Nesting Rocks

"You're making shishky, aren't you?" Papa inquired hopefully.
"I'm packing the poppyseed right now."

We looked forward to the crisp air and our limit of crappie and walley fall fishing in Minnesota.
Shorelines would be decorated with orange and yellow fall leaves. Fog would rise from the warm water. The lake might have already turned over. We packed coveralls, gloves, insulated boots, and hats.

Walleye and northerns like small frogs. One evening we came back to camp in the dark. Papa was driving and slammed on the brakes. Small frogs were all over the road. They wouldn't have been in such a hurry to get to the lake, if they'd known the fish were waiting for them. He was so excited he had me stay behind the wheel with the lights on, while he got out with his butterfly net and a Styrofoam bucket.

In the headlights, it was as if the frogs had personalities. One hopped across the road three times and into his net. Another hopped in and back out. One stayed in the same place and jumped up and down. All said and done he was happy as a little kid when he captured five. The refrigerator wouldn't accommodate the big bucket. Papa put the lid on and left it in the car overnight.

I was fixing breakfast when he came in wearing an 'I'm in trouble' look. They frogs had jumped up, moved the lid, and escaped. They were no where to be found in the car. We opened the car doors so they could escape. I was concerned one would pop out when I was driving. We watched two come out of the car. The rest were never found or discovered, thank God!

Our appetites were ravenous, and I loved to cook at camp. The cabin was so small it reminded us of a pumpkin shell with plumbing, but we had room to cook and eat hearty: fried crappie and walleye, homemade soups, breakfasts of bacon, scrambled eggs with potato dumpling slices and shishky.

Papa liked the potato dumpling dough rolled out in strips, then cut into one-inch squares and baked. The Bohemians called it "shishky." We ate it with melted butter, a little sugar and ground poppy seed. One trip we forgot the poppyseed grinder. Drifting near the shore, he spotted small rocks, reached in and grabbed two. I baked and he ground poppyseed between the nesting rocks. Another great trip. Another timeless memory.

2010 Red Convertible Travel Series

SHORTS, SHOES and SHEEP

Last week my friend, Diane, and I volunteered at the Arlington, NE, three day rummage sale on the fairgrounds. All day she unpacked, sorted and stacked donated plus sized sweaters, while I sorted small, medium and large shorts. I decided it would take seven pairs of Daisy Duke shorts to make one pair of jeans.

I suspect those in the know knew, if the volunteers had to leave the grounds to get something to eat, they wouldn’t come back, even though we were happy to be part of the effort. Volunteers were served a yummy potato and bacon soup, ham or egg salad sandwiches and a choice of cakes for dessert. A local bakery provided an assortment of brownies with nuts, or caramel, or nuts and caramel. Scrumptous! Back to work.

Our building displayed women’s clothes. Long jeans neatly folded and stacked bowed tables. Over 30’ of tables held folded sweaters at least six sweaters high and three or four across. Some blouses never made it to hangers, they ran out. We worked all day organizing, knowing full well a few minutes after opening it would look like a war zone. I could have shopped, but didn’t. It was overwhelming, like too many flavors of ice cream, just give me chocolate.

One building was dedicated to children’s clothes, another to men’s, a third to furniture. Across the road, row after row of shoes and purses were where I expected to find sheep.

Diane said this sale was a third of last year's donations, but they had a spring sale, too. As much as $75,000 has been raised for the hospital from a three day sale. That's a lot of Daisy Duke's.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

9/11/2009

From my "Vegetarian Pleasures" cookbook I made East Indian red lentil dal, yogurt with fresh orange sections and raisin chutney. Each has a healthy dose of fresh chopped ginger. Delicious! My house smells lived in. On my walls I have four small paintings of Mazatlan, Mexico, three Dutch tiles and Egyptian Papyrus. My home is a reflection of the world, my home.

I've learned to appreciate other cultures. Love is an equalizer. As humans we see in small pieces. Our Creator sees the whole. If we step outside our fear and allow love, I believe we can live together in peace.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

A BUCKET OF BATS

After 200 miles on the road with Madchen & Schatzie protesting being kenneled, I was ready for the Jacuzzi, pool and a nice dinner at the motel. My grandpa said to eat dessert first. Child-like I giggled over German chocolate cake with coconut frosting, a wee piece of snickers cheesecake, a taste of cannoli, and something white and gooey with coconut, pecans and a hint of rum. Delightful! My second course was three green beans, a variety of other cooked veggies and one small barbecued rib.

Cats settled in for the night, I walked around the parking lot talking on the phone. I forgot I was in a protected wetland. The only enemy the mosquitoes have here is bats, and bats need water. Just over the levy is the Mississippi River―plenty of water. Pausing on the patio was a mistake. Mosquitoes didn’t have to chase me, they just moved in and feasted on my ankles. Where’s a bat when you need one?

When I worked for Galen & nellie in downtown Omaha, their brick building was over 100 years old. Mortar had disintegrated around the windows allowing bats and breezes easy entrance and exit. Do breezes exit? On the phone one day, I looked down and saw a bat on the top of my foot. “OH!” I don’t know how long it had been there; it didn’t feel like anything. Was it hovering? My "Ohs" grew progressively louder until I noticed a peanut butter bucket on top of the file. The lady on the phone kept talking. I tilted my foot. The bat jumped off, did its clicking sonar sound and climbed up the brick wall. Lady is still yacking. I laid the phone down, grabbed the bucket, scooped the bat in with the lid and clamped it down. Big-eyed co-workers gathered to see what my “Oh’s” were about. I didn’t explain, just slipped outside and turned it loose. It wouldn’t surprise me if the bat was back in the building before I was. I picked up the phone, and she was still talking, oblivious to what had happened.

Tonight I wish I had a bucket of bats.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

SHE HAS THE LAST WORD

By the front entrance of Lake Tiak-O'Khata's lodge, the wagon wheel that helped clear the land is bent and broken by Mother Nature's wisteria. Fierce, isn't she?

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

MISSISSIPPI'S ONLY SANCTIONED RACETRACK

This is the harness race with pacers, horses trained to move right legs at the same time, left the same, a smoother ride. Fast clopping, sulky wheels rattling, audience leaning on the fence cheering, a day at the races. All week long pacers, trotters and quarter horses entertained. Win some, lose some.

Notice how red the soil is; wet it stains, won't wash out. Grownups prayed for dry weather for racing. Kids prayed for rain and got it. Infield puddles gave kids an excuse to get wet running or sliding through and wrestling. Two girls did backflips numerous times. Pink and yellow boots were tossed aside so girls could mud fight. A hug included a handful of red mud to their hair and down their back. A hosing off was in order.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

WORKING THE MULES

Mule competitions: adding another fifty to one-hundred pounds to the sled excited the mules. Hard workers, mules look like horses, but their ears are much longer, their faces larger, they bray not whinny, and they're a whole lot more stubborn. When you walk into the Tunica, Mississippi museum, you'll be eye to eye with a mule pulling a cotton wagon. They have their place in our history and at the fair.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

BAD BOYS AT THE FAIR

Just prior to this shot, these Brahma bulls were bellowing, and climbing all over each over. They didn't like their close quarters. In the evening they wasted no time letting their rider know what they thought of him, too: just another fly on his back. I wonder if Rodeo clowns and cowboys can be insured?

Friday evening rodeo goers sat in lawn chairs on the track. We sat in the stands for a better, less dusty view, and I prefer some distance from the powerful animals.

One event involved two black angus calves with a pink ribbon on their tail. Children from 6-10 were invited to the arena. Boys and girls by the dozens climbed the fence to get in. The calves were turned loose and took off. Like a mass of bees, the kids ran after them. A prize was given to each of the two boys who caught a ribbon.

I unintentionally did rodeo with our Bravada at the track fence. We bought a rack of ribs, coleslaw and beans for a tailgate picnic about ten pm. The evening was warm and still. We were still worked up from the rodeo excitement. I drove forward, felt the front end dip down and didn't think much of it, put it in reverse and slowly backed up and out. Two adolescents came running all excited. "You can't get out of that ditch." But I did. Smart track allows for the wheels to move independently. I was surprised to learn front-wheel and four-wheel drive are not the norm in the South.

Another perfect day at the fair.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

FAIR HOMES AT START FINISH LINE

Sawdust around and under the porch covers red clay earth that stains and tracks. Throughout the week a hundred pounds of raw peanuts were cooked with Zataran seasoning. Quite tastey.
Help yourself.

Homes have been in families for generations, much like Nebraska football tickets, and just as cherished.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

NESHOBA COUNTY FAIR

The world's largest house party. Where are all the people? Inside where it's cool, at some neighbor's, at the horse races, or on the porch we can't see. In my enthusiasm, I shot this picture through our windshield.

