♪ I Love A Parade ♩ ♫ ♥ ♥

This year three little hummingbirds found my feeders.   The largest is a shimmery green.  There is also a smaller less colorful bird as well as a really tiny one.  If I’m outside when one of them zooms toward the feeder I can hear the humming vibration of its wings beating furiously as it pokes it pointy beak into the feeder attached to my front window.  Now and then I see it perch on the edge of the feeder or on the tomato cage nearby but only for a few seconds before it zooms back to the feeder to drink the clear sweet nectar it needs to supply the energy to keep those wings beating.

Sorry that's the best picture I could get.  Most of the time all I got was a blur of wings.

I’ve been feeling a little hummingbird-like recently.   As it’s gotten hotter outside my body’s been vibrating with energy as I water half an acre of grass, five flower and one vegetable garden, one hanging flower pot, six barrels of flowers, eight flower pots of peppers and tomatoes as well as four fruit trees, a raspberry plant and a grape vine.  On top of that I've been lovingly and faithfully watering eight seven five three two one itty bitty blue spruce start I got as part of my Arbor Day Foundation membership (which I accidentally joined thinking I was joining the Audubon Society).  I can't figure out what's been happening to them though.  They were doing great for weeks, growing and getting new little bright green buds and then, one at a time, one day they would be green and healthy looking and the next they would be crispy and brown. 

I'm sorry little spruce.  I did my best for you.

All my hopes are pinned on you my little spruceling.

All that watering, death, and lawn care takes it out of me so, like my little hummingbirds, I also need to drink sweet nectar so I'll have the energy to keep going.   Mine just happens to be red and comes from a box. 

I miss that automatic sprinkler system we had in Casper but we are on an irrigation ditch system here.  The up side is the water costs next to nothing.  The down side is we use a pump which we have to turn on and off manually.   Even though Dean was in charge of watering the lawn and gardens in Casper, somehow I have become the watering specialist here in Sheridan.  Dean used to just turn a dial and leave.  I drag out the hoses, set up the sprinklers, turn on the pump and start watering ... move the sprinklers ... water ... move the sprinklers ... water … until it’s time to turn off the pump, roll up the hoses and put away the sprinklers.  It takes me about a day and a half to water everything and that takes a lot of energy.  But I look at this duty as my own personal challenge because no matter how hard I try, at some point while I am moving or adjusting a sprinkler, I end up with the business end of the sprinkler pointing straight at me.  Just once I would like to water everything and stay completely dry, although onsidering the number of times that creek water has hit me square in the face, I suppose I should just be happy I haven’t come down with Giardia … yet.

The whole town of Sheridan was vibrating with energy last week because it was WYO Rodeo week.  There were activities every day of the week, not the least of which was the rodeo, but Friday (according to the five people I overheard) was a national holiday.  Because Friday – Friday was parade day.  The WYO Rodeo Parade is no ordinary parade.  Okay.  It is.  But the night before the parade is definitely not ordinary.

Yep.  The evening before the parade people bring out their chairs, set them up, rope them together, leave them, and show up the next day with their “perfect” spot for parade viewing reserved. 

Parade Day begins with a pancake feed downtown where for a mere $5.00 all are welcome to stand in a half block line, get a plate of pancakes, slather on syrup and sit elbow to elbow outside with a few hundred of their closest friends. 

Dean and I skipped the pancakes and sat in a local bakery where we indulged in a cup of smooth, mellow coffee and a mouth-watering, artery-clogging pastry while we watched as preparations for the second event of this big day were completed – the Sneakers and Spurs Rodeo Run/Walk.  We didn’t see anybody running in spurs but one little girl put on her best tutu for the event. 

By the time the last person staggered across the finish line most of those reserved chairs were filled with people because now it was time for the Bed Race where groups of people decorate a bed and push it down the street just so they can have the honor of saying they decorated a bed and pushed it down the street faster than anybody else. 

Dean and I did not have a reserved chair to sit in for the race but we did manage to find a section of curb where somebody had chalked “reserved for no chairs” so we settled in and had a perfect view of the bed race. 

Before the parade began I noticed a guy in the building across the street hard at work mudding a wall.

