God Bless the USA!

Recently, we were privileged to enjoy the United States Army Field Band & Soldiers’ Chorus in concert. Anyone who watches those soldiers perform without feeling a surge of patriotism and gratitude toward those who serve us in the armed forces has a heart of rock and should be ashamed.

Concert opened with The Star-Spangled Banner. Chorus and band led audience in the national anthem. I love to sing our national song, but could hardly get the initial words out of my tightened throat. I thought of my friends and family who are currently serving or have family members currently serving. The Land of the Free would not be free without the service of the brave. Thank you so much!

As is customary with military bands, they closed the program with Armed Forces Salute, a medley of the military branches’ songs. Often, the conductor invites veterans of that service to stand during their branch music. This time, Conductor Col. Thomas Palmatier invited veterans and their families to stand during their branch music. Hubby had to leave for work before this selection, so I was very proud to stand for both Navy, my father-in-law’s branch, and and Air Force, my father’s branch. Being able to honor their service means a great deal to me.

The band’s encore was God Bless the USA. The crowd cheered and sang along. “… I’ll gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today, ‘cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land. God bless the USA!”

Silverware wind chimes

The first question everyone asks about these wind chimes is “How did you twist them?”

Brute strength and determination.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The flatware belonged to my grandmother and bears her monogram. I have plenty of my own silverware, so when I got this set, I intended to make it into craft items.

Four years later, my brother and his family moved into a new house. For sister-in-love Stef’s birthday and housewarming gift, I made these wind chimes. She got to be my guinea pig.

I found instructions at CraftyGal.com.

Taryn says to flatten the flatware on a “large flat rock or anvil.” Since I had access to neither, I used an old 2x6” board instead. I clamped the handle to the board to hold the fork or spoon still while I beat the tines or bowl with a mallet.

I poured motor oil over the handle before I started drilling each one’s hole with a bit made for drilling metal. To protect my workbench from drill holes, I clamped the other end to the board I had used for pounding. I drilled through the knife’s blade. That was much easier than trying to get through the handle.

The hardware store didn’t have a chamfer bit or counter sink in that size. The owner suggested I remove the metal filings with steel wool. That worked up to a point, but I had to take a needle-nose plier to remove some of them.

Taryn says to get a friend to help you twist the handles. Hubby was asleep and my friends were busy at the time. I decided to twist them myself. If this had been a stainless steel silverware set, I doubt I could have twisted them alone. The silver was just malleable enough for me to twist, although Twist No. Three was pretty difficult.

Twisting the handles wasn’t nearly as difficult as twisting the “hanger fork” tines to hold the other utensils. Next time I make these, I’m heating the fork for greater malleability. I would have liked a smoother curve on the tines, but was afraid to be too aggressive. I was afraid I might break one or more tines if I worked too hard on them.

Next time, I’ll tape the ends I clamp and the tines to minimize scratching.

I cut the fishing line to the lengths Taryn specified, but they were too long. The silverware didn’t contact each other enough to make a sound. I had to shorten the line for it to work. (Because of our windy climate, I bought the strongest fishing line the store had.)

Taryn’s instructions didn’t say how to hang the chimes in its final location. I attached a carabiner to the fishing line for a hanger.

I was concerned how my chimes would sound. When I clinked the flatware together before stringing the chimes, I thought they sounded flat. When I hung them up for this picture, they sounded wonderful.

I enjoyed passing on a family heirloom in a different form.

Repaying a debt

Mother holding me when I’m about six months old.

I hate donating blood.

First comes a bureaucratic nightmare in which the would-be donor has to answer the same questions she answered the last time she donated, plus repeat her name and birthdate repeatedly. I despise paperwork and bureaucracy, but I understand the need for blood safety.

Second, I’m delivered into the hands of a vampire who wants to suck blood from my arm.

My friend Martha asked me if giving blood was easy.

When I said, “No, I’m a turnip,” she howled with laughter.

That’s funny until the vampire comes.

I loathe needles and tense up whenever I get near a person wielding one. My veins collapse and disappear. The last two times I’ve donated, the vampires had to poke and prod and wiggle the needle around in my arm to get good flow from the vein. I just won’t scream, but I was biting down hard to keep from it.

“Are we hurting you? Do you want to try another vein? Do you not want to donate?”

“Yes, no and no. I’ve gotten this far and I’m going to donate!”

Yes, I hate the process, although Thursday’s experience wasn’t nearly as trying as the others have been.

I love being a blood donor.

