Santa's on the Naughty List

It's the most wonderful time of the year.  It's the time of the year when children flock to see Santa. Their heartfelt wishes are whispered into the jolly man's ear hoping Christmas morning brings life to these wishes.  I wanted something from Santa.  I thought only he could make this wish come true.  I sought out good ole St. Nicholas at a neighboring town's library one chilly December morning.

I marched into the library on my mission to find Santa Claus.  The children's section of the library had been turned into a homey North Pole.  There were books of course.  Comfy chairs, couches, and pillows dotted the room.  A Christmas tree glowed in the corner with presents scattered under it's green branches.  Sitting under the Christmas tree was the cutest, smallest Santa I had ever seen.  He was surrounded by larger elfs.

"If I have to sit on this Santa's lap he's going to end up being the first flat Santa," I thought.

As I turned I spied a grand red chair filled with the adult Santa.  A man was climbing onto his lap.  Perhaps this was the oldest man to ever sit on Santa's lap.  He was 98 and had a wish for the jolly red clad man.  This 98 year old was also my uncle.

I heard my uncle  quietly and politely ask Santa for a new car.  He went on to explain that his daughter was driving his old car.  A huge deer, not one of your reindeer my uncle clarified, darted across the road.  His daughter slammed into the unfortunate deer.  Luckily no human was injured, but but the old car was a total loss.

"So you see, Santa, I really need a new car,"  my uncle concluded.

"Ho, Ho, Ho!" Santa exclaimed.  "You can't have a car.  You don't even drive.  You get a trike!"

What kind of Santa was this?  He would deprive a  spry 98 year old man of his Christmas wish?

It was my turn to plunk myself in Santa's lap.

"Santa, I only want one thing for Christmas.  Snow!"

I held my breath while Santa contemplated this.

"Ho, Ho, Ho!  I can't do that.  Merry Christmas!"

Merry Christmas?  No snow?  This Santa needed to be on someone's naughty list.

I stumbled over to the couch where my uncle and cousin sat.  Near tears, I told my cousin that red guy over there wouldn't give me snow.  Or give her dad a new car.

My cousin, always sticking up for people, whipped her head towards Santa and hollered, "Norris!"

Norris?  This was not the real Santa.  This was my cousin's husband.  He was a Santa fake!

Santa, I mean Norris, looked at us.  "Ho, Ho, Ho."

I have since written a letter to the real Santa at the North Pole.  I see snow is a possibility for the day before Christmas.  I will take what ever white he sends.  Then I will call Norris to say that the genuine Santa really does listen. 

I wonder what kind of car my uncle will find outside his door on Christmas?

Merry Christmas to all my readers.  Love those around you, eat lots, and throw a snow ball! 

P.S.  My letter to the "real" Santa worked!  We had a beautiful white Christmas with snow men and everything!  I suppose I should have put my uncle's request for a new car in also.  That will be next years' letter.

Thanks for the Memories

Death is a funny thing.  By funny, I mean memories.  Death seems to dig around and find amusing experiences that have been closeted in our brain.  The loss of Doug and my parents in such a short span have opened some doors in my mind.  The memories that have flooded out have made me smile and laugh.

My father was known by most as a prankster.  My mother had to endure years of rubber snakes tucked under her sheets waiting for the moment as she flipped back the covers.  Dad was rewarded with a shout and a curse of "Bob Shannon!"  Neighbors were not immune to the snake either.  The next door neighbor, Paul, and Dad tried to startle each other for years with that darn snake.  In fact the neighbor was often a brunt of my father's jokes.

My thoughtful sister had given our father a combination radio, flash light and siren in case of a hurricane.  Dad found other uses for this.  Paul had just purchased a shiny new car with the latest and greatest car alarm.  Poised behind his fence Dad waited for Paul to arrive home with his new vehicle.  Just as Paul opened the door to his house Dad sounded the siren.  Thinking it was his car alarm, Paul raced back to his car only to have the alarm cease it's blaring.  This happened three more times before Paul caught on, "Bob Shannon!  Where are you?"

My parents had problems with opossums in their yard.  They would trap them and release them in the country.  My young children thought these opossums in the cage were fascinating.  What do you do with visiting grandchildren that like your opossums?  Why take them opossum hunting of course!

The children were each given something to swat the opossum when they found one.  One had a bat.  One had a broom.  And the other one was given the privilege of using my long forgotten baton.  They trudged off to the back yard with my father in the lead.  My mother and I stood by the back door.  Giggles were erupting in our throats.  Slowly around the shed they crept with weapons cocked and ready.  All at once the trio of children raced screaming back to the safety of the house yelling, "I heard it!  I heard it!"  My son even professed to have seen the opossum and it was a big one.

