Battle

Shoveling snow is an art form in the upper plains. Our equipment and techniques are based on years of battling the elements. We have learned how to read the consistency of the snowfall and choose our weapon(s) and strategy accordingly. A soft fluffy snow may only need a quick shoveling with basic equipment. Wet, pre-cement snow will need heavy duty shovels and a course of action designed to save fragile back muscles. A snow plow's windrow in the driveway can mean another skirmish with the white stuff, cussing optional.  

Our neighborhood represents many of the game plans used in snow removal. Ready Randy is usually the first one out of the gate, ready to tackle the latest snow project. His garage door will slowly open and he will appear dressed for battle with his armor and weapon of choice. He is responsible for his driveway and a small section of sidewalk. He takes this task seriously and wants it done well and soon. Steady Stan is a bit more calculating. He usually waits until he is sure the last flake has descended. His large corner lot means he has quite a bit of snow to tackle. Often, that calls for a machine, the snowblower. Stan has a heavy duty blower so he is able to methodically and decisively take care of his property. 

Nancy and Ned Newlywed are still finding their way in property caretaking. The first snowfall caught them with barely a shovel, a car left in the driveway (another place to collect drifts) and recreational outerwear. Subsequent snowfalls have resulted in a couple of shovels, an unobstructed driveway and boots with tread. Serious Stu is a veteran snow mover and is ready for anything with his big gun, the riding snowblower. He is able to make quick work of his corner lot and he occasionally is gracious enough to take care of our sidewalk as well. Loosey-Goosey Larry has more of a git-er-done strategy as he is known to clear his corner lot with just a shovel and his attire is a pair of shorts, no hat and some klompy boot situation. 

My husband and I often take a divide and conquer approach. Our baby lot does not have a lot of snow coverage but we are also responsible for our neighbor's large corner lot (they compensate us adequately so no need to feel sorry for us, most days). My husband loves his snowblower and likes to wait until everything "settles down" before making a game plan. I am a little more jumpy and anxious to get the neighbor's driveway finished. I do not run the snowblower so I am only useful if the snow is a reasonable depth and it is not too moisture laden. I also do not own coveralls so if the windchill is below zero I am inept. In other words, I am a Goldilocks snow mover.  

Our latest snowfall was of the light and fluffy variety but it came with a sneak attack. I had completed the shoveling on the neighbor's driveway and sidewalks when my husband said that it looked like we might get another shot of snow. Grrr. He wisely waited and sure enough, another dump happened just as night was beginning to fall which is early this time of year. My husband owns headlamps and his snowblower is equipped with lights but I do not shovel in the dark unless it is an emergency. We decided the snow would still be there in the morning and we would join Ready Russ in another round of shoveling. 

All in a day's work. 

                                                                    

Shot

The ugly words of recent months such as "unprecedented", "mandate", "quarantine", "community spread", "asymptomatic" and the creepiest one of all "C-19" (I refuse to use its full name) are ever so slowly being eclipsed by the phrase "light at the end of the tunnel." That light is none other than a stick in the arm, a.k.a. vaccination. There is much ado concerning the process of dispensing the vaccine but I suspect that will work itself out as time marches along. Our community is currently working through level 1C. The really good news is that willing participants in senior centers have received their first round of the vaccine. My mother with dementia has been on lockdown in an assisted living facility since last March. A blessing of her dementia riddled mind is that she doesn't fully comprehend the gravity of the pandemic but she knows she is unable to see her children and grandchildren as freely as before. 

When I talked with her about receiving the new vaccine, she said, "I will give them my arm or my butt or whatever they want if it means I can get vaccinated." She didn't need to read the literature provided or watch the videos from health officials to understand the power of vaccines. In her 92 years she has seen enough death and suffering from diseases such as polio and tuberculosis to know that vaccines change lives.

My childhood included its share of diseases no longer prevalent at this time. Measles and mumps were still common and unpleasant, not to mention potentially deadly. We all experienced chicken pox and many of us had it at the same time due to its contagious nature. My mother told us not to scratch so much or we could develop long-term scarring. Easier said than done! We slathered ourselves full of calamine lotion in an attempt to mitigate the situation. I think we only succeeded in making ourselves look like a pack of pink panthers. My mother was a saint to deal with all our whining and discomfort. 