Because of blood donors, I grow up with a mother. My mother hemorrhaged when she gave birth to me and needed blood badly. Because someone had donated, she received that lifesaving fluid.

Because of blood donors, I got to have my mother a little longer than I would have without them. My mother got acute myelecytic leukemia. She received repeated platelet donations because her clotting factors were so critically low due to the disease. The leukemia took her in five months, but the platelets prolonged her life and gave it greater quality than she would have had without them.

When I donate, I am repaying the inestimable debt I owe to my mother’s blood donors.

Whoever you were, I thank you.

On safari

We were in the middle of nowhere on our Sunday outing. Hubby decided he would dress in his safari hat. I’m not sure where he thought the lions were, but he looks like the big game hunter in this hat.

We were more likely to see a rattler than any kind of big cat. Fortunately, no snakes made their appearance.

We were walking in a ravine when he stepped into a side gulch and told me to snap this photo.

This hat was ironically a gag gift in a game of “Dirty Santa” at Christmas 2005. He wasn’t supposed to like it, but he certainly does. He had chances to take away other people’s gifts, which I thought were a better choice, but he would have nothing to do with anything but this hat.

Do all men have a “big game hunter” hidden deep inside?

Two flower girls, one dress

Hubby’s cousin got married Saturday. The flower girl, Ella, wore the dress our flower girl, Heidi, wore 14 years ago. My mother, a fabulous seamstress, made that dress and I know she would have been delighted to see it used again.

Ella in the recessional.

Heidi, now a college freshman, has grown rather too large to wear the dress.

Nicholas, our ringbearer, and Heidi, our flower girl, in the processional.

It’s hard to believe that our ring bearer is now in the Navy and our flower girl is now in college.

Watching Ella wear that dress was bittersweet. The last vocal music selection Saturday was “Holes in the Floor of Heaven”. I cried throughout the entire song. I could just picture my mother looking down at the wedding and feeling pleased that her creation was being reused. How I wish I could have told her in person and shared her delight. But that will have to wait until I, too, am on the other side.

Mother and I on my wedding day. Not only did she make my dress, an absolute masterpiece, but she also made flower girl’s, bridesmaids’ and candlelighters’ dresses.

Super Simple Pancake Syrup

A few days ago, I was talking with the financial office staff at work. Somehow we started talking about my pancake syrup recipe. One of the ladies asked, “You can make syrup?”

My mother didn’t buy pancake syrup. She made it. “Store-bought syrup is a waste of money,” she said.

I generally can’t remember recipes, but this one is too simple to forget.

Super Simple Pancake Syrup

1 C. sugar
1 C. brown sugar
1 C. water
Few drops each maple, vanilla and butter flavorings
Stir together and allow to boil. Take off heat and pour into container for serving. Keep refrigerated.

At the pump

Seeing my brother at this water pump at a living history museum reminded me of our grandparents’ house. Even though they were hooked to city water inside, they still retained their old water pump outside.

My brother, cousins and I loved that water pump. Something about pumping the water out of the ground made it taste better. I don’t know that water actually tasted better from that source, but we thought it did. And pumping the handle was such fun, especially since our efforts were rewarded with cold water.

Our grandparents lost their house to a tornado and the water pump was one of the casualties of their rebuilding. The new house was always strange to me. The delights of my childhood had been removed. Even though the house was on the same lot as the old one, Grandpa and Grandma lived in an alien place.

Where eggs come from

Our oldest niece (obscured by our youngest niece) has developed a distaste for eggs. She visited a friend who raises chickens and found out where eggs come from.

When I said that I had greatly enjoyed gathering eggs, she said, “I don’t mind gathering eggs. But I don’t want to eat them! Eggs come from chickens’ butts! That’s gross!”

A person is better off not knowing what goes into sausage, but that’s the first time I’ve heard that it’s better not knowing where eggs originate.

Ignorance can truly be bliss.

Oh, and by the way, make mine over easy, please.

Hot wired

My bike was red, but you get the general picture of what it looked like.

Grandpa had several roads to his cattle pens. One had a low spot that often filled with water. I loved to ride my bike through that low spot. Water often reached almost to my knees. Especially on a hot day, the water felt great.

One day, I rode through that spot and nearly fell off my bike. I couldn’t figure out what had happened. I backed up and tried again. Boom! I felt as if something had hit me. I was completely baffled. I had ridden through this puddle before; why couldn’t I get through now?

I backed up to try once more. Then I noticed an electrical insulator on a pole to the side of the puddle. The light began to dawn. I looked at the water more closely. I saw a thin line enter the puddle, then disappear underneath the water.