This sent my mother into fits of laughter.  Her face contorted and belly laughter spilled out until tears ran down her legs!  You see opossums do not go "EEK."  Unbeknownst to my children, my sister had hidden in the shed.  She banged the inside of the shed and screeched "opossum" noises.

Growing up my mother had a special set of silverware only she used.  I never inquired where she got her treasured utensils.  I wish I had.  Occasionally one of my sisters or I would accidentally grab her fork or spoon for a quick taste of something.  Once the food was rolling around our mouths and our eyes spotted mother's silverware, we made a quick beeline to the trash can.  Eating with her fork or spoon made the food taste like dirt.  My mother would stand by with a knowing look in her eye.  This was the one thing she did not have to share with anyone.  To this day I wonder how she managed to make us believe food tasted rotten with her prized fork and spoon.

My parents played cards.  They had card parties with several couples and card tables scattered around the house.  When Doug became part of the family he was initiated into playing cards. He did not grow up playing games.  My father took him under his wing to teach him the finer points of a card game called Pitch.

You must make a bid in a suit hoping your partner has cards in their hands to help you out. My mother and I were partners leaving Dad and Doug together.  Mistake.  What my Dad taught Doug was how to cheat!  Dad would throw his hand over his heart and proclaim, "My heart hurts." or "I need to get a club for that opossum in the yard."  This would get Doug energized, "Gee Dad, your diamond ring is sparkling tonight."

Doug and Dad had many conversations out on the patio.  I believe Dad was passing on his love of lawn mowing.  Doug did love to mow the lawn! He mowed in the heat of the summer. He mowed leaves all during the fall.  Spring came and he mowed as soon as the snow melted.  Doug did not mow in the winter.  I locked the mower up.  Can't have the neighbors talking too much about the obsessive lawn guy down the road.

My father was not the only one to pull pranks.  Naval aviators have formal dinners called Dining Outs.  These functions were in full Navy dress uniforms and wives in fancy formal dresses.  It also came a Master of Ceremony who made up rules and dished out fines. Before these functions Doug plotted his antics.

He was known to sneak into the banquet hall hours before the event began and sew some poor unsuspecting pilot's silverware to the the table cloth.  The pizza man would be hired by Doug to deliver a pizza to someone other than Doug during the expansive meal.  These jokes caused poor unsuspecting souls a fine.  The fines were normally contributed to a charity.  Or to the bar at the end of the night.  Same thing-sort of.

All these silly memories and more creep into my mind at unexpected moments.  I am blessed to live in a house and community that these three special people loved.  My parents still referred to Iowa as home.  The first day Doug and I arrived for our new life in Iowa, he knew it was his forever home.  I will continue to live and love here.  So when the rumor comes around that I am going to California for the winter or Texas to live-shoot it down.  I am here to stay!

False Advertising

I have been away from our peaceful gravel road home for a few weeks now.  I have noticed some strange phenomenons while cruising around northeastern Florida.

Every day, every non-rainy day, a couple down the street walk their dog.  While this may sound normal to you, the manner in which this dog is being walked is a bit odd.

I first spied this couple as I drove down the street.  They were an elderly couple out for a stroll pushing a walker with a seat.  "Awww," I thought.  "They are out enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.  If they get winded they can take a rest in the walker.  Smart people."

It was only as I passed the couple I realized this was not what they were doing at all.  Yes, they were out for a stroll.  But the walker was not intended for a rest.  It was for pushing their tail wagging, tongue lolling dog!

"Maybe this is a one day thing for the dog," I considered.  Yet every day before supper time they push that happy dog down the street.  He sits proudly on his seat grinning from dog ear to dog ear.

Another day Doug and I were driving to the hospital when a cow passed us.

"Doug!  Did you see that cow driving down the road?" I exclaimed.

"No, I did not."  He reached over to feel my forehead.

A few miles later we caught up with the imaginary car.  It was really a van painted brown and white like a cow that might be found in the field by our house.  However protruding on the roof was a set of large Texas Longhorns.

I wondered, "Why?"  Did this person want to be a cow in another life?  I do not understand this.  Now becoming a cat in another life would make good sense.

Water is everywhere here in northeastern Florida-the ocean, lakes, rivers.  People here love their boats.  Boats are a common sight in and out of the water.  They can be spotted zooming down rivers, towed down the road, and abandoned in front yards.  When I spotted a lone boat motor I was confused.

"Doug, look!  There is a motor on a stick in front of that house."

We pulled over and examined the lollipop motor.  It was actually the home's mail box. Someone had taken the time to gut the interior of the motor.  They cut a door.  Installed a flag and called it their mail box.

