Two Turkeys With One Stone

For those of you who are on my Christmas card/letter list:  you've already gotten this letter so you can click delete ......... UNLESS you want to see the photos I've added.  For those of you who are not on my Christmas card/letter list:  This year's Christmas letter was so much like a blog post I figured if I'd gone to all the work to write it, I might as well post it.

December, 2016

Autumn lasted so long this year I was beginning to wonder if we’d be eating Christmas dinner out on the deck but as it turned out, one day I was digging in the garden, bits of compost sticking to my sweaty skin, and two days later 12 inches of snow fell.  I fretted because we still had half a row of potatoes to dig up but Dean was fretting about his 30 or so wild turkey “children” because they weren’t eating.  Earlier in the day, as he had walked around the yard shaking his can of birdseed, they’d followed him like he was the Pied Piper of Turkeyland and watched as he spread the seed over an area he had lovingly cleared of snow so they wouldn’t have to punch their ugly little beady-eyed heads through the snow to find it.  But instead of eating the seed they just hopped around it, bobbing their heads up and down, squawking.  I suggested that maybe they just weren’t hungry but he assured me that they had to be hungry.  He hadn’t fed them the day before when it was snowing so they’re probably starving!! I thought they were just stupid.  After all, once they fly over the eight-foot high fence into our garden there’s almost always one bird too stupid to remember how to fly out.  When we see Mr. or Ms. Dim-Wit stuck in the garden, we open the gate and shoo it toward the opening, only to watch the pea-brain run right past that wide-open gate, poke its head through the fence, discover its body isn’t following, run further, shove its head through the fence, and on and on, until finally! the dingbat flies over the fence to freedom … or the next fenced in garden.    

Fortunately winter hadn’t arrived yet when we went to DC to visit Abby or I might have had to find a turkey-sitter who would send Dean daily updates of his gobblers.  She was there working on a three month temporary detail as Acting Deputy Chief of Staff for APHIS (Animal Plant Health and Inspection Service) and we thought, what a great opportunity for Abby to share her small one-bedroom apartment AND every minute of her free time with us for ten whole days!  While she was hard at work Dean and I went to museum after museum after museum and we only got yelled at by a museum guard one time each.  I was just glad there were only a few other tourists around each time it happened so it was only super embarrassing – not super duper embarrassing.  When we weren’t in a museum we were in an art gallery, and even though art galleries aren’t my thing and I didn’t “get” a lot of what I saw, or understand why some exhibits were even considered art, I tried really hard to appreciate it, and most especially tried not to yawn when Dean was looking my way. 

When we walked into this gallery the room was filled with objects made of antelope, deer and elk bone and my first reaction was, “seriously?”  I came all the way to DC just to see more animal stuff?  But it was all really pretty cool. 

Really?  This is art?  Do YOU “get” it?

We also learned how to ride the metro to where we really intended to go, and even got to experience the fear, racing heart and barely contained panic when, on one trip, the train door opened and a metro policeman bellowed “evacuate the station!  Evacuate the station!” 

 

Addendum to original letter ~~~~  We did actually do more than just go to museums and art galleries.  The first weekend we rented a tiny (and from the groans we heard in the back seat apparently shockless) car which we drove to Chincoteague Island so Abby could get her beach fix ....

.....and Assateague Island to see the wild horses.

The next weekend on Saturday we metro'd and uber'd to Mount Vernon and a street art festival and then on Sunday rented another tiny little rattle-trap car (which was upgraded to a Mercedes!) and we drove to Great Falls on the Potomac River....

..... and finished the day by pulling up in style to a winery.

And now ... back to my original Christmas letter.










Jorge was only able to visit Abby once while she was in DC because he’s been busy finishing up the final statistics, lab work, analysis, writing and everything else he needs to do in order to complete his PhD in the fall of 2017.  Who knows where they’ll live once he finishes and finds a job (if it’s DC we still have our metro cards!) but wherever it is, we’ll be brightening their lives with our visits.      

Leslie and Ryan will be going to DC themselves for a week in April because a few weeks ago Ryan was chosen as the Wyoming State Teacher of the Year!  They’ll be participating in all kinds of activities, one of which will be a black-tie dinner at the White House, but what they’re really excited about is that all five of them will get to go to Space Camp!  As exciting as that is, I think Leslie was even more ecstatic when, after a year and a half of taking classes, studying and writing papers at the same time she was teaching full time, she finished her Masters in Special Education. 

