Wasn't That A Dainty Dish To Set Before The Queen?

Casper is boring me.  Or to be more precise, sitting in front of a computer ten hours a day and then coming home to, as Dean likes to call it, our hotel room, bores me.  After work we take Angus for a walk, eat dinner, clean up, watch TV, go to bed, get up the next day and do it again.  Consequently when we come to Sheridan, where we are this weekend, I’m always looking for something to do.  SOMEthing to do besides watch TV in a half-empty house. That’s why a few weeks ago I decided we should pull off the paneling, get the walls textured and then paint them. I really needed something to DO that didn't involve a remote control or a computer.

We've torn off the paneling.  It's been textured and we've been doing a bit of painting.
 

I really hope soon I will be able to show you the finished project.

We’ve spent the last three weekends up here priming and painting ceilings and walls.  Gosh, I’m beginning to hate painting.  But I hate being bored more.   

Last weekend when we were up here Dean said, “I need to tell you something.”  My heart sank.  “Oh, no, he found out I threw away the dog fur the last time I brushed Angus” I thought. But no.  It was much less traumatic.  He just told me that once we’ve finished with this living-dining room redo, I need to find a project that doesn’t involve him. 

This weekend, as much as I wanted to finish the last bit of painting, I told Dean he could do whatever he wanted to all day long on Friday.  Anything he wanted.  All day.  Because I knew Saturday it was supposed to rain and THEN we could finish painting.  I thought he would spend this gift from me organizing his garage/workshop so he could frame the windows and put on the baseboards in the house so he’d be able to 

create some kind of uniquely Dean object d’art.  But he surprised me by spending about five hours watching You Tube videos to help him figure out how to put together the special fancy chainsaw sharpener he’d purchased last fall.  Too bad he discovered he needs to order a different grinder wheel to fit his baby electric chainsaw but I’m sure those cottonwood branches hanging over the house aren’t going anywhere.

Since it was a warm and gorgeous day I decided to keep myself busy by trimming the potentilla.  By time I’d finished clipping and hauling 15 branch and dead-leaf filled tarps my body hurt so much Dean had to help

 

 

me get up off the couch where I had dropped after stumbling in from the yard.  My hand might have been a bit less claw-like if he would have realized the big 2-handle hedge shears didn’t work because the screw that was loose was in the clippers, not my head, and not because I was “probably clipping at an angle instead of straight on.”  But on the bright side, after using the smaller hand-held pruning shears my fingers were curled in the exact position I would need to hold a paintbrush later, and the scabs and scratches on my forehead and arms shouldn’t leave a scar. 

Later, in the wee hours of the night as I was fumbling for the Ibuprophen, a family hike in the Tongue River Canyon sounded like a much better plan for Saturday than more painting or yard work. 

Dean managed to contain his disappointment that we wouldn’t be painting.   

Where's Myra?!

Where's Angus?!

 Pierce and Emerson asked him geology questions and even listened when he answered which was a totally new experience for him. 

 We headed home just before the rain started

and on the drive I saw three bald eagles.  Every time I saw one perched high on a tree I thought about asking Dean to stop so I could take a picture but then I'd think it would just be a waste of time since all I have is a little point and shoot camera.  I finally decided that was just stupid so when I saw a Golden in a tree I decided just because I didn’t have a fancy camera with a telephoto lens it wasn’t a good not reason to try.   

 I should have had a fancy camera with a telephoto lens.

This morning we woke up to winter. I knew it was too early to think we wouldn’t get any more snow but, like dying, even though I know it’s inevitable, it’s hard to truly believe it’s really going to happen to me.  There was no yard work today.  There was no hiking today.  Dean wishes there had been no painting today.  But I wasn’t bored.  

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Wasn't That A Dainty Dish To Set Before The Queen?

Baking Without An Oven

Have you seen this? 

I didn’t watch the Super Bowl so I missed it, and I fast forward through all the commercials on my DVR recordings so I’d never seen it at home.  But a couple of weeks ago it came on while I was on the elliptical machine.  I love, love, love, physical comedy so when bird-man slammed into the window I was SO close to bursting out laughing that I almost broke the number one rule of gym etiquette ―  “thou shalt not appear to enjoy the evil elliptical machine.”  Fortunately, in that half second before I let loose with the first snort I looked around, realized I wasn’t alone, and managed to restrain myself to a contorted grin that probably made me look like I was grimacing in pain and dying to get off the machine … which I was … and which I did.  Get off.  I didn’t die first but I did get off and I haven’t been back on it for two whole weeks. 