In 1889 families gathered at this location to picnic and race their mules and horses. Over the years their weekend get-together grew into a week-long gathering of events and political speeches. JB saw Ronald Reagan here.

Today the racetrack is surrounded with two and three-story homes open one week a year. More homes were built on other areas of the fairgrounds totaling some 600 that look like a cardboard movie set they are so close together, and there are hundreds of RV spots. It's a happening.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Brim Fish Nesting

I have a new friend named Larrie. Her family thought they were having one very large boy they would name Larry. They had triplet girls. She got to be Larrie.

Riding around her and her husband’s pond in a golf cart, she asked if I could smell anything. I took a deep breath and smelled a dead ripe watermelon. She smiled and nodded. “That's it. Either you smell it, or you don't. The brim fish are nesting.”

I haven’t been fishing since we were behind the levy at the culvert where the bank is deep, and I stayed put. JB gave me a cane pole. I moved it to the right for him to bait. He doesn’t need to know I can do it. I’d put it in the water, catch a crappie and move it back for him to take off. Guys on the bank had all kinds of advice about how I should fish, but none of them were catching any.

Larry took us to their garden. Silver Queen corn had been harvested. Field corn was at its end. Butter beans, peaches, pears, apples and tomatoes needed rain. Deer ate their purple hulled peas. The figs will fill out with rain.

Larry had cut field corn off the cob, put it in a skillet with butter and milk and let it cook slow. I didn't see how such a small amount could feed the four of us, but it swelled up as it and we had leftovers. We all liked it. I thought of hominy and my grandmother telling how they soaked corn in a lye solution and put it on a shed roof to dry.

Larry shared her secret for fried green tomatoes: slice them thin and place them on ice; it crisps them. They were perfect. Good job, Larrie!

JB sent me to Walmart the other morning to purchase a deepfryer. It seems industrial sized, but he has a big family and right off we had company for a catfish fry with hushpuppies. I cut one Idaho potato for fries and one sweet potato in rounds. One guest, Hank, a young welder from the coast, breaded both kinds of potatoes in the catfish breading and fried them, too. With coleslaw, fresh tomatoes, baked beans and good company, we had a perfect summer evening by Lake-T'Okhata (T-o-kata).

Larry invited me to go brim fishing. My handmade pole burned in JB's fire, but she said she has plenty; I can hardly wait.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

First Methodist step test

The tower just looks like it leans. It doesn't.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

JACOB’S LADDER

One Sunday I decided to be Methodist. The week before I was First Presbyterian. When I’m away from home, I like to dress up and go where the cars are. Learning how others worship, and adding my voice in praise, increases my appreciation for and understanding of life.

The First United Methodist Church is on the corner of Main Street and North Church Avenue in Louisville, MS. I parked, walked across the street and intended to walk up the steps. Up close they looked like a brick ladder to Heaven: narrow and steep. I could go up with the handrail, but down? How do they do it?

A beautiful Southern lady came along and smiled. I commented, “You have to be in good shape to be Methodist.”
Miss Sylvia laughed, “We don’t use them. Come on, we go in the side door and use the elevator.” Thank God! Few could pass the step test.

I don’t think I’ve felt more welcome visiting a church. Miss Sylvia and Miss Joyce introduced me. Others came forward in welcome. I was invited to Sunday School and services. Two college students shared their mission for “Dry Tears” by raising money for water wells for African children. It never occurred to me that a body doesn't make tears when it is dehydrated.

After church I asked Miss Joyce if she was eating alone. She was. JB out of town left me alone, too. We ate at the Tiak O’Khata buffet that smelled like Thanksgiving: turkey, cornbread stuffing, cranberry sauce, crispy fried chicken, lima beans, greens, string beans, creamed corn, sweet potatoes cooked with apples and cinnamon, bread pudding with hard sauce and caramel (butterscotch to me) pie to name a few. Heaven on a plate.

Although neither of us said so, we didn’t want to go home alone. We laughed and shared the afternoon away while she gave me the grand tour of Louisville established in the 1830’s by Scottish immigrants.

I shall long remember this Sunday’s blessings and new-found friends. Collecting friends is a travel treasure. When I am at home in my First Presbyterian Church in Nebraska, I promise to pay more attention to our visitors and make them feel as welcome.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Laundromat Dating

The sign in the laundromat says:

NO LOITERING

DRINKS AND SNACKS

I add: GO, MINGLE

HIPS AND THIGHS WANT YOU

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Sweats Suits to Sweat

With single pane windows, our motorhome is designed for temperate weather. Not long ago it was so cold we wore sweats to bed. Now we just sweat. Fortunately the front air conditioner problem was as simple as removing the mud dobber nests.

Here in the Deep South of Mississippi, the weather rivals an Indian sweat lodge. If it takes three days for our body to adjust to a temperature change, my body didn't get the message.

At the downtown Farmers Market in Louisville, I bought a freak of nature cucumber horseshoe shaped, yellow squash, zucchini, small onions and a ball of eggplant best described as a purple baseball. I sautéed the veggies with garlic and portabellas in EVOO and ate the cucumber in a sandwich. Cucumber chills to the bone; I need all the help I can get.

At market a luscious caramel loaf cake was as large and long as three meatloaves; it could feed the Presbyterians and Methodists. Deep pound cakes were butter pecan with pecans, caramel and one with a pound of butter, the original pound of everything cake. No samples offered.

With the humidity at max, I’ve come to the conclusion fried foods are all that is crisp in the South. Handpie Ginny has Gin’s Market outside of Fayetteville, TN on the way to Lynchburg. She cooks down fresh peaches and apples and makes her own crusts for frying. Stop by when you’re in the neighborhood. When we worked late in Fayetteville, Ginny brought us supper of shrimp etouffe. Scrumptious. Born and raised in Louisiana, she told about her whole family getting up in the night to go to the draining rice fields to collect bushels of crawfish/mudbugs. I’ve grown to like them boiled and have had the tails baked into focaccia bread. The only time I saw crawfish tails in Nebraska was during Lent and they were shelled out.

Since I started this story, the weather turned deliciously cool. Just say something about Mother Nature and she changes: sweat jackets are in order in the evenings.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

BUT IT LOOKED LIKE A SALT GRINDER

I'm in heaven in Jimmie Nell's kitchen. She passed on in '07, but her kitchen is in tact here at Uncle Ben's. She loved to cook and has every pot, pan and utensil imaginable, plus counter space for two or more to work at the same time.

Last night I used one of her huge skillets to cook hamburger patties seasoned with Johnny's liquid seasoning. Sliced portabellas and beef stock were added. Looking for cornstarch, I found a tall, slim container with some kind of grinder handle at the top. I suspected it was salt, but had to find out. I thought I was removing the last section of the bottom, but I wasn't, and the whole thing came apart. The kitchen looked like a pre-school experiment. Contents went everywhere including down my front. It didn't taste like cornstarch. I think it was flour for dusting her daily biscuits. A powdered sugar sifter is what I'd use it for--carefully.

Speaking of powdered sugar, makes me think of cake, makes me think of walking for an hour down around and up and over Enid Dam, not with a carrot dangling to entice me, but a piece of fresh yellow cake with chocolate frosting. What I won't do for chocolate.

We ate our hamburger patties with mushroom gravy over rice, had home cooked lima beans, cornbread and tomato slices. The blueberry cobbler was rubbery. Self-rising flour was called for, and I got into the wrong bucket.

Ben got up at dawn, and ahead of the coons, to gather 161 ears of his neighbor's corn. Friday the guys will bring down the grills, fire them up, and so they don't go hungry, as if they could here, they're boiling craw fish with corn, potatoes, portabellas, smoked sausage (Boudan is too expensive) and Zataran. The world really does move on its belly.

Today we make the grocery list for Ben and scour the freezers for squash, beans and whatever else we can cook for the 4th. I saw a bag of pears marked for pie and found a recipe for a French open face. We'll labor all day tomorrow in the kitchen making potato salad, boiling eggs for deviling, a vanilla cream cheese pie, and probably a dozen other foods. I hope Jimmie Nell looks over our shoulders and gives us directions.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

NO CABLE IN THE PASTURE!

Last week we moved our covered wagon/motorhome three hundred miles from TN to Uncle Ben's in MS. It took two days with the heat index at 110 and JB without AC.

Grateful for shade, we parked in Uncle Ben's pasture where the 4th of July picnic takes place. The area will be cleaned off and wet down. Grills, tables and chairs will be brought in for the near 100 guests.

While we setup, Ben searched for eggs. Imagine this: he's 6'4", weighs 285 lbs., was shirtless, in khaki shorts, docker shoes, no socks and carrying pullet eggs in a flowerpot with a short rope handle. All he needed was a floppy hat.

