Walking the Red Brick Road

Tripping the chickens

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 15:41:00 +0000

Following is an excerpt from Marilyn’s autobiography, Splashes of Rainbows and Feathers.

The milking barn had been built many years before my parents bought our place. I loved the old barn, and spent many hours exploring the hayloft. The barn smelled of hay and milk, a smell I came to love.

In the summertime, the big door to the barn was left open. Mom’s setting hens would wander in there and make nests in the straw. Being a curious and sometimes-mischievous farm girl, I would wander in there, looking to see what fun I could stir up. When I saw those old hens sitting on their nests, I’d get ideas!

One particular day, Tim and I devised what we thought was a fun game with those hens!

Tim and I strung baling twine up and down the sides of the open door to the barn, one layer over another. When we were finished, the only way to get in or out of the door was to crawl under or over our twine trap!

I gave Tim an old broom and told him to go behind the hens and chase them off their nests! Tim went in slowly and the hens saw him. They hunkered down in their nests of straw and began to cluck softly. Tim pounded the straw behind them with the broom. They clucked and squawked and flew off their nests. Straw and dirt flew everywhere! The more the hens squawked and flew around, the harder Tim hit the straw. He soon had all the hens off their nests and tried to “herd” them toward the open barn door.

I stood outside the door and watched as the hens tried to fly over the twine we’d strung up! The air was filled with feathers, dirt and straw. The hens tried their hardest to fly over the layers of twine. The hens made an unbelievable racket when they either got hung up in the layers of twine or escaped, fleeing for their lives!

I laughed so hard I could hardly stand upright! Tim was laughing hysterically back in the barn! I can only imagine how this must have sounded from the house.

Of course our mother did not miss all this commotion and racket. She ran across the yard, yelling the entire time! Mom did not find our antics at all funny because these were her laying hens. She gave us quite a stern speech and threatened to have Dad tan our hides when he came home. After getting such a fright, the hens didn’t lay one solitary egg for days!

Traditional Thanksgiving

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 03:25:00 +0000

Hubby’s father carves the turkey. Hubby
injected it in several places with
non-alcoholic wine. Flavor was terrific.

Thanksgiving at our house is the most traditional holiday of all. We eat the exact same dishes annually: Turkey, Out of This World Cranberry Salad, Sweet Potato Pie, Bread Dressing, Tossed Salad, Mashed Potatoes and Gravy, Relish Plate and Pumpkin Pie. Generally, we have another two or three dishes, but our Thanksgiving just is not complete unless we have the traditional dishes.

That tradition extends to the next day, when we eat Sweet and Sour Turkey and I turn the turkey carcass into turkey stock. Dad used to tell my mother to buy two turkeys, one for Sweet and Sour and the other for the traditional bird.

All these are my mother’s dishes, the ones I grew up eating. I remember when most of them began to appear on the menu. I remember grinding cranberries and cutting apples for the cranberry salad. Some years later, Mother obtained the Sweet Potato Pie recipe. I do not like sweet potatoes and at first refused to try the new recipe. When I was finally convinced (maybe even ordered) to eat it, I skeptically tried one bite, then started devouring the pie.

Dining room decked out for Thanksgiving.

As for every season, I deck out the living and dining rooms for Thanksgiving. Decorations are our own traditions. Hubby says that the palm frond turkey on the sideboard at left is his favorite of all our numerous and varied seasonal decorations.

Besides eating S&S Turkey, Thanksgiving Friday and Saturday are reserved for two activities: Christmas decorating and Husker football. Now that we’ve eaten our fill of Thanksgiving delicacies, I’m ready to bring up the trees, garlands and ornaments for my three-day decorating spree.

Piano Man

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

We stopped at an old schoolhouse Saturday. This building was solid, made from poured cement. Interior looked pretty sad, but the exterior, other than broken windows, was still in good shape. Jacqui crawled halfway into a basement window to see what was down there. I nearly had heart failure. What if she fell in? Then what would we do? Cell service was poor to nonexistent.

“I see a piano,” she said.

A piano?

