Naughty or Nice Cats?

My name is Midnight.  I am the kitten the Kiem's rescued from their tree this summer.  Angie has been busy getting things in order for Christmas.  She is allowing me to write a blog post for her.

Things seem to be hectic here.  Doug took off to work and the house blew up.  Not literally.  Robby's room is full of green containers from the attic.  Wonderful things have been pulled out of the boxes.  Things with long shiny strings and tinkling bells.  Brizzy and I have been busy batting these things around and hiding them in hard to reach places.

Angie brought in the best play toy ever.  A real eight foot tree!  Then she put some of those shiny strings and tinkling bells on it.  There are colorful swaying things too.  Brizzy and I love to take running jumps at these play toys.  It makes turns Angie's face red and she scolds us.

So, us three cats had a meeting.  Since Bo thinks he is too sophisticated  to play, we designated him the look out.  Brizzy and I were having the time of our life jumping and swatting all the shiny things on the tree.  Then disaster struck.  Bo sold us out.  When he heard Angie coming, he rolled over and licked his butt.  We were caught with angels and santas in our mouths.  I got scared and ran under the bed.  But Brizzy, well, she's not too bright.  She kept on jumping and swatting at the tree.  That got her a slap on the rump.  I don't understand.  Angie brought this tree in for us.  Why can't we play with it?

Sweet smells started wafting from the kitchen.  I am a good kitty and never jump on the kitchen counters.  But Brizzy has a real sweet tooth. Brizzy made sure Bo, the snitch, was snoozing in the basket up stairs.  Then she went on surveillance until Angie left the kitchen.  Once the coast was clear, Brizzy leapt on the counter and began munching on a large pan of dark gooey stuff.  It must have been pretty tasty.  Brizzy licked and chomped for a good five minutes before she was nabbed by the nape of her neck and hauled off the counter.  Angie said some words I had not heard before.

Brizzy was escorted to a place called "kitty time out."  I didn't see her until the baking was finished.  I'm not sure all that sweet forbidden goodness was worth it for Brizzy.  She has been hanging over the edge of the litter box all day. 

I know Angie loves us because she put boxes with bright paper and squiggly ribbons under the giant tree.  Brizzy and I had a tug of war with one box.  I lost.  The ribbon fell off on my side.  Then we each chose a special package to bat around and chew on.  The large packages are good for diving boards.  Bo never suspects we are perched up there waiting for him to walk by.  For a plump cat, he can jump like a NBA basketball player. 

There are new do-dads sitting all over the house.  Brizzy and I have been taking turns seeing who can bat these dainty things farther. Who ever makes the crash first wins.  Then Angie trots over, picks up the do-dad, and takes it to the kitchen.  She mumbles something about glue and tape.  Maybe that is code for award and kitty treats. 

After all this playing Brizzy was pooped out.  She is older at the ripe age of two.  She scampered upstairs to snuggle in the basket with Bo, the nark.  I sit by my favorite bird, hoping Angie will finish with her Christmas rush and play with me.

How'd You Do That?

It finally happened!  I was so excited my heart threatened to jump out of my chest.  My fingers tingled and my stomach fluttered.  The lawn mower had broken, not while I was riding it, while Doug was using it!

This blue riding lawn mower came with the house.  It has been Doug's pride and joy.  The mower purrs like a kitten for the entire six weeks Doug is home.  He leaves and Bam!  It breaks within hours of his departing the country.

It has vapor locked on me more times than my poor preschool teachers brain can count.  Doug says, "Why does it do that to you?  It never does it to me."  I turned the ignition one morning.  No click, no cough, nada, nothing.  Doug replied to my email, "It didn't do that when I was home."   Opening the shed door another morning, the tires greeted me with a deflated smile.  Doug asked , "How'd you do that?"

I do not know or pretend to understand how these things happen.  They are an act of nature.  Now nature has acted on Doug.

I was slaving away in the kitchen cooking Doug a savory dinner.  He had been mowing all day long.  I could practically hear the angel music in his head as he roared along.  Out of the blue he appeared at the window.  "I need your muscles!" he yelled.

"Me?  The 100 pound weakling?"  (Okay.  Maybe that was 20 years ago.  But I still see that person in the mirror.) 

Doug was frowning as I rushed outside.  "What's going on?"  He ignored the question and lead me to the front yard ditch.  Low and behold there sat the lawnmower.  It listed to one side looking sickly.  Come to think of it, Doug looked sickly too.  The wheel was missing!

I tried to contain myself from smiling and jumping up and down.  Tired, but failed.  "Hey, how'd you do that?" 

He ignored that question too.  "I'm going to lift the lawnmower and I want you to push the jack under it." he instructed.   (What he meant was shove the 80 pound floor jack through the sod and mud.)  Like that happened.

Plan B.  We will push it up the ditch.  He will get the trailer and we can push it up the ramp into the back.  I quickly nixed that idea.  If my muscle bound son and I could not push the mower up a slight hill, there was no way Doug and I were pushing it up any incline.  Not that Doug isn't muscular, but his muscles are 20 some years older than Robby's.

By now he was pacing and muttering.  I stood back to take a picture.  He muttered more in my direction.

Plan C.  The lug nuts were striped.  Perhaps he could secure them enough to drive the lawnmower on the trailer.  Doug climbed on, started the engine, (Not right away.  The handle sensor has a short, has for several months.  The sensor has to be manipulated with a knife before it would think of coming to life.)   He attempted to drive on and the tires spun sending grass flying into the neighboring field.  I could see determination in his face.  He spun the mower around and flew up the ramp backwards. 

"Now what?  Are we taking the blasted thing into the shop."  I asked still trying to hide my amusement.