My parents never questioned vaccines even when many of them were in nascent stages of development. I remember an incident where I was told to eat a sugar cube laced with a pinkish liquid, no questions asked. It was the first oral polio vaccine being made available en masse. As kids, we were aware of the horror of "iron lungs" and children crippled for life. We gobbled down the sugar cube with all its fringe benefits. We were also on the tail end of the need for a smallpox vaccine. The nasty scab it produced left a scar many of us still sport today. 

The day my mother received her first C-19 vaccine was a day of rejoicing for me. When I asked her if she remembered getting her shot she quite naturally did not remember but she said, "Let me check for a band-aid on my arm. Yep, I've got a band-aid." Bingo! Round one in the books.

My subgroup for receiving the vaccine is last on the list so I will be queuing up with college kids when the time comes. I will be there with rings on my fingers and bells on my toes. And I won't even ask for a sugar cube chaser. 

Comfort

My husband and I often watch reruns of MASH while we enjoy our evening meal. It is true, we are on a slippery slope toward being a TV tray couple. Be that as it may, we rarely tire of the antics of the 4077 gang and it always seems better with dinner and dessert.

Recently, during a commercial break, I made the comment, "I think I should get a comfort monkey."

Silence.

More silence.

My husband finally looked at me and asked, "What are you talking about?" I could see in his eyes that he was hoping the drug commercials would soon be over so we could return to the show rather than explore the current non sequitur conversation. 

Not willing to be stopped, I clarified my comment. "I feel I am going to suffer from a form of PTSD if and when we get through this C-19 stuff and I may need some kind of animal to keep me company when I go out and about. It would be like those folks who have little dogs or iguanas or some type of animal to calm them down." 

More silence.

Finally, my husband, a man of precise and carefully chosen words, said, "I feel like an animal would cause you more stress."

Wiser words were never spoken. 

The truth of the matter is I have a complicated relationship with most animals, despite my upbringing on a farm. I am terrified of dogs. Chickens have a psychotic dark side. Cattle are best viewed behind fences. Mice make me shudder. Raccoons are shifty. Monkeys have scary hands. Pigs have grunty appetites. And opossums, don't get me started.

I like cats, perhaps due to their aloofness and independent nature. Birds always make me smile, albeit an ostrich might give me pause. Bugs, spiders and snakes are neutral for me, unless venom or constriction is involved. 

Clearly, my list of acceptable animals would likely not make very good in-public-comfort animals as most of them have issues with social skills. And my husband is correct in that any animal would give me stress as I am not one who enjoys the care and maintenance of indoor litter boxes, cages, and food bowls. I will have to adopt different ways to cope with the aftermath of the past year.  

2020 was a devil of a year and its ramifications are not over yet. Without a doubt many of us will be in need of comfort as we continue to move forward in 2021. I will not be using a comfort monkey but I plan on using my tried and true techniques.

For starters, a stack of library books gives me joy. The fermentation projects fizzing away on my counter give my gut microbiotica a happy treat. A bubbling pot of soup can calm the edgiest of days. Phone calls with friends and family help shift perspectives when gray clouds gather. A DVD workout reminds me to keep active, albeit begrudgingly. And there is nothing like another episode of MASH to point out that problems are a part of living.

Cheers to a New Year! May you find what comforts you.   

A Christmas gift from my husband
included, Sven, a comfort reindeer. 

Dip It

Many memories can seem strange to us as we navigate a different environment than just a few months ago. Thoughts of tourist packed travel destinations with nary a mask in sight can catch one's breath now. Photos of holiday gatherings with several generations passing bowls of food around the table can be painfully raw in a wave of nostalgia. Concerts filled with ardent fans packed shoulder to shoulder in an enclosed venue feel strangely distant. Shopping in crowded stores with crowded aisles can feel like swimming in a petri dish. Watching my favorite polka show almost makes me weep as I watch a dance floor filled with smiling twirling elderly folks, social distancing of no concern.  

Perhaps an activity from my past that seems particularly anachronistic now is the classic fondue. My first (and only) fondue pot was a wedding gift my husband and I received in the 70's. This was the heyday of the burgeoning dip and eat fad in our country. The activity had been around for a couple of centuries in various formats, particularly in ski communities where warm goo was needed to keep cold participants happy. For reasons left to marketing and timing, fondue took off after a Swiss exposition at the World's Fair in New York City in 1964. Soon fondue parties were being featured in magazine ads selling cheese or fondue pots or both as a way to spice up the mundane. 