“Yes, a broken piano.”

That was interesting.

I have safety rules for junking. Rule No. 1: DO NOT walk down stairs. Who knows what might be in the basement/cellar/crawl space. I might find some dead creature or live ones that I’d prefer not to encounter. And who knows what condition those steps are in? I have no desire to take a bad fall.

But our nightly lows have fallen well below freezing. Snakes and skunks should be hibernating. She shined the flashlight around the room and saw nothing other than broken chairs and plaster. And the rest of building was in amazingly-good condition. Perhaps steps would be safe?

Staircase was partially covered by a wooden door, which looked intact. Steps were covered with fallen plaster, but maybe they were passable. When I pushed up the door, I saw a dead creature on top of it, mostly noticing a set of bared teeth. Jacqui followed me. I told her to push the door tightly against the rail unless she wanted to see the set of teeth.

Piano was in horrible condition. Keyboard was entirely gone. Hammers were broken. Front of piano had disappeared. But it still maintained a certain dignity. Someone had pride in its construction, even the places that would normally be invisible.

Apparently, the local people had used this basement for entertainment. Piano sat on a little platform. Remnants of theater seating were scattered around the rest of room.

I started singing, “…Son, can you play me a memory; I’m not really sure how it goes. But it’s sad and it’s sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man’s clothes … Sing us a song; you’re the Piano Man. Sing us a song tonight! ‘Cause we’re all in the mood for a melody and you’ve got us feeling all right.…”

Singing in that forlorn basement was bittersweet. Acoustics were great, but seeing the remnants of what had been a vibrant community was very sad.

Explorers

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

Jacqui (left), Marilyn and I went exploring in the country Saturday. I did not find a broken-down organ, but we did find a broken-down piano. One place we stopped had been a wealthy operation, but now all that wealth has become a pile of old boards and other construction material. Sad to see how transient all our earthly activities are. These falling-down buildings are a visible reminder that we should “store up … treasures in heaven,” where they are safe from all danger.

I snapped this picture because I liked how the sun lit their hair. They told me to stay away from the barn because they had smelled “a dead animal in there.” I didn’t want to smell any dead animals, so I stayed away.

Santa Tree tops sales chart

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 18:12:00 +0000

Marilyn and Tiff’s Santa Tree fetched top dollar at Saturday’s Big Brothers/Big Sisters fund raiser auction. It brought $160.

Auction’s total proceeds were $800. Director Wendy said that was double the proceeds from last year. She was very pleased with the auction’s results and is looking forward to next year’s auction.

Marilyn and Tiff’s boss congratulated them on representing their college well in the auction.

The editor's red pen

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 15:14:00 +0000

Marilyn is writing her autobiography, Splashes of Rainbows and Feathers. I am her editor. My goal is to make her story come to life, which is not difficult. She already writes in a lively style. I am just the polisher. I ask her to remove extra words, change word order, or suggest a stronger, more descriptive word or phrase. I must walk carefully between improving her story and obscuring her voice with mine. Splashes is her story, not mine. At times, she has set aside my suggestions to preserve her own voice.

I substituted for an English teacher Friday. Since my students were occupied with tests and research papers, I was free to edit. I cut, rearranged and added words through 69 pages, finishing the book as school day expired. My eyes were bleary, but I was happy. I can see the end of her project. After five (or more) readings, we are nearing the point of diminishing returns. A graphic arts student at Marilyn’s college has designed one preliminary cover with another design upcoming. Soon, we will be able to put together the book. I can hardly wait.

I always have enjoyed editing. This skill came naturally to me. Even in grade school, I edited my classmates’ work. I could hear proper English in my ears and envision it on the page. If any question arose, I had only to close my eyes and mentally move around the words, both visually and audibly, until I saw or heard the answer. This trick rarely failed me.

My parents deserve credit. I was immersed in proper English grammar and syntax at home. My mother was a stickler for proper speech. Dad loved word play. They read to me and I learned to read early. Since we owned no television until I was in junior high, reading was my main entertainment. The flow of words deeply imprinted my mind. I loved to escape into the author’s world and I loved to create my own. Words were my toys.

