Sunday, September 25, 2011

Running From Thor

I have a secret I'm ashamed to share.  And since I'm so ashamed I am illogically sharing it with the world.  I have been wishing for a nasty weather day.  Yes, one of those days that are dreary and cold(ish) and drizzly and cloudy and it's impossible for you to do anything other than stay inside quilting and watching Uncle Buck or Turner and Hooch or Drum Line or The Quiet Man ... or all of them.  A day when the weather is so bad you are forced to stay inside and bake bread or cookies or muffins ... or all of them.   A bleak day when you can eat your freshly baked muffin in front of the TV guilt-free.  There.  I've said it.  I need a break from the progression of nearly perfect days we've been having.

It's not that I want it to snow.  I'm not ready for blizzards and wind and freezing temperatures.  I don't like that it's dark when I wake up in the morning and is dark before 8 p.m.  I love autumn and its warm days and cool nights.  I love sunshine.  But enough is enough.  The pressure to be outside and take advantage of the fine weather is beginning to overwhelm me.  And the guilt if I am not hiking or canoeing or working in the yard or taking walks or sitting on the deck or just plain enjoying this awesome weather is weighing me down.

It's not that I haven't been taking advantage of this incredible fall weather.  Last weekend I decided to do my part in the yard upkeep department.  I don't like yard work.  Oh, sure, I get excited when the first tulip leaves pop up through the snow.  And I feel as bad as everybody else when the daffodils are hanging their heads under six inches of snow.  I even kind of enjoy mowing the lawn the first couple of times during the spring.  But on the whole I would be perfectly happy and content never mowing a lawn, planting a garden, or weeding a flower bed again.  Isn't that why artificial turf and  men were invented?

However, since I do have a propensity for guilt, as I said, I did my part last weekend.  I did some weeding in the flower beds and as I finished one area, I looked over at the raspberry bushes.  About a month ago the bushes liked like this.  I was whining about them migrating into and taking over the grass in the backyard.


Anybody out there want to share their raspberry disease expertise?






Within the last month they developed some kind of disease and began to die.  So many died that I couldn't stand looking at all the dead leaves.  My clutter gene took over and I started hacking the dead canes out.  It was like eating potato chips.  Once I cut out the first dead cane, I couldn't stop until all the dead wood was gone. 












Throwing any type of organic material away is a federal offense in this house so hours later, after the yard was strewn  with dead raspberry canes flecked with blood from my scratched up arms, I started hauling them to the compost pile.  Unfortunately, since they were diseased Dean said I couldn't put them in his compost.  That meant I had to first drag them back out of the compost, and then cut up a bajillion canes of raspberries into a trajillion six or eight-inch lengths so I could lay them carefully into flimsy white garbage bags and toss them into the garbage.  I wish I had a picture to show you but my fingers were bent into a permanent garden clipper position by the time I was finished and I couldn't push the camera button.

The good news is, if they're going to insist on dying, our migrating raspberry bush issue may be over.  The bad news is, four hours of weeding and raspberry chopping did not relieve my please, just one nasty day guilt.

Because our summers are so short it's a frantic marathon to do all those awesome summer things before the blizzards and icy winds roll in.  But I'm beginning to wear out. Enough is enough.  I just need a break.  Just one day to hunker down with rain pelting on the windows.  But no.  Those perfect days just just keep coming. And every moment I'm not outside adds to my guilt. 





My arms weren't red from the welts I get when I touch the pine bush when I mow; and they weren't speckled in bits of red blood from an errant raspberry cane, but I was wearing red yesterday, and we were outside, and we did our best to make the most of a picture perfect fall day.


Final Score 38-14 ... Go Huskers!

Once again today is another in the never-ending string of this is why we live in Wyoming days.  A day I should be outside.  Not in here.  At a computer.  Typing.  The forecast shows no break in the weather.  Days and days of continuing warm days, cool nights and bright sunshine.  The increasing shame weighing on me because I should be outside on this magnificent fall day has nearly incapacitated me. Before I am completely exhausted by these beautiful days, and immobilized by my guilt, I must go stand on the deck, in the sun.



I will watch Dean work in the garden until I recoup my strength.  Or until I am struck down by lightening for even harboring the thought of a less than perfect day.  Wait a minute, lightening means rain ...



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Saturday, September 10, 2011

Marvin, Where Are The Raisins?