I have come to the conclusion that Florida has false advertising.  The bottom of a Florida license plate reads; "Sunshine State."  I have yet to see that yellow ball of fire.  It sprinkles.  It pours.  Thunder rolls around like a ping-pong ball batted during an intense game.  Just today we were having a peaceful lunch out with Doug's mother when the skies opened up and rain spilled out at an alarming rate.  Our truck was blocks away.  We dashed from store front to store front keeping as dry as possible.  However there was no way to keep our toes, feet, and shins dry when crossing the street.  Water was standing as high as car doors in the street.

These unusual sights have kept me amused.  I wonder what other things I will find in the days to come.  One thing is for sure.  It reminds me I live in a "normal" part of the world.  However, normal is just a cycle on the washing machine.
 

Red, White, and Boom!

It was the Fourth of July and time for a parade and a shindig with my extended family.

The day started just after noon as I picked up my 97 year old uncle.  We headed to meet my cousins and go to the annual small town parade.  I'm getting used to these celebrations.  The flying candy, tractors of every color (This year there was a pink International tractor!), and local fire departments hosing down the parched children make for a homey parade.  I felt cheated this year.  There were no squeaky clean manure spreaders proudly rolling down main street.

The next stop was my cousin Pat's house out in the county.  This is the hub of activity for the Fourth of July.  A freshly washed John Deere mower with an American flag waving in the wind greeted us at the end of the driveway.  The day was cloudless with a hint of warmth.  It was perfect for sitting outside munching on grilled hamburgers.

"Hey!" I exclaimed.  "This hamburger is great.  Maybe the best I've had."

Everyone peered at me and rolled their eyes.  "It's not a hamburger.  It's a pork burger.  This is Iowa."

O.K.  I've been here only three short years.  I'm still learning.  Besides I've never cooked a hamburger much less a pork burger in my life.

Pat's son and grandson were there with tons of fireworks.  Fireworks are illegal to buy in Iowa.  But we are so close to Nebraska and Missouri where one can purchase them every rural Iowan sets off some kind of boom and sparkle in celebration.  I'm not sure, however, that everyone has a trunk full with enough celebration to last all day.

Pat's ten year old grandson spent the day setting off everything from poppers to magnificent light displays in the sky.  The loud boomers were a favorite during the day.  They could be heard for miles echoing in the hills.  He then pulled out poppers.  This was a new experience for me.  I soon learned my uncle kept a large stash in his pockets.  He handed me a pack and provided guidance on the correct way to pop poppers.

It is all in the wrist.  Pull one off.  Flick it with your wrist to the ground.  You will be rewarded with a cap-gun like pop and a tiny bit of gunpowder smell.  While the grandson set fireworks off all day, the uncle popped poppers.  None of his were duds.  His technique was picture perfect.  I guess I need about forty more years to improve my technique.  I had lots of duds lying on the ground.

A hot-air balloon-like firework was lit.  Fire burned at the bottom lifting it up in the air and over the corn fields.  We were having a Forth of July celebration.  This balloon had jumped out of line.  It was a giant jack-o-lantern laughing all the way to...I really don't know where it ended up.  It didn't take but a few minutes for it to soar out of our vision.

There was something else quite peculiar going on.  Most people I know ignite their fireworks with a strike of a match.  Pat's grandson had larger ideas.  He used a blow torch.  A blow torch!  My face turned a pretty shade of blue many times that day waiting for him to stop, drop, and roll.  As that never happened, I'm guessing he was properly instructed in the safety of the fiery torch.  Next year perhaps I should be properly instructed on how not to watch the lighting of the pretty things in the sky.

As odd as a blow torch was, it was not the oddest thing that summer day.  Pat's daughter pulled in the driveway in a clown car.  Actually it was a clown van.  The vehicle was stuffed with her daughter and friends and all the things they thought they needed for an evening of sitting and watching fireworks.  The clown van's back hatch wouldn't even close.  She had driven ten miles down a pot-holed road with the back hatch fully open.  Amazingly nothing bumped out of the van and into following traffic.  We soon noticed the hood was properly secured either.  This had to be a clown van.  They came not only with unlatched car parts but loads of laughter.

Dusk arrived.  We pushed our chairs together as the grandson set the stage at the end of the driveway for the big finally of the evening.  We were not disappointed.  There were glittery fireworks, multicolored ones, heart shaped ones.  Our ears were treated to sizzles and booms.  Fifteen minutes of wonderful sensory overload.

The food was consumed, the trunk of the car was void of fireworks, it was time to head home.  Everyone and everything was crammed back in the clown van.  The back hatched was tied shut and the hood monkeyed with and slammed.  The uncle and I cruised past the town's fireworks display.  It did not compete with the show we had just witnessed.  And I know the company we were in was the finest around.  Thus ending another spectacular Fourth of July in the Iowa countryside. 


I have a new blog.  Check it out:
http://proverbsandcancer.blogspot.com/2015/08/it-was-just-cough.html

Aliens on Our Road!