"Tomorrow," Doug barked out.  "I must clean it up first."

Strange, but okay.  I watched from the kitchen window as Doug blew the grass off his baby.  He wiped the dirt off the exterior.  Oil was applied to the crevices.  A soft blanket was delicately attached around it so it wouldn't get too dusty on the drive to the lawn mower hospital.  It was like giving a baby a bath and tucking it in for the night.  It was an evil lawnmower.  Let bugs splatter it.

We live on a moderately busy road.  I see people checking the place out as they drive by.  There is a sense of security knowing that if I fall off the ladder or out of the apple tree someone will see and pick me up.  People have even stopped to ask my why the lawn mower is sitting idle in the middle of the yard.  (Because it died, duh!)  However; no one drove by as Doug and I attempted to rid the ditch of the possessed mower.  I could gloat with no one at the time.  So pass this on to everyone you know.  Let the word be out that the evil blue lawnmower pulled a quick one on Doug.  Finally!

Uninvited Guests

Doug thinks he's flying off to go to work tomorrow.  I've got news for him.  He's not going until he fixes the problem in the basement.

This problem started when we were preparing to leave for a trip.  We shut the water off to the house when will be gone for an extended period of time.  One never knows the cats may decide to have an inside pool party while we are away. 

Our bags were packed and loaded in the truck.  The cats were fed.  Doug had gone to the basement to shut the water off.  That's when it first happened.  Doug comes tearing up the basement steps.  He looks at me, put his hands up and firmly says, "Don't worry!  I will handle it.  Do not worry!"

"Don't worry about what?  Handle what?  What are you talking about?"

"Just don't worry," he reiterated as he sped off to the garage.  Seconds later he emerged with a bucket and a child's snow shovel.  (I know.  We do not have any small children living here now.  But some day there may be grandchildren.  Someone has to shovel snow in my old age.)  It dawned on me what I shouldn't worry about.

"Is there a gross, slimy snake in the basement?"  I hopped on the counter just in case it slithered up the basement stairs in search of my toes.

Doug ignored me and tore down the basement steps.  Minutes later he walked triumphantly in the kitchen with a snake larger than my leg coiled in the bottom of the bucket.  "Got it!" 

"Get it out!" I wailed.

After our trip Doug decided to tackle the snake problem in the basement.  His solution was to get rid of the two dingy light bulbs that didn't illuminate the corners.  He installed seven large florescent lights.  "You will be able to see now if there is a snake down there."

That was conquering the problem?  Helping me to see the snakes?  I wanted the snakes evacuated to anywhere outside away from the house.  I think he must have fallen off his lawn mower and banged his head. 

The basement is like a car dealership.  Lights blind you and every dead cricket is visible.  I stop at the bottom of the steps and peer into every corner and crevice to make sure there is not a snake stalking me.  Once the initial viewing looks snake free, I creep into the lighted cavern.  I don't forget to  inspect the timbers overhead.  It could be days before someone found me after my heart attack if a snake toppled from the rafters onto my head. 

We had not had a snake sighting in a couple of weeks.  I was feeling pretty comfortable about Doug leaving.  He was in the basement sweeping the dead crickets when my cell phone dinged alerting me to a text message.

My considerate husband had sent me a picture of him and a snake!  The caption read, "I nabbed this uninvited guest.  Must have scared him because he jumped and scrambled away.  Searching.  I love you."

And he thinks he is really leaving tomorrow.

I fixed that!  Doug is going no where until the snake is found and relocated far away from the house.  My furry four legged sentries are helping me.  

Mr. Squirrel vs. The Man

Caddyshack was a hit movie in the 1980's.  One of the stars was Bill Murray as a possessed maintenance  man of a golf course.  His Nemesis was the gopher.  He would stop at nothing to remove Mr. Gopher from the golf holes.  Doug has a similar situation on our acreage.  Mr. Squirrel has decided Doug's man-cave shed is a squirrel's cozy mansion.  It has driven Doug to madness!

Let me first say in our 13 moves we have always fed the cute bushy-tailed squirrels.  We have squandered money on squirrel food and feeders.  They have provided us hours of laughter at their antics.  Our entire family loved watching the cute rodents ride the ferris-wheel like feeder trying to stuff as much corn in their mouths before slipping to the ground.  But moving to the country has blinded Doug to the beauty of these animals. 

I noticed something was amiss when the live trap appeared beside the corner of the shed.  "Honey, what is the trap doing by the shed?'" I inquired.

A wild look came into Doug's eyes.  "There is a squirrel in my shed and he is getting dirt and grass and straw all over my workbench!"   He practically popped an artery in his neck chocking out this one sentence.

"Can't you just sweep the debris off the bench and go on with your work?"  Doug isn't prone to laziness, but he is a man.

"You don't understand.  That squirrel is up in the rafters of the shed peeing and pooping and soon the roof will be caving in on my head!"

I have been in the shed.  It had never rained poop or roofing material on my head.

Nature verses Doug was in full battle. When the trap didn't yield more than dirt, he confiscated the used cat litter and sprinkled it around the perimeter of shed.  The odor of the cat urine was supposed to disgust the squirrel and send him packing.  It must have been a cat loving squirrel.  He scurried into the shed mindless of the cat stench. 

Doug crawled like a snake around the shed searching for the squirrel entry.  He found a minuscule hole in the wood where Mr. Squirrel had chewed his way in.  I awoke to insistent banging the next morning.  Doug had gone out at predawn hours waiting for the squirrel to exit the shed.  At which time Doug began to nail every piece of scrap lumber he owned over the squirrel door. 