With the help of great-granddaughter, Abbe, late afternoon we began clearing the pasture. Five, six pick up sticks, seven, eight lay them straight we did in the two-wheeled trailer attached to the Rhino. In low gear we poked across the pasture to unload on the burn pile.

At daylight we heard pounding on our door, looked out the window and didn't see anyone. The pounding continued. Must be Uncle Ben. JB got up, went to the door and found Ben's Barbados ram most unhappy we were in his pasture. A few claps and a "Git!" sent he and his five ewes on their way.

Ben has an variety of large and small roosters that out number the small hens by seven to one. Those girls are constantly running away. It's a wonder they have time to lay eggs.

Our cats love being out doors. The roosters must have held a meeting and a small one drew the short straw. Apparently he was elected to let us know they also did not approve of our intrusion. I caught him cussing the cat.

The Rhino fascinates me. I call it "the imagination maker." Like I need any help. I decided to take it on safari, look for elephants. In first gear I ambled around the pair of long-necked geese, past three ducks, three noisy guinea hens and a lone tom-turkey. His mate passed on last year.

In the open pasture I found the carcass of the nanny goat. Coyotes got her baby last week. Around the burn pile to the far edge of dense trees, I searched for wild life. No elephants either. Between trees I spotted a clearing wide enough for my Rhino. Must investigate. LBJ used to say I was too curious. "You'll be sorry someday." Cresting the hill I froze then slammed on the brake before going headfirst into the pond with the Rhino. Ben wouldn't be amused. LBJ would say, "I told you so." Out of gear it eased to a stop. My heart pounding, and no room to turn around, I eased backward until I could turn into the woods. Now I know why it's called a Rhino. It went over branches and stumps, through tall grass and brought me home safely. I'm giving my imagination a rest. If you believe that...

At daylight this morning we heard racket on the kids jungle jim by our house. The ram was playing with the rubber tire suspended on three chains. He butted it around for half an hour. Guess he's just a "kid" at heart.

We don't need cable in our pasture home, we have plenty of entertainment.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

BUNNY BUSINESS

On East Prospect, in Fayetteville, TN, I stopped at a home with a "Bunnies for sale" sign in the yard. I haven't held a baby bunny since I was a small child. Dad found one on the farm and brought it to the house. Soft and fragile, covered with down, breathing tiny breaths, its heart beat fast. We were concerned its mother wouldn't care for it once we'd touched it. He took it back to its nest with our childish blessings.

Jenny answered the door with a smile. I inquired about the bunnies. She was happy to give me a tour. Hutches of four cages on each side shaded adults and babies. I didn't know that mothers pull their hair out to make bedding for their babies. We pull ours out later. Rabbit hair looks and feels like wool. Newborns are hairless and pink, rat-like, with closed eyes. Several females had litters of nine.

They breed a variety of bunnies with ears that stand up, as if starched, and those that droop or lop: mini-lops, Dutch-blue, (grey to black and white markings), mini-rex, standard-rex (white with brown spots), Holland-lop, (small, golden brown with a bull-dog face), black mini (The sun bleached its black to hints of dark red.) My favorite was the Rex. It felt like velvet, the Velveteen Rabbit.

If you are in the market for a cuddly pet, call Keith and Jenny, 931-993-7898. You won't be disappointed.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

From the Deep South to the Midwest and back

I returned to the soggy South yesterday after a 2,000 mile journey to the Midwest and back. Wahoo lawns were dry as late July. If it had rained as much as in TN, I would have filled a four yard dumpster with landscaping weeds. Sprinklers are great, but not the same as Mother Nature's magic. Grass seed responded; it sprouted.

Alabama peaches rode north and rhubarb south. I will chop and cook it down sweetened with the organic cane sugar Sucanat.

Ryker and Aja came for welcome hugs. He said, "Work is so much fun, what can we do?" They cut the suckers off the crabapple stump and were paid in fresh pineapple.

We celebrated Aja's 6th birthday by making chocolate chip, oatmeal cookies and drinking lukewarm green tea from French demitasse cups. She called her mother and asked, "Would you care to join us?" Of course my camera battery was dead. Our afternoon is burned into my heart.

Seven-year-old Eli came to the door and asked, "Can you come play "Monkey in the Middle" with Aunt Shelly and me? How often do you get an invitation like that? I went out and threw the ball over the one in the middle. Close to noon Eli asked if I'd like to go to Burger King with them. Sure.

Sarah, 6, came and asked if she could wash dishes. Glad to have her. Payment was a banana. Such comings and goings. I love that the kids want to come.

Jani got a purple cast on her left arm, and she isn't old enough to wear purple. I suspect it is well decorated by now.

My high school class had a meeting to discuss next year's reunion. We expected three or four. Twelve showed up. We are kinder than in high school. Life has knocked us all around a plenty.

It is strengthening and comforting being on home plate. I talked with everyone I needed to, saw old friends and was properly hugged up. Many pleasant memories were made and others maintained. I'll be back in August. Don't know why yet, but I know I have to come back. Time will tell.

On my 885 miles in one day return trip, I noticed cars abandoned by the side of the road. Know how to tell? No license plate. Poor lonely, lost, forgotten, or stolen cars wait, wait for someone to see some worth in them and haul them off to rest among more of the same. Maybe a radiator or tire will be a transplant. Nature wastes nothing. An empty vehicle is open season for rodents, snakes, homeless people and animals.

Passing at 70 mph I caught a glimpse of a maroon Chevy with it's right front tire missing. A lanky jack held up the right axle like a long-legged, boney dog. Did you know a gray hound isn't necessarily a greyhound.

My car's air-conditioner faded out. The fan cooled the air a couple of degrees reminding me of my empty bottle of Nantucket Rain perfume.

Large perfectly round bales lay scattered in a hayfield. Some stood on end, bow and arrow target practice style. Others lay flat. I see a checkerboard in the making. It would take a forklift to make a king.

Tennessee, Kentucky and Missouri grow rocks, trees and water. Water has to come from somewhere, why not grow it?

Fifteen hours of driving brought me to Fayetteville in time to have Chinese food with JB. Back to the point of my other life in Tennessee.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Is it a who or a what dragging the chain?

Roads are narrow here in TN and without shoulders. I parked my car at a vacant house to walk a half dozen homes hoping to find people I could help save money on their cable, internet or phone. Rare sunshine warmed my shoulders. I had had a fresh tomato sandwich for lunch and felt right as rain, except I shouldn't say anything about rain here, it's rained almost every day of May.

As I approached the second house I heard the clanking of a chain. Cause for pause. I turned to my left and froze. A large, grey short-haired dog was loping toward me I knew I couldn't outrun. Clutching my yellow work box to my front, I stood still and prayed. It kept coming dragging 7' of links as big around as my finger and two to three inches long. Time seemed slow motion. I shot a glance at the house to see if it had pulled bricks out. No.

Years ago a Rhodesian Razorback raced toward me showing all its teeth. The lady of the house stepped out just in time and shouted, "Don't go, I want cable."
I shouted, "Call your dog off!"
She did. The dog wilted.

Chain-link dog kept coming without showing teeth. Oh, dear. Its jaw looked smaller than a pit bull. At my feet it stopped and bounced around wanting to play. It's head as high as my hip, I relaxed a smidge and remembered to breathe. Talking softly I told it what a good dog it was as I walked backwards to my car. It was determined to go home with me. I slowly drove away so as not to get tangled in its chain. A quarter mile up the road I looked back and saw it still clanking down the center line after me. I hope and pray it gets the care it needs.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

MEMORIAL DAY 2009

...remembering the brave who have kept us free, and do keep us free . . . to camp in the rain or not; to worship or not; to speak our mind, and do as we please. Life without suppression, the ultimate.
Thank you.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Porch Posts & Penny Pillars

Life in the South.....

We moved to Huntsville, Alabama in April, the best time of year to read "Gone With the Wind." Nebraska's High Plains have few trees. Alabama's forests shelter and shade. White porch pillars stand out quietly shouting, "You're in the South!" Some homes have solid wood porch posts, capable, unadorned, doing their job holding up the red tin roofed porch. Other porch posts were turned and shaped proudly proving they can do their job and look beautiful. In the pillar category, new-built miniature pillars, penny-pillars I call them, are slim shadows of the regal, magestsic, statement of wealth, grand masters large enough to hide valuables and children.

A month ago we moved north across the border to Fayetteville, TN. Bumps on the horizon are distant mountains. According to the usgov site, "The wispy, smoke-like fog that hangs over the Smoky Mountains comes from rain and evaporation from trees. On the high peaks of the Smokies, an average of 85 inches of rain falls each year, qualifying these upper elevation areas as temperate rain forests." We could qualify for rainforest status. It rains so often we light a bic to light a match to light the stove.