Doug and I moved to Iowa and our children thought we had lost our minds.  "What are you going to do for excitement in the middle of nowhere?" they inquired.  There are fun things to keep one entertained here in the country.  But yesterday there was excitement right down our road.

I had headed out early for my morning walk.  I could hear the whop-whopp of a helicopter in the distance.  As I came over the hill I spotted it.  The crop dusting helicopter was flying low over a soybean field.   He pulled up and soared towards the sky like an eagle only to quickly dip down again like a famished sea gull after a piece of bread.

I whipped out my cell phone to call my trusty helicopter flying husband knowing he would want to jump in the truck and take pictures.  I figured he could pick me up and I would ride along.  Some air conditioning sounded really good.

We followed the aircraft across the river.  Of course by then the helicopter decided to spray the other side of the river.  Doug turned the truck around and hit the gas.  By the time we were back where we started the helicopter was a spot in the horizon and the support truck was kicking up dust on the gravel road.

Defeated we headed for home.  That's when we found the real excitement.  There on our gravel road was the support truck and trailer in the ditch.  The truck was wedged flush against the ditch with the trailer sitting cock-eyed to the road.  Crawling out of the passenger side window was a young man.

Doug, the fireman, rushed to the accident.  After assessing the situation, Doug hollered to me, "You do not need to call 911.  There is no blood."  Which was code for the guy was OK and I could get out of the truck.

The young man was visibly shaken up, but unharmed.  He was more concerned about the brand new Ford duelly with only 4000 miles on it and the support trailer.  The trailer was duel purposed.  The landing pad for the helicopter was a small platform attached to the top of the trailer.  Under it held insecticide and gas and goodness knows what other kinds of toxic and flammable materials.  He was also worried about how the owner of the company would take the news.  Oh, the owner was his dad.

The young man was not bleeding but shaking like a dancing panda.  "Are you sure you're OK?" Doug asked.

The next words out of this man's mouth made me take two and half steps back.  I think he was an alien.  The young man replied, "Yes Sir."

The standard Iowa reply would be "Yup."  I tiptoed to the back of the truck to steal a look at the license plate.  It confirmed my suspicions.  This guy was an alien!  His license plate was from Texas.

We continued to assess his health as my cousin came by on his small tractor.  "Everyone OK?  Man he must have been going fast."

"Yup."  Doug and I answered.  (We have been Iowan's for three years now.  We knew the lingo.)

A few minutes later the mailman stopped by.  "Everyone OK?  He must have been going too fast."

Then a lady I had not meet yet came walking down from her house up the road.  I knew I would like this lady.  There were several kittens that scurried around her house.  She was smart enough not to mention the young man was obviously going too fast.

Soon the accident scene was a hubbub of farmers.  All of which said to this shaken up young man, "You were going too fast."

I think by this time he had probably figured that out.

Four farmers came and had the situation assessed in minutes.  They then sped off in their respective trucks and a John Deere gator only to return with massive chains, a large green tractor and a pay-loader.  (So I called the pay-loader a scoopie thing.  I was corrected.)

The tractor chained itself to the trailer while the pay-loader lifted.  Within minutes the trailer was loose.  It disappeared down the road to the neighbors farm.  The farmer was kind enough to get it off the road.

The pay-loader was not finished with his job.  Chains were secured to the truck and little by creaking little the truck was pulled from the ditch.  The young man was confident he would be able to drive this new dented up truck back to Texas.  I had my doubts when I saw black gold running out of his engine.  Then I heard something about a tire rod going clean through the engine.  I think "totaled" is the word everyone was whispering.

About that time the helicopter pilot showed up in his truck.  I spied his license plate.  It also said Texas.  However his truck was not a duelly.  When you cross the border into Texas I think it is the law all trucks must be duellies and you must have a Texas flag.  Duelly or no duelly he was an alien also.  I stayed four feet away.

We heard clank, clank, clank in the distance from the farm where the trailer was towed.  It sounded like dwarfs working in a Disney movie.  The clanking was actually the farmers working to try and repair the trailer.

And the guy with the scoopie thing, I mean pay-loader, must have a cape in his closet.  He rescued me last winter from being snowed in for half a year.

This is Iowa.  Things happen that we don't expect.  Iowan's step up to the plate and help where ever and whenever they can.  Even if they do not know you and will never see your alien face again.  Doug and I are proud to call ourselves Iowans.  Maybe one day we'll have a tractor and return some favors and rescue someone.

Oh My! Babies!

A couple of posts ago I welcomed Willie and Raul to our happy spot in the country.  Willie came by for a visit.  When he heard of Doug's impending return, he moved as advised.  Raul, however, had other ideas.

I had just crawled out of bed when Doug, the early riser, yelled to me.  "Come quick!  You've got to see this."  It was first thing in the morning.  I didn't think I needed to see anything but my cup of tea.