That means that I am now the only non-nerd in the family.   If I was a nerd, I would develop a spreadsheet of the composition, size, shape, texture and weight of every object Baxter has thrown up.  Or I would analyze the dog food that Angus had been eating to determine why it gave him seizures.  Or I would calculate degree days to determine the average date of arrival of Box Elder bugs so I’d be armed and ready for the annual massacre.  Or I’d write a program to model the average placement, circumference and sliminess of the turkey poop left in our yard so I’d know where to step.  But instead I think I’ll just accept my non-nerd status and go bake some Christmas cookies.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!!!

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Two Turkeys With One Stone

You and Me Gomer

I always thought I knew myself pretty well.  Better than anybody.  After all, I live in my body.  I hear all the thoughts in my head.  I know exactly how I feel every moment of every day.   I know if I am pretending or if I am being honest.  I almost always know what words are going to trickle, fall, gush, or burst out of my mouth and sometimes I even filter them.  I know I am boringly predictable.  I am a creature of habit and I don’t adjust to any kind of change easily or quickly.  I know I believe less is more and clutter, disorder and prolonged noise make my fingers twitch with the desire to fill a dumpster and my brain desperate for a cool, dark, quiet cave. 

Dean’s pretty proud of the fact that he thinks he knows me even better than I know myself.  He thinks he can predict what I’m going to do and how I feel about just about everything.  Although  honestly, I don’t think that’s really anything to brag about since I’m as predictable as Baxter.  About 4:30 every afternoon he begins drooling and looking toward his dog bowl and I start working my way closer and closer to the box of wine on the counter.  

Anyway, the guy’s been married to me for almost … um, wait a second, just need to do some subtracting … 43 … no …  44 … yeah, 44 … 44 years now, so he should know a lot about me.  His favorite confirmation of his prowess is that he can guess what I’m going to order in a restaurant 95% of the time.  The only reason he doesn’t guess correctly the other 5% is because sometimes I like to order something he’d never ever think I would order – just so I can see his reaction.   On those times I don't really even want to eat what I order.  I really want to order what I know he thinks I’m going to order, but sometimes I just don’t want to be that boring, predictable me anymore.  Sometimes I just want to mentally raise my fist and shout “YES!  You AREN’T right about me all the time!  Surprise! ”

Even though, if I try hard, I can surprise Dean, I very rarely surprise myself.  However, unexpectedly, I have recently done just that.  I have been enjoying gardening!  I never, in my wildest dreams, expected I would become a tiller of soil; a planter of seeds; a grower of vegetables – a gardener.  Oh, I would plant a few flower seeds and shove some annuals in a pot every spring but Dean has always been the gardener. He would dig up the soil and choose the seeds and buy the plants.  But it wouldn't take long until he would feel overwhelmed and he would look at me, sad and exhausted, and convince (and by that I mean bribe) me to help. The problem was, I was the one who ended up duck walking along the raised beds, reaching over and planting one miniscule seed at a time … over and over and over … while Dean always managed to keep busy with other gardening chores which always allowed him to stand upright.   Later, when the weeds had overtaken the garden, he'd somehow convince me to help pull weeds.  That meant I had to crouch next to the garden bed or kneel on the sharp, scratchy bits of wood chunks he’d thrown down to make a garden path, stretch my body across the bed, grab a weed and pull, because God forbid I step onto the soil and risk damaging his tender plants.  I didn’t have fun.  I did not like gardening.

But something happened this spring.  Maybe it's because I have more time now that I’m retired.  Or maybe it's because while Dean spent the last five and a half months turning the garage into his longed-for, dreamed-of, years-in-the-planning workshop, I spent the last couple of those cheerless winter months yearning for spring and warm weather and sunshine and dreaming of what I could do after I was finally able to break myself out of my gloomy winter cocoon.  Or maybe it was because I realized if I was in charge of planting, I could make beautifully straight rows instead of just a mass of seeds sprouting.  I could have a tidy, organized garden.  If I was in charge of planting I could make sure the garden section of beets was just beets, not beets and an errant columbine and surprise pumpkin and volunteer cucumber.  Or maybe I got excited when I realized I could keep a gardening journal with notes of what I’ve planted.  And I could draw diagrams of where I’ve planted things.  That has to work way better than what I did last fall when I brought some plants home from Abby's garden, stuck them in the dirt here and there thinking I would move them to where I really wanted them this spring and now I can't remember what I brought or where I put them. 