I turned around and stayed away from that dip ever afterward. I wanted to avoid another shocking experience.

Farm-fresh eggs from free-range chickens

I visited a farm on Friday. Residents were feeding their chickens when I arrived, so I went to the chicken coop. The smell of the coop took me right back to my grandparents’ farm.

Grandma kept chickens throughout most of my childhood. I thought the chickens were hilarious. I laughed at the way they walked, how they stuck out their necks with each step. I laughed when they tried to fly. They were busy things, always chasing after bugs. Grandma didn’t have many bugs; the chickens ate them all.

When I visited, my “chore” was to gather eggs. That was hardly a chore. I thought gathering eggs was a privilege. I loved the smell of the coop and the taste of farm-fresh eggs. The yolks were a deeper yellow and the flavor was much more intense than anything bought in the store.

I didn’t think their beaks were funny, though. Grandma said that I could take eggs from underneath the setting hens. I tried that once. Hen didn’t appreciate my actions and pecked me. I stayed away from occupied nests after that. That beak was sharp!

Grandma finally dispensed with her chickens about the time I went to college. Grandpa tore down the chicken house. Three years later, Grandma dug the soil underneath the chicken house and put it on her garden. The plants came up, then died. That soil was too hot even after three years. Grandma didn’t have much garden that year. The only veggies she harvested were in corners where the “chickenized” soil hadn’t reached. The next year made up for it. She had never had such bountiful crops in decades of gardening.

The farm was never quite the same post-chickens. I missed their soft clucking and their funny strut. And I sure missed fresh eggs and Grandma’s fried chicken. Store-bought chicken just does not compare to free-range, bug-eating chicken. The flavor just is not there.

Now I’m getting hungry!

How I lost my fingertip

I came by my interest in gardening very naturally. Grandma’s flowers are in the foreground. I haven’t found any pictures of her vegetable garden, but she had a big one.

House, yard and garden were my grandmother’s world. Her world smelled of flowers, grass and food.

Grandpa’s world began beyond that fence. Shop, barn and cattle pens, corn, hay and alfalfa fields, were my grandfather’s world.

Shop smelled like dirt and grease and oil. It smelled like solder and acetylene and gasoline. When I go into someone else’s shop and inhale that fragrance, I am instantly transported into Grandpa’s shop.

I hate(d) shoes and insisted on going barefoot even in the shop. My feet were always covered with a tarry substance when I came out, but I didn’t care. I was fascinated by his tools, especially the drill press, the hoist and anything to do with welding. I loved to watch him work and I must have gotten underfoot.

One day when I was about 8, he was welding while I watched. He said, “Do you know how to cut wood?”

I lied and said that I did. I had never used a hatchet or ax in my life. But I was not going to tell Grandpa that I didn’t know how to do something.

Grandpa wasn’t fond of the word “can’t”. He would say, “‘Can’t’ never did anything but fail.”

He pointed out a pile of lath or something like that, gave me a hatchet and told me to chop away.

I did. All was well for a few minutes until I chopped off the tip of my left index finger. I left his shop and went to the house.

I showed my mother and grandmother what had happened. Instead of treating my finger, they scrubbed my tarry feet! Only when my feet were clean did they treat my throbbing, bleeding finger.

I was watching TV in the living room, holding up my injured digit, when Grandpa came in.

“Where did Roxie go?”

“She cut off her fingertip,”, Grandma said.

“Why, she didn’t even cry or say anything about it,” he said.

He never asked me to cut wood again.

Horn and doggie door

My grandparents installed a horn above the garage door on the right. When Grandma flipped a switch inside, the horn sounded to call Grandpa from his shop across the driveway. This horn was quite loud.

One night they had quite a few people visiting, many of whom were outside. When dinner was ready, Grandma flipped the switch. I happened to be standing right underneath it. I was so startled that I dropped to the ground, curled up into a fetal position and covered my ears. “Duck and cover” drills were a thing of the past by then, but that’s pretty much what I must have looked like. Dad howled with laughter, which I didn’t understand or appreciate at the time.

The gate had a doggie door in it. Fence existed to keep out her chickens and whatever other herbivores might try to spoil her yard and garden. The dog, however, was welcome. I never remember a dog at the farm, but the doggie door still existed. I thought crawling through the doggie door was great fun, even though opening the gate would have been much easier.