I wish I could say I haven’t set tennis shoe back on the elliptical because I’ve discovered a pain free, sweat free, enjoyable way to stay in shape and still eat the Girl Scout cookies people keep bringing to work.  I wish I could tell you I’d found a way to enjoy a five-ounce glass of wine at dinner without feeling guilty that it’s the equivalent of a small slice of sponge cake.  Holy Goddess of Grapes!!  Five ounces?  Get real.  I drool more than five ounces at night.  I’ve seen spit puddles on the sidewalk that were more than five ounces of slimy slobber.  Five ounces is nothing.  Nobody drinks a small slice of sponge cake.  Do they?  I’m not the only one drinking a humongous slice of sponge cake … half a sponge cake … hell … some nights even a whole sponge cake … with gooey frosting!  Am I?  

Anyway, getting back to the all-important topic of my health and physical fitness, I do not wear the crown and cloak of Queen of Guilt for nothing.  No, I may be free of my 35 minute Tuesday and Thursday elliptical routine but I have added a 60-minute Pilates class to my Monday-Wednesday routine in which I half expect to see smoke rising from my abdominal muscles and where I try not to groan (very much) out loud.  That’s immediately after my 60 minute Zumba class in which I am the only dancing board in a room filled with gyrating hips and shimmying shoulders.

The bad part about condensing my workouts from four days to two is that after my classes end I can barely shuffle out of the gym and fall into my car.  The hardest part is pulling my two quivering legs in after me, which is second only to trying to shove them out and lift them one at a time up the two steps to the porch once I get home. But the good part is, now I have Tuesdays and Thursdays free after work to do really fun stuff like dig up raspberry bushes and clean up flower beds.  Pretty soon I’ll get to mow the lawn.  And I can hardly wait until I can weed the garden! 

I’m so excited I think I’ll celebrate by munching on Doritos while I drink a sponge cake.

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Baking Without An Oven

“When birds burp, it must taste like bugs.” ~~ Watterson

Being a parent has been rewarding in a myriad of ways, not the least of which is the comfort of knowing my daughters will be hovering over me, anxious to scrub my dentures and cut my toenails when I am old and feeble.  However, after Leslie and Ryan became parents themselves, I learned the ultimate, all-time best part of being a parent is the joy of guilt-free grandchild spoiling.  “Have another cookie, Emerson.  What?!  Only one Popsicle, Myra?   Are you sure, Pierce?  Don’t you want whipped cream along with the chocolate and sprinkles on your ice cream?”   

In order to fulfill my duty as a Nada I FINALLY finished a baby quilt for Pierce.

Technically, it isn’t really a baby quilt anymore since he’s almost five years old but it’s not because I hadn't been working hard on it.

It’s just that I couldn’t start Pierce’s quilt until I’d finished Myra’s ...

which I couldn’t start until I’d finished Emerson’s. And it takes me forever to make a quilt because sewing machines hate me almost as much as I hate them, so I make my quilts completely by hand which limits the length of time I can quilt during a sitting because after a kajillion pinpricks in my fingers they start bleeding.   And even though blood comes off nicely with a little spit and rubbing I only have so much spit.  Anyway, as I’ve been pricking and bleeding and spitting and rubbing on Pierce’s quilt, I’ve been thinking about grandkids and kids and parenting.

Back when I told my parents I was pregnant with their first grandchild I remember seeing surprised faces and then big grins.  The big grins surprised me ― until I had grandchildren of my own.  The surprised look however, was easy to understand because during my first six years of marriage I had repeatedly stated I was “never going to have children.”  Turns out my biological clock and the baby lust gene had conspired together to make a liar out of me.  Dean was so busy trying to get through school I don’t think he realized completely that whether or not he wanted to be a father had no bearing on the matter at hand.

At least he had control over one thing ― the sex of this new human being I felt compelled to create. Not that I didn't wish I could also control the gender of this future child.  I was (and still am) a control freak but that wasn't the only reason.  It was just that I didn’t know a lot about little boys and they kind of scared me, so I wanted my babies to be girls.  Thanks to the wonder of magic ― the slow rotation of my wedding ring suspended from a string above my belly (Leslie) and a colorless concoction of urine and draino (Abby) ― I knew early on that I would be having girls.

I already knew how I wanted to raise my girls because previous to being infected with baby lust I’d watched women burning their bras on the news and listened to Helen Reddy roar.  I’d been told that women were not only equal to men; they had the right to control their own bodies.  And the pill was there to help.  I wasn’t one of those bra-burning feminists (I couldn’t burn what I didn’t own) but I was determined my daughters would believe they were equal to their male counterparts.   I wanted them to open themselves to love and find someone to share their lives with, but I also wanted them to have the skills to stand on their own if they needed or chose to.  I wanted to raise happy, intelligent, secure and open-minded young women who, when the time came, would be confident enough to dive head first out of the nest, spread their wings, fly off and build their own nests.   And dang it, long before I was ready, faces beaming, they did just that.  But even though my nest was empty except for a diminished bank account, bathroom drains clogged with long hair, and walls shiny from hairspray, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

And then … there were grandchildren.