Dean and I got around to celebrating our 39th wedding anniversary over the Labor Day weekend.  Waaaaaay back when we got married, telephones were rented and when you talked, there was no pacing from room to room, or relaxing on the deck while you visited with friends.  If you took one step too far you either pulled the phone off the table or the receiver flew out of your hand, ricocheting back and leaving another dent in the wall.  If you wanted a phone different than the standard black with rotary dial, the rental cost was higher.  And if you wanted the sleek and sexy Princess Phone with the amazing lighted push button dial – well, that cost even more.  Television dials did not go higher than 10.  And if you were lucky enough to own a car, since the car engineers were never able to figure out a way to design a car dashboard that would hold a reel to reel, your only choice was a radio.  And you paid extra for it.  

The “gym” wasn’t a place; it was something we were sent to during our school day.  A onesie wasn't baby-wear, it was a one-piece, snap-fronted bloomer girls had to wear when they participated in “gym”.  Not that Dean and I didn’t get plenty of other exercise.  We did knee bends whenever we walked over to the TV to change the channel (when we actually had a TV).  We built up our biceps lifting that heavy black phone receiver and we peddled bicycles since we didn't always have a car. 

Boy, writing that wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done.  I knew I was old but now I feel old.  Dang it.  Maybe that face in the mirror staring back at me every morning really is me.




Anyway, even though it’s been a busy summer and we were worn out from doing, heck, I don’t
know … stuff … we managed to fit in an anniversary weekend at this beautiful Bed & Breakfast.











We'd forgotten what it was like to be able to sleep in later than 5:45 a.m.

On a Saturday.

With no dog toenails clicking anxiously back and forth from dog bed to door to human – stare –  to door to human – stare – to dog bed to door to human – stare.  




Or to sleep in later than 5:45 a.m. on a Saturday without cat love.  Miss Sophie knows the alarm goes off at precisely 5:45 a.m. and so at precisely 5:43 a.m. she begins pawing my face and walking on my head.  She's determined that my hand will be on her head ready to begin petting her when the alarm begins beeping.  Even though I've explained to her the difference between a work morning and a weekend morning she just doesn't care.  Why should she?  She sleeps at least 15 hours every day.  She gets her morning petting, I get up, get dressed, look around and she's curled up sleeping. 




We'd forgotten how it feels to sleep until we wake up on our own; to get up when we want to.  And then have a leisurely breakfast after we had slept in until we wanted to wake up.  I repeat.  On a Saturday

It ~ Was ~ Heaven.





One evening we ate dinner at an unassuming little restaurant recommended by the B&B folks and they did not steer us wrong.  It was cozy and quiet and the food was amazing. 

At the Devil's Backbone



To work off the food and the wine and the incredible dessert, we did a little hiking.   
Little did we know what awaited us at home.

We were relaxed and happy and refreshed and no longer sleep-deprived.  And we were blissfully unaware that while we were gone there was apparently a party taking place at our house.  And it must have been quite the party because there was damage.  Things were stolen.  But the culprits were sneaky and silent because when we got home our neighbors said not a word to us about it.  Dean was the first to discover it.  It was his things that were stolen.  And his heart was broken.  It’s still a little broken.  And I felt so bad for him.  It kind of spoiled the tranquility and serenity of the weekend.

















When we left we had these succulent champagne grapes growing on our vine.



























When we came home we had stems.













We aren’t positive who did it but whoever it was, they were tall.  They ate a chunk right out of the grapevine. 










They ripped off the netting and broke the trellis and trampled the ground all around the front of the vine.



























We don't have proof, but we're pretty sure it was either Harvey or Bambi.

Don’t feel too bad for us, though.  Well, don’t feel too bad for me.  Because it just reinforced something I’d been thoughtfully recommending to Dean. The destruction and theft convinced him my plan really was a good one.  It proved to him I was right.  Discovering our missing property and the destruction that had been wreaked while we were gone was confirmation that he should have been acting upon my gentle suggestion.  He finally agreed.  We need to train that grapevine to go up and over the deck and give us some shade.





I helped him out by unraveling the wire-like fingers of the vine ...









pulling it up from between the deck planks ...











and weaving it temporarily through the deck rails.  

Now all he has to do is construct some kind of pole and wire system to hold the vine up above the railings and across the deck to the roof.  And then unravel the temporary vine weaving and attach it to the pole/wire system he develops and constructs.



I don't know why he rolls his eyes when I describe this small project.  He should be happy to know that soon he'll not only have clusters of grapes hanging out of reach of Harvey and Bambi, he'll be able to reach up, pluck a grape and eat it without even getting out of his deck chair.
 
Oh ... wait a minute ... you thought there had been a party of humans

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There Are Many Ways To Keep Your Swords Safe

The girls seemed tired of their toys so we went in search of something cheap but fun to play with.  I think we hit the jackpot.  $3.38 and we didn't even have to fly to Ecuador to get them. 



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