It was fun until I nearly got stuck. My head and shoulders went through, but my arms were pinioned to my sides. Grandma was inside and Grandpa was in his shop, so no one could help me. Not that I would have wanted help in such an embarrassing predicament. I wiggled and strained and pushed, but did not budge. Finally, after some time and nasty bruises, I popped free. That ended the doggie door for me. Becoming a “big girl” definitely had its price.

Going home but only in memory

Grandpa in front of his new house in 1954.

Sometimes memory triggers are unpredictable. Mimi of “French Kitchen in America” started a post with a recipe, then ended with a wonderful evocation of the neighborhood in which she grew up.

She and her husband sold her grandmother’s house to a young family. “My heart tightens when I pass the house,” she said.

I understand the feeling. I can never, ever drive past my grandparents’ farmstead without my throat tightening, without longing to “go home”. Home to the “home place”.

My grandparents built their house on that land in 1954.

I cried when my grandmother sold it in the late 1980s.

In memory, I can walk through every room in the house and outbuildings, but I will never walk in the real buildings again. That thought saddens me. However, they are probably so changed by now that I wouldn’t want to walk there.

After I read Mimi’s post, I looked through a stack of old family photos, searching for pictures of the farmstead. I thought I would write one post about the place, but too many memories popped up to write just one.

The pond garden

Pond Garden looking northeast. Coral bells and pepper plants are in foreground.

Pond Garden looking southwest. Blue spruce, pampas grass and volunteer green beans are in foreground.

The Frugal Gardener and her hubby have two main vegetable gardens. The narrow rectangles south of our house are the vegetable garden, currently planted with the Three Sisters on one side of the sidewalk and tomatoes and herbs on the other side of the walk. The other, an irregularly-shaped chunk of our backyard, is “The Pond Garden”.

The only water in that garden fills the bird bath. Hubby named it “The Pond Garden” because it’s shaped like a pond.

Our friend Kevin had shown us how to lay out natural-looking landscaping by using a garden hose. The hose marks sinuous curves for a relaxing, free-flowing appearance.

At that time, we had a large, ugly weed patch in our backyard. I hated it. I tried to avoid looking at it because I didn’t know what to do with it.

Then the mental light bulb turned on. I would turn that nasty patch into a garden, using the outlines of the weed patch to create natural-looking curves.

Instead of using a hose, I bought the cheapest can of orange spray paint I could find. I outlined the awful weed patch with the spray paint. Hubby tilled within the lines. I laid down salvaged red bricks for the border.

Previous owners had planted cedar trees and I had received a blue spruce from my brother and sister-in-love for my 40th birthday. We planted pampas grass in the gap between spruce and cedars for privacy, then scattered flowers in various parts of that garden. Flowers include coral bells and irises from my mother's garden. We have purple bee balm and lilies from Hubby's aunt's garden and coral hollyhocks from his parents' garden.

In the spaces that are left, we plant various vegetables each year. Volunteer buttercrunch lettuce returns every year.

An eyesore became something beautiful and productive for almost no money.

Reality check: FICA and FUTA

Grandma’s collage of their cornfield south of their house. I did not detassel here. My grandparents would not have appreciated the gesture.

No one detassels for fun. Well, maybe the crew leaders do, but not the worker bees. (I didn’t stick around long enough to be a crew leader.) The only incentive is pay, which came as a lump sum at season’s end.

I was so excited when my first paycheck came in the mail. I was primed to shop for school clothes.

Then I saw the big chunk Uncle Sam had bitten out of my check. I was shocked at the size of my tax bill. Then I comforted myself by saying, “Oh, well, I’ll get it all back when I file my tax return.”

Mother said, “See those lines for FICA and FUTA? You won’t get those back. FICA is Social Security, which you won’t see until you’re 65.”

At 14, 65 seems forever away. (And now I must reach 67 before I qualify — if Social Security still exists!)

“What does FUTA mean?” I asked.

“That’s unemployment insurance. You don’t qualify for it, either.”

Welcome to the real world.

Lost in the long corn rows

I have no sense of direction. None. Zippo. Zilch. Most of the time, this handicap is no big deal, but at times my lack has caused me major difficulties.

Detasselers work in whatever conditions Mother Nature dishes out, except lightning storms. Standing in a cornfield during lightning makes a person into a target.

Toward the end of one brutally hot and humid day, a thunderstorm brewed up. Boss decided that we’d best quit for the day. Crew leader told me to “dig out” those who weren’t finished with their rows and tell them that we were leaving. I did this, then walked toward the bus.

Except that I ended up on another side of the cornfield. Helplessly, I watched the bus pull away without me. Eventually, they realized that I had been left. They drove around looking for me, but I could never catch up to the bus.