Outside the dining room window was Rafaela, aka Raul, inching down a large oak tree.  Her mouth held precious cargo-a baby raccoon.  Raul was a she.  A she with babies!

Rafaela toted the baby across the driveway and under my potting shed.  Then she popped out and scaled the oak tree again.  She shimmed into a hole where we lost a branch last summer.  Doug and I waited breathlessly to see if there was another baby.  Sure enough Rafaela snagged another and began her long journey down the tree.

She didn't back down like I would have if I had my mouth full of squirming fur.  Head first was her choice.  About 100 feet from the ground Rafaela lost her footing and tumbled to the hard ground below.

I knew, just knew, she was dead.  Doug was going to have to crawl under the potting shed to retrieve the first baby.  We were going to become raccoon mommy and daddy.  Once again we would be up at all hours of the night giving our twins bottles and changing diapers.  Well, cleaning up poop at any rate.

But Rafaela shook off the fall and picked up stunned baby.  She deposited baby number two under the shed and returned to the hole. 

"Here she comes with baby number three!"  Doug exclaimed practically jumping up and down.

Behind her was an awful racket.  Baby number four had crawled out of the hole with no supervision and started up a long thin branch.  He was screeching up a storm.  I suppose I would too if I was the last child left in a hollow tree that is probably infested with bugs.

Rafaela gave baby number four a look.  You know the looks all mothers give when they are ready to clang their child over the head.  She meticulously carried baby number three (which I'm sure had a sopping wet neck by now) back to the hole.  Rafaela emerged baby-less and began the steep trek up to where the naughty child stood squawking.  Baby number four was snatched from his particularly small branch.  I don't think Rafaela was too pleased with her baby.  She did not carry him by his scruff back to the hole.  He latched onto his neck rather tightly and tossed him into the dark buggy tree home.

Mother disappeared behind the mischievous child.  Several minutes later she climbed out with her mouth full of baby.  I wonder what she was doing for those long minutes in the hole.  Do mommy raccoons spank their babies?  I have no doubt baby got a scolding at the least.

Four times Rafaela carried her cute as a button babies down the tree.  They were now safely housed under the potting shed.  Doug and I wondered what their next adventure would be.  Our game camera was promptly staged in front of the potting shed.  We would become raccoon spies.

We were surprised spies!  Rafaela must have been up and about earlier than Doug on baby moving day.  The game camera showed five babies tagging after Rafaela in the dead of the night.  They were prancing after their mother like my preschool children on a line rope.

A few weeks have gone by since under the potting shed became "Home Sweet Home" to Rafaela and her clan.  Sadly they have moved onto larger spaces away from our homestead.  But we now have a new little black kitty outside.  There always seems to be some wildlife to watch and ponder about on our sweet spot in the Iowa countryside.




Speaking of babies.  As only a future Mother-in-Law can hope for.  Congratulations to our daughter, Nicole, and her new fiance, Jon.  Jon welcome to the family!  You do realize we come with the package.
Brew-ha-ha-ha!!

   
 

Spin the Bottle

I had adamantly declared I was not going to go anywhere the summer of 2015.  I was staying home to pull weeds and pet cats.  Doug whined and did some arm twisting.  I found myself riding shot gun with him on a  four day tour of Iowa.  He called it the "Spin the Bottle Trip."

Armed with an Iowa map, Iowa Travel Guide, a directory of Iowa's Best Ma & Pa Restaurants, two bottles of water, and pictures of the cats (in case I forgot what they looked like) we pulled onto the gravel road.  Our intentions were to steer clear of interstates.  We were looking for two lane roads with interesting sights.

We traveled north through Ida Grove.  The architecture there was not the typical Iowa made in the late 1800's, but a surprising medieval flare.  There were castles and moats.  Shopping centers were designed with turrets.  I huddled in my seat expecting an armored knight to appear with his lance thrusting in my direction.  Luckily Ida Grove was a quick drive through.

Our first stop was in LeMars, the Ice Cream Capital of the World.  We were traveling with no children so ice cream for lunch was on the menu.  It was 2:00 and our stomachs were protesting loudly as we hurried into the Well's Blue Bunny ice cream shop.  We bellied up to the bar as a fresh faced teenager produced menus for us.  A three page menu.  So many ice cream choices-sundaes, cones, shakes, parfaits...   Doug opted for a strawberry shake.  We watched as real strawberries were scooped into the silver glass.  Always watching my figure I opted for a single scoop Bunny Tracks cone.  It arrived sitting daintily in crystal glass.  There was nothing dainty about the scoop.  It was a full meal.  We couldn't pass up the bunny shaped sugar cookie either.  Yum!

