy little magic snakes as they danced like cobras on our sidewalk. We loved roman candles as they spit out balls of glittery light into the sky. Our favorite was probably the box of sparklers that allowed all of us to be in control of our own dazzle effects. Bright colors, dripping sparks and swirling possibilities made for a great time as the night came to a close.

Our hometown did not have a 4th of July parade but it occasionally had an event called a tractor pull. The day included other a activities which have faded into a fuzzy memory for me, but I do remember the culminating moments of the tractor pull. Tractors were pitted against each other in a contest to pull the greatest load on a sled of sorts. Tractors were not the behemoths we have today but a farming community's machines are always a source of pride, no matter the era. Tractors belched and engines gunned as bragging rights were loaded onto the sled. I don't know if there was any prize money involved but I suspect there was a trophy or two and maybe a fancy certificate of honor. The evening concluded with a head count of kids as we piled back into our non-air-conditioned car for a sticky ride back home.

Many of our 4th of July days came and went without much fanfare. Life on a farm doesn't always check the calendar for holidays. If rain was in the forecast and field work was necessary, that was the order for the day. If cattle broke through fences, the chase began, regardless of the day and fences were given immediate attention. If garden beans needed picking, buckets were filled and canning jars were readied. Daily duties hummed along and a life of leisure was best not longed for.

All was well, however, if we could end the day with a few fireworks. The magic snakes and firecrackers entertained us as the day's light began to wane and the roman candles took over when darkness fell. And, of course, the sparklers made it possible to conclude the night with, "Happy Birthday, America!"

Fireworks captured by my sad camera from a balcony
 in Corvallis, OR, several years ago.

Cranked

Blessedly, we were able to crank our windows open this week and let in a little fresh air. Summer is always a game of weather roulette. Sometimes the heat and humidity barrels into our region at the end of May and holds us hostage until October. Other years, we can be cool and rainy for much of June. This year, June has been just about right.

After a nasty round of oral surgery last week, I was confined to my perch on the couch for a few days. The open windows let in the sounds of the day. The birds are in full form this time of year with all the babies following their mommies. The flock of blackbirds screeched away as the young ones were fed, seed by seed from my pan feeder. The percussive sound of their beaks on the metal pan added to the noisy feeding crew. Robins chattered back and forth to each other, perhaps sending messages of worm locations. The chicka-dee-dee-dees flitted in and out of the scene, carrying off seeds, one by one. And a momma downy woodpecker patiently grabbed small chunks of suet and passed them along to her eager offspring.

The neighbor's mower harrumphed its way into action and sent the birds scattering. The smell of freshly cut vegetation sifted its way through the open windows. The neighborhood lilac bushes send their fragrance through the air as well. Lilacs are pretty to look at but my nose is never happy with their bossy aroma and I cry no tears for the drop of their blossoms. The exhaust of a garbage truck deet-deet-deeing its way into the driveway across the street reminds me that all fragrances are relative.

The squeal of kids hurling down our street on their bikes prompts me to pray for angels of protection. Our house is on a small hill so the temptation to leave caution to the wind is great for thrill seeking youth. As their wheels whir across the pavement, their chatter increases and a whoop or two is let out when they reach the base of the hill. Their entertainment is a reminder that fun can be free and always wear your helmet.

Evening brings the smell of burning wood from a neighbor's fire pit. Grills belch out signals of charred burgers. Dogs pad by, letting their owners know who is in charge. Walkers, out for an evening stroll, share secrets of the day. Leaves on the trees allow the wind to use them as instruments going into the night. Motorcyclists rev by with untethered audacity. A kamikaze bird makes a loud splat against my picture window and a fluff of feathers goes fluttering down. A mourning dove makes a dirge-like call of coo-OOH-ooh-ooh, reminding us all that dusk is near.

Soon I will be cranking my windows shut again. The weather forecast looks warm and sticky for the next while. I am not looking forward to the encapsulation of an air-conditioned environment or the increase in my monthly electric bill, but that is the hand summer deals us. Best not complain and just make another ice cream dessert.