Next Doug stood sentry at the kitchen window, binoculars in hand.  It wasn't long before Mr. Squirrel had finished his breakfast and tried to return home for a nap.  Squirrel was not pleased to find his door barricaded.  He paced back and forth.  He stood up on his hind legs and thought.  He then preceded to chew another whole six inches away. 

Doug then tried to communicate with the squirrel in sign language.

The next plan of action for Doug was to bury cement blocks under the large shed doors.  He reinforced the inside of the doors with steel.  If the squirrel tried to get in, he was going to need some dental work.

Whistling and happy with himself Doug went to work in his man cave.  The scurry of little squirrel feet above his head stopped him in his tracks.  He didn't care how the squirrel got in.  He didn't care that I love to watch squirrel antics.  He just wanted that blank-a-dee-blank squirrel out of his space.

Doug stormed into the house and grabbed our loaf of bread.  The live cage was loaded in the shed with six pieces of bread and positioned inside the shed. 

The next morning the squirrel had a feast of bread before he was relocated to his new home up the hill.  I suppose he can be friends with Stripes.  They can reminisce about the good old days on the Kiem acreage.

Terrorist in my Bed

There is a conspiracy in my house to keep me from sleeping.  This conspiracy is spearheaded by a four pound, four-legged, furry black terrorist named Midnight.

I don't like to wake up until the sun comes up.  I am worthless without sun, so why bother?  The sun was not scheduled to wake up this morning until 7:09 a.m.  At 6:03, over a full hour before the sun appeared, the terrorist invaded my bed.

She is stealth.  There is no noise as she creeps onto my bed.  In her mouth is the weapon-a fuzzy ball.  The fuzzy ball is batted from one end of the bed to the other, over my face, and back again.  I slit one eye  open, grab the offending ball and toss it out.  A wild look comes in Midnight's eyes.  She bounds out of bed after the fuzzy ball.  My eyes close, and I start counting sheep.  Three sheep later she's back with the ball in her mouth.  Six times I toss this ball out of MY bed.  Six times she brings it back.  Now the ball is slimy. She's a dog in cat's fur!

I decide the best course of action is to ignore her.  This cat/dog is smart.  She's onto me. The larger red ball with bells is the next weapon of wakeness.  Not only is she batting the ball over my body, it is jingling.  She may be smart, but I learn quickly.  I am not throwing this ball.  I will attempt to ignore this also.

Midnight has one last weapon in her arsenal.  The bird with a bell dangling from a foot long stick.  Wouldn't you know she carries that bird in her mouth.  She practically flies with it on the bed, the stick trailing behind her.  If you have never been awakened by a stick bouncing across your face, you are missing out.  Maybe, just maybe, I can ignore this too.  I need my rest.  Fifty has passed me and the crows are after my eyes.

It is quiet in my bed.  I snuggle under the covers.  There is a noise in the kitchen that sounds like numbers being punched in the telephone.  That's when I hear the semi bumping down the road jake breaking in front of my house.  People don't haul grain in the dark.  I'm not so concerned about Midnight dialing the telephone.  But where did she get the number to this night driver?

My resolve is almost gone.  I am thinking about getting out of bed and stumbling around in the dark.  Almost.  It is still warm and cozy in the bed.  Then the last straw hit.  Above our bed hangs a lovely double wedding ring quilt Doug's great aunt made.  There is something moving in it.  That darn mountain lion cat is climbing the quilt with her fuzzy ball firmly planted in her mouth.  Well, firmly planted until she drops the soggy thing on my face.

She wins.  I am out of bed before sunrise.  Tonight I am sleeping in a different bed with the door locked and bobby pins hidden.  You never know.  This terrorist cat my know how to use them to jimmy the door. 

Lamb Sandwiches?

My cousins could not believe I have never been to any State Fair.  When the Iowa State Fair rolled around they plunked me in the car and off we went.  The fair was amazing.  However;  some things there were so wrong!

The first thing that hit me as we pushed our way through the gates in Des Moines were the number of people.  There were young people, old people, kids high on cotton candy.  Luckily one of my cousins wore a bright colored shirt.  I would hate at 53 to show up at the lost and found booth as lost. 

                 

We strolled though the many buildings bursting with everything under the sun to buy.  Nail art, t-shirts, spas, ring cleaners, anything you could think of, and some things you could never have imagined.  I heard you could buy a cow at some point.  I didn't think it would fit in the car.  Had to nix that idea. 

While the shopping was fun, I was jumpy waiting for the best part.  The food!  I ate my usual fair food-funnel cake and hot dogs.  I love hot dogs.  (One day I am going to travel the county to all the major league baseball fields to compare hot dogs.  As of today Anaheim Angels are batting 873.)   At the Iowa State Fair there is a cookie tradition.  You purchase a bucket of warm from the oven chocolate chips cookies.  The bucket is overflowing.  One must eat and eat and eat the cookies to get the lid closed.  But why close the lid when you can eat more?  I did not throw up on the way home.  Just thought about it. 

I enjoyed gawking at all the animals.  We walked through the horse barn.  I saw the tallest, most muscular horses I have ever seen.  Their heads were inches from the top of the barn.   They were not Clydesdales.  I don't know what they were.  But if I was Scarlett O'Hara and needed to get out of Atlanta fast.  It would be on these monster horses. 

Next my cousins thought we should walk through the sheep barn.  It was there I spied something so wrong.  I had to look twice.  It was the same thing the second time.  Outside the sheep barn they were selling lamb sandwiches!  Those poor sheep inside.  What do you think they were thinking?  "Hey, am I on fire?  Is it you Isabel?  Are you on fire?"  Wrong.  So wrong. 