“Poor guy has to work on this national holiday,” I told Dean.  It turned out that when the parade began, that guy and his fellow worker had the best seats in the house. 

And then it was parade time! 

As in all parades there were cowgirls and cowboys.

There was the color guard.

There were bands.   

There were floats.

And of course there was what no parade can be without – dancing fruit.

Because this parade was in Sheridan Wyoming, home of the oldest polo field in the United States on which polo has been played continuously and because native American dancers and drum teams had come for the Indian Relay Races and the First People’s Pow Wow  … there was a lot of finery and a lot of horses.  Lots and lots of horses. 

Of course, being the political year it is, there were also a few political statements. 

(It's hard to see but the left fake dead person says BLM and the right says EPA. 
The above two photos in no way represent the views of the blogger. 
As in SERIOUSLY guy running for Congress?!
Could your "float" BE any more tasteless and offensive?)

An hour and a half later the march of the street sweepers signaled the end of the parade.  If Dean and I were younger, the next night we might have gone to the culmination of all the week’s activities  – the street dance.  But it didn’t begin until after the rodeo ended (which was about an hour past my bedtime) and was scheduled to go until 2 in the morning.  I have a feeling a lot of golden nectar was consumed that night because with all that dancing I bet those people expended as much or more energy as my little hummingbirds.  
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♪ I Love A Parade ♩ ♫ ♥ ♥

They Call Me Martha

When we bought this house there was an old chicken coop out at the back of our property.  I thought it was picturesque.  Dean thought it was an eyesore.  It bugged him every time he looked at it.  

  

It is no longer there. 

In true Dean fashion, before he meticulously dismantled that charming haven for hantavirus, he pulled out and saved a couple of old windows that had been recklessly tossed in there years and years ago.  In true me fashion, I rolled my eyes and sighed when I saw him carrying them to the storage shed.   But then one day I saw something on Pinterest.  And then I remembered those old windows. 

One side looked like this.  

Dean made me paint it in case it was lead-based paint even though I told him I wasn't planning to chew on it.

The other side of the window looked like this.  The corks fit better on this side because it had a deeper ledge, and the wood stain complemented our kitchen cupboards, so that's the side I decided to show.

Who drank all that wine?!

I glued the corks on with Gorilla Glue and by the time I finished I was obviously getting either tired or bored.  Fortunately I could call on Mr. Meticulous to clean up my mess and if I ever try this again I'll use clear drying glue.  

Unfortunately, from now on, every time I roll my eyes and sigh when Dean saves some other hunk of wood or chunk of metal I know he will remind me of how happy I was he didn't throw those corks away and point out to me that if he hadn’t saved those windows …  But it’ll be worth it.....I hope.

Ta Da!

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They Call Me Martha

Eternal Vacation

Here's what I've learned about retirement so far:

• Everybody who goes to the Y in the morning is old.  I don't mean the nobody-in-their-right-mind-should-even-be-awake-yet time of the morning.  I mean the slept-in-had-a-cup-of-coffee-and-read-the-paper time of the morning.  

• Old people at the Y love to play pickle ball.  They are crazy for pickle ball.  There are benches of old geezers sitting in the gym just waiting for their turn to play pickle ball.  

• Until three short weeks ago I did not even know what pickle ball was.

• I do not want to play pickle ball now.  

• When I play pickle ball I will know I am really old.

• Having more time doesn't mean I clean more often.

• Everybody who goes to the dog park during the daytime is old.

• The dog park is to old geezers what the bar scene is to the young.

• I'm good at wasting time.

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Eternal Vacation

Not All Pearls Are Found In Oysters

A woman wearing a reddish shade of lipstick opened the passenger door, scooted over to my dad, closed her eyes, and gave him a big kiss – on the lips.  Even though my almost nine year old body sat frozen in shock (I don’t think I even took a breath) I’m sure my eyes must have popped open so wide that, combined with my car-head hair, I was the spitting image of a troll doll.  That was how I met the woman who was to become my mother – sitting with my younger sister in the backseat of dad’s car, outside the telephone company where she worked, in Park Rapids, Minnesota.  My dad had driven us from Lincoln, Nebraska which, other than driving across town to see the circus, was the longest time either of us had spent in a car.  I suspect it was a long car ride for my dad too, especially when Shelly asked, 45 minutes after we’d started, how much longer it would be.  