Playing with words still is pure joy, and editing my dear friend’s book is a high privilege. Thanks, Marilyn.

'Tis the season

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

This elf is busy making Christmas gifts. Since I know the recipients read my blog, I can’t share these projects with my readers until Christmas Day. That’s a long time to wait, but I’m not going to spoil any surprises here.

I enjoy making my gifts. Making the presents seems more personal than just going out and buying something. When I create the gift, I feel that I am adding more love to it than I could if I just bought something. Not only am I giving the item, but I’m also giving the time and skill, the care and thought required to make it. Besides, creating something is much more fun than fighting crowds at the store.

“’Tis the season to make presents! Fa la la la la, la la, la la. AH!”

Oktoberfest

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

Family friend Thelma (left) and Hubby’s mother are
ready to sit down for dinner.

We love to entertain, get out the china, crystal and silver and cook foods that normally we wouldn’t be eating. We have an Oktoberfest party annually in honor of both Hubby’s German heritage and our October birthdays. Hubby’s is Oct. 27 and his mother’s is Oct. 16, which is coincidentally my brother and sister-in-love’s anniversary.

Several years go, I started making menu/place cards for these fancy occasions and I started a scrapbook featuring each theme dinner we produce. I don’t particularly like this menu card; it’s definitely not my best design.

When we entertain, our dining room becomes “Ye Olde World Café”. Since we served German cuisine that day, all the menu items are listed auf Deutsch, including the café’s name and the date. Both of us took German in high school and try to preserve what we can remember of the language. However, most of the German words for menu came from the dictionary or the cookbook (“Kochbuch”).

Sülztotelett is a delicious marinated pork chop, although we didn’t exactly follow the recipe. Recipe called for the pork to be marinated in gelatin made from calf hooves. That ingredient would be very hard to obtain. Besides, “calf hooves” do not sound very appetizing. So we skipped that part. Meat was still wonderful. Next is majoram potatoes marinated in beer, then sweet sauerkraut, dinner rolls, apples with raisins in a cinnamon sauce, German chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream, and guests’ choice of beverages. The apple/raisin dish began as a dessert filling, but it sounded like a wonderful side dish. And it was.

Next up is our Christmas party. Deck them halls, ya’ll!

The Santa Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

Our community is hosting a live auction this weekend to assist Big Brothers/Big Sisters. The project is designing a Christmas tree and then letting it be auctioned off at a local craft fair, with proceeds going to BB/BS.

Two little elves in [Marilyn’s] office gladly jumped on this project!

Tiffini and Marilyn excitedly went to the shopping palace in town: Walmart! There we jingled our way up and down the aisles that were laden with new Christmas ornaments! As we gave consideration to what theme our tree would be, our heads were full of lollipops and sugarplums! As Christmas tunes played over our heads, we slowly gathered our thoughts and re-focused on the project at hand!

We picked out our tree first: a white, pre-lit 5-foot Christmas tree. We then looked at all the new ornaments hanging on the display racks and decided to go with a Santa Claus theme.

As we packed our sleigh with ornaments of all sizes and shapes, we felt the Christmas spirit rise inside us! We found ornaments that were painted like Santa’s tummy, complete with a big black belt! We found red and white frosted garland, and red and white ornaments, as well as a red cozy hat for the tree topper!

Elf Tiff came up with a plan for covering the legs of the tree stand: two pair of SIZE 9 WOMEN’S BOOTS!

The reindeer flew us back to the office, where we assembled the little white tree. As we added more and more ornaments to our tree, passersby would stop and ask us why we had started decorating so early! We also got comments on why we chose a white tree.

When it came time to put the boots on the little tree, we put our heads together and came up with a great plan: we cut the boots open in the back so that they’d slide on the legs easily. We hot-glued them back together and then made cute red ribbon decorations to glue across the tops of the boots. Red bows were then glued onto the sides of the boots, complete with some tiny jingle bells!