LeMars has 55 statues of ice cream cones over 5 feet tall.  We meandered around town searching for some.  Each was different and had noteworthy sayings pertaining to the building they were representing.

The two lane road next took us to Okoboji-Iowa's Great Lakes.  Being a virgin canoeist we thought this would be a beautiful place to break me in.  I cinched every notch in my life vest to the fullest, "I'll never breathe again," while explaining to Doug what will happen to him if I get dumped out of the canoe.

It was a peaceful paddle.  Trees soared over the water providing cool from the sun.  Boats of all sizes were docked at the water's edge.  Many had excited children jumping into the water.  Their carefree chatter carried around the lake.  Mother and Father ducks and geese paraded their babies by the tall reed grass.

The next morning the bottle pointed us in the direction of Clear Lake.  We hiked to pay our respects to Buddy Holiday at the memorial in the middle of a soy bean field.  In the town of Clear Lake we visited the Surf Ball Room, the last gig for Buddy Holiday.  Inside is a small museum for Buddy Holiday and all the entertainers that played there over the seventy years.  It was easy to imagine couples dancing and laughing on that cold February night of the plane crash.

Once again our stomachs were rumbling.  We dug out our Favorite Ma & Pa Iowa Restaurants book and headed to Starboard Market.  I think this was a mistake.  There were too many mouthwatering choices for sandwiches and salads.  Then I turned around and saw the spread of bars and cookies!  Doug would not let me have dessert only for lunch two days in a row.  Party Pooper!  We took our over-stuffed sandwiches, salads and bars (I was holding those just in case Doug had any ideas about being too full.) to the nearby park on the lake.  It was a cloudless day with colorful sail boats drifting by on the glassy water.

We pointed the truck towards the Mississippi river.  That's when I saw it!  I knew all good things came from Iowa and this confirmed it.  Reindeer!  A whole herd of them standing up to gawk at us as we creeped by with our cameras.  Behind the pens was a red house.  I knew, just knew, Santa came from Iowa!  I'm not sure how to explain the John Deere mail box.

We spent the night at a homey Bed and Breakfast nestled in the valley of the Mississippi.  We had a hearty Midwest breakfast with a couple touring Iowa from North Carolina.  They had also had ice cream for lunch in LeMars the day before.  We headed up to Pike's Peak to hike and check out the view.  And what a view!  Majestic trees stretched for the sky while the mighty Mississippi curled around them.  We could see Wisconsin and beyond.

Once again my stomach was talking to me.  We made our way to Dubuque.  My Louisiana friend, Esther, said we had to ride the cable car elevator.  It is the world's shortest, steepest scenic elevator. At the street below are many cute shops and eateries.  A word of warning if you ride the elevator-Do not move while the car is in motion!  This will stop the elevator in mid-transit and award you a scolding from the operator above.

Our stomachs were once again satisfied.  We looked for an outlet to work off lunch.  We stumbled across a State Park in Maquoketa.  The park boasted hiking trails and caves.  I told Doug, "I don't need to go traipsing through any caves.  Caves have bats and I can see those in our attic."  He assured me it would be more exciting than that.

And it was!

The day was sunny and warm.  The hiking trails were shady and cool.  We ambled down steps to the largest cave appropriately named Dance Hall Cave.  The cave was a refreshing 53 degrees.  Water trickled down the limestone formations and pooled around our feet.  There were no bats and no one was dancing in the cave but me.  The park held many different caves each with a marker signaling if it was a walk through cave or an explore on your knees cave.  The Rainy Day cave was marked with an explore on your knees cave, but was actually a walk-in cave.  I coaxed Doug in behind him.  He is however, about a foot taller than me.  That particular cave was more of a head banger for Doug.

A spin of the bottle landed us next in Iowa City.  We toured the Herbert Hoover Library and homestead.  While strolling the grounds we encountered the North Carolina couple from the Bed and Breakfast in McGregor.  Great minds must think alike.

We had another hearty lunch from our Ma & Pa restaurant guide and headed for home.  A quick scan of the map showed the Amana Colonies close enough to drive through.  I convinced Doug we should make a quick stop for dessert.   

While enjoying a scrumptious pastry the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.  The couple we met at the Bed and Breakfast from North Carolina appeared.  Were they stalking us?  Were they planning to find out where we live and kidnap the cats? 

Luckily that was not the case.  They were out enjoying the great state of Iowa just like we were.  There are many more interesting things to see and do in the state.  I'm sure Doug and I will take another "Spin the Bottle Trip."  Maybe next time he will let me bring the cats.  

Welcome Willie & Raul!

I have not always been a fan of spring.  Growing up in the south the flowers were perpetually in bloom, the grass was green on both sides of the fence, and leaves covered the trees all year.  I always thought spring was colder than it needed to be.  Living in Iowa for the past three years, I have come to realize the beauty of spring.