LBJ's first visit to the East left him unimpressed with the Great Smokys. "I've leveled bigger hills with my tractor (Ford)." I see them as squaw's teeth worn down from gnawing buffalo hide to soften it. The Rockies are the incisors and the Tetons, fangs.

Nights are cooler at 647' above sea level. Our neighboring roadside stand has first Georgia peaches and peaches and cream sweet corn. JB likes his cut off the cob, cooked in the skillet with a little butter and finished with cream. Who wouldn't? Heaven!!! Fresh strawberries, yellow squash, small zucchini, peppers, okra, baby red potatoes, green beans, vidalia onions, cucumbers, round watermelon, cantaloupe, jams, honey and more keep us pleasantly and healthily supplied in the world of porch posts and penny pillars.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

MOTHER'S DAY 2009

. . . a day set aside to celebrate the one who birthed us and all who nurture us.

My mother: My right thumb has a small rise on the knuckle exactly like hers. I see her rolling balls of yeast dough in her hands making buns; creating the divinity I've never been able to duplicate; serving grasshopper pie after a large meal; playing the "The 12th Street Rag" on the piano; hands folded in her lap when we needed to tell her something; creating my tap dancing dress from yards of lavender gingham; canning green beans; putting Denver mud on my chest. In my mind she is always there, alive, well, helpful and beautiful. Love knows no bounds. It connects hearts forever.

Grandmother Mae: My namesake, her cut finger wrapped in a white cloth. Work didn't stop, she maneuvered around it making apple dumplings and fixing chicken and dumplings for Grandpa and I when I was in high school. Quilting is her testimony to salvaging the beauty of the worn and frayed.

Aunt Bobbe: My cheerleader who laughed at my jokes. She'd "do" my nails and take it off before I went home. Not acceptable for little girls, according to Dad. I missed her the most. She passed before I understood we shed our body to live in changed form; she's still my cheerleader.

My sister, Janis: Slim fingers with polished nails. I see her as a child holding a baby chick to her ear to hear it peep. Her home is large enough for all of us for dinner. It thrills her to cook for Thanksgiving, as if feeding an army, and she gets excited making travel plans. No matter what she's into, her hands stay soft and smooth.

Corrie: My favorite second child. "Mom," she'd say exasperated, "you can't have more than one second child." That's why she's my favorite. Her hands have slim, smooth piano fingers that make great music and fluffy crochet. I see her lovingly cupping their dog, Maggie's, face.

Krysia: Her hands were small with wider knuckles like mine and Mother's. She used her index fingers to type, made quiche and remodeled. Her hands stayed smooth. What bothered her most about my caring for her was what it did to my hands: frequent washing made them rough, crack and bleed.

Carol, more than a daughter-in-law, a friend: Large hands, large heart, good cook. She takes her time, makes a mean shrimp dip, perfectly fried fish, creamed asparagus, rhubarb crisp. Always kind, she is a there when needed.

To all who nurture here and from beyond, thank you, thank you for uplifting life. God Bless and Happy Mother's Day.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Myrtle's Mom

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Friends who raised sheep called and asked if we wanted to raise a spring lamb? Excited, sister and I pleaded, "Mom, Dad, can we?" Living in the country, we had lots of room, and we'd never raised sheep. It would be an adventure. They nodded in agreement.

A few days later our friend arrived with a long-legged bundle of curly white wool in his arms. We frowned at how little she was and asked why she was taken from her mother. He said, "She wasn't taken, her mother wouldn't feed her. She was rejected."
Our jaws dropped. What? We thought all mother's were like ours. It was unimaginable a mother, any mother, could/would turn her back on her own.

Dad fixed a place in the cellar with a heat lamp. We traipsed down first thing in the morning to bottle feed her and after school. Mother fed her during the day. The heat brought out the ticks in her wool. One moved over to my sister's head. Mother found it when washing her hair, removed it and placed it in a pint jar where it lived more than 30 days off sister's blood. Yuk! And it wasn't even Halloween.

When the weather warmed, Myrtle graduated from the cellar to the yard bouncing around stiff-legged, as if on springs. She liked to be chased. When we caught her we rolled around on the grass. Squeezing our fingers in her wool put lanolin on our hands. Mother appreciated it the most. Under her fertilization our lawn improved, and she became our watchdog. Guests at our gate didn't try to enter when she bobbed her head in butt mode.

Being an active 4-H family, Myrtle became my project for the county fair. Hours were spent training her to walk with my left hand under her chin and my right on her rump. Many leaps were attempted before she learned to cooperate and stand still with her feet evenly spaced.

In August I bathed and curry combed her until she was fluffy. We gathered our sewing and baking projects and Myrtle and went to the fair. I walked into the ring holding her under the chin and on the rump and stopped in presentation. She stayed calm. I knelt on one knee. The judge felt her hind quarters and fingered her wool. We waited. Low and behold we earned a blue ribbon for showmanship. I still have it.

Fair animals were sold at the close of the fair, unless they were champions and going on to higher competition. Not Myrtle, she lived with us several years. Wherever we went she was right behind us.

The smell of wet wool reminds us of our friend and pet. I've not eaten lamb or mutton since. Spring lamb means a bouncing, playful bundle of wool in our yard, not on my plate. And mint jelly is fine on toast.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Post St. Patrick's Day Cabbage Math

After weeks of cold, rainy, gloomy weather reminiscent of Ireland, 3/17 was a sunny blessing. For me, no sun equals no sense of direction. JB points and says, "That's north." Nuh-huh, that's east. Nebraska's roads are generally square miles. Mississippi roads follow old Indian trails, creeks, and around stumps.

On the 17th, friends of JB's stopped by for a chat. Lawn chairs were pulled out and placed in the shade at the nose of the motorhome. They reminisced hunting and drag racing, while I pondered how to feed them with a single head of cabbage .

Hunger interrupted their tales; God knows they will never run out. Hilton said he had some fresh slab (2 lb.) crappie, hushpuppies and potatoes. Cecil had a fry daddy. Derek said coleslaw would taste good. I volunteered our cabbage. He offered tomatoes, onions and mayo. JB setup the table.

Cabbage + fish + friends = a tasty feast with leftovers.

©2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Easter 2009 AD

Mother Mary relieved
He's alive
overcame death
the world changed
forever
He did it
for us

Thank you.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Fresh Fish and a Tea Cozy

I love hot Earl Grey with fresh homemade Irish soda bread Southwestern style. Walnuts and japlaenos added. The recipe is from "Jump Up and Kiss Me" spicy Vegetarian Cooking by Jennifer Trainer Thompson. From her I learned to add cayenne and cinnamon to my chocolate Texas sheetcake.

Hand washing my tea cozy I remembered a faraway friend. My pale blue and white striped cozy was handmade for my navy teapot with a hole for the handle and one for the spout. A white and a pale blue puff ball are attached to the top. Crocheted or knitted? I can't tell. I started knitting a blanket before Krysia was born and finished it three years later when I brought Corrie home from the hospital. I knit too tight. Corrie's nimble piano fingers make her knitting look like marshamllows, gorgeous.

While in London I purused Harrod's, if we haven't got it, you probably don't need it department store. Yes, they have a dress code. A shopper in torn geans and flip flops might be turned away, even though Harrod's might sell the items at the store. People dress up to shop.

I had worked my way through the thousand thread count bed linens to the foods. At the seafood department I was stunned to see a fresh fish display of arranged rows of hand-sized fish in a sunburst pattern on an upright 5'x5' panel with cold water tumbling over all. Overhead lights made tiny rainbows. Admirers of all ages paused, nodded to each other and shook their heads in amazement. The display is changed weekly.

The best part of travel is meeting people. Mae was from Dublin, Ireland, the place of brightly painted doors. She had come to London to shop. We metat the fish display. A world traveler, she had been to the States four times, to the European continent eleven, Russia four, Australia six, to five African nations, and two South American countries to name a few. Her favorite place? Home. We exchanged addresses.

Months later a package arrived from Ireland. Mae made and sent a tea cozy. Every time I use it, I think of her. Here's to you Mae, my far away yet close in heart friend. May we meet again, on this side or the next.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Signs of Spring

in our corner of the world. Flushing out the season, Krysia grew narcissus bulbs in a bowl of rocks. Garden books replaced winter books of polar bears and snowy Alps. The summer picture of her and Schatzie is a constant.

Hardy red, yellow and white tulips come up in our landscaping. A high school science project inspired me to cross-pollinate my grandmother's tulips. Pollen from a red tulip was tapped onto a knife and sprinkled into the center of white tulips. The next spring they boasted red stripes. It took three seasons for the red to fade out. White remained white and red remained red.