The little white Santa Claus tree is now sitting pretty inside the front door of the office, waiting for the trek across the street on Saturday. That afternoon, she’ll be auctioned off with the proceeds benefiting a good charity.

Original salvaging trip

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 15:24:00 +0000

We’re going on a junking trip Saturday. I have heard of a possible broken-down organ in an old building south of here. I’d love to use that wood as a picture frame.

While I have one definite destination in mind, junking’s best part is grabbing whatever items opportunity presents. Once we visit the organ’s abandoned building, we’ll look for whatever else looks interesting.

The Game Warden, a/k/a Hubby, tries to limit my acquisitions to items that I see an immediate use for. But Hubby is not going Saturday. This is a girls’ day out. Hee, hee, hee!

I started salvaging by accident many years ago.

At the end of the 1986-87 school year, I saw an operative coffee pot that had been abandoned in an adjoining room. Irene and George came to see me about that time. I showed them what I’d found and we decided to see what else we might find. We went through all the rooms on my floor and picked up other interesting items. After that, we went through every room on every floor in every dorm on campus. We hauled off some very nice acquisitions. We found small appliances, furniture and clothes.

My mother was horrified at the waste. “You don’t leave things like that, do you?”

“Oh, no. Not this girl! You didn’t raise me like that.”

We made salvaging the dorms an annual tradition until we all moved away.

I still have a hospital nightstand from that very productive day so long ago. It’s now our coffee stand.

Milo

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 01:34:00 +0000

Most crops are either gone or are ugly by the time fall comes. Wheat already has been harvested by July. Combines are mowing down corn and sunflowers. Sunflowers are the most beautiful crop when they are flowering, but they are the ugliest when they are ready to harvest. No field looks worse than a field of drying sunflowers. The stalks and heads are shriveled and brown, a very depressing sight — except to the one who is about to reap his harvest.

Corn is not impressive in the fall, either, although shocks of corn make wonderful fall decorations. I love to look at corn when it’s green, stalks and tassels waving in the wind, but dead stalks aren’t the same. Fall corn looks best after it’s harvested. The money is out of the field and into the elevator.

Milo, however, is at its most beautiful just before it’s harvested. The seed heads range in color from purple to every shade of brown and tan. Several years ago, a friend gave me a bunch of corn and milo stalks for an outdoor fall bouquet. It was beautiful. The squirrels thought so, too. My bouquet didn’t last very long under the squirrels’ admiring attention.

Apparently, milo is not a good bird feed ingredient since squirrels love it so. But I don’t mind feeding squirrels. I think they are funny and enjoy watching them. Anything that makes me laugh is worth attracting.

Lavender

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

I love the light and colors of fall. As the nights lengthen, the purples, reds, oranges and yellows of autumn take over from summer’s greens (if we have enough rain) and tans (when we don’t, a more usual condition). I enjoy those deeper jewel tones. I love spring, but its pastel palette isn’t intense enough for my preference. Give me the stronger colors of autumn, the last colorful explosion before the muted white and blue palette of winter.

Autumn’s low light dusts the landscape with a luminescent glow. Light in the fall is more beautiful than light in any other season. Or maybe we appreciate it more as we watch the days fade away ever more quickly into long nights?

This plant may be named “lavender”, but I love its pure purple.

Long live fall!

Patty the Pengoosatross

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 19:20:00 +0000

My wife left me [Steve] today. Though we live in the U.S. of A., she is headed for Argentina. She muttered something about the gauchos and walked out the door.

In truth, she is on a sojourn, not a rebellious abandonment. My wife, I call her Patty because that is what her parents always called her, was born in Argentina. She is returning to her place of birth, back to the old pampas stomping grounds.

Penguins trek back to their place of birth, too. Remember March of the Penguins
Every March, through an inborn instinct, the little penguins would start asking questions, like “Where am I from, Daddy? What is my purpose in life?” Of course, the answer to the second question was, “You have no purpose.” For the first question, though, the parents and aunts and uncles and next-door neighbors had an answer: “Here, let me show you.” So they all packed their fresh tuxedos and woolen mittens and took a long walk. They walked all month. This is what is known as The March of the Penguins.