Then it was off the Agricultural building.  I was told there was something in there I would not  believe.  They were right!  Standing behind a glass enclosed case stood a 600 pound cow.   I know most cows weigh over 1,000 pounds.  Most cows are not made out of butter!

A butter cow has been an Iowa State Fair tradition since 1911.  The cow is 5 1/2 feet high and 8 feet long.  It is taller than me.  I now know why there are so many dairy farms in Iowa.  The State Fair needs butter.  There was also a butter sculpture of Abraham Lincoln.  Very life-like, except he was yellow. 

As my daughter commented, "Someone has too much time on their hands."  Iowans are extremely proud of their butter sculptures.  They stand in lines for close to half an hour to catch a short glimpse of their state's butter creation.   Perhaps I will buy a milking cow, make butter and sculpt a cat.

We concluded our Fair experience with the ski lift ride over the fair grounds.  I was amazed at the cluster of trailers camped on the edge of the site.  People camp for the two weeks, eat fried Twinkies on a stick, and sleep it off in their campers.  There was much more Fair I didn't see .  Next year I am taking Doug with me.  We will see it all and stand in line to view the 600 pound butter cow.  After all we Iowans are proud of our butter cow!

L.M.A.

My husband has a problem.  He needs a support group.  I have yet to locate one to help him so I am starting a group-L.M.A.- a.k.a:  Lawn Mowers Anonymous. 

Doug has always enjoyed pushing a lawn mower.  Our city lawns were well manicured.  Every week he would be toiling in the yard claiming it was his play time.  When we moved to the country he became obsessed. 

Our four and a half acres came equipped with a riding lawn mower.  Two days after moving in Doug was perched atop the mower riding around.  It was mid February.  There was snow on the ground.  That should have been a red flag warning for me. 

We have lived here a year and a half.  Doug's lawn mower activity has been strange to say the least.  One balmy spring evening Doug announced he was going to cut the grass.  That was not strange until darkness crept in and Doug kept riding.  The darkness enveloped our four and a half acres.  Still Doug kept riding.  I soaked in the bathtub and was bundled up for bed before Doug made an appearance in the house.  Not a big deal, you say, riding lawn mowers have lights.  Yes, ours does.  They do not work. 

Iowa is in the midst of a drought.   Nothing grows on our property but dust.  Doug fires up that lawn mower and mows the dirt.  He looks like Pigpen from Charlie Brown.  A cloud of dust engulfs him as he putts around the property. 

Our wind break is full of trees, some alive and some overly dead.  The weeds there grow like a body builder on steroids.  They are tall and round.  Doug is allergic to those weeds and the pine trees.  Still he whips through them laughing as they fall to the ground.  He disappears in the tress only to squeeze out between them again.  I keep track of him mowing there by following the sneezes and trail of pine needles dripping off him and the lawn mower. 

I tend to the lawn while Doug is away.  I use my trusty weed eater to trim under the trees.  Not Doug.  He fires up the push mower and attacks the undergrowth of the trees.  He pushes and pulls and sweats and grunts.  Trust me the weed eater is much easier.  Doug did not buy a self-propelled push mower. 

Ladies, I know I am not alone in my quest to rehabilitate my husband.  Let me know and we can all send our husbands to Lawn Mowers Anonymous together.  There is hope!

Five Dollar Showers

Before moving to Iowa I remember my aunt talking about a bike ride across Iowa.  Some years the ride would peddle through her small town.  The entire town would show up on the route with home made goodies and water to share with the riders.  I wondered what sane person would ride some 404 miles, sleep in tents, and have to use port-a-potties for seven days.  Then I experienced this phenomenon called Ragbrai.

Ragbrai started in 1973 with two guys thinking they should ride across Iowa.  Three hundred friends joined them.  Forty years later Ragbrai has evolved into an annual bike ride west to east across the great state of Iowa.  The three hundred riders has grown to 8,500.  Riders come from all over the world to torture themselves for a week of riding for miles through rolling hills covered in corn fields.  This sounds incredibly painful and boring to me.  That is until Ragbrai invaded our nearby town of Harlan.

Doug and I hopped in the truck.  We were hungry and Ragbrai had stopped for it's first night in Harlan.  Why not take a casual walk around the square, see all the tired bike riders who had rode for 54.8 miles that day and find some food?  Sounded easy enough.

My first inkling that this was not what I had expected was a sign that read; "Showers $5."  Two blocks later we drove by a park with a sea of colored tents.  People were in lawn chairs relaxing and chatting.  The streets were littered with people walking and riding bikes.  They were all smiling and laughing.  No one seemed to be in pain from the long ride.

Citizens opened up their yards for riders to camp for the night.  Tents covered most every inch of the town.  Harlan has a population of 5,085.  There were more bike riders than townspeople. 

Then there were the buses.  These were the support for teams of riders.  The buses were loaded with ice chests and grills.  Bikes were stored on top along with chairs to view their surroundings.  Some had water tanks attached to the roof with a hose disappearing behind a curtain on the ground.  These people didn't pay $5 for a shower!  Christmas lights twinkled inside some.  There were no tents around most buses, which lead me to believe the riders slept on the bus.  Why not?  Generators hummed from the buses, which means a/c to me.

We finally made it to the town square.  The fun continued.  There was a beer garden with live bands to rev everyone up.  There was entertainment.  A man with Woody Woodpecker hair and a handlebar mustache   was amusing the crowd on his unicycle. (Maybe he rode the unicycle on the ride.  I didn't ask.)  The smell of food drifted to my nose and made my stomach rumble.  But the lines!  There must have been at least 100 people at each cart. 

Doug and I decided to go to another town for supper.  It would be quicker than waiting in the lines.  We parted our way through the throng.  I noticed all the teams had names-"Team Cockroach," "Team Postal," "Old Nag,"  "Fungus Amongus."