Winter teased me with random days of summer temperatures and as soon as we'd get a couple of those warm days I was ready to plant.  Dean would have to tell me more than once that just because it’s 75 with bright sunshine one day didn't mean it wouldn't be 30 with snow the next.  We live in Wyoming after all.  But finally, May 9 (I know this because I checked my gardening journal!) I planted potatoes. 

Actually I planted some of those potatoes three times.   A couple of days after I’d planted, I was admiring my beautiful, almost straight rows of potatoes, when I noticed a couple of the ridiculously long sprouts were visible, as well as a loose potato.  I told Dean I thought those turkeys he’d been feeding all winter long, right where he knew the garden was going to be, had come looking for food and scratched up my potato starts. 

Making their morning trek across the creek and up the hill ...

... to their breakfast bar.

He told me he didn’t see any turkey tracks and just shrugged when I asked what else would cause a potato to just pop out of the ground.  I reburied the sprouts and the potato and the next day two or three more potatoes had somehow magically just popped up out of the ground and landed hither and yon.  And more sprouts were inexplicably uncovered.  I KNEW it was those stupid turkeys but Dean didn’t seem to think his beloved birds would be so inconsiderate as to destroy my potato bed.   I reburied the freed potatoes and spouts – again.  A day or two later there were even more sprouts lying on top of the dirt and four or five potatoes scattered among the rows.  That was it!  I knew it was those dang turkeys because I could see definite areas where they’d scratched.  So I reburied all the potatoes and sprouts, cursed the birds as I covered my rows with as much woven wire as I could find (I’m still waiting for Dean to say, aren’t you glad I didn’t get rid of that?) and I jammed in tomato cages to cover the areas where I didn’t have enough wire.  So far my potatoes have been safe but if I see one more loose potato ...  I’m going for Dean’s BB gun.  

Considering the fact that I pretty much always prefer rice over potatoes I'm more than a little surprised to think that I would even consider shooting at a turkey just to protect a bunch of spuds.   Maybe I should note that in my gardening journal.

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You and Me Gomer

First Is Better Than Last But Last Is Better Than Nothing

Have you wondered why most people run the Turkey Trot?  I'll tell you why.  It's the gloating.  Don’t act surprised.  You know people don’t drag themselves to the Turkey Trot because they want to wheeze, gasp for air and become too tired to even wipe the snot from their nose because they think it’s good for them.  Or because it will give them an excuse to eat more.  Heck no.  They do it because they want to be able to gloat that THEY did it and YOU did not. 

Dean and Angus and I ran our first ever Turkey Trot Thanksgiving morning.  And by that I mean we ran until we got to any snow-covered pavement where we would slow down to a brisk walk.  Don’t let this photo fool you. It was a balmy 50 or so degrees so there were lots and lots many a few one or two places where the snow had melted off the pavement.  Anyway, walking on the snow parts was a safety issue.  I’d already slipped on the ice at home and introduced my right hip to the sidewalk so I was “running” injured.  Otherwise I’m sure we could have kept up our swift pace and finished the 2.8 miles right alongside those three sweaty guys who lapped us twice.  And just so we’re clear, I ran it because I knew it would be good for me.  I would never dream of gloating. 

Friday night the mild temperatures continued as we participated in another first for us – the Sheridan Christmas Stroll – where all the townsfolk who don’t have the fortitude or get-up-and-go to run the Turkey Trot stroll up and down Main Street and support the local businesses by eating cookies ... 

 drinking hot chocolate .....

riding the trolley ...

 and the train ...

visiting with Santa and shopping  – all to the accompaniment of Christmas music.

  Our evening ended with a burst of color in the sky ...

and a stroll back to the car ...

where somebody started a snowball fight which ended when an errant snowball found Myra’s face and she saw her own burst of color.

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First Is Better Than Last But Last Is Better Than Nothing

Hey! Put Down That Fork!

This is the time of year we are all expected to think about what makes us thankful.   Not that we shouldn’t be thankful every day of our lives, but this week, because of THANKSgiving, the Hallmark Channel is being very insistent that we spend more time consciously coming up with heart-warming reasons why we are even more thankful this week than we were last week or will be next week.  

In some families it’s a tradition that as everyone is seated at the table, before anybody picks up a fork, they must state at least one thing they are thankful for.  Things like, “I’m thankful I wore my fat pants today”, or “I’m thankful Mom doesn’t make the gravy anymore”, or “I’m really thankful I’m not a turkey.”  This year Dean and I are spending Thanksgiving with Ryan, Leslie and the kids at Ryan’s parents’ house.  I don’t know if they follow that tradition, but if they do, I will be ready.