You may think I have gone off track from the story. No. The point is that Patty is just like the penguin. Except for the nice suit. And except she is going in November instead of March.

Patty is also like the goose. How could this be? Because she is flying, not walking. Geese are forever migrating, always flying in that “V” formation. When the weather in the north gets cold, they fly south. By the time they get to their destination, it is so hot that they turn around and go back north.

Patty and her family, from various parts of the U.S. of A., will meet in Miami before their flight to Buenos Aires. Does this mean that Patty is like the flamingo? Well, she does love wearing pink. However, if she stands on one leg she tends to tip over. Thus, after due consideration, I have to conclude that Patty is not like the flamingo.

Patty will be going with her dad and her three brothers on this hiatus. Only Patty was born in Argentina, and thus only she is on this birthplace-sojourn thing. However, the family lived there for many years during the children’s formative years. Thus the inner child of all four siblings lives in Argentina. The inner child of Patty’s dad lives in Colorado, but a big part of his heart still lives in Argentina.

Patty’s mom has passed on to Heaven, but she will be so utterly close in heart and spirit, that she is truly traveling with them. Thus, the whole family will be sojourning to a very significant time in their lives, a place and time with so many memories that this beautiful family shares in such deep ways.

This will be an incredibly fantastic trip. First is the fact that the family will be on this adventure together. Secondly, the sites will be strikingly beautiful. Thirdly, they will be visiting with old friends who the sibs haven't seen in 37 years! (Dad visited them just 28 years ago, so it's just not going to be the same for him.)

One very beautiful place they will be is Patagonia, way down at the bottom of South America. It's further south than Australia or even New Zealand. For a few days they will be staying in Ushuaia. This is the southernmost city in the world! Now that’s really down under, mate.

In Patagonia they will see albatrosses. These birds have the longest wingspan among all birds! They soar gracefully through the sky as majestic as something — well, something very majestic. Is Patty like the albatross? You betcha. The emotions from the depth of her soul, from her inner child in fact, will be soaring like the albatross as she surveys the beauty all around her.

And guess who else lives in Patagonia. The penguins! Coincidence? I don’t think so.

So, to sum up, Patty is like the penguin. She is like the goose. And she is like the albatross. She is very much like the Pengoosatross.

God Bless the USA!

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

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!”

Tortured Toy Story

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Sat, 08 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

We found the new Sid Phillips, the toy-torturing neighbor from Toy Story, when we went to Lucas, Kan., recently. Part of our tour included “The Garden of Isis”. This place would be creepy enough in the light, but we toured the place in the dark, the artist, Mri Pilar, leading the tour with a flashlight.

Artist said that Isis represented resurrection and recycling, so was an appropriate title for her work. I her creations made my skin crawl. Even though I love to recycle items myself, torturing what I find is not my style.

She had covered the walls of this house with silver fabric, furthering the eerie effect. I wanted only to escape the horrible, toy-haunted house, but couldn’t see a way to do it. I was trapped within the tour group and Hubby was game to keep going.

When we passed through the bathroom, artist pointed out a bathtub full of naked dolls. She said they were awaiting their transformation into art. I imagined them shivering and shaking in fear of what was about to happen to them. Poor things.

House previously belonged to Florence Deeble, who had created a rock garden outside. I would greatly have preferred to see the rock garden.

Garden of Eden

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

Unfortunately, I had forgotten to charge my camera’s battery before we left for Lucas, Kan., recently. I had to rely on a disposable point-and-shoot camera for our pictures there.

The town’s signature attraction is “The Garden of Eden”. Hubby is standing in front of it.

Civil War veteran S.P. Dinsmoor began working in Portland cement while he built his home. He first told the Biblical story of Garden of Eden, then Cain’s murder of his brother Abel. He then began to explain his Populist political philosophy in cement.

Murdered Abel is watched over by
angels and a demon. The light is in a
snake’s mouth. Dinsmoor electrified
his house two years before the rest of
Lucas got electricity.