It is hard to do better than melted cheese in my book but my first fondue party featured bubbling oil and cubes of beef. The fondue pot was, of course, harvest gold. Other popular choices of the day were copper and avocado green. The fact that I had never seen or tasted a real avocado made that color all the more exotic back in the day. My sister and her soon to be husband and another couple joined my husband and me in our cold basement apartment for the big party. The space brightened up quickly as we used our tiny little fork wands to stab chunks of meat and jockey for a spot in the cauldron of oil. Having grown up in cattle country, none of us were concerned about the optimal temperature for cooked beef so the timing of the sizzle was quite arbitrary. Sometimes our little cubes were a wee bit crispy, but most often we were content with a quick dip and call it good. 

Our favorite part of the fried meat process happened during the follow-up, the sauces. I do not remember any specific recipes but I know we had fun dipping and analyzing. One particular sauce seemed to rise to the top as a favorite, so much so that my future brother-in-law declared it to be "good enough to eat on a napkin." We were giddy from all the fried meat and his comment made us choke with laughter. For years to come, we used that phrase whenever we were together and enjoying a tasty meal. 

My little fondue pot is long gone and sadly, I have no recollection as to its fate. Most likely I sold it on a rummage sale when its appeal started to fade. I do miss what it represented, though. For me, it was the ultimate in interactive cuisine. It was impossible to fondue without sharing many moments of camaraderie as chunks of food were either won or lost in the game of dipping. 

Fondue is certainly out of the question for now but there is nothing stopping us from enjoying melted cheese, chocolate or sizzling oil. Tap into your inner Gouda and stay inspired until we can unabashedly dip again. 

Neighborhood Noise

I am a card-carrying bird enthusiast. I stop short of calling myself an expert bird watcher, however, as I have so much more to learn. I also do not chase over hill and dale to add new bird sightings to an ongoing list. I am not opposed to such activity, but I am a bit too lazy to immerse myself to that degree, yet. The bulk of my bird watching happens through the windows of my home. I participate in a citizen science program called Project FeederWatch through Cornell University which involves recording backyard bird numbers throughout the winter months. I greatly enjoy having a purpose to my hobby and it forces me to identify the ubiquitous little brown birds. 

Recently, my mid-morning coffee break has been jostled by a clatter of squeaking chatter and whistles. A quick peek out the window reveals a flurry of activity. The leafless trees are filled with robin-sized birds conversing in their bird-like manner. The birds cluster together, at rest and in the air. And they are oh so vocal. 

Upon further investigation, my bird visitors are identified as European Starlings. I am not going to lie, starlings are not my favorite birds. I do not like it when they bully their way to the front of the line on my suet feeders. They have long yellow beaks and are able to pull apart a block of suet with surgical precision. And they are always en masse with all their avian buddies.

Despite my lack of wholehearted love for the starlings, I do enjoy watching their antics in my neighborhood. It is like watching a playground in the sky. The birds dip and dive as they chase each other from tree to tree. They form patterns when they move in rippling groups of roiling black shapes. They seem to have boundless energy and as quickly as they arrive, they can take off for the next neighborhood playground. 

Another bird that likes to hang out in groups at my feeders is the House Sparrow. Like the starling, they seem to enjoy flitting around with their fellow bird mates. They often jockey for the best position on my hanging tube feeder and they squabble back and forth while they enjoy their snacks. They are no less vocal than the starlings and it is easy to know when they have arrived.

Both bird species are classified as introduced species because they are not native to our country. The starlings were brought here by a group of folks that wanted America to have all the birds mentioned by Shakespeare. The House Sparrow was released in America as a way to control the ravages of a certain moth. Both bird species arrived during the 19th century and clearly, both species embraced their adopted home with vigor. It is tempting to blame them for making it more difficult for other native birds to thrive but I remind myself of the truth of the matter. I can enjoy them for their quirky antics and busybody ways or I can let them irritate me. For now, I feel it is best to enjoy my feathered friends and admire their plucky willingness to cohabitate with humans. 

All God's creatures. 

A few of my little brown birds.

 

Jammies

One would have to be blind to not notice the assault of Christmas goods poised and waiting to be put into shopping carts, in-person or virtually. The Halloween candy was barely stocked on the shelves when the Ho-Ho-Ho paraphernalia made an appearance. And it is full-on marketing now. I suspect many folks will feel the need to do more purchasing than usual due to the difficulty of celebrating the usual traditions of Christmas this year. 