It was now past  6:00 p.m.  The ride had started at 8:00 a.m.  We passed many riders still on their way to Harlan.  The rural towns along the way had tables out with water and treats.  I noticed many bikes in several towns lined up beside buildings.  I figured they were inside soaking up some air conditioning.  The temperature was 91 and stifling. 

With our bellies full, we headed home on a different country road.  (Doug won't go the same way twice. Might miss something, ya know.)  There were still straggling bike riders.  One had a flat tire and a thumb out.   So we gave him a lift to Harlan.  He crawled in the back seat of the truck smelling like sweat and beer.  (Ah!  So the bikes had been in front of the local bar.)  We sped off towards Harlan but got slowed down by bikers hogging the road. 

"Just run those people over," the biker demanded.

"Hey, we don't want to go to prison," I countered.

"It's not so bad," announced the biker.

"Doug, can you drive faster?"

All the bikers were happy and carefree.  Everyone we talked to had ridden Ragbrai numerous times.  The 90 degree heat didn't bother them. Every day was a new adventure and they welcomed it.  I wondered if they welcomed the hail on day three?

But, with everyone so gun-ho about Ragbrai,  Doug and I have decided to do it next year.  We have been looking into gear, checking out shoes, and proper head cover.  If you know of any team who wants more members, call us.  We will be more than happy to drive their bus!

Flying Ice Pops?

I love a good parade.  The marching bands, children from schools and scouting troops skipping down the street, Shriners scurrying about in miniature cars are all elements of an engaging summer parade.  Imagine my surprise when none of these things appeared in a parade I recently attended in a nearby town.

Picture this:  A main street from the early 1900's.  False store fronts cover small drab colored buildings.  The businesses are mom and pop stores with names like "Tiny's Grocery" and "Kandy Kitchen" (the local bar).  There is some modernization at the west end of town.  A booming grain elevator hovers over main street.  Across from that is something not to be seen within a 100 miles, no 200 miles, no, I'm not sure how far, (there is one in Coronado, CA) a full service gas station!

Lawn chairs are crammed together along the main street sidewalk.  There is excitement humming down the street as people of all ages await the start of the parade.  I'm pretty sure my group of parade goers had the oldest and youngest parade watchers.  My seven month old cousin slept through the anticipation in his stroller and my 95 year old uncle was smiling from ear to ear awaiting the opening march.

                                                                                     

The parade did not start out with the usual high school band or dressed up horses.  In fact it had none of what I considered "usual" entertainment.  The local fire truck began the parade with small children perched on top.  It was followed by a large John Deere tractor.  One I see parading down my road most days.  Then came the four wheeler driven by a teenager pulling his parents in a trailer equipped with lawn chairs and an ice chest.

What kind of parade was this?

Next to my surprise came my cousin.  He was driving his beloved prairie gold Minneapolis Moline tractor.  He also pulled a trailer with his children, grandchildren, and great grandchild.  They were sitting on replica Minneapolis Moline tractors and lawn chairs.  Their trailer was decked out with an umbrella and a picnic table.  Small items zinged from the people in the trailer.  They were tossing candy and ice pops!  It was sweltering hot.  I scrambled for an ice pop.  Not for me, of course, but the uncle must be hot!

More tractors, new and old, drove by.  Combines and cleaned up manure spreaders even graced the street.  A couple of plain saddled horses sauntered by.  So I did get my horse fix.  Then came two restored classic muscle cars driven by friends at church.  They were advertising the county fair.  Don't miss the fair!  (We did and we got stink eyes for doing it!) 

The pumper fire truck rambled down the street.  The front sprayer rotated back and forth.  There was no hurry as teenage boys jumped in the street to be drenched by the cool water.

Our plumber even drove his plumbing van in the parade route. Once he reached us, he slammed on  his brakes.  His door popped open.  Out rushed the plumber with his ammo.  He pelted the teenage boys sitting next to us with water balloons, jumped back in his van and continued on, waving as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Perhaps nothing out of the ordinary did happen.  This parade was like none other I had ever seen.  There is something exciting yet peaceful  to watch a parade where you know most of the participants.  Everyday people fancy-up their treasured tractors, four wheelers, or whatever is close to their heart.  They pull along friends and relatives.  Candy is tossed.  Parents are not afraid to let their children catch the candy, tear it open and eat it without inspecting it first.  Familiarity and trust are showcased.  This is what America is truly about!

I Didn't Do It!

I have been accused of many things in my life.  Some accusations were correct.  Others were way off base.  This time no one can pin it on me.  I was out of the state!

We lived in the country until I was nine.  My sisters were (still are) considerably older than me.  My play mates were our cats.  I could chase them around the green grass all morning.  After lunch we would snuggle in the warm sunshine.

We moved to the city when I was nine.  I was the typical latchkey kid.   I came home to an empty house after school.  But it was never lonely.  There was always a cat to welcome me at the door and give me endless hours of attention.  My parents frequently accused me of bringing cats home and pretending I had found them at the door.  I will take the Fifth on that.   

I am a cat person.  My children accuse me of getting older and being a cat hoarder.  One can not hoard cats.  Accumulating them through the years is easy.  Seeing how many can fit in bed with you without your husband catching on is the tricky part.

Seriously, we only have two cats.  A male and female.  They get along fabulously.  Bo, the male, is muscular at 17 pounds.  Brizzy, the female, is petite at 7 pounds.  Don't let the petite cat fool you.  She can stalk Bo, pounce on his back and take him down.  Brizzy has to stretch out one white paw to touch Bo while they sleep.  They complete our household.