The Call

A recent vacation gave my husband and me time to recharge our batteries and provide a few new experiences along the way.  Let's be clear, our idea of a vacation does not include epic hikes, lake kayaking, exotic cuisine or Disneyland characters. We are simple folk with simple requirements. A comfortable cabin, a fireplace, a grill, a large coffeepot, a veranda and lots of books will do, thank you. Gratefully missing are hordes of people, cell phone reception, city noise and itineraries.

This year we were able to return to a peaceful little cabin in a beautiful valley in the Black Hills. It is a favorite place for us and we are happy to let the beauty of the Hills and the gentleness of the valley seep into our weary bones. We also enjoy checking out new experiences in the Hills and a brochure in the cabin entitled, Osprey Trail, did just that for us. I suffer from OOD, osprey obsession disorder, thanks to a webcam sponsored by Cornell Lab of Ornithology in Missoula, Montana. I spent so much time "in the nest" last summer that I became a self-proclaimed and annoying "expert" on the subject of ospreys. Unfortunately, there are no osprey where I live but the Hills is blessed with an active population. Bingo for me.

The brochure classified the Osprey Hike as easy so there were no barriers for such an adventure. A visit with the ranger at a nearby information center assured us that ospreys are easily spotted along the trail. With map in hand, we took off on our hike in search of the fish-eating raptor. I soon remembered what a dunce I am when it comes to hiking. The hike was listed as a short one but it was clear that our navigation skills could result in a longer meandering process than predicted.  I had a half bottle of water with me, no binoculars and no camera/phone. The sight of a bee reminded me that my husband's epi-pen was back in the vehicle. Visions of a medi-vac danced in my head.

As we forged ahead with our noses glued to the map, lost in discussions of being direction turned, I  heard a sweet sound above the trail. It was the call of an osprey. We let the call be our guide and soon we saw the unmistakable sky dance of an osprey, enjoying the air currents above the water. We watched the performance and soon the beautiful bird swooped down and skimmed the water for a few seconds. We were unable to discern whether a fish was caught but it was enough to see such a sight. We enjoyed a few moments with the bird, the lake and my obsession until a rumble of thunder reminded us to return to our vehicle.

We were unable to spend much time with the birds but we were rewarded with a great memory. And isn't that what a good vacation is all about?

We'll be back.

Into the Harbor

I have been out to sea for a long time, the sea of teaching and being a captain of my classroom. Many  years ago I signed my first contract as a sixth grade teacher. I knew enough about teaching to fill a thimble but my enthusiasm and naivete helped me believe I could keep signing contracts for years ahead. And I did. Thirty-one times, to be exact.

My time at sea has been an adventure, for sure. There were days of beautiful calm and serenity. My lessons clicked with the students. Heads nodded in understanding. Laughter burst forth over a shared funny moment. Hands were raised in thoughtful response. And I believed we would arrive at our destination in a timely manner. And sometimes we did.

There were also days of rough waters, filled with crashing waves and uncertainty. Unruly students with miserable attitudes, demanding enormous amounts of attention. Lessons gone awry and not well received. Meetings with unhappy and irrational parents. Forms, forms and more forms. E-mails queued up to kingdom come. Days when I was googling, jobs-for-has-been-teachers.

Most days were somewhere in-between. Not exactly sunshine and still waters. But not frothing waters and scurvy, either. The days when the rhythm of a classroom chugs along. Warm-ups are completed. Lessons are introduced. Assignments are given. Diligent students do their work. Stubborn students test the limits of tolerance. Papers are graded and returned. To-do lists are completed and another one is written. Students are greeted for the day and given a farewell as they exit with the final bell.