Krysia liked tea and scones for her birthday. Tomorrow I will enjoy them in my mind remembering her.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

PALM SUNDAY 2009

Holy Week begins
Mother Mary's ordeal
even if she knew
the plan
of what
was to become
of Him/Her son
it still hurt

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Zimbabwe, Africa

photo by Leroy & Alice Patocka-Fortner

I have not been to this area of Africa, Alice and Leroy have.

At the base of this monstrous Zimbabwe, African Baobob, we strain to see our friends, Leroy and Alice. He has been a big game hunter all his life. Alice and I went to high school together. A country kid, she didn't expect to travel the world. Together they have been to the Dark Continent numerous times and driven to Alaska.

Baobob or Boabob? I found it spelled both ways. Africans call it "the upside-down tree" and "the monkey bread tree." One folklore tale says the tree was planted upside down accidentally by a hyena.

Football-sized seed pods house seeds Leroy says taste like cream of tartar. Acording to The Illustrated Guide to EDIBLE WILD PLANTS Dept. of the Army, a mix of pulp and water cures diarrhea; cut into strips and pounded, pulp is made into rope; young leaves are a soup vegetable; for a refreshing drink, a handful of pulp is added to a cup of water; seeds are roasted and ground to make flour. The hollow trunk is a source of fresh water. Its circumfrence changes as water is absorbed and released.

Without bark and rings, the tree's age is determined by carbon dating. This one could be 2,000 years old or older, in spite of elephant and smaller animal damage. At about 1,000 years, the trees start to hollow out. The most famous Baobob, 3rd largest in the world, is located in Limpopo, South Africa. Limpopo shares borders with Botswana, Zimbabwe and Mozambique. An average of 10,000 visitors a year visit the carved-out pub and wine cellar of Doug & Heather van Heerden.

In her long-legged life, Alice never dreamed she'd visit Africa and sleep in a thatched roof lodge under a mosquito net and be glad for it. She and Leroy took anti-malaria medicine two weeks before leaving the states, the duration, and two weeks back home. It worked. No sweats to flash freezing.

Meals were prepared according to old English ways and without electricity or refrigeration. White bread was baked daily in wood burning ovens. Alice said, "The wild kudu stew was delicious with locally grown organic potatoes, carrots and onions. It reminded us of our beef stew. The kudu are antelope-like with tall corkscrew horns. Custard or pudding was dessert. The local sudda brew tasted bitter."

Expecting to see John Deere tractors, they were surprised to see natives with oxen work the land around abandoned farm equipment. Included in the rusty graveyard are Nebraska irrigation systems. When the government expelled white landowners, they had three days to leave. Anything related to the farming operation could not be removed. They left with the clothes on their back and some personal items. Natives used the equipment until it ran out of gas or the batteries died. Where it stopped, it stayed. The modern was replaced by people and oxen. Square one, back to methods as old as the Baobab tree.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Ladybug Bushouse

In our absence ladybugs moved in to stay, play and propagate in our rarely visited Mississippi motorhome. They don't leave an odor; they are just everywhere and inside things, as if they studied building ships in bottles. I'd sweep up a few and more would drop. They're stuck to the ceiling, in drawers, on everything, and between screens I can't vacuum. We think they're responsible for the clogging the sink.

I found three vacuums to cleanup the deceased. The handheld dirt devil inhaled and exhaled through the cloth bag rearranging the dust. No collecting bag inside. One upright electric broom wasn't worth a push, the other sounds pneumatic, asthmatic. There isn't one good suck between them. In my trunk is the mother of all suckers, my Kirby, and I can't get to it. It has rained nonstop since Wed.

We adjust. Madchen and Schatze have new scenery and spaces to explore. They lie on the foot of the bed watching the space heater turn red and fade out. JB reads "Ripley's Believe It Or Not." I'm into a mystery. We are soothed by the rain on the roof and nap. No TV. Simple snack meals of sliced veggies, apples and leftover KFC. A pair of beagle coon dogs whoop mournfully. Peaceful. This is country.

I suspect 99.9% of the ladybugs are deceased. The few remaining tickle my neck walking the rim of my collar, light on the cat's noses, and crawl up JB's fingers encouraging us to be light hearted.

If ladybugs are good luck, we ought to have bushels.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Was it the luck of the ...

...Irish, draw, rabbits foot, salt over the shoulder, Friday the 13th, prayed up or spared?

Friday the 13th of February, JB got the call no parent wants,"Your daughter has been in a car accident and won't make it through the night."

Pray first, put pants on second. We left at midnight to drive the 800+ miles on Valentine's Day. No time for romance and cards, it was crackers and peanut butter and smoked oysters that left a smelly, greasy stain on the passenger's plastic floor mat. Daylight revealed the oil had spread to the shape of a heart.

Hour by hour the details unfolded. Brandi was riding with a girlfriend on the narrow, twisted roads of Mississippi. The white line is about 2" from the edge and the shoulders aren't graveled. The driver went off the road and over corrected causing the car to flip end over end. Brandi was pinned beneath in the mud.

A nearby homeowner heard the crash, slipped into her shoes and ran to the scene dialing 911. Brandi's face was in the windshield on the outside of the car. The frame of the door rested on her neck. She wasn't breathing, believed dead. The engine was smoking. The woman helped the driver out and away.

Chuck, a Deputy Sheriff, happened upon the scene and organized volunteers to lift the car off Brandi. She took two deep breaths. An ambulance rushed both girls to the hospital. Doctors told the family Brandi would not make it. The driver had a broken wrist and torn ligaments at her knee.

Brandi's vitals stabilized. Too foggy for a helicopter, an ambulance transferred her to Elvis Presley Trauma Center in Memphis, TN where people go to die. Non-responsive, doctors again said she would not make it.

We arrived at the hospital at 2 pm. Little John warned us about the size of her head: basketball or watermelon. But she was awake and asking the same question over and over. More tests. At Elvis's wall outside ICU, the line of concerned family and friends grew longer.

Sunday she announced she was hungry. Later in the day she started walking. Monday pm she was dismissed from ICU to go home. Not one miracle, many. Praise theLord! Is luck Divine intervention?

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

How does love find us?

Our maternal grandparents were unacquainted in Illinois. As young children their families packed up their covered wagons and headed west in the late 1800's. Grandpa's family homesteaded in southeast Nebraska, Grandma's in northeast Kansas.

Settled on the prairie, Mae took piano lessons at home from a traveling pianist. All was well until he made unwanted advances. She and her girlfriend switched two of his buggy wheels making the buggy lopsided. He left and never came back. At sixteen Mae took the teaching test and was certified as a teacher. Several of her students were older than she, typical of a farming community and the times.

LeRoy learned to play the fiddle and harmonica for himself and dances. In 1910 he joined a wheat threshers crew to work from Nebraska into northern Kansas, about 100 miles. One of the crew's favorite meals was roasted prairie chicken. Of course, they had to catch and kill it, coat it with thick mud, dig a fire pit and roast it.

Near Linn, Kansas they set up their machinery for the Simons. Mae, her mother and two other women cooked for the crew four times a day for two days. Resting in the shade of the thresher, LeRoy stopped mid-bite on his thick slices of fresh bread slathered with sweet cream butter and quince jam when a young woman crossed the farmyard carrying a pail for water. He had to meet her.

Mae was cutting cake when she noticed a man ride through the yard toward the watering tank. That was odd. The thresher was the opposite direction. He took off his hat and wiped his brow. Dark wavy hair flowed over his collar, a young man.

Music drifted up to the house at dusk. Mae peaked out through a curtain. Some thresher was playing Turkey in the Straw on a harmonica. A pleasant distraction, soothing after a long hot day. Dancing music. Toe tapping at the least. She sighed. If only. Her father was concerned no one had asked her to wed. 'Ought to be married by now,' her brothers said. Not even a promise. Two locals were interested, but she wasn't.

When the threshers finished and were packing up to move to the next farm, a man came to the house and tipped his hat. "Thank you ladies for your hospitality. We'll be going now."
Mother was surprised and pleased, a man with manners. "Do come in. Mae, come fix a sack for, what's your name?"
"LeRoy, Ma'am."
Mae saw him and gasped. The dark-haired yard rider had twinkly, dark eyes. Handsome. He nodded, "Afternoon Miss." It was all she could do to shut her mouth and nod. Heart pounding she gathered two loaves of fresh bread. If he could just look into her eyes, he could see if she was interested. She handed him the bread, looked up quickly and blushed. He could see her heart pounding through her high-necked blue dress. So was his. "I'd best be going. Much obliged, Miss." Breathless, she followed him to the porch. He mounted his roan, looked softly at her and said, "I'll be back." A half-smile crossed his face.