Winter departs slowly in Iowa.  This morning I awoke to a temperature of 28 degrees. While this may sound like huddle back under the covers and stay in bed weather, it's not. After months of zero and subzero temperatures, 28 with the sun radiating through the windows is quite pleasant.  This afternoon the mercury will rise to a balmy 55 degrees.  I can head out and mow the sprouting grass.

While I tootle around on the lawn mower, I can appreciate the beauty of the perennials poking through the winter brown dirt gracing it with color.  Green leaves are everywhere. Peonies are popping through with purple stems standing tall and proud.  Tulips are exploding with vibrant yellows, pinks, and red.  God, our painter, is using colors again!

Spring also brings visitors.  Peeking out from under one of our small sheds I spied a black nose. Shortly a brown furry body followed it.  Willie, the groundhog had awakened and stopped by for a visit.  He practiced his yoga, standing tall and stretching down.  The sun warmed him as he stretched out basking in its warmth.  Evening approached and I had to be the bearer of bad news to Willie.

"Willie," I hollered into his hole under the shed.  "You can't visit too much longer.  Doug will come home.  He says you are a menace.  He is going to find you someplace else to live. If you want to choose your own summer home you need to skedaddle."

I haven't seen Willie since.

There was a furry mass in our hundred plus maple tree.  Creeping outside, I wondered if bears had started to inhabit Iowa.  It was then I spied the black mask on the creature.  It was Raul, the raccoon. Raul caught sight of me and meticulously crawled his way up a branch.  He eventually nestled into a hole in the branch.  (A hollow branch strategically waiting a time when Doug is abroad to crash to the ground, leaving me to figure out how to clean it up.)   Raul peeked out at me.  He was too cute!

I explained to Raul that Doug said he could stay as long as he didn't get into any of our outbuildings.

Later, I peered into our hen house and saw signs of Raul visiting.  While there are actually no hens in the hen house, it is home to numerous boards and junk.  It appeared Raul had been in there flinging boards and making a general mess of it.

Raul has moved to another hollow tree between two other sheds.  (This tree is also biding time for Doug to leave and crash to the ground.)  I supposed he thought he could divert my attention from the untidy hen house if he lived away from it.

Really Raul?  Doug will notice within being home eight minutes that something is amiss.

Spring also brings babies.  They are the cutest babies ever!  Every spring one appears from under my potting shed.  He hippety-hops around munching on grass and tulips. Subconsciously I planted a few tulips close to the potting shed so the baby could have dessert. Baby bunny enjoys sunning himself in the cool grass by the shed.

Unfortunately I am not the only one enjoying watching baby bunny.  Snuggles has discovered baby bunny relaxing in the grass.  I warned her to stay away from "my" baby bunny.

Then tragedy hit.  I discovered Snuggles in the driveway with baby bunny's ear in her mouth!

I dashed outside in my stocking feet scolding Snuggles at the top of my lungs.  "Put baby bunny down.  Now!"

Baby bunny was doing the twist trying desperately to remove his ear from Snuggles teeth. I nabbed Snuggles by her scruff setting baby bunny free.  He was so disoriented he hopped in circles before darting across the yard and flying under the potting shed to safety.

Snuggles is now in spring time out in the garage.  She can have recess again when baby bunny is mature.

That's spring in Iowa.  I am going to head outside and take in the sights and smells of the season. Birds singing in harmony.  Crisp air scented with lilac.  Apple trees with thousands of pink buds swaying in the breeze.  Along the way I may see a critter or two.  I might have to take a few hundred more pictures of baby bunny.  And I will remember to wave at Snuggles as she gives me the evil eye from her perch in the garage window!

Man vs. Ass

My cousin, Pat, asked if I wanted to go see Donkey Basketball.  Donkey Basketball?  I had played a basketball game of "Horse" with my kids in which I usually got the pants beat off me.  I figured this was something of the same.

Our family filed into the high school gymnasium.  There were twelve of us.  The ages ranged from my 97 year old uncle down to my 5 year old fourth cousin.  Pat promised this would be hilarity for all ages.  I was skeptical.  While "Horse" was fun to play with my children, watching it may have been a little sleep inducing.

We sat on the bleachers watching the players warm up for the game.  They weren't doing the usual sink the basketball in the hoop warm up.  They were laughing, slapping each other on the back and pulling helmets on their heads.  Helmets?

Suddenly the side door popped open and in sauntered eight long eared, furry, real live donkeys.  My face was a mask of confusion.  Pat explained the teams had to ride the donkeys.

That explained the helmets.

The teams were announced.  It was the high school "Jocks" verses the "Firefighters".  The donkeys were introduced as well.  They had enlightening names such as Ex-lax and Hemorrhoid.  A city council woman was presented.  She was the clean-up crew.  Her weapons were a large shovel with a roll of toilet paper on the handle and a broom.  Bet she didn't see this coming when she was elected.

