Haggis and Guinness and Mash Oh, My!

It was 5:30 a.m. when I gave up trying to sleep and got up on this Saturday morning because my body still thinks it’s on Edinburgh time and was ready to tuck in to a wee bit o’ haggis and a pint.

 

Since I did not buy that nice round roll of sheep innards  I saw in the duty free store on the way home, and I think Dean might worry about me even more if I tipped back a glass of Guinness or Strombow and became leggless that early in the morning ...  

 

Home sweet home.

... instead I decided to remember our week in Edinburgh.

I remember walking ...and walking ... and walking.

 











We walked to a castle ...

Edinburgh castle

which made us thirsty.

We walked to a palace.

Holyrood Palace

The Abbey at the palace

That made us thirsty too.

We hiked up Arthur's seat. 

Why take the easy way when you can choose the route with a steep dropoff on one side?  Thanks, Dean.

All that hiking made us not only thirsty, but ...

also hungry.

 We took a train to Stirling ...

and walked ...

Stirling Castle

to another castle ...

before we went to a wedding. 

We were hungry and thirsty there too.








 

Al's parents

There were some surprise guests

Lesley's mom

 

After the wedding Leslie and Abby spent the night in Stirling ...

and the next day they walked to the Wallace Monument.

 

They were really thirsty after that.

Dean and I took the train back to Edinburgh and on our walk "home", about 10:30 at night, as I was taking pictures, a gentleman stopped me along the way and said, "you're getting dark photos aren't you?"  "Well, yes, I am," I said.  He asked for my camera, and trusting Wyoming girl I am, I handed it over to him.  Next thing I know he'd jammed it into his sporran, took off running and that's the last I saw of it.  Dean took off running after him but it had been a long day and he was filled with wedding food and drink and his poor body just didn't have the sprint capability.  He made a valiant effort but it was a lost cause.  I was a bit worried what would happen if he DID catch the guy.  Would there be fistacuffs?  Would his suit be ruined?  How would I get us home if his eyes were swollen shut and he couldn't show me the way?  Would I get to see the inside of a Scottish hospital?  

If it wasn't for the view as Mr. Camera's kilt flew up when he spun around and ran down the street I would have been much more upset.






Not really.  He wasn't wearing a kilt.

Okay.  He wasn't wearing a kilt and he didn't steal my camera.

He just put it on the program setting, mumbled things to himself as he clicked about 25 different settings, and then took this photo. 

When he handed my camera back to me, instead of photos like this ...

 I got this. 

And this.

And this.  

Thank you mystery man!

Walking all those miles on cobblestone and bumpy brick streets to see cemeteries ...

and churches ...
























 

 and monuments ...

 

required alot of energy.  We were happy we had a lovely "home" to kick back and rest our tired bodies.

We were tired when we got there and tired when we left.

But we were never too tired to eat.

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Haggis and Guinness and Mash Oh, My!

Dinosaur Bones Come In All Sizes

Most days I can barely remember what I wore to work the day before, or if I’ve turned off my closet light.  I do sometimes wonder if I’m wearing the same outfit three days in a row to work, but I don’t worry about the closet light because Dean always reminds me if I’ve left it on.  That’s okay though, because I watch out for him too.  I just don’t always remind him when he’s left the stove burner on, or forgotten to close the garage door at night or left the radio on when Shadow wasn’t even home or … gosh, there are so many things.  

I admit it, every now and then I do forget insignificant details, but I almost always remember “what I was doing when … ”  I’m sure I’m not the only person who regularly says “last week at this time I was …”, “last month at this time I was …”, “last year at this time I was...”   I don’t know why, but I love remembering what I was doing this time last whenever.  It almost always makes me feel happy and excited.  And it’s even more fun to remind my family and friends what I was doing this time last whenever.  Although I suspect there’s a chance that, on very rare occasions, it may annoy them.  “Hey, guess where I was last year at this time?  Manta!  For your wedding!!  Remember?!” 

Lots of people do this.  Don’t they?  I’m not the only one … am I?  