So, Doug and I had a surprise waiting for us after a weeks vacation.  Twelve feet up in our maple tree was a tiny black kitten. (Let me say again; I was out of the state.  I did not plant this kitten!)  Her body was all eyes.  She had a pitiful mew!  The poor kitty was lost and hungry.  I told her, "Don't worry!  Doug's a fireman.  He'll get you down!"

Sure enough, Doug reached out his arms and down she scampered.  Where did she come from?  We live five miles from town and a half mile from our nearest neighbor.  We bundled her up, jumped back in the truck to ask our neighbors if they lost a kitten.  No one claimed her.  So we sped into town for kitten food. 

While Doug was in the Country Store purchasing food, I was in the truck scheming.  This kitten needed a name if  Doug was going to let me keep her.  And I was going to keep her!  Doug hopped back in the truck and I announced,  "I think we should call her Midnight."

"I was thinking the same thing," he said to my astonishment.  He wanted her too.  I had married a keeper!

Midnight's meeting of her new brother and sister went so-so.  Brizzy was appalled at the idea of another female in the house.  In fact, she hissed so much she got a sore throat and had to visit the doctor.  Bo was a little more excited.  He realized this meant there would be kitten food in the house for him to steal.  He was so excited about that, he meowed and meowed with joy.  Then he got a sore throat and had to go to the doctor too.

Now we are one happy family. The cats have settled into their routines.  Brizzy and Midnight roll around and pounce on each other.  Bo watches and wonders what all the exertion of energy is about.  Bo sleeps at my feet.  Brizzy snoozes between my legs.  Midnight sleeps curled up by my neck.  Doug, well, he pretends he doesn't notice the felines taking up most of the bed and snuggles beside me.  We are family!

No Yellow Flags

Have you ever been to a car race named after a number and has multiple flip-overs and fires?  I have.

In south Texas I went to drag races.  The race lasted 4.5 seconds.  Don't blink twice or you miss them.  After we moved to Iowa Doug and I went to stock car races.  It's deafening.  Your chest vibrates as the cars go rumbling by.  The races last forever.  Especially if there is an accident and the yellow flag must come out.  The excitement is high nonetheless.  I have now discovered something here called Figure 8 races.  It is the coolest thing since Rockem Sockem Robots. 

My son, Robby, our cousin, Shannon, and myself drove a hour away to a town with a population of 1,232.  We walked into the Fair Grounds where a lady was perched on a bucket collecting the cash admission fee.  Settling in the stands I observed we were improperly dressed in our regular t-shirts and bedazzled tank tops.  We were not wearing neon colored t-shirts that were at least two sizes too large and advertised our favorite driver.  Nor were we wearing our towns'  fire department t-shirt.  (Yes, I know.  Doug is a member of the Irwin fire department.  But he has yet to snag a shirt.)

I searched for the track.  All I could see were a couple of tractor tires stacked up toward both ends of a field of dirt.  Dirt that was being hosed down by the local fire department.  It took the firemen five minutes to muddy the field and fifteen minutes to get the truck unstuck and off the field.  The firemen then donned their fire gear in the summer heat.  They positioned themselves three feet from the track beside their fire extinguishers.  I was getting the impression this was going to be exciting. 

Poxed cars shook up to the field, which to my surprise, was the track.  These guys (I didn't see any female drivers.  We are the more intelligent species.)  were wearing helmets and t-shirts or muscle shirts.  Most drove with only one hand.  There was no real track.  They just went around the tires in a figure 8 pattern trying not to crash in the middle as they accelerated.  It didn't matter if they piled up around the tires.  The drivers kept the pedal to the metal until one car would be spun around, shoved out of the way for the other cars pass.  Sometimes the cars would be stubborn, refusing to be pushed aside.  This would cause one car to be tossed into the air crashing onto its roof perhaps even onto another car.

The red flag would come out and everyone would have to stop, back up and make room for the front loader.  He was the hero to unflip the car and push the degraded car off the track.  Off zoomed the cars again.

Debris flew in every direction.  Cars zipped over bumpers and fenders that littered the track.  There were no yellow flags in this race.  If the car died, hopefully the driver was in tune with his motor and could limp to the edge of the field.  If not, the car stayed where it conked out.  It didn't matter if it was smack dab in the middle of the eight or on the tight turn around the tires.  I'm positive a lot of praying was going on in those dead cars.

Two flagmen wearing shorts were stationed on the sides of the track within flying distance of the mud.  They looked like black spotted cows when the night was over.  What about the firemen and their extinguishers you ask?  Yes, they used them.  Three times!  The fire truck roared onto the track when flames shot out of a tired engine.

Robby now thinks this is his future employment.  He plans to pony up $200 and buy an old clunker.  He's positive he can assemble a team to jazz up the motor and strip down the extra weight.  I know he has t-shirts.  I have seen him drive with one hand.  He is qualified.  I have just one request of him.  I really like pink.  Could your t-shirts be neon pink so I can look good while you are on the track with the flying hoods and smoking cars?

Slave Labor vs. Life Insurance

Never inform your children you have life insurance.  They will find creative ways to do you in. 

My sweet son, Robby, visited me for two weeks while Doug was away working.  During this period he discovered I  had a life insurance policy.  He then declared he needed to help me with the many outside chores.  Robby referred to this as "slave labor."  But I know he was really trying to kill me to get to the life insurance.

Robby hopped on the zero turn radius riding lawn mower. "Be careful," I warned.  "Since the drought last summer the ground has become like a washboard."  The sweet son smiled and pulled his sun glasses down.  I trotted off to pull some weeds.  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a blue streak.  Robby was zipping from one end of the property to the other.  His butt was bouncing so far off the seat, the motor was in danger of stalling.  I feared Robby would soar off as he whipped around the turns.  Then I saw him doing 360's in Doug's precious grass.  My heart felt weak.