If my mom had second thoughts when she looked into the backseat and saw us for the first time, she didn’t let on.  I don’t think she even reflexively reached for the door handle in a momentary panic to escape.  Even knowing there was a third child who hadn't come along, a toddler no less, she just smiled and accepted all of us.  Once I had recovered from seeing this strange woman kiss my dad I had no second thoughts either.  There was nothing in the world I wanted more than a mother and later, when Shelly and I got to watch the little black and white TV in her apartment, I knew there was nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her (and, I hoped, her little TV).

I was nearing ten years old when I nervously walked up to her after the wedding and called her mom.  Her eyebrows raised in surprise and then the corners of her mouth curved into a smile.  After that first time, saying mom came easily, although I’m sure there were moments for her when being a mom to an instant family did not come easily at all.  We gradually became comfortable with each other and as I got older, unlike much of the world, I didn’t learn everything I needed to know about life in Kindergarten.  I learned it from my mom.  

She taught me the value of nutritious meals as I watched her try to make my dad eat fruits and vegetables.  She blended mushroom soup so the chunks disappeared before she added it to her casserole.  She put a glass of juice in front of him every morning for breakfast and expected him to drink it whether he liked it or not, told him sliced tomatoes were luscious with sugar sprinkled on them and hid onions in the chili.  I’m not sure how or when, but Dean and my mom must have had a secret conference sometime years and years ago because Dean does the same thing to me.  He places a small plate of fruit on the table every night.  He puts lettuce and other green strands of slimy vegetation impossible to pick out in the soup.  He puts tomatoes in nearly everything he cooks knowing full well I have been picking them out of food since I was able to hold a fork, and he mixes so many weeds in the salad I can barely find any iceberg lettuce.  

Mom made me aware of fashion.  I’m not saying I have progressed to double-knit elastic waist pants yet, but I did learn that jeans “so tight they don't leave anything to your imagination” are not attractive.

I gained an appreciation of vitamins and minerals when she informed me that ice cream contains Calcium and strawberry topping is a good source of Vitamin C.

If it weren't for my mom I might not enjoy writing and you wouldn't have to be able to read this blog. I wrote my first poem just for her – after I’d gotten in trouble for borrowing her bicycle without asking – which I still remember … mostly.

Did you ever meet a little girl

Who …dum da dum ... a shiny pearl?

Well here’s one who’s come to say,

I’m sorry for what I did today.

I fell in love with reading after she gave me my first book – Nancy Drew – which led me to discover libraries.  Soon after she taught me the importance of exercise and sunshine.

I learned that flannel blankies keep you warmer than any other fancy chenille throw or quilt or lap blanket, because they are sewn with love. 

I learned being a mother meant being selfless, like the time she got up at 3 a.m. and made Dean, me and the girls pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream so we could eat breakfast before our 11 hour drive back to Wyoming.  And I learned the meaning of magnanimous as the four of us sat at the table staring with vacant eyes, too tired to pick up a fork.

She showed me that preparation is paramount when traveling.  A minimum of six jars of candies, a thermos of coffee, 15 blankets, boots, mittens and hats are required for any trip no matter what the distance or the weather.  If we were somehow stranded and couldn’t make it to the next hot roast beef sandwich, we could live on jelly beans and Brach’s candy.

I learned how to be an attentive wife by her example as I watched her stop whatever she was doing every afternoon around 4:30 to change into fresh clothes and put on makeup before my dad got home from work.  I saw her put dinner on the table at 5:45 p.m. every night for him, and noticed her refill his coffee cup before he even knew he needed it. She waited on him without complaint. .......…… I, uh, might still need a little work in that area.

I learned how to be a good mother just by being her child.  At least I hope I did.  You’d have to check with Leslie and Abby for sure and I'm going to cross my fingers you ask them on a day I haven't annoyed them.

I am who I am because she didn’t change her mind when she saw, in that backseat, what she was taking on.  She stayed, and she gave us gifts of love and protection, discipline and freedom, and the ultimate gift, when it was time, of letting us go.