Dinsmoor portrayed bankers and the era’s monopolistic trusts as giant octopuses using their tentacles to steal from the common man. His last, unfinished, work shows Labor crucified by preachers, bankers, lawyers and doctors.

He built an onsite mausoleum for himself and his first wife. When she died, she was originally buried in the Lucas cemetery. He disinterred her and reinterred her in solid concrete. When he died, he ordered that his corpse remain available for viewing. Tour includes a look at Dinsmoor’s mummy.

With our current economic troubles driven by financial “experts’” foolishness, Dinsmoor’s Populist vision continues to resonate today.

A dream comes true

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

I did not vote for Barack Obama. My yard sign read “McCain-Palin”. I do not agree with Obama’s agenda and I am concerned about what his proposed policies will do to the country I so love. I have rarely disagreed with a candidate as much as I disagree with President-elect Obama.

With that said, I am proud to be an American today. Within my lifetime, we have progressed from legal segregation to electing an African-American man as President. At least part of Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech has come true.

In 1968, a “George Wallace for President” campaign sign loomed over our grade school playground in Chattanooga, Tenn. I didn’t understand what “segregation” meant. Little white girls didn’t have to worry about such issues.

But I remember the horror of Martin Luther King’s assassination. Some Chattanoogans, along with people in 125 other cities, rioted. The city was immediately put under a dusk-to-dawn curfew. I had forgotten about this incident until I was in Chattanooga again in the summer of 1980, when protesters rioted again over the acquittal of two Ku Klux Klan members. The eerie silence of that curfew took me back to 1968 and my uncomprehending fear. Why did I have to stay inside and why did we have to keep all the curtains closed? Why did Daddy have to stay home from work? I didn’t understand and I was frightened.

The true, shocking meaning of segregation didn’t come home to me until I worked for a school year at Longwood College, now University, in Farmville, Va.

Farmville, county seat of Prince Edward County, was at the epicenter of Virginia’s post-Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka strategy of “Massive Resistance”. Students from all-black Robert Russa Moton High in Farmville went on strike to secure a better high school building. With the help of the NAACP, they sued to end segregation. Their case, Dorothy E. Davis, et al. versus County School Board of Prince Edward County, Va., was combined with Brown.

Prince Edward County responded by shuttering its school system from 1959-64, when the threat of prison forced the County Supervisors to reopen public schools. While the schools were closed, white children took advantage of state tuition grants to attend newly-opened private schools. Black children lost five years of education.

When I lived in Farmville, Farmville High, the old all-white high school, had been turned into a storage building. My boss pointed it out to me and told me the shocking story of a county without a public school system.

And now, 40 years after Martin Luther King’s assassination, an African-American has been elected to the nation’s highest office.

Wow.

I pray that he will be a wise and just leader of our country and am committed to continual prayer for him. He’ll need it.

Not much protection

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

Next wind storm could well knock over this barn. I would not walk in this structure because I’m afraid it would fall over with me inside. Not a pretty picture.

When I walked to the other side, I burst out laughing when I saw the padlocked door. A few shakes would demolish this shed; why bother to lock it? As my father-in-law says, “Only honest people are deterred by locks.”

In the gutter

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 12:00:00 +0000

Ideas exist to be adapted. My notebook is full of other people’s ideas that I hope to use myself. This is one of those ideas.

These folks got some old house gutter and turned it into flower pot, securing it onto their fence with attractive wrought iron holders. I love this idea. Rustic, recycled and fun. Of course, the flowers have frozen, so the planter lacks some of its punch. It definitely would look great in spring and summer, though.

Living with a carnivore

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 18:45:00 +0000

Mr. Boo Kitty caught and killed a field mouse Saturday. I was amazed, but I shouldn’t have been. Boo has been declawed, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He still keeps his “claws” sharpened but has learned to defend his property from vermin without them. He pounces on the verminous creature and holds it down until his teeth can finish it off.

Of course, he never eats the creatures he kills. He just leaves them on the lawn for me to throw into the garden with my shovel. He’d rather eat cat food. Go figure. Mice are supposed to be the perfect kitty food, except for the icky diseases mice carry. Maybe that’s why he won’t eat them?