We were about 15 miles from home and cell phones were not available yet. I walked at least a mile to the nearest farmhouse and called my mother.

Mother had a compass in her head. She could not understand how I could have gotten turned around in a cornfield.

But her confusion was nothing to the scorn I received from my crew mates. They all gave me dirty looks the next day. “How could you get lost in a cornfield?” they asked. And they kept on scornfully asking that question throughout whatever remained of the season.

Even years later, I still heard those taunts. Yes, this was definitely my most embarrassing moment.

Grandma's wit

One summer I painted my grandmother’s barn. Cattle pens were attached to the back side of the barn. After my grandfather died, Grandma no longer had livestock, so the pens were overgrown with weeds.

Marijuana was the most prolific weed. (Although prolific, wild marijuana is not very potent.) Some of it grew more than waist high and I am a tall woman. One day I thought I’d have a little fun with Grandma. I pulled up one of the marijuana stalks and took it into the house when she called me to supper.

“Grandma,” I said, “I can’t believe you would grow marijuana in your cattle pens!”

She looked at me, looked at the plant, then said, “Well, you picked it.”

What could I answer to that?

Mother and the bird

I have never met anyone who had more presence of mind than my mother. If I had to pick one person to be at my side in an emergency, I’d pick her.

One scorching Sunday night, she was playing the piano for our church service. Building lacked air conditioning, so we had opened every possible door and window to catch whatever breeze might appear, including the big double doors at the main entrance.

While we were singing, a large black bird swooped in. It flew strafing runs over the congregation. We ducked and bobbed to escape the bird. The lady next to me was very afraid of birds. When the bird swooped right over our heads, she screamed and dove under the pew in front of us. She wasn't the only one taking shelter.

In spite of the commotion, Mother continued to play and the songleader tried to lead. After some minutes, the bird landed on the block at the bass end of the keyboard. Her left hand whipped out from the keyboard and grabbed the bird. She did not miss a note.

The bird was not amused and cawed loudly. It kept right on cawing and she kept right on playing. The songleader had stopped trying to lead singing. His mouth silently opened and closed right in time to the bird’s cries. He looked rather like a bird himself, like a baby bird opening its mouth for food.

While still continuing to play and hold on to the bird, Mother looked around for someone to take away the bird. Everyone was frozen. For a long moment, the only sounds were the bird’s cries and the piano.

Finally, a man came down the center aisle from the back of the church and took the bird. Mother continued playing, but no human uttered a sound. The only sounds were the bird, the piano and the man’s footsteps.

We heard it cry, “CAAAAW, CAAAAW, CAAAAW, CAAAAW, CAAAAW, CAA–”, then silence. Mother's rescuer had twisted off the bird's head.

He walked back into the church and sat down as if nothing had happened. She continued to play, but no one said a word for some time.

Then the entire congregation burst out laughing and cheering.

Even years later, people would retell the story. Most of them ended by saying, “Who else could catch a bird on the piano and not miss a note”

The cost of freedom

Tintype is likely of Daniel Q. or his eventual brother-in-law Daniel D.

Daniel Q. served in the 36th Illinois Volunteer Infantry Regiment, which saw a great deal of action, including the Battles of Perryville, Stones River, Chickamauga, the Siege of Chattanooga, the Battles of Resaca and Atlanta. Daniel Q. was captured somewhere in Georgia or Alabama.

He died Jan. 31, 1864, while a prisoner of war. Family originally believed that he had died in Andersonville Prison, the most notorious of the Confederacy’s prisoner-of-war camps, but War Department files showed that he had died in Danville [Va.] Prison, another terrible place.

Daniel D. enlisted near the end of the war and served for about three months.

Excerpt of poem below was written by Union soldier Andrew A. Wright at Murfreesboro, Tenn., May 17, 1863. Daniel Q., who was in Wright's company, sent home a copy to his sister Annie, my great-great-aunt. She had it published in her local newspaper.

Who Wouldn’t Be a Soldier?

“ … Wherever the Cumberland Army shall go
They are brave soldiers of freedom, the world shall e’er know
The Butternuts [Confederates] find us too much for their mettle;
When brave Rosy [Gen. Rosecrans] moves on, they are sure to skedaddle.
And we’ll closely pursue them with [illegible]
Till the last Reb is vanquished and peace is restored
And the Stars and Stripes fly triumphant again
O’er a land that is purged of disloyal men,

Then ’tis homeward we’ll turn and we’ll sing as we go:
Ho! Friends, we are coming, we have conquered the foe,
The rebellion has ended; secession’s played out!