Leslie and Ryan were more considerate than I had been and didn’t make us wait six years for our first, then second grandchild.   Abby and Jorge were just as considerate.  Their nest just happens to be filled with an iguana hunting cat and dog.  And then one day Leslie called to say Emerson and Myra were going to have a brother.   I still didn’t know anything about little boys so I was a little anxious.  I knew how to play with little girls and dogs and cats but my only experience with little boys was the brother I did my best to avoid.  When I was writing my angst-ridden thoughts in a diary, he was scribbling on the wall.  While my pale, white-knuckled father rode along as I was learning to drive, my brother was “burning” rubber on his bike.  The only time I remember playing with him was the time I yelled, “Hey, Mikey!  Come over and I’ll lie on my back, you sit on my feet and I’ll shoot you into the air like a rocket.”  That was actually quite a bit of fun  ―  until he broke his arm.

I was worried I wouldn’t know how to play with this new grandson.  It was one thing to break my brother’s arm but it would be quite another if I had to tell Leslie I had snapped her son’s arm in two.  Ryan's mom told me all I needed to know was how to push a toy car back and forth and say “vroom! vroom!”  It turned out she was right.  I even added “beep! beep!”  Now, after almost five years of playing with Pierce I can say with complete confidence that playing with little boys is absolutely, no doubt about it, positively, unequivocally  ―  completely different than playing with girls.  Every stick is a sword or a gun, every towel is a superhero cape, every rock is a projectile, every stair/table/couch/chair is a launching pad.  Every tree/leg/banister/fence/wall/doorway must be scaled.  And absolutely everything you do requires its own unique sound effect.  Everything.  My sound effects repertoire now includes planes taking off and landing, monsters roaring, dinosaurs doing whatever dinosaurs do, pirates arrrrrging, guns shooting, super heroes flying, trucks careening around corners, trains choo-chooing and oh, gosh, the list is endless.  If I don’t know how to make a sound Pierce shows me.  We’re doing okay.

Years from now, when it's still too soon for Leslie and Ryan, but exactly the right time for Emerson and Myra and Pierce, they will launch themselves into the world and all the adventures it has to offer. They will soar and dip and dive with joy and excitement just like the Wren, and the Jay and the Kestrel.  Leslie and Ryan will watch with hearts simultaneously bursting with pride and aching with loss, just like we did.  And maybe some day they will also have big grins on their faces, just like we did.  I only hope all of their birdies choose to build their nests a little lot closer than Ecuador. 

There are 2 lasting bequests we can give our children; one is roots.  The other is wings. ~ Hodding Carter, Jr.

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“When birds burp, it must taste like bugs.” ~~ Watterson

Whooooo .... Meow .... Whoooooo .... Meo ..... Mmmmmmmmmm

Sophie could have been dinner the other night. There is a pair of hooters who like to sit in our neighbor’s tree – no, I don’t mean a couple of noses – and we hear “whooo, whoooo” just as it’s turning from dusk to dark. I left the patio door open when I went onto the deck to take a picture and about two minutes after I’d come back inside I looked over at the door and saw Sophie pacing back and forth. I thought I’d done a better job of sneaking out to take the picture this time because the owl just sat there looking in my direction instead of flying off which is what usually happens. But after seeing panicky kitty pacing I realized he was probably just distracted by the possibility of “Kitty

À la carte".

Our new deck rails have become the favorite place for doves, pigeons, sparrows and all kinds of birds to sit and sun themselves and leave small presents after they’ve gorged themselves from one of the birdfeeders in the yard behind us.

This morning we had a woodpecker on the deck. He was pretty but every time I see a woodpecker my first instinct is to run outside, spread my body in front of the house, look him in the eye and dare him to come near the wood siding with his beak. “Just try it Woody. I don’t care if you are one of the babies that grew up in the space between the siding and the wall inside our living room.”








I was thinking about another bird this afternoon when I was working on Pierce’s “baby” quilt and wondering how Leslie and Ryan could have known how much he would be like his middle name, Kestrel, when they named him. He’s small but fierce and when he circles Emerson and Myra before he dives in, grabs a toy and then swoops out, he is just like that small falcon that “hovers over its prey and then drops down on it”.

I still have hours and hours of quilting ahead of me but the piecing is finally finished. Here’s how I went about making it.

First I had to come up with a plan ...

... and then, since (as is apparent from my “plan”) I can't draw a bird, I searched on-line to find a line-drawing of a Kestrel ...

... which I traced it onto paper.

I had to find photos of kestrels so I could search for the perfect fabric ...




 









... and then it was just a matter of cutting the pieces, appliquéing them on ...











... adding the borders and ta da!

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Whooooo .... Meow .... Whoooooo .... Meo ..... Mmmmmmmmmm