He definitely considers our house and yard as “his” property and he defends it. We had a stray appear occasionally for awhile. Stray earned the nickname “Beta Kitty” when Boo proved that he was Alpha Kitty. Boo would run at Beta, hissing and spitting, and Beta would run away. Soon, Beta would flee at the sight of Boo, whether Boo paid him any attention or not.

One day I came outside to find Boo preparing to fight off a German shepherd. This was not a battle I wanted my cat to fight. I got the hose and sprayed the dog until he fled. When dog departed, Boo strutted around, certain that he had defeated that dog all by himself.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe the purring creature sitting on my lap is such a lean, mean killing machine.

Don't Fear the Reaper

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 18:22:00 +0000

We were walking last Saturday evening when this gentleman started yelling, “Rescue me! Get me away from the Reaper!”

Since he was only half there, we figured he was a goner already. A person has to know which battles to fight! Anyone who’s in that bad of shape can’t be patched up very well.

Blue Öyster Cult may not fear the Grim Reaper, but I’d rather avoid him for as long as possible.

Eastern Hotel California

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 11:00:00 +0000

Years ago, my penchant for scary voices resulted in a permanent mark on my right hand.

In my first college semester, an acquaintance heard me do an impression of the Wicked Witch of the West. Her friend was looking for people to staff a haunted house for a night. Was I interested?

I was very interested.

The man in charge, Dave, had found an abandoned house in a valley. House was surrounded by creepy overgrown trees and weeds, a perfect setting for the night’s adventure. Some of the rooms were unsafe for entry, so no one was allowed to move without a guide carrying a flashlight.

I portrayed a demented prisoner who had escaped and been recaptured. A guard, armed with a (thankfully unloaded) shotgun, was posted to see that I would not escape. I was made up to look as if I had sustained a terrible beating during my recapture and I was wearing manacles and shackles. A belly chain was the only costume piece missing.

First two groups came through our room without incident. In between the second and third groups, I decided that clawing the wall would look very scary and demented. So I tried it.

Not only did clawing the wall look demented, it was demented. I scratched off some wallpaper one time before I caught my palm on a nail. I jerked it off and continued my act, although I avoided any more contact with the wall.

Once that group was gone, I sat down in the dark and gingerly assessed my injury. I could feel a big hunk of hand protruding out the hole and a trickle of blood oozing out of it.

I told the “guard” that she had better get some help. She panicked, but at last got word to someone to help us.

When Dave showed up, he shone flashlight on my hand. I am not particularly queasy, but the sight of that big protrusion unsettled my stomach. Dave was quite unsettled as well.

We had to climb over a barbed-wire fence to reach his van and, of course, my pant leg got caught. We had an awful time getting me unhooked. Since I only had use of one hand, I was little help in extricating myself.

He was near panic by the time he got me into his van.

Once we arrived hospital, Dave left and returned to haunted house.

The town was very small and the hospital had no doctor present. My makeup was too convincing. While I waited, the nurse kept trying to treat my facial cuts and bruises. I kept repeating that my hand was injured, not my face. She would not believe me; she seemed to think that I was delirious. She said I had to have been in a motorcycle accident. I must have suffered a head injury, because I obviously didn’t know what I was talking about.

By this time, my hand was seriously throbbing and hurting. Nurse insisted upon washing off my makeup, but did nothing to treat my hand. No painkillers, no cleaning of the wound, nothing. Once the makeup was removed, she stopped insisting that I was a motorcycle accident victim. At least we were making some progress.

Finally, the doctor showed up. He looked at my hand and shook his head. “What did you do that for?” he asked.

How was I supposed to answer that?

“We’ve got to stitch this,” he said. “A couple stitches is no big deal; you don’t need any painkiller for this.”

Obviously he wasn’t working on his own hand.

The stitches weren’t particularly painful, but the feeling of thread going through flesh was indescribably disgusting. At least I didn’t look so much like a freak with the blob now reduced to relative smoothness.