And now it is time to pull the ship into harbor. I am closing this chapter of my life. I met amazing folks along the way. My colleagues and I weathered many storms. We laughed until we cried and we shared the language of educators, determined to do what is best for our students. I listened to countless in-service speakers, some memorable and others not so much. I taught many subjects at three different grade levels. I conducted hundreds of parent-teacher conferences. I learned the names of a new crop of students each year and I watched them navigate their own waters of life. I felt the tides of "best practices" ebb and flow. And I hunkered down for the next technological flavor of the month. Teaching is never dull. And I have no regrets for choosing this profession. Nary a one.

Now the new chapter begins. I do not have fancy plans for the next steps. No fabulous encore job awaits me. I won't be traveling to exotic lands abroad any time soon. I don't have a cabin by a lake or a second home in the mountains. I suspect my semi-agoraphobic nature will keep me tethered to home base, for a while at least. I will continue to try a new recipe or two and I will enjoy my local library even more.

When next fall rolls around and I watch most of my fellow teachers head out to sea for another year of active duty, I will raise my cup of coffee in salute to some of the strongest people I know. I will also lift up a prayer for safe voyages and the stamina it takes to educate precious cargo. Above all, my fellow teachers, keep your desk drawers stocked with chocolate and a box or two of golf pencils. It is always good to be prepared.

Enough

I do most of my non-virtual shopping within a 1/2-mile radius of my house, for two reasons. I dislike shopping and I am lazy. My two favorite haunts are a grocery store that is 5 blocks from my house and a locally-owned pharmacy-has-everything store that is 4 blocks from my house (less if I drive around the backside of it, hoping I don't clip a trash dumpster in the process).

A recent early morning visit to the pharmacy store found me searching for a checkout lane with the signal light on. I heard a muffled voice at the first checkout and upon further investigation saw a frazzled checker rummaging around on the floor under the register. There was another young man crawling around on the floor, as well. I asked if their lane was open for business, and the frazzled lady popped her head up and said, yes, she could check me out but only if I wasn't using their store app. because the little reader thingy wasn't working.

I said she could rest easy because I wasn't going to use the app. because I never remember to carry my phone with me. She was relieved to hear that and proceeded to check me out while the young lad continued to dink around on the floor, attempting to remedy the app. reader problem. A line was beginning to form behind me and I could see in the checker's eyes a look of muted terror as she wondered how she would continue without the magic reader thing.

Just as I finished my transaction, I saw the blue lights on the reader machine fire up and start flashing. The checker breathed a huge sigh of relief and asked the young man, "What did you do?" He looked at her with all the hubris of youth and replied, "I fixed it."

We looked at each other and quickly agreed that we need our young friends in our lives because we are suffering from TID, Tech Idiocy Disorder. I know the checker wanted to understand how the young man fixed the problem so she could be self-sufficient if the reader blitzed out on her again. I also know the young man saw no reason to share his super power with someone a couple decades older than himself.

I know of no antidote for TID and I am not sure I am searching for one. Sometimes, I think it is technology that keeps the older generation humble. No doubt, there were a few harrumphs when the first horseless carriage putt-putted by an older person, followed by a discussion or two on the value of horses.

My 91-year-old mother tells many tales of changing technology over the decades. She experienced the beginnings of car travel, party-line telephones, rural electricity and indoor toilets. She dabbled in computers for a few years before her mind started weakening. Now, she looks at me and says, "I don't even know what a smartphone is and I don't want one. I have everything I need and that's enough."

Amen.

Lake Shore

Crashing waves. Spraying mists. Lapping water. Floating driftwood. Sparkling droplets. Memories of time spent by Lake Superior. A decade or two ago, my husband and I took yearly vacations "up north." We stayed in cabins along the large lake and enjoyed the cool breezes of water as far as the eye could see. The large lake provided the perfect climate for this tundra girl. I am never ready for the onslaught of summer's heat and humidity so a respite from such oppression is always appreciated.

We usually begin our lake time with a stop in the harbor town of Duluth. The view from Enger Park, situated above the city, is worth the journey through winding, sometimes confusing, streets. The park is filled with manicured gardens and leisurely walking trails. It is a great way to observe the sights and sounds of the city and the lake from afar.

