Author: Rene

Is it real? I don’t know, but I have it. I celebrate walking out of a public restroom and knowing which way to turn to get back to civilization, because it almost never happens. I turn the opposite direction. Without the mountains, the route I’m on is all a gamble. And yet, I am adamant that I KNOW which way we should go. (There should be an award for spouses who have to live with this disability.)

To further intensify the matter, I purchased a large metallic directional compass for the wall of the deck. Of course, the way I thought it should be hung and the way my husband thought it should be displayed were different. Thus, we sought the counsel of the dinner attendees.

Three out of five family members agreed with me! (Even though that third vote was for an entirely different thought process.) Amazing how one piece of metal could spawn a heated argument and three different opinions, all of which made sense!

We’re hanging it my way.

We don’t have that many flies in the area, however, our home managed to acquire two yesterday. It was quite simple to do. We left the door open during the cooler evening hours, thus giving them unlimited access to our crumbs.

One succumbed to the swatter early in the day, but the other little guy outmaneuvered me until 3:20 in the afternoon. He kept pestering me and finally met his doom in a most satisfying way. I opened the door housing the trash can. He flew to the edge, I swatted him, he fell in.

I could have waited for him to fly to “the dying light” in the music room, but I already had a little cemetery that needed vacuuming in there, which I also managed to remedy during the course of the afternoon.

Monday moments.

The news feed this morning said something like this: “Most of us studied ancient history in school, learning about the Greeks, Romans and Egyptians.” And therein lies the problem.

“Most of us” no longer exists. History is not required in colleges, nor encouraged as a major or minor in studies, only taught one year in high schools. Even the good ‘ole English major is dying. My college has dropped it. Who needs that with technology to correct, inform, properly present ideas?

We need only look to the news to see that we do not understand or know history, and listen to the newscasters to recognize that grammar and pronunciation are random “suggestions.” Oh, I understand dialect and the choice of correct pronunciation, but the spoken word loses its power when grammar stands to be corrected. On the positive side, mistakes in speaking can also lead to endearing traits or cute nicknames – in childhood.

We all make errors, and if I’m fortunate, I discover mine before I open my mouth or print them. I encourage my children to point them out. (Who or whom?) I make them, Lord knows! However, I am grateful for the “sound and rounded” education I received. (I’ve also stopped correcting other’s grammar, unless it’s the newscasters who can’t hear me.)

My downfall? Punctuation! I love the exclamation point, question mark and dash. I use them liberally and in the strictest sense, incorrectly. They are the brush strokes of writing and give the flair to my sentences, and they are often not properly in use. So there! My morning “rankling.”

Sigh. I’m getting old!

The most recent Zillow ad had me running to the television. The song they had chosen for advertising effect was “Cattle Call” by Eddy Arnold. I have this recording on a 45 record!

I’m pretty sure my sister and I obtained a slew of 45 records from a Dad-attended-auction. While other kids were listening to the Beatles or Stones, I was listening to old recordings from someone else’s youth. “Let’s Have a Tiddley at the Milk Bar,” “Volare,” “I’m Getting Nuttin’ for Christmas,” by the ever-popular Ricky Zahnd and the Blue Jeaners, and many more.

I still have an old phonograph and those little plastic inserts for playing 45 rpms. And I still have those old records. And I still know all the words. And that probably explains a lot.

Years ago I was a bank teller. I only thwarted one bait-and-switch scam and had to testify in one deposition against the head teller. Apparently he was skimming funds. For a short stint in the banking industry I certainly had my share of excitement. Thus, I always enter a bank alertly, in case my next mission is to thwart a robbery. You never know?

Yesterday I walked into the bank and someone said, “hello.” I looked everywhere for the voice greeting me. Finally I settled on an officer at a desk, cheerily smiling at me. Her clothing blended with the desk and she sat low behind the computer monitor, so I didn’t clearly distinguish her from anyone else near me. So much for being alert.

After discovering the source of the voice, I combobulated myself and prepared for explanations and paperwork and whatever else the teller would query me on. No such thing. My itty bitty business for the HOA took less than five minutes. The courteous teller didn’t bat an eye when I handed her my credit card rather than driver’s license. (I think I was just so excited I remembered it!) The entire transaction was so pleasant. She was just delightful and sent me on my way with a pep in my step.

I’m going to model that behavior today, especially with that extra cup of mud.

When you go out to lunch with friends to a nice restaurant, and you’re all dolled up-ish, it’s probably a good idea to glance in your satchel before you head out the door.

Instead of treating my friend to a birthday lunch, I ended up being treated with her by the other attendees. I forgot my credit card and driver’s license at home! I probably should have been slightly more embarrassed than I was, but this has happened before on a few occasions.

This instance is yet another casualty of the pandemic. Since we weren’t going anywhere but the grocery and things were locked down, I began carrying just my keys and an RFID envelope protecting my license and credit card. No need for a purse when my “Adventure Vest” or 13-pocket overalls worked well. As evidenced, I often forget to put those essential items back in my bag before I headed out again. I’m just lucky I haven’t laundered them yet.

My only problem is that now I won’t be able to use this ruse again with the other diners. Who knows? They may “forget” to invite me next time anyway?

The secret to my clean house? My sparkling dishwasher and coffee machine, freshly washed bedding, clean refrigerator, lint-free floors? “Little House on the Prairie.”

Two friends stopped by on Saturday to witness my trick. Whenever I have some tasks to do which are not my favorites, I just put an episode on and remind myself that the appliances are doing the work, I’m just getting things rolling. I wonder what my prairie home of the 1800’s would have looked like?

Sometimes I intentionally make the job harder, just to keep myself in shape. Minor example – I don’t use an electric can opener. I try to keep my hands limber for piano duties! Of course, the same is true for opening a bottle of wine. I use the old-fashioned method and usually dismember the cork.

Just having that show running in the background is encouragement enough to accomplish household tasks. Thank you, Laura Ingalls Wilder. Time to hitch the team and head to town for some supplies!

Don’t ask me why, but the moon tonight spoke of childhood adventures. I looked out my windows and was transported to my cousin’s farm.

I was a little kid! I was scared out of my wits! We played “kick the can” with the older cousins on a farm, lit by that one sodium light, and our goal was to never be found. I was good at being “unseen.”. I was afraid of the whole escapade, but I loved my cousins and knew my fear was a safe one. I was never caught…the moon and the whole thrill of the challenge kept me from ever being found. I was conniving at a young age!

Anyway, that’s what a moon can say. I have many moon memories, but tonight spoke of eras.

Ahoy, Mateys!

After I used those cleaning products I rediscovered under the sink, I enjoyed a clean kitchen for one meal. Of course, it only beckoned to be used again.

Yesterday I baked and made homemade chicken noodle soup, only spilling a little on my newly mopped floor. As I was simmering my broth and deboning the chicken, I wondered if my grandmother ever purposely left a bone in the soup – just to remind people of the work she was doing? This thought came upon the heels of baking cookies and me wondering if I left an eggshell in the dough.

You will always know my cookies and pies are homemade, because they aren’t that pretty. I’m a little hasty in crosshatching a pie – as noted by my daughter’s perfectly geometrically balanced lattice pies. My cookies are blobs, not exquisitely rolled and exactly measured. My soup – haphazardly diced ingredients.

My culinary presentations say enough about the work I did. She tried!

No need to purposely leave a chicken bone in the soup.