Saturday morning when I woke up and saw the hall thermostat reading 59 degrees, and a mountain that had changed from a green/gold mix to white, I thought to myself, “last year at this time I was on my way to the Amazon.  Where it was hot.”  I walked into the kitchen to see Dean sitting at the table wrapped in a blanket, fleece hat on his head, reading the morning paper and looking pitiful.  I did not ask him if HE remembered where he was a year ago although maybe if I would have, the memory of the heat and sweat might have “warmed” him up and I could have put off turning the heat a while longer.  

I’m not sure why I regularly remember and think back to a year ago or a month ago or a week ago.  Maybe sometimes it’s because what I was doing in that past moment was so much fun that I want to relive it.  Maybe it’s because I know I may never get the chance to experience whatever it is I am remembering again and I don’t want to forget it.  Or maybe I’m just getting old and sappy. 

I was remembering one of those moments in time a couple of weekends ago when we went to see some long-time friends.  They will be moving to Arizona soon and that will put an end to anymore weekend visits.  The opportunity for a last-minute “will you be home this weekend for some company?” will not be possible.  An opportunity I realize now we did not take advantage of nearly enough.  So before they moved, we went to see them to have a last weekend together in the town where we met; the place we were surrogate parents to each others children and our children became “siblings.”  In the more than 20 years we have known each other we’ve shared dinners and conversation and friendship and laughter.  We've camped and canoed and hiked and celebrated the accomplishments of each other as well as our children.  And when the cruelties of life intruded, we’ve leaned upon each other for support through heartrending times.   So before they left, we we hiked a trail we had hiked together 11 years ago, one more time.

The day we hiked wasn’t exactly the same time of year but close enough that I thought to myself, “about this time 11 years ago I was hiking this same trail.”   I had a lot of time to think and remember as we hiked single file through a canyon  ...

... or as I lagged behind to snap photos of the beauty. 

I remembered the color of the rocks but I’m pretty sure my knees weren’t trembling 11 years ago like they were when I scrambled over them this time.  I don’t remember any shaking limbs anyway.  And I didn’t remember having to slide down steep inclines on my butt all those years ago because I was worried about my brittle and aging bones.  On this hike my creaky old body was much more fearful than the fearless body it had been 11 years ago.

 If I ever hike this trail again I’ll have added a new memory of soggy feet to because my fearful body said, “Give up, Cathy.   Stop trying to step onto those slippery rocks just so you can get across the water without getting your feet wet or eventually you’re going to slip and end up a soaking wet, whimpering old lady with a broken arm or ankle.  Just slosh through it, old woman.”  Which I did. 

As I was hiking this same trail I had hiked “about this same time 11 years ago” with my friends, I remembered the first time we had been on this trail.  The rocks and the vegetation and the streams were the same – but different.  The trail was the same – but different.  We were the same – but different.  Life had intervened.  And as much as I wished I could make this new hike just like my memory of the first one that was impossible.  Eleven years ago there was another amazing friend hiking this trail with us.  She and her family were part of the “surrogate family” of six adults and seven children.  But she was not hiking with us this time because about year and a half after that first hike she died unexpectedly.

I thought about her as I climbed over boulders.  As we ate lunch at the river.

As we took photos of each other.   I miss her.  I miss her advice.  I miss her level-headedness.  I wish I could talk to her in person, not just in my dreams.  But she was “with” me in my heart and my memories as I hiked. I know I wasn’t the only one who was thinking about her as we laughed and joked and groaned about our 11-year older bodies.  So this hike was the same – but different.

And now I have new memories ...

... to add to the old.

We will visit our friends in their new home in Arizona.  And we’ll hike together and share conversation and dinner and swap stories.  And who knows, maybe six months or a year from now I’ll be remembering that “this time last year I got to take a ride in an ambulance because apparently I don’t hike well in 120 degree Arizona heat.”  I’m pretty sure that’s a memory I won’t want to try to recreate.

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Dinosaur Bones Come In All Sizes

Jack, Your Beans Are Enchanting!

I have no scientific data to back my statement, but I’m pretty sure people born in the month of October have contributed to the slowing of our economy. 