One tradition that has always puzzled me is the matching pajamas phenomenon. It is difficult to pin down the origin story of this tradition but suffice it to say, it did not start with my generation. We were lucky to have a decent hand-me-down pair of pajamas much less nightwear that looked like the rest of my family of nine. We also did not have a camera that could take the perfect selfie for a social media post. Our cameras were point and shoot with a flash cube, if you were lucky. We had to wait for the roll of film to fill up and then it was taken to our local drug store. We would wait a couple of weeks for the photos to be returned in packets with our name on it. The photos usually contained a series of duds. Photoshopping was not an option. Our photos were real, red eyes and all.

If you are a matching jammies family, I apologize for my bewilderment and covert judgment. Some families say they love the tradition and continue it in a tongue-in-cheek sort of way. There is no amount of tongue-in-cheeking that could get me to  a) buy matching pajamas and  b) take a photo for the world to see. The photos I see of this craze often portray a lovely little family, giggling and frolicking in adorable reindeer printed flannel nightwear. Everyone seems to love their newly received pajamas and they all look cozy and ready for hot cups of cocoa, so very hygge. 

My utilitarian approach to clothing is perhaps the reason for my hesitancy to embrace this craze. I could probably set up a matching section on an exam for my wardrobe. My t-shirts that may or may not have a few stains or bleach spots on them are for around the house, daytime wear. My tees that have minimal stainage can be used for trips to the grocery store. My tees that are less than two years old fall into the category of coffee-out-and-about-wear. I have my creepy, grass-stained clogs for mowing the lawn, always a good look with my everyday capris. My sandals with a tiny bit of bling are saved for summer weddings and funerals. My birkenstocks that pre-date current trendiness are for the garden. And my fleece jackets are classified according to how pilly the fabric is, fewest pills make the cut for the public scene. 

Clearly, matching jammies are not on my radar. Pajamas are for the end of the day, ready for bedtime. Matching clothing for me will have to happen, well, never. Cheers to those of you who enjoy the jammy camaraderie. Forgive me if I order a new turtleneck instead.  

A Kiss

Many locales around the world are no strangers to maniacal weather changes and my location in the upper plains is no exception to such fluctuations. A couple of weeks ago, our neighborhood was abuzz with the sound of roaring snowblowers and scraping shovels as we dug ourselves out of our first official significant snowfall of the season. The snowfall was followed by a week of frigid temperatures setting record lows for high temperatures of the day. The sun took a break and hid behind the clouds, creating gloomy days. Our low temperatures sealed the deal on anything vegetal left in my garden. I had rose-colored glasses and hoped a few treasures would defy biology and hang on a bit longer. Silly me. 

Fortunately, the weather made another big shift this past week and kissed us with near record setting high temperatures for this time of year. The sun made an appearance in all its glory and the winds dialed back from turbulent to mild. Windows were flung open for a few days. Furnaces rested a bit before the siege of winter arrives in full force. Folks took their daily walks unencumbered by extra layers of clothing. Neighbors were outdoors tackling a few more tasks.  

As for me, outdoor tasks are always best taken in small doses but I felt a strange sense of urgency to finish a couple of things before the doors of winter slammed shut. I wanted to give a few of my windows a little cleaning, emphasis on the word little. Long ago I gave up on sparkly, squeaky clean windows. I've tried vinegar concoctions, newspapers, squeegees, expensive products, cheap products, specialty cloths and the results seem to be about the same. Lowering my standards has worked best for me and the price is right.  

My grill was also in need of a good scrubbing before it was put to bed. We have a small grill but the task always overwhelms me as I tackle the greasy goo that seems to build up despite my efforts to scrape it down between grilling events. I have no magic bullet for that cleaning task despite watching many youtube videos on "making the task easier." I have the best luck with the method that works for oil-slicked ducks, use good old-fashioned Dawn dish soap. A fair bit of elbow grease is also needed and once again, lowering my standards has been helpful. My conundrum was the desire to use my grill in the nice weather but not wanting to dirty it up again. The siren song of grilled food won out and I will have to put up with a little extra grease in the spring,

The final task was washing my vehicle. Yes, it is much easier to run it through a car wash but I told myself that when I retired, I would take on this task, at least occasionally. Truth to be told, I am afraid of car washes that require me to drive onto specified tracks. I have trouble with backing out of my driveway without incident so I tend to avoid other challenges if possible, especially in public. My husband had packed up most of the hoses and spray thingies so it took a little extra work to set up the process. But, the deed is done and considering how little I am driving these days, I should be good to go for a fair amount of time.

Not surprisingly, the weather is predicted to swing back to cold and the possibility of snow. It was good to have a little smooch of sweet weather before we dust off the parkas and mittens again.