Stunned, she watched him out of sight, her heart filling with hope. Doubt crept in. He doesn't know I'm too old. It would never work. He lives in Nebraska, but if he comes back, it's meant to be. I'll keep busy with school. Her fourth year.

January of 1911 Mae was in the kitchen, as usual, when her father answered the door. A man asked for her. She frowned, wiped her hands on her apron and went to the parlor. It was him, LeRoy. She could have fainted, but Simons' women didn't. Her father saw her blush and excused himself.

When they were alone, LeRoy's eyes pierced hers. "I said I'd be back." She blushed and nodded unable to speak. A knot the size of a loaf of bread sat in her stomach. Flustered, she asked, "Would you like some feefee and tea take?"
He laughed. "I don't know about the feefee, but I'd drink some buttermilk and taste your tea take." She shut her eyes in embarrassment and tried to stifled a laugh.

Two days later they were married in her parlor. He took her back to his home in Nebraska where they loved, laughed and supported each other 58 years. This year would have been their 98th anniversary.

How does love find us? Love finds a way.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Energy Follows Attention

I was caught up in the blahs of winter's long nights and gloomy days, snow and ice, grief and uncertainty. Follow along and I'll tell you why I put them in past tense.

Sorting files I came across "The Golden Key," a five-page booklet by Emmet Fox (1886-1951), New Thought leader and writer. It is available at http://www.unityworldhq.org/. I made a cup of mint and green leaf tea and sat down to read. My poem inspires sharing what I learned.

The wisdom given

at the lofty peak

included the instructions,

'It's not yours to keep.'

Emmet Fox said, "Stop thinking about the difficulty, whatever it is, and think about God instead."

Practice The Attitude of Gratitude.

Mother Theresa said she would not demonstrate against war, but she would march for peace. She understood energy follows attention.

I was reminded, yet again, to get out of my own way. Putting attention only on God allows Him to go to work resolving my problems. At bedtime I surrendered my boat load of troubles and fell asleep praising Him..

I awoke this morning at peace.

Whether you believe in a Higher Power or not, it works. Go ahead test it, and let us know what happens.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

Dreamers

George Washington had dreams of opportunity for our new nation. I suspect Betsy Ross stitched our first flag with dreams and prayers for our country's women and children: nurture, don't destroy.

Martin Luther King Jr.had a dream of equality. January 20th Barack Obama will be installed as our first African-American President. Dr. King would be proud. President Obama's "can do" spirit
inspires. He is forthright and honest. God bless and protect him, his family, his administration, our country.

I dream of world-wide good health and abundance ; inexpensive, renewable energy; Earth healed; all people living in peace.

What we think, feel and speak we bring into existence--positive and negative. Peace cannot be dictated, it is personal. When we take responsibility for our thoughts and feelings, purge the negatives and reprogram with positives, the puzzle pieces of peace fall into place.

What positives do you want to bring into existence in your life and world?

The last word in all of this is.......love.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

January on the Farm

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Wrapped in my rose, flannel-covered duvet, I remember childhood winters on the farm. Night captured the sun and its sundog shadow signaling Nature to slide open the deep freeze door. Bitter cold waltzed out to test animals and people.

Evening's fist of coal warmed the resting cook stove. Overnight both cooled down causing freezing of the teakettle on the stove and the faucet across the room. Outside, wheat straw bales lined the north side of the house providing minimal insulation. Inside walls felt icy. Pale blue and white striped wallpaper over layers of newspaper, over lathe, didn't stop a blizzard, it strained it. The house begged for warmth. Dad's laundered long johns leaned against the dining room wall frozen stiff, ghost-like.

Standing close to the stove, Jani and I shucked out of school clothes into warmed, red flannel pj's. Socks stayed on. Clinging to the warmth, we scurried up the steps. The sheets warmed just to the shape of our spooning bodies.

The wind argued furiously with the plastic on the windows. The house shuddered. Subzero nights moved Dad to light the oil stove in our room. It took the sting off our second floor. Yuk! Stinky, oily-smelling. flames leaped behind the glass showing off their "hot stuff." If they got out, everything could be destroyed, including Myrtle, our pet lamb in the cellar. Terrified, I couldn't sleep; I had to keep watch.

Morning was announced by squeaks and clatters. Mom was in the kitchen lifting the lid on the cook stove; wood thunked in feeding its hungry appetite. We rushed to use the icy-rimmed chamber pot. Quick as cats we dashed down the steps sideways. Huddling near the cook stove's 'safe' fire we changed into school clothes. The phone rang, "No school today." Yeah!

Dad said he would take care of the livestock. No chores and no homework equaled a free day. Icicles hung from cattle's coats and steamy breaths. The axe made a hollow sound with each chop toward moving water. Chips flew. Cattle flinched. Dad's hands grew numb and stiff. His nose dripped. He cussed the weather.

Mother fixed cream of wheat with raisins and slathered scratchy slices of oven-toasted homemade bread with fresh butter and last summer's peach jam. The view from our kitchen table was eye-popping. Even the wind paused. Between our house and windbreak Nature had delivered feet of snow. Winter's diamonds sparkled in the sunlight.

Jani and I bundled in our Christmas boots, navy-blue coats, hats and gloves to make "first tracks" pioneer-like. Stomping and squealing we played fox and geese and threw snowballs at each other and the wash house. Dad went rabbit hunting while we built a lopsided snowman Mom could see from the kitchen window. Our gloves soggy and our faces rosy ,we fell backwards making snow angels.

Mom called out, "Come get this bowl and fill it with snow." We did. Warming by the fire we watched her stir in sweet cream from the cellar, a small amount of sugar and vanilla. Smiling, she spooned it into bowls and handed us each one. We hesitated. "Try it," she insisted taking a spoonful, "It's snowcream." Rich and creamy mini-crystals tickled my tongue. Delicious. She put a dish aside for dad. We three giggled and ate the rest. Snowcream, a yesterday pleasure.

2009 Red Convertible Travel Series

The New Year 2009

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At Microsoft Clip Art I typed in "World Peace." The search stated: "can't find it. No results were found matching World Peace." I chose three pieces of artwork instead: the globe in God's hands; a descending dove; and children holding up the world. None would upload.

Why the goat? We are in Capricorn: money, details, conservatism, determination. The goat takes tiny steps, keeps going and makes it to the top. It overcomes. So can we.

Best wishes for a great New Year.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

JESUS CHRIST

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The why in Christmas.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

WHAT TO FIX FOR CHRISTMAS?

A family Christmas tradition was the cracking of the nuts: three pounds of hazelnuts, walnuts, Brazil nuts and pecans. Pop. Crunch. Plop.
Chop 2 lbs. of pitted dates
Drain 8 ounces of cherries and chop
Lightly dust all with flour

Mix together 5 eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla
Add 1 1/2 cups flour
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt

Combine with nut mixture using your hands to thoroughly mix. Bake in a lightly greased angel food pan or loaf pans at 325 degrees for 1 hour. Cooled, I cut it with an electric knife.

Rich and dense, I want to hide it and eat it all by myself. Instead, I slice off slivers for presents, and I am judicious about who gets them. If you haven't been blessed with it lately, don't feel bad, I haven't made it lately, and chances are slim I will. Remembering is calorie-free.

Maybe I should make Rusted Nuts, Southern for roasted. Pecans trees are plentiful in Mississippi. One Christmas we drove through the countryside and picked up a bag full of windfalls by the road. Private drives are covered with crushed pecans.

Sprinkle shelled pecans with garlic powder, Worchestershire, melted butter and salt. Stir until all are coated. Spread on a cookie sheet. Bake at 325 for 35 minutes or until crispy. While baking stir every ten minutes.

Corrie will get rice pudding. We could make gingerbread with chopped, fresh ginger; it makes the house smell alive, and is sumptuous with whipped cream. I could make Boston baked beans spiced with cloves for dinner, or we could do like the English and have them on toast for breakfast, on a baked potato at noon, and on pizza for evening. I'd have no friends.

Boston baked beans need steamed brown bread. They are a couple. The bread is made with cornmeal, rye flour, whole wheat flour, buttermilk, dark molasses, salt and baking soda. I lined my springform pan with foil, poured in the mix, turned to place it in the steaming pot on the stove, and the spring let go exploding the dough like a shotgun blast. The mess was horrific, and we were having guests for dinner. While I cleaned and started over, my husband ran to town for more molasses. Springform pans should be sold with duct tape.

May you have fun with your Christmas recipes. You are welcome to share them in comments.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

THANKS GIVING 2008

I hope you have a pleasant Thanksgiving. Making a list of what I am thankful for would take days. I'll just pick one something to expound upon: grapenuts in a box.