The best way to experience the lake, of course, is walking along its shoreline. Canal Park is a well developed area nestled against the lake, perfect for observing the comings and goings of the big ships taking care of business. The old aerial lift bridge slowly raises it hulking deck for ships as they glide through the harbor. The ships hail from around the world, thanks to the lock systems of the Great Lakes. It is mind boggling to watch a vessel from Italy or Hong Kong chug along in upper Minnesota. Everything from grain to beet pulp to iron ore pellets are loaded for delivery to far flung places.

One particular ship viewing session found my husband and I in a torrential downpour. We were determined to weather the storm and watch the ships but the rain got the best of us. A coffee shop nearby provided the shelter we needed. This was before there was a coffee shop or java kiosk every 50 feet so the experience was purely delightful. We queued up with other dripping wet beings and ordered a hot cup of black, brew-of-the-day, coffee. The windows in the shop gave us peek-a-boo views of the harbor through the pouring rain.

Coffee always tastes good to me but that Caribou cup transcended all other cups for a moment in time. The rich brew permeated our senses with warmth and well being. The disappointment of not being able to fully view the ships was completely negated by two cups of coffee, one cozy corner and unobstructed conversation. Many years later, I still smile when I remember that day.

We hope to return to the big lake some time soon. Hopefully, we can even make the circle tour around the lake, venturing into the foreign land of Canada. Until then, I can enjoy a cup of Caribou coffee on occasion so I am able to experience a lake picture in my head and almost hear the bugle call of the gulls overhead.

Coffee. More than just caffeine.

Signs

The signs of spring present themselves a little differently in the upper plains than locales to our south. Temperature is not an indicator for us. One day we are bathed in sunshine and balminess and the following day our senses are shocked by a frosty nippiness. April showers can be a precursor to sleety, snowy slush. Trees hold back their buds a bit longer as they await a hopeful all-clear in May. And garden planting is risky at best.

There are a few sure fire signs for us and one is road construction. Our season for infrastructure enhancement is short so the orange cones are called into action as soon as possible. My commute has changed considerably as a massive restructuring of a popular roadway has begun. We queue up, bumper to bumper, and funnel our way through the latest passageway. I find myself gripping the steering wheel as I chug-a-chug-a-thunk my vehicle over rutted road shoulders. I feel tense when I am waiting on the bridge over a very swollen river or the bridge over a busy interstate. My game of "Which Bridge Would I Rather Have Plunge Downward" is probably not a good way to pass the time as I wait for a green light.

Our birds are also sending signals that springtime is arriving. The forceful call of a cardinal in the early morning hours is joined by the dee-dee-dee of the chickadees and the nasally yank-yank of nuthatches enjoying a suet snack. Fat-bellied robins are back in town, sharing space with the juncos who are ready to pack their bags for their northern breeding grounds. Bulky mourning doves are slowly arriving from their winter homes down south and red-winged blackbirds are establishing territory along the marshy sloughs. The chorus of morning symphonies is in full swing.

Despite the presence of ground frost, the lure of outdoor living is present. Greenhouses are being assembled in parking lots, nibbling away at precious parking spaces. Seed packets beckon our attention, forcing us to dream of fresh radishes, tomatoes and green beans. Lawnmowers remind us that our dormant turf will soon be demanding our attention. Bright, shiny grills and bags of charcoal are arranged in such a way that we can almost smell the burgers cooking away. Adirondack chairs in all colors conjure up thoughts of quiet evenings bathed in conversation and the glow of a sunset's waning light.

The number one sign of spring for us is rhubarb. Burly little sprouts are beginning their upward journey through the topsoil with little regard to the weather. Their hardy nature gives them bragging rights for being one of the earliest plants of the edible kind. It is a plant that elicits strong opinions from most folks. They either love rhubarb or hate it. Those of us in the love camp are salivating over the pies, cakes and desserts that will be coming our way. I'm not always sure if it is the rhubarb or the heavy doses of sugar added to the rhubarb that snaps us out of our winter coma. Rest assured, it is a pleasant way to greet spring.