  

Ten years ago today was the last time I saw this woman who had been my mother for 42 years. I sat next to her hospital bed, touching her arm.   Her eyes were closed then also and mine were open wide as I watched and hoped for her chest to rise with one more breath, even though I knew I should hope peace would come soon for her.  I watched her ... waiting ... waiting ... until she took a breath, only realizing I'd been holding my own breath when my body let go of the air in my lungs when her chest finally lifted ... until it no longer did.

Even now, when I give my grandkids as many cookies as they want before dinner, or let them eat cake slathered in chocolate frosting before breakfast – because chocolate is “an excellent source of antioxidants”,  or I snuggle under a frayed and torn flannel blankie, or I hear the word luscious, I think of my mother.

I am grateful I had the opportunity and the privilege of calling this woman, who was not afraid to take on an instant family, Mom.  

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Not All Pearls Are Found In Oysters

We Are Living The Cartoon

I’m not sure if toasting each other over a plate of weenies strictly counted as a celebration, but back in August Dean and I celebrated 40 years of marriage.  I started to type “40 years of marital bliss” but that would just be lying and I pride myself on always telling the truth not exaggerating much even if it reflects poorly on me Dean.  I’m not saying there weren’t stretches of marital bliss during the past 40 years, especially during the early years when we looked upon each other with starry-eyed adoration.  “We’re soul mates” we said to each other.  “You’re perfect” we each sighed.   Oh sure, there were moments, weeks, and sometimes even years of our marriage where it felt like we were barely holding on to a frayed string as we were thrown in and out of a tiny kayak which was riding up on a swelling wave only to drop into a chasm, in a hurricane, out in the middle of the ocean, without Dramamine, but that just made those blissful times that much sweeter.  

As the years passed our vision became less clouded by those stars and we each began to notice small flaws in each other.  You might think we managed to stay married to each other for 40 years because we ignored those slight imperfections and just learned to live with them – or – even learned to love them.  You would be wrong.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned over 40 years of marital-sometimes-bliss it’s that when something makes you feel like fingernails on a blackboard, it's imperative that you 1.   point out the offense, and 2.  see that it's taken care of.  So early on we learned it was important not to stew about the things that annoyed us but to deal with them, even if that meant not waiting longer than three days for Dean to read my mind.

Our marriage experience has served us well during our adjustment period with the home because our relationship with this Little Bit O’ Country has been very similar to our 40 years together.  During the honeymoon stage we, okay I, gazed on the home with stars in my eyes.  We weren’t blind to the flaws but they seemed small and insignificant.  However, as with any marriage, soon those small defects became more difficult to ignore.  As I mentioned in my last post, we became less enamored of the home.  We wondered if we’d made a mistake.  We regretted our hasty decision and wished for a way out.  We were exhausted from all the work we’d put into it and needed a trial separation.  We needed time to remember why we’d begun the relationship to begin with and we needed to decide if we wanted to continue.  I, for one, went through a period of mourning for the retirement future I thought we’d lost.

Finally after six weekends in a row of painting, carpet removing, foam scraping, wall washing, ceiling washing, leak fixing and wallpaper scraping, on the seventh weekend we stayed away and rested.  And last weekend when we went back, the painter had come and gone and what looked like this before 

now looked like this.

And this

 

now looks like this 

We are cautiously letting our hearts open up to the home again even though our anniversary dinner was mashed meat in a skin because we were so exhausted from working on it we could barely lift a fork let alone sit upright in a restaurant.   (Although a leaking kitchen sink – again! this weekend didn’t make it easy.)   I wish the list of things we need to do was completed but it isn’t.  Unfortunately, we’ve added to that list with even more things we want to do.  I've come to the conclusion there’s always going to be something we’ll need or want to fix, improve or change.  I’m just hopeful that the major issues have been dealt with, the exhausting part of this relationship is over, and once the wood floors are put in we’ll only be left with small things that annoy us ... kind of like our marriage. 

Oh, and in the interest of complete honesty … that whole part about telling each other we were soul mates, etc., … we didn’t need to say them … we just knew.  Deep sigh….  Kidding.  If Dean ever said that to me I’d snort whatever weenie-paired wine I was drinking at the time right out my nose.  Which is one of the perks of being married for 40 years.  You can do that without even being embarrassed.  Not that I have.  I’m just saying you could.

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We Are Living The Cartoon