In my "experimental" days, I made soap, not out of necessity, out of novelty. Squatting on the ground, stirring an enamel dishpan of lye soap with a leg bone, I felt very pioneerish/Indianish. Bring on the drums.

Corncob jelly was another venture. The recipe: start with clean corncobs. Did they think I'd use any other kind? Where were they getting theirs? Boil them down and add sugar. It was clear, red and tasteless. I filled two half-pint jars and set them on the shelf for decoration. No one ever asked for a taste.

In 1898 Charles Post developed a natural cereal he called grapenuts. I love them. When I came across a recipe, I had to make some. Graham flour mixed with brown sugar, buttermilk, salt and soda was spread on a cookie sheet and baked at 375 degrees for 15 minutes, then cooled. I mounted the meat grinder on the picnic table--it was a nice day. I couldn't bend or break up the baked grapenuts. I found a mallet in the garage, wrapped a tea towel around it and whacked away. Sharp-edged pieces flew. The stubborn remainders made my hands sore trying to keep them in the grinder. My effort netted about half a cup. Disgusted, I nibbled a few and ditched the rest. And that, my friends, is why I am thankful for grapenuts in a box.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

ONE Noodle Soup

My grandmother, Mae, half my namesake, made noodles. I watched her roll the dough on a floured tea towel. With great care she cut narrow strips with her paring knife while Parkinson's messed with her coordination. I helped lay the uneven strips across the top rung of the back of the chairs to dry, or not, depending on the humidity. In a day or two they graced a chicken soup.

In my well-worn recipe box I found a recipe for Animal Noodles from Parents Magazine Dec. '69: 1 egg beaten, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 2 Tablespoons cream, 1 cup flour. Mix. Roll. Cut. My problem is my cookie cutter. It is a ghost large enough to put both hands through -- no pun intended. I would have to find a soup tureen to cook it in and make at least 20 cups of soup. I would need help: company. Do you want to come for ghost soup?

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

Krysia Takes the Big Trip

Before I was married, or even thinking about it, I read about a Polish Dr. whose daughter's name was Krysia. I saved the name and gave it to my first-born 4-6-64. We pronounced it Kris-e-ah. Years later she said it is pronounced Krish-a, Kris for short. Mom was the last to know.

Preparing her memory board, we found her "First Class Scouting Award" -- give her a list and she accomplished mountains of work. Ballet, flute and Rock to Bach were favorites. She appreciated and defended animals. An avid reader she donated many of her books to the local library. In appreciation they gave her a gift certificate to Barnes & Noble. That's looking ahead. She loved instruction manuals, the "keys to the kingdom." A graduate of Wesleyan University with a BS in Business & Psychology, she worked in the family small business consulting firm.

When diagnosed with cancer in Aug. of 06, she did not buy the prediction she would live three weeks. She prepared to live, not die. Live she did, and defy further doomsday predictions of not making it to Christmas '06 or '07. She asked her Dr., "What have you got against Christmas?"

I brought her home as an invalid in Sep. 06. With the prayers of many and 24/7 care, she improved to feed herself, get out of bed, walk, climb stairs, shower, do her makeup, laundry, drive, and walk 15" on the elliptical at PT. You can see she was not a quitter. She told her Dr., "Until my relatives come and tell me it is time to go, I fight." They came Sep. 27, 2008. Timothy 4: 7 sums up her life: I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Her fighting spirit and sense of humor in the face of severe adversity were great achievements.

Kysia's dream to live and work in New Mexico was unfulfilled. She traveled from this dimension to the next to continue her healing and her journey, a trip we all will take sick or well. Comedian Red Fox said, "Those health nuts are going to feel mighty silly lying there dying of nothing."

I know death is an illusion. Her life goes on uninterrupted. She has a new body in Christ. But the tears still come, and without warning. The good news is: love connects hearts forever.

Praise and criticism came my way for giving my all and my everything to care for her -- I would have given my last breath. I loved her unconditionally, with abandon, as God loves me and everyone else: the good, the bad, the indifferent.

This is not goodbye, Krysia, I'll see you later. Love, Mom

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

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Mischievious as these two are, I'll bet they'll get the begeebees scared out of them tonight if they're in our yard. JB made a ghost. It isn't a Nantucket "set-stiller" that waits and spooks people who walk past. This one has a basket for a head covered with a white plastic bag. Strips of black electrical tape make slits for eyes and mouth. The shoulders stay straight with a piece of rake handle and my missing garden gloves attached to the ends. 2" board legs are secured with twist ties. The feet are sponges. Draped in blinking Christmas lights and attached by a rope, it hangs suspended from our Red Leaf Maple like a horse thief. JB intends to "drop it" near the unsuspecting. Beware.

Happy Halloween

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

PARAKEET MOON

Starbuck and T-Bird are fortunate to live with an "open door" policy. Freedom of movement not only increases independence, it encourages self-expression. And their home is mobile -- a 5th wheel currently parked in the shade in Lindsborg, Kansas.

Deborah is recovering from knee replacement surgery with PT and Emmi-T, part beagle, part angel, empathetic to the pain of necessary exercise. When Deborah cries so does Emmie.

Parakeet empathy might be harder to identify, but they are aware, talk alot, have opinions on everything, and are always good for a laugh. Living "on the edge," both like to dive bomb Emmie who knows they'd be just one bite, but she restrains herself. Luckily the birds are "behind bars" when Pastor and Deborah are away.

For thrills Starbuck flies through people's hair giving a whole new meaning to "teasing." Even looking down at T-Bird there's an illusion of looking up. His feathers are white, cloud-like, with a sky-blue underbelly. He chases the cursor at the top of the screen when Pastor Peter is at the computer. Whether dizzy or disturbed by Pastor's sermon work, without warning he moons him, a blue moon, no less. Who says parakeets have no sense of humor?

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

LABOR DAY 2008

MSN

How are you celebrating? A parade? A party? Camping? Fishing? Boating? Biking? An amusement park?

We used to clean the school grounds and have a community picnic. It wasn't a picnic without scalloped corn, green beans with bacon, fried chicken, apple and peach pies. The adults cut the grass, picked up debris, swept and scrubbed while we tested the equipment. Dad looked at the swing and said, "Stay off. That pin will come out." Well, what did he know?

Two days later Lois asked me to pump. I loved to swing, and I couldn't refuse an upper classman. We were just sure we could get so high we could go all the way around. I pumped higher and higher until . . . oh, no, the pin came out. She lit on top of me on all fours, unhurt, but sprained. The swing seat broke my leg.

Grandpa and mother stopped canning pears to rush over. He made a barnwood splint. She tore up her apron. They put me in the car and took me to the hospital. All the way I begged, "Don't tell Dad. Please, don't tell Dad."

Whatever you do, have a safe and happy Labor Day that keeps you out of the Emergency Room.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

Sun Followers

MSN

I love how they wake up in the morning and face the sun in appreciation. All day they follow it across the sky. At noon they turn up to look it square in the eye. In the afternoon they bow their heads in thanks.

It's when they have soaked up all the sun and earth have to offer that they hang their heads in a final sunset. And wait. Wait for the gigantic and noisy guillotine. It's not a bad thing. They are glad to be, just be, bird and people food. A legacy of seeds will escape the header to sprout next year, and gardeners and farmers will plant more, perpetuating the circle of life.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

Airlifting Apples

The kids are back in school. There's a cool undercurrent in the air. Crickets and locusts are sounding off. Summer is fading. Our neighbors shared their sauce and pie apples. I intend to make handpies of puff pastry filled with apples.

Working in my front office I noticed a couple of fallen apples in my yard and a squirrel trying to lift one up the tree backwards. A foot off the ground he lost his grip. After several tries he gave up. A bit of apple flavor must have touched his tongue because he stopped, picked up the apple and ate half of it. Half is a lot easier to hoist.

Apple halves lay in my yard one day and are gone the next. Did he haul them up the tree, or bury them? I won't know until spring. I'm just glad I got my apples before the squirrel did.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

A walk with Lincoln

We were far from his home and mine when we strolled the asphalt parkway along the Mississippi River northwest of the Twin Cities. Born at Lake Itasca, the River was still and in its adolescent stage. When it takes on the big boys, like the St. Crois, locks are needed to keep it and its gang in check.

Abraham Lincoln, our 16th President, will be 200 in 2009. At 6' 4" and 180 pounds in his early life, he looked like a pencil in a big hat. He has improved with age, is better looking, better fed, still chivalrous. A gentleman. Gentle man.

Never have I walked so with living history. The only sound the scuff of our shoes. Even the trees were silent, listening, eager to know. I had to ask, "So, Abe, tell me something about your childhood."