Three hours later Robby was done mowing the lawn.  (It takes me a day and a half.)  "Hey mom!"  Robby yelled.  "Where's the chain saw?"  Oh no!  His next slave labor project (aka get mom to have a heart attack) was to cut down as many dead pine trees as possible.  And we have a gazillion.

Robby cut and I loaded the branches on the trailer.  He was making my heart weaker.  Every now and then he would yell. "Sh--!, F---!," or "Oh My God!  That was almost my finger!" 

He devised many heart stopping ways to cut down trees.  Like this.

And this.

And this!

While you're at it, why cut the tree up, when you can carry it to the burn pit?

Seeing that my ticker was still ticking, Robby insisted we go to town and buy a sledge hammer.  He was going to smash the many concrete monstrosities Doug wants gone around  here.  I envisioned flying concrete embedding themselves in my handsome son's body. 

While no pieces flew where they shouldn't have, Robby didn't make the pieces very small either.  He pushed the gigantic chunks to the burn pit.  Grunting and groaning and cussing all the way.  I was positive we would be making a trip to the ER for a hernia repair.  Or a heart replacement for me.   

At the end of the two weeks, I was still chugging along-barely.  Robby commented that he would bill me for his slave labor.  But, I know he was really thinking, "Damn!  My mother's going to be around until her 90's like the rest of her relatives." 

Ode To My Lawnmower

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

I ride you in the grass and then you die.

You make me want to cry!

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

I tinker with you so you'll run.

You turn my fingernails black, I wish I had a gun!

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

I try start you, you don't even click.

I think I'm going to be sick!

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

A divorce is coming between you and I.

I'm giving a green one a try!

Escapees

There is a trick to herding cows.  My observations are they do it differently in the South as opposed to the Midwest.

Doug's beach bum sister and her accountant husband own many acres in south Florida.  The natural thing to do with it is to purchase livestock.  Cows are cute and smart.  Why not buy three of those?

Makes sense to me.  Except I guess you have to check to make sure they have a tail and are not pregnant.  While baby cows are cute too, they are a bit skittish. 

My photo hound husband was sneaking up on the sleeping baby cow with camera in hand.  A tap-tap to the rump and baby was awake and darting across the field through the barb wire fence.  Pointed wire obviously does not slow down baby cows.

His sister knew how to get baby back on the right side of the fence.  Just call it.  "Here cow, cow, cow.  Here cow, cow, cow."  We waited while baby ambled further into the neighbor's field. 

She hollered at her son, "Bring the cow's ball.  We'll throw it and baby will chase it on this side of the fence."  Wow!  She has a dog-cow. 

Thirty-three throws later, her arm was sore and the cow was happily munching grass under the neighbor's tree.  "Just leave it," reasoned her husband.  "He'll come back through the barb wire tonight."

His sister and her family scuffed into the house.  That's when Doug, Nicole, Candace, and myself got to work.  I can not tell you how we got baby to the right side of the fence.  But I can assure you no cows were harmed in the process. 

Midwesterners are real cowboys.  I experienced an escaped cow round up on my way home the other evening. 

A truck in front of me was driving at a snails pace with it's emergency lights on.  I noticed another truck about a half mile ahead on the hill stopped with it's emergency lights on also.  Then I saw them.  Four escaped convict cows being herded by a madman (I mean angry!) on a four wheeler. 

The four wheeler was chasing those cows toward the pen a half mile away.  The cows stampeded  from one side of the road to the other.  The madman zigzagged behind them, losing traction in the fresh mud. 

The cows darted down the stream by the road.  I noticed a girl in grass up to her waist waving her arms and yelling at the cows. (No, she was not yelling "cow, cow.")  As the cows turned around she bobbed through the grass after them. 

Back on the road the four wheeler resumed it's quest to the pen.  Other people appeared out of the grass by the side of the road to cheer someone on.  The madman or the cows?  I wasn't sure.  But the cows stomped by them and the madman slung mud on them as he continued his weaving down the road. 

Twenty-two minutes later the cows were back in the pen.  I could now drive by the weary mud covered group.  The madman was letting a fence post hold him up.  The girl from the grass was removing her boots.  I think she should have had waders instead.  Her blue jeans were black and stiff with mud way past her knees.   

The cows were gazing down the road where they had come from.  They had escaped to the nearby hog confinement.  It must have been some party there that lasted until the cows came home. 

Drag Queen

When people find out I was a preschool teacher, I become the go-to babysitter for all kinds of things.

"Will you watch my house?" 

"Of course."  I guess chasing ten little imps around for three hours a day makes me trustworthy.  It is great fun to see other people's decorating taste.  I have only one question-Why a deer head in the dining room?  I don't want a head watching me devour the rest of his body.

Then there's the, "Can you watch my dog?"

This is a little more up my alley.  Dogs.  Kids.  They are basically the same.  Give orders.  Feed on a regular basis.  Clean up poop.  No problem.

I watched my cousin's dog for a weekend.  He ran off on walks.  Ran around the property without supervision.  Slept outside in his kennel.  He was like having a teenager.

My Uncle's dog stayed with me for two months.  (My 95 year old uncle, who lives alone, was recovering from a broken leg.  He is now fine and back out on the farm.)  She could make pitiful eyes like my preschoolers.  Her ears needed scratching every day.  We walked every day. (  Yes, even when it was 3 below zero.  I froze my nose off.  Don't know why it couldn't have been some of my butt.)  The dog demanded people food with those eyes.  Doug had to share his spaghetti.  He hasn't forgiven me yet. 