He ordered the nurse to give me a tetanus shot, then left. I think Nurse missed the nursing school lesson on how to give shots. I asked her to inject my injured right arm. I wanted to have just one hurting arm instead of two. She refused. “Our protocol says we must inject the left arm.”

I said, “I’ll never tell if you inject my right arm!”

She gave me a very dirty look, then proceeded to stick me several times with the same needle in my left deltoid. She didn’t even swab injection site with alcohol. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t just get it over with. Instead, she poked me repeatedly before finally driving home the needle.

A few minutes later, the rest of the haunted house staff arrived. We were 1½ hours from home and were all quite ready to leave. Unfortunately, I had no way to heat the injection site or cool the nail print site. Hospital gave me no painkillers or antibiotics.

By the time we arrived home, after one of the longest trips of my life, I was feverish and had little use of either arm. Both my right hand and my left shoulder were inflamed and infected. I couldn’t lift my left arm or close my right hand without extreme pain. I spent the next two days on my back in the campus infirmary while they pumped antibiotics into my system and tried to reduce the inflammation.

That haunted house continues to haunt me. Nearly 30 years later, the scar I received there still aches, usually for no apparent reason.

Apparently, that building was an eastern version of The Hotel California, where “you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

Among the innumerable stars

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 11:00:00 +0000

The stars were very numerous and bright at Stone Cottage Farm. Even in our small town, the street lights obscure the stars. But there, nestled in the hills miles from any town, the stars shine unimpeded by any man-made light.

J.R.R. Tolkien’s words in The Silmarillion
came to mind while I was looking upward: “…the Kingdom of Earth amid the innumerable stars.” I was seeing the stars somewhat like Abraham did when God promised to give him descendants like the stars in the heavens. “‘He (God) took him (Abraham) outside and said, ‘Look up at the heavens and count the stars — if indeed you can count them.’ Then He said to him, ‘So shall your offspring be.’” - Gen. 15:5

Because the house’s thick stone walls drown out most noise, staying there is an oasis of quiet.

I sat in that lawn chair in the picture for awhile and read. I could feel myself unwinding.

Beautiful scenery, interesting books and innumerable stars: A recipe for relaxing. Next time we stay there, and I intend to have a next time, I look forward to laying in their hammock to stargaze.

Abraham and J.R.R. Tolkien make good company.

Standing stone

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 15:06:00 +0000

We took a several-hour trip to Lucas, Kan., over the long weekend. We stayed at Stone Cottage Farm Bed and Breakfast. Lucas is in Kansas’ Post Rock Country. On the treeless plains, settlers had to use whatever they could find for fence posts and building materials. Limestone lies very close to the ground in that area, so the settlers cut it out of the the earth to use.

Stone Cottage Farm features several buildings, all of post rock. They’ve landscaped with numerous post rocks. This one reminds me of a passage in my favorite author J.R.R. Tolkien’s masterpiece The Lord of the Rings.

…Still round the corner
We may meet a sudden tree or standing stone
That none have seen but we alone…

Still round the corner they may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though we pass them by today,
Tomorrow we may come this way
And take the hidden paths that run
Towards the Moon or to the Sun…

Double, double, toil and trouble

noreply@blogger.com (Roxie) — Sun, 26 Oct 2008 11:00:00 +0000

If I could choose a part to perform, I would pick one of the Weird Sisters in Shakespeare’s “Macbeth”. I own my grandfather’s schoolbook copy of “Macbeth”. I often read the Weird Sisters’ cauldron scene to amuse myself, trying out various scary voices.

Hubby loves this piece. He said I should post a reading for Halloween. Link is in the post title. (iTunes or other m4a player is required.) Happy Haunting!

Scene script follows (full play is here):

SCENE I. A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron.
Thunder. Enter the three Witches

First Witch
Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.

Second Witch
Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.

Third Witch
Harpy cries, “’Tis time, ’tis time.”

First Witch
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.

All
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Second Witch
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

All
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Third Witch
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Silver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.

All
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Second Witch
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.