But oh! There are those who will shed bitter tears,
For the loss in this struggle of brave volunteers;
How many there are who in anguish will mourn
For the bold soldier boys who will never return,

Should it be in my lot in this struggle to fall,
Dear friends in the North, I would say to you all;
Mourn not at the fate which may take me from you;
The patriot’s grave with no terrors, I view.
He who tempers the wind to the lamb that is shorn
Will guide, guard and protect you when I’m dead and gone.

But we hope for the best and sad thoughts dispel,
And trust to the end that all will be well,
That the day will soon come when our friends we will greet,
And that circle of loved ones again we shall meet,

Then keep up your courage ’till rebellion is crushed;
[Illegible, illegible] for our cause it is just.
The above are my thoughts and I send them to thee,
From your ever-true brother now in old Tennessee.

Freedom has a price

On this Independence Day, I want to honor our fathers who served our country.

My dad was an aircraft mechanic in the Air Force. Dad served between the Korean and Vietnam Wars. Hubby's dad was a radioman in the Navy during the Korean War and afterward.

We are deeply proud and honored to say that our fathers served and protected our country.

My cousins Nicholas and Joshua currently serve in the Navy and Marines. I have a friend stationed in Saudi Arabia and another in Afghanistan.

I cannot express my gratitude enough. Thank you. May God watch over each of you and keep you from harm.

Freedom is not free. Celebrate Independence Day by honoring a veteran and/or service person.

Don't Fence Me In!

Marilyn's post yesterday reminded me of the truck farm my brother and I worked when we were at home. (This picture was taken in 1994, after we were both married. Truck farm was much smaller by then.) We didn't live on a farm, but my mother had grown up on the farm. She was still a farm girl at heart. She could not and would not abide laziness. She had the world's longest to-do list and she intended for it to be completed.

We had plenty of chores, including lots of garden ones. After baking in the hot sun while doing tasks I hated, I decided I would NEVER have a garden when I grew up. No way. Not going to do it.

Never say never.

My mother was very frugal, partly from necessity and partly from preference. She hated waste and unnecessary spending. So she had a huge garden full of all kinds of vegetables. Being hyper organized, she kept a meticulous garden book, noting where she had planted each crop and what varieties she used. I prize that book now, but I don't keep one.

Her garden rows seemed infinite when we were pulling weeds or other boring tasks under the beating sun. And she could always find weeds that we never saw. I learned to love mulching because it suppressed those horrible weeds.

Late summer and early fall was canning/freezing time. She ran a regular factory in the basement, but putting up our produce was the reward for nasty tasks like weeding. I entered into food preservation whole-heartedly. Looking at neat rows of produce-filled jars was always a pleasurable experience. Eating them was even better!

How I miss eating her frozen corn recipe, which will appear tomorrow, and her very labor-intensive red hot pickle recipe, which will appear the next day.

When I lived in Virginia, a friend from upstate New York invited me to her house for Thanksgiving. I continually longed for farm country and she said we would pass through lots of farm country.

Our ideas of what farm country meant were diametrically opposed. We drove roads that were lined with houses. Their lots were long and narrow. Their houses sat next to the road with large gardens behind them. She said those were farms. What farms?

My idea of a farm is acres of corn, wheat, milo and/or sunflowers. Anything else is a just a repeat of my mother's garden. In my idea of farm country, the neighbors can't look into each other's windows just as they could in suburbia!

I thought of the Roy Rogers song "Don't Fence Me In".

"... Let me ride through the wide open country that I love,
Don't fence me in.
Let me be by myself in the evenin' breeze
And listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees
Send me off forever but I ask you please,
Don't fence me in..."

All I Ask of You

Hubby and I recently listened to a new karaoke CD of "The Phantom of the Opera". The CD's most fun songs to sing are the title track and "Music of the Night".

But neither of those songs fit Hubby's baritone range. The one that does, "All I Ask of You", is a beautiful duet between Christine and her lover Raoul.

Its lyrics are so appropriate for the man I love.

I am so blessed.

Cutting the cake

My cousin Joshua graduated Sunday. He's enlisted in the Marines and heads for boot camp this summer. His brother is a sailor. I am very proud to have men in our family who are serving our country.



But Joshua is still a mischievous teenage boy.



When his mother asked him to cut the cake, he complied. Only he didn't cut it into nice, neat squares as his mother intended. He cut an X in that cake.


Mama was not happy.