In San Diego I had an exceptional student, Julia.  We have known her family for about twenty years.  She was the apple of my eye.  (I once asked her if she knew how to blow her nose. As I was grabbing a tissue for her, she replied "Yea."  Snot was snorted in a three foot radius.) 

I understood why her father, J.R., asked me to babysit his new baby.  (Sorry, Julia, you are no longer your Daddy's baby.  But I will still claim you.)  I am responsible, quiet, and trustworthy.  He left me with his candy red '68 convertible Camaro.  It must be exercised every week.  Gotta blow all the junk out of the carburetor you know.  It can go from zero to seventy in 3.2 seconds.  This baby beats all the sports cars in the neighboring towns.

The Camaro will only be with me for two more years.  I should be able to claim the unofficial drag racing queen trophy by then.  Thanks J.R. for making me famous.

Hide and Seek

Mother nature has a sick sense of humor.  I'm not sure I appreciate it.

I awoke early on April 1st.  April Fools Day is my favorite day of the year.  It's the only day I can trick anyone and everyone and not get back lash from it.  I yanked open the dining room blinds and was promptly blinded.  Stark white snow covered every inch of the ground. My butt hit the chair as my mouth dropped open.  I know Mother Nature was watching and laughing hysterically.

Now I love winter and snow.  But this has been a long cold winter for this southern girl.  I took a few deep breaths and thought, "Mother Nature I can roll with this."  I pulled on my snow pants and parka and headed outside to snap some pictures. 

Signs of spring were appearing everywhere.  The plump robins had returned to search for worms.   Tulips were starting to push their green leaves through the frozen winter soil.  I could hunker down and survive a couple more days of winter.  After all I had an extended vacation planned  in sunny southern California.

The flannel sheets were striped off the bed to be replaced with cool silky summer sheets.  Snow pants and parkas were laundered and folded away in the trunk.  Light weight jackets and wind breakers were hung in the closet with care.  Tea bags were replaced with instant tea.  I dumped the stale ice that had been lounging in the ice maker since September.  By the time I got home from California the ice would be fresh for sun tea and warm weather would flood every crevice of my life.

Seventeen days later I returned home to warmer weather.  We hauled Doug's precious lawn mower in for the annual exam.  I scaled the ladder and spent a week pruning our six apple trees.  Doug began the laborious task of deweeding some of the flower and vegetable beds.  (He has to get in there before me to desnake it too!)

Then it happened.

May first, forty two days after the first official day of spring, it snowed!  It snowed five inches!  Being the neat and orderly people that we are, we had put the snow shovels in hibernation in the potting shed.  The snow kindly drifted on the potting shed door so we couldn't open it.  This was not a light, fluffy worthless snow.  It was wet and heavy and good for making snowmen snow.  But it was spring.  Not time for making snowmen.  

My tulips had bloomed and were snow covered.  The asparagus and rhubarb that were popping back to life had to have a blanket.  We bailed our mower out of the lawn mower doctor store, but we couldn't help all the other mowers sitting outside in the snow waiting for a home. 

"Alle alle achts und frei!"  Mother Nature please bring spring out of hiding!

Where's My Whiskey?

The whiskey bottle is missing.  But I don't think it really existed anyway.

I have an elderly aunt in a nursing home.  A very homey nursing home.  There is a dog and cat who can be found snoozing with a resident.  Birds flitter about in an aviary.   Residents are taken out on van rides around the countryside to watch the corn grow.  They play bingo several times a week.  Everyone wins.  The residents go back to their room with a prize; a banana, some crackers, a beanie baby.  The staff are all

kind and thoughtful.   But my aunt has one problem.  Someone has taken her whiskey bottle!

My aunt is a wonderful woman.  But her short term memory is...well,short.  She can tell you a story from eighty years ago in vivid detail.  But some days has no memory of who visited her yesterday. 

One visit after telling me about the pet raccoon she kept in the house seventy years ago, she preceded to complain that someone had stolen her whiskey bottle.  It was gone.  She couldn't find it anywhere.  She instructed me to go out to the grocery store.  No, maybe the grocery store didn't sell whiskey.  I should find a liquor store in a larger town.  Her town's population is only 779.  They do have a gnat of a grocery store, but liquor is not on their shelves.

I interrupted her ramblings.  "Auntie, I don't think you are allowed to have whiskey in here."

Her face grew solemn as she thought.  "We can hide it under my underpants.  No one has to know I have it."

I tried to reason with her.  "They will find it when they put your clean clothes away."

Then in walked the nurse.  This ninety-four year old lady moved faster than a run away truck.  She yanked open the bottom drawer of her night stand and pulled out a wrinkled brown bag.  Shoving the bag under the nurse's nose she complained, "Someone stole my bottle of whiskey.  This is the empty one!"

To my utter astonishment, an empty bottle of whiskey dropped out of the bag!  OMG!  Were they going to expel my aunt from the nursing home?

The nurse patiently picked up the bottle and said to my aunt, "Remember we had to take the full one and lock it up.  Let us know when you want it and we'll bring it down to you."

I managed to stutter, "You mean she really has a whiskey bottle here?"

"Oh yes," said the nurse.  "Many of our residents have alcohol.  By law we have to lock it up.  Lots of them will have drinks with their guests that visit."

The mystery of the missing whiskey bottle has been solved.  It did exist.  My only concern now was why my aunt had never offered a drink to me, her favorite niece?  And by the way, I want my children to know that when I am elderly I am going to live with each of them for five months at a time.  That way I can be at a different house for Christmas each year.  But when I am tired of moving around, I want to live in the nursing home with the missing whiskey bottle.