Anguished, he replied, "My mother died from milk disease when I was nine. The cows ate a weed that was poisonous and passed it through their milk. Others died too. I stood at her cold grave crying; I couldn't leave her there." We walked a spell in silence, mulling his predicament.

The River is outlined by woods on either side. Excited I asked, "Abe, could you help me build a raft? I could surprise JB. Can I get to Louisiana in a week?"

Recollecting his river memories, he frowned, "I think it's too many twist and turns for a week's journey." A foolish hope. A brief imagining of a long pole, a sack lunch, and adventure dissipated.

Eager to extract all I could from his memory bank, I proceeded, "Tell me something funny from back then."
In a grownup, tired voice he replied, "Well, I was walking down a dusty road one hot August day on my way to a trial, when a fellow driving a buggy happened along. I sure needed to get off my feet. I waved."
"Need a lift?" he asked with a smile.
"Could you take my coat to the next town, Sir?" I asked politely.
He took his hat off and scratched his head, "Yes, but how would you get it?"
"Why, I intend to be in it."

The walk ended too soon. But I must tell you, I met his wife. She is beautiful, kind, capable, accomplished, mentally sound. And the children are fine.

Lee Williams is an offical Abraham Lincoln presenter. The first time I saw him I noticed the natural resemblance. He speaks at schools and reenactments, and has presented in Dubai. You can contact him at abelincoln.org

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

The 4th Report

No goats roasted. Some folks toasted.

Host Ben is a river boat Captain and a master of Southern Hospitality who lives in the hills of Mississippi. In the shaded pasture near his house, Boston butts, barbecued ribs and chicken parts were grilled on a special-made king-sized double grill. Big families require big accommodations. The come-hither scent traveled throughout the acreage and into the house. About 100 people came with food in hand and healthy appetites.

Ed shucked pecans from their yard and made two delicious pecan pies. A neighbor made a two-layer chocolate cake presented on a pink Depression glass plate. Tina brought deviled eggs and beans. Ben's wife, Jimmy Nell, passed in '07. To include and honor her we dug out her '06 bread and butter pickles and pickled tomatoes.

Patty and I made potato salad, deviled eggs, doctored pork 'n beans, purple-hulled peas and cornbread. Brandi made coleslaw and her famous corn salad with all kinds of fresh veggies. Patty squeezed lemons and made two refrigerated lemon cream cheese pies. Bubbles brought an ice cream dessert. There were chocolate cupcakes frosted by a child who licked the edges before I noticed. Laughter could be heard in all quarters. Jimmy Nell would have been proud. Life is going on.

Meat goats, turkeys, a variety of small black and red chickens and a pair of Barbados black-belly, no wool sheep watched from a safe distance. I suspect the tropics affected their coats. They definitely weren't dressed for a Midwest winter. Feeling bold and safe with the grill cool, the goats came around at cleanup time expecting change-of-menu trash, but willing to eat the beer cans, if not. We made sure we didn't turn our backs on them. They can't resist a sneaky butt over the fence. What are they thinking? I know, a goat rodeo. They win.

Sunday we took Ben's pontoon boat out on man-made Enid Lake. In the distance I saw what looked like a forked campfire stick with a burnt marshmallow on top. A closer look revealed a dead tree sticking out of the water topped by an eagle's nest. The mother and two young did not want to be bothered. We didn't.

And I had my picture taken. Nobody will believe it. Sharon Osborn tells all before the media finds out. I'm not famous, but I'm telling before you hear it. Imagine this: I was sitting in the middle of the pontoon, the go between for cigarettes and beer. When I had one in each hand, I heard a click. For the record, neither touched my lips.

I hope you had an enjoyable 4th.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

July 4th, 2008 Fireworks & Fundamentals

MSN photo

Our freedom to worship as we please, speak our mind, go where we please, become all we can be is what the United States of America is about. Democracy allows us the opportunity to be represented. I pray our United States of America stays united forever.

Over the 4th I'm going to Mississippi for a goat roast. And probably some goat rodeo, too. There's a story or two in the making.

I hope you have a safe, Happy 4th of July. God Bless.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

What did you say to make the bride cry?

I've known Jennifer since she was child. We talk often. She called when she met Darren, when they got engaged and kept me informed of their wedding plans. It was 300 miles away, but I really wanted to go.

Getting there was no big deal; I'm used to driving hundreds of miles a day. My "outfit" was the problem: dress, shoes, hose, purse, hair, lipstick, nails, tan, perfume, jewelry? Lamentations of Biblical proportions and slump-shouldered sighs left me clueless.

Krysia searched her closet and found a never-worn silk dress: pale blue/grey background with muted fuchsia and pale rust flower petals with self-fabric ruffles at the neck and diagonally on the front; fully lined with pale blue silk.Gorgeous. Up to now its life had been limited to decorating her closet suffering the snubs of the sturdy blue jeans. Nanner. Nanner. "Here, try this on."
Well, I knew it wouldn't fit. To humor her I slid it over my head and gasped. No only did it fit, it felt delicious, light weight, French. Pearls and a dab of Chanel #5, and I was set.

The groom's father, David, passed away recently leaving a collection of watches his wife graciously shared with family and friends. Just before the brides attendants entered, the groom, groomsmen and the Pastor pointed to their "David" watch to acknowledge his spirit presence. Timing. It was all about timing.

Each bridal attendant floated in tanned and coiffed wearing an electric blue gown with spaghetti straps. Two pre-school girls with flowers in their hair and in their basket shyly made their way to the altar scattering a petal here and there. The little boy carried the rings like a pro.

Everyone in their place, Henry Purcell's "Trumpet Tune" exploded from the organ. We rose and turned for "the grand entrance." The doors opened to Jennifer on her father's arm. Both were beaming; the happiest day of her life, and the proudest of her parents. Her halter top gown was an exquisite work of art beaded to below the waist of her full skirt and train. She glowed.

Pastor blessed and sealed their commitment for life. Forever. Jennifer and Darren lit the unity candle to cement their lives as man and wife, a single unit. An impenetrable gold circle formed around them.
Bride and groom greeted guests as they left the pew. I congratulated them. She didn't recognize me. It's been fifteen years. When I told her who I was she gasped, shuddered, grabbed me in a bear hug and burst into tears. Me too.

The people behind me were miffed they didn't get such a greeting. Throughout the reception people asked what I said to make the bride cry? Just my name.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

Traveling Furniture

Ours has logged more miles than we have. Occasional furniture it's called. Occasionally we need it for a project or an illness. We move tables, chairs, benches, anything we can mange, from attic to main floor, to basement, garage, back into the house, up to the attic. Portables would be a better name.

Then there are those pieces that won't go away. A 3 x 4 oak library table has been in the office, garage, basement, for sale and is currently in the basement holding my Eiffel Tower clock.

Covered wagon travelers carried their most prized possessions as far as they could. Some made it all the way to Oregon. However, the trail was littered with what didn't: furniture, dishes, linens, musical instrument, tools, and books books books to name a few. An empty wagon would have been the way to travel.

I can tell Krysia is feeling better; her furniture is on the move.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series

MAY 2008 MEMORIAL DAY

Each flag represents a fallen veteran from our community, Leonard and George included. Leonard shook his fist when he said, "Freedom is worth fighting for." He should know. He was drafted before WWII and came back when it was over: 4 years, 2 months and 27 days total.

My grandparents called Memorial Day Decoration Day, which it was until 1971 when Congress declared Memorial Day a national holiday. Decoration Day was declared May 30, 1868 to commemorate the sacrifices of Civil War Soldiers.

We decorate our graves with fresh peonies, if we have them. Cool weather can keep the buds from opening and makes the ants work harder. In nature everything has a purpose/job.

My ancestors came from Sweden and England to make a better life. Leonard's came from Moravia. They traveled by covered wagon, broke sod and built barns with pegs not nails. Their dead were buried in unmarked graves along the trails.

As I decorate and contemplate where family "rests," my late husband, Leonard, my parents, grandparents and Aunt Bobbe lived a total of 463 years. Methuselah lived more than 900 years. We are living longer than our ancestors. Do you want to live to be 100, or 150? If I could be assured I would look as good as I did at thirty and feel even better, I might. But what would we do with 40 or more years of retirement? Would we get everything done? Can we afford it?

Contemplate this: It's your 150th birthday. All your descendants come for the party, and the Fire Department, really. Don't worry about accommodations for sleeping, they won't. The problems will be parking, having enough food and toilet paper, and the neighbors. Better invite them too. And have a Happy Birthday!

I hope you have a pleasant and safe Memorial Day.

2008 Red Convertible Travel Series