I am thankful that I can provide so much fun for Dean.  I’m happy my genetic defects can bring a smile to his face.  Next to watching my reaction when he shows me his latest garage sale purchase, I think his favorite form of entertainment is hanging back and watching as I turn left, or turn right, or go straight, after I’ve walked through a doorway.  Well, that’s not exactly what he likes.  What he really enjoys, the part that brightens his day, is when I turn back to look for him.  Because at that moment, with a big smile on his face, he says, “are you sure you want to go that way?  Because the office, store, car, elevator, bathroom, restaurant, water fountain, theatre (get the drift?) … is that way.”  And then he gets an even bigger smile on his face.  And sometimes … he almost laughs!

I get lost a lot.  Not all of the time, and not everywhere, but some of the time and in unfamiliar places.  Okay, I get lost most of the time, pretty much everywhere.   And Dean knows that.  Except he forgot about my propensity to get lost the time we were leaving a pub in Edinburgh.   While we were having lunch in that quaint local pub he knocked over my filled-to-the-brim pint of cider.  It ran across the table, onto my lap, and down to the floor where it puddled in my purse and around my feet just as my first forkful of haggis, neeps and mash had almost reached my lips.  It was an accident, of course.  He couldn’t get the little plastic packet of ketchup to open and my glass of cider got in the way as he was tearing at it.  The liquid missed my lunch, mostly, so I was still able to eat, but I ate with a soaking wet right leg, while sitting in a small lake of cider.  It was a very quiet lunch.  

When we left the pub and I walked out the door and turned left, Dean didn’t wait, watch and grin, but immediately turned me to the right and toward our “home-away-from-home” so I could change clothes.   Except for the squishing sound of my wet boot and the grinding of my teeth it was a very quiet walk.   It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later that he told me he’d made me turn the other way and go back and change clothes because he thought I was “doing that martyr thing you do” and I was going to continue sightseeing soaking wet.  “Are you kidding?!  I thought I WAS heading toward the house to change clothes.  Do you think I WANTED to go sightseeing smelling like a barrel of fermented apples?”   I’m thankful he didn’t let me wander off in the wrong direction that afternoon, but probably not as thankful as he should be.

I’m thankful for my Kindle too.  A couple of weeks ago I “checked out” my first library book to my Kindle.  It was quick and easy.  The hardest part was remembering where I had put my library card because I had to use my actual library card number as my login.  I thought it was silly I couldn’t create a login/password so I wouldn’t always have to be digging for my card, but I suppose using the card number is better than trying to remember what special login/password combination I’d made up but then couldn’t remember and couldn’t get e-mailed to me because I’d changed my Internet Service Provider since then so I couldn’t open my old e-mail to get the login/password I’d made up ...  oh, wait ... that was my Skype account.

The next hardest part was calling the library to renew my library card because it had expired since I hadn’t used it for two years because I have a Kindle and 52 as-yet-unread free library-book-sale-books and I don’t go to the library anymore because I don’t need to and because, well, you know, I might get lost.  

Otherwise, it was just a matter of browsing through the available titles, picking the one I wanted to read, clicking a couple of buttons and watching a book magically appear on my Kindle ― fast and painless.  The only bad thing is I can only “check out” a library book for seven days.  So I’ve been trying to read really fast.  And I’ve been trying to lengthen my bedtime reading which is a bit risky because I’m not sure what will happen if I fall asleep and slobber drips down into the keyboard on a Kindle.   It is an electronic devise after all.  I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be quite as deadly as a blow dryer falling into a bathtub, but I don’t think trying to explain why I have a tiny keyboard burned into my cheek would be a whole lot of fun either. 

The bad thing is I can’t read a book in seven days.  I don’t think I’ve ever been able to read a book in seven days; probably because I like to read big, fat books.   When I was in high school I didn’t have a lot of money.  So when I bought a book, I wanted as many words as I could get for the little bit of money I had.  I chose my books by thickness and weight.  The books I read were so big that there should have been a disclaimer printed that said “publisher does not accept responsibility for pulled muscles.  Prior consultation with a personal trainer recommended before lifting.”   Or … maybe I was just a scrawny girl who needed to put her book down, get off the couch, go outside get some exercise and sun.

Even though my Kindle books aren’t big and heavy, I still like books with a lot of words.  And there is still a risk when reading them.  I think I should suggest to Amazon that the Kindle books they sell to libraries come with a disclaimer stating “publisher does not accept responsibility for suffocation resulting from falling piles of neglected laundry due to excessive amounts of reading over a seven day period.” Then they can be thankful to ME for precluding any lawsuits all those other library check-out Kindle readers may be contemplating.