I was born in October, and I say this to you in a somber, this is serious, voice, “being an October baby is dangerous.”   Now I don’t want to scare any of you, but I feel it is my responsibility to tell you that if October is the month of your birth, you could be in serious jeopardy.  And if you drink coffee and frequent the caffeine dispensing kiosks that dot the landscape, your risk of peril is increased a hundred-fold.  Sure, everybody who drinks coffee is aware of the risks involved.  It’s not only the October babies who knock over store displays as they’re crawling around looking for the change that dropped out of their caffeine-induced shaking hands when they pay for their Tums.  But it’s the October babies who are in real life-threatening danger.

For example, Friday morning I was going to buy my first “birthday coffee” of the year.  Unfortunately, about 2:30 in the morning I woke up to the pounding of the wind against the side of the house.  Whooosh … bang!  As I listened to the howling wind tear the leaves off the trees, I carried on a debate with myself.

― “Maybe I should  postpone my first birthday coffee.  What if it blows out of my hand while  

      I'm walking into work?” 

― “Am I going to let the wind rule my life?” 

           ― “No!” I said.  “No! Fie on you wind!  You will not keep me from my birthday coffee!        

                 Fie!  Fie! Fie!”

Friday morning I got up and prepared to meet the wind head on.  I wore earrings that would not blow out of my ears.  I put my birthday money in a zip-lock baggie and zipped it securely inside my purse.  I squared my shoulders, lowered my head, and fought my way to the car.  Defiantly I drove to my favorite coffee kiosk.  I somehow managed to order, pay for, and receive my coffee without my change or my coffee blowing across the parking lot.  My car door didn’t even get blown into the little wooden house and that’s quite a feat considering I had to use my full weight to open the door against the wind so I could stand half in/half out to pay for and get my coffee.  That’s because Wyoming kiosks are made for elephant-sized 4-wheel-drive trucks, not little Hondas where coffee-starved heads barely reach the bottom of the kiosk window.  

I felt victorious.  I had beaten the wind and proven my superiority to nature!  I continued my journey to work gloating over my triumph.  And then I unavoidably ran over a four or five-inch diameter, four-foot long, leaf-covered branch in the middle of my lane.  No damage.  No liquid leaking from a punctured something or other; but I began feeling somewhat less triumphant.  

A few minutes later I narrowly avoided one of those kiddie-car shopping carts which had rolled from the grocery store, across four lanes of traffic and settled against the curb, partially residing in my lane.  I began to feel a bit anxious.  

A couple of blocks later, on the same four-lane road, I swerved to avoid a tire which had rolled from a tire store’s tipped over display.  My uneasiness increased and I began to fear what awaited me when I finally arrived at work and had to make the walk across the parking lot, fighting 65 mph wind gusts, holding my first birthday coffee. 

I pulled into the parking lot, gave myself a brief pep talk, took a deep breath, opened the door, and fought my way across the lot to the office door.  It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t fun but I made it, with only one hand wet from blown-out coffee. 

This example was just one dangerous day in the life of a coffee-drinking October baby.  Sadly, there is nothing I or any other October babies can do about it.  We’ve already been born.  We can’t change the month of our birth. We must just practice survival techniques and be alert to lurking dangers. 

But some of you have the ability to thwart the peril of the October baby.  I call upon those of you who have that capability to take it upon yourselves to do just that.  If you have been contemplating creating a “bun in the oven”, a “little one”, a small human, otherwise known as a baby, you can do your part to not only make the world a safer place, but you may be able to save our economic future.  Choose another month for this birth.  Because many, many of those innocent, wide-eyed, drooling, nose-picking October babies are going to grow up to be coffee-drinking adults, living where the wind wakes up in October.  They may not survive what awaits them. 

Do not be the parent who sends them on a direct path toward risk of bodily injury merely because of the month of their birth.  Please, all of you Fertile Myrtles and Ardent Arnies, if you do your part, not only will no future babies be faced with the October baby danger, you may very well be the saviors of our economy.  Because if the insurance companies no longer need to pay out all the October baby claims, they will of course pass those savings on to the public in the form of lower premiums, which everybody will spend, which will save small businesses and big businesses and create jobs and security and the economy will be healthy and strong again ....................................................................or not.

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Jack, Your Beans Are Enchanting!

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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Running From Thor

Marvin, Where Are The Raisins?

Dean and I got around to celebrating our 39^th 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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Marvin, Where Are The Raisins?

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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There Are Many Ways To Keep Your Swords Safe