I don’t think they’re worried about lawsuits though.  What I think is really happening is this.  I think it’s a cunning trick by Amazon to get Kindle readers to purchase more books.   I have come to this conclusion because seven days after I checked out the book, I received an e-mail saying my checkout period had expired.   The e-mail told me I could try to check it out again (providing that single digital copy had not already been checked out by somebody else) or I could click the blue link ― which conveniently took me straight to that very same book in Amazon ― available for purchase.

That’s pretty cunning.  Tempt people with a free Kindle book check-out, give them seven days to get engrossed, and then poof!  take the book away and send them to the Amazon storefront.  I, however, am even more cunning.  I have figured out that as long as I do not turn on the Kindle wireless option the book does not disappear.  So there, Amazon!  I not only beat you at your own game but I have discovered one more thing to be thankful for ―sneaky genes.  Dean’s not the only one grinning now.

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Hey! Put Down That Fork!

It’s Not Only Turkeys That Are Stuffed

Helllooooooo ……. Is anybody out there? Anybody? Anybody at all?  ....... I was afraid that would happen. That’s okay. I talk to myself a lot. I’m used to it. Or I’ll just pretend like I’m talking to my computer. I do that a lot too.

I have been busy tunneling through the mountain of tissues that have piled up around me during the last 10 days. And let me tell you; it’s hard work to tunnel through tissue with a body bloated and sloshing from gallons upon gallons of tea. And it takes alot of time. So I haven't been very productive recently. If I’m not on the couch, I’m making and drinking tea. And if I’m not making and drinking tea, I’m in the bathroom because I just made and drank a lot of tea. And then I make more tea and well, you know…back in the bathroom. While I’m doing all that I’m blowing my nose. And when you’re drinking as much tea as I am, you don’t want to do a lot of nose-blowing or sneezing unless you’re making regular trips to the bathroom. I’m just sayin’. When I’m not at home lying on the couch, blowing my nose, drinking tea, or you know, in the bathroom, I’m at work pretty much doing the same thing. Except for the couch part. The good thing is, the walk down the hall to the break room to get more hot water for more tea and subsequently, more walks to the bathroom, is much further than at home so at least I’m getting some exercise.

I’m pretty sure I’ve left a goodly portion of my brains in those tissues. I cannot believe the human body can produce as much snot as mine has over the past 10 days. There just has to be something else blowing out of my head and all I can come up with is my brains. I’m sure I’ve lost some grey matter. I have a suspicion that I am currently not the sharpest carving knife in the drawer. I’m a pumpkin pie without the whipped cream. I’m potatoes without gravy. I’m a turkey sandwich without the cranberries. Lately Dean’s been giving me “the look”. The sympathetic, slight head-shaking, “I love her but jeeze, she’s an even bigger dork than usual” look. So writing this post is probably not the smartest move I could make. But as I said, I’m a lemon pie without meringue.

However, even with only partial brain power I’m going to get back on the horse, so to speak. I’m getting my sticky fingers typing again so I can wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving spent with your families. Dean and I are on our own for Thanksgiving this year. Leslie’s with Ryan’s family and Abby is cooking her first ever Thanksgiving dinner in Ecuador. It’s probably better that we are on our own because nobody should be forced to listen to my incessant nose-blowing. Nobody other than that special someone with whom I share that myriad of honks, toots, puffs, snorts, creaks, pops, and aromas unique to each of us. We will roast a turkey and I will bake the required pumpkin pie. We’ll have homemade dinner rolls and our traditional cranberry/whipped cream salad (which I am sharing with you below).  And I have plenty of boxes of nice soft tissues. We are ready.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING everybody! May the only snorting and blowing you hear be from laughter and cooling your food.

Cranberry Salad

(from my sister)

Ingredients

2 cups chopped cranberries

1 cup sugar

7 ounces crushed pineapple (drained—save juice)

7 ounces mandarin oranges (drained – save juice)

¾ cup juice (from saved pineapple/mandarin oranges)

2 packages unflavored gelatin

1 cup sour cream

1 cup coconut

1 cup whipped cream

Heat ¾ cup juice with unflavored gelatin

Mix with sugar, cranberries, pineapple and mandarin oranges

Fold in: sour cream, coconut, whipped cream

Refrigerate

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It’s Not Only Turkeys That Are Stuffed