Rules were explained.  You must be on your donkey to pass the ball and to shoot.  You must be in contact with your donkey at all times.  Meaning you could get off and pull the donkey to pick up the ball.  Do not go behind your donkey.  He will kick.  It sounded easy enough.

A basketball roughly half the size of a regulation one was bounced to the ceiling signaling the beginning of the game.  Players perched atop their donkeys scrambled for the ball. Donkeys are not in a hurry, if they move at all.  A couple of jocks jumped off their donkeys attempting to pull their donkeys to the elusive ball.  Even the bulging muscles of the jocks couldn't inch the donkey forward. In fact Hemorrhoid was already tired of having a muscle bound male astride him.  Hemorrhoid put his head down and dumped the rider on the floor.

The game continued with some riders successfully coaxing their donkeys to the ball and making some passes to teammates.  However other donkeys were stubborn as, well, asses.  No amount of gentle kicking to their side or flapping of the reins would convince them to uproot themselves and go down the court.  The referee (the donkeys' owner) carried a thin stick which he would swat on the backside of the donkey.  The stubborn donkey would charge off down the court not bothering to stop where the rider demanded.

One firefighter was not a basketball player in his former life.  His passing was way off the mark.  He actually hit an unsuspecting donkey in the face.  This resulted in a technical foul that stopped the game.  The offending firefighter had to dismount from his donkey and apologize to the hurt donkey. As the game continued the same firefighter passed another ball into the face of an innocent donkey. Another apology was demanded as well as an apology kiss to the donkey's nose.

The laughs continued with riders struggling for minutes at a time to convince their donkeys to pick up their hooves and move.  While other riders spent the majority of their game dumped on the floor. One unfortunate rider was tossed to the floor losing his grip on the reins.  The donkey took off at break neck speed right out the door leading to freedom and fresh air.  The helmeted rider dashed after the donkey as well as two bystanders.  Eight minutes later the donkey was back in the game with the firefighter astride him.  I wondered if they were chasing the donkey the entire time or did both take an unseen rest?

What about the city council woman on poop detail?  Her shovel and broom were kept in constant use. Afternoon games are typically full of "waste."  She came out with a smile and shoveled.  At least the first few times.  By the end of the game I'm pretty sure she was gritting her teeth and keeping a clothes pin on her nose.

The final score of game was Jocks 12-Firefighters 8.  It is difficult to have a high scoring basketball game with a portion of the players flung to the floor every few minutes.  The players ended the game with smiles on their faces and I'm certain bruises on their bodies. We spectators had other problems. Our sides hurt from laughing too much.  I'm told that's exercise.  My kind of exercise.

If the opportunity presents itself to watch a Donkey basketball game, I would highly recommend it. If you ever have the chance to play in one, let me know.  I'll be sure to come get my exercise watching you.

I Know a Secret!

One more winter story because I know a secret and I'm about to blab!

While Doug was away it snowed.  A lot.  The wind had made maddening drifts preventing me from plowing my way out.  Doug arrived home with the snow drifts still intact.  It was this Florida boy's mission to teach me proper use of the snow plow.

I trudged behind Doug on the way to the shed more than a little put out that this southern boy thought he could teach this Texas girl the proper way to plow snow.  After all he hasn't been home for any measurable amounts of white glitter.  I had plowed my way to the road before.  This time our little Polaris just didn't have enough ump.

I had made the mistake of telling Doug I got the Polaris stuck while attempting to gain freedom.  I figured snow was like sand.  Growing up in south Texas I had been stuck in the sand many a sweltering afternoon.  Keep the wheel straight, go forward, back up, forward, back, keep the dumb wheel straight and eventually you are free.  (To be honest, years ago at the beach I would never attempt to unstick my Camaro myself.  I would hop out in my bikini and wait for muscular jocks to come by and push me out.  However, thirty years later if there were any males to drive by I have no doubt me in a bikini would cause a screaming, please poke my eyes out accident.  And it was 7 degrees outside.)

Doug's first lesson was twisting the blade.  "Yes, I do that," I snapped.  My nose was getting further out of joint by the second.

Climbing in the Polaris Doug continued to instruct me.  In his best teacher voice Doug grasped the gear shift explaining the reverse, neutral, high forward, and low forward.  I was sitting beside him humming "We're not going to take it Anymore" in my head.

Then it hit me.  He said low forward.  What is that?  He was already on to tires and traction.  I didn't dare ask.  I was supposed to be a rapt pupil.

We were now barreling our way out of the shed headed for the cement hip high snow drifts in front of his "man shed."  Doug plunged ahead only to be brick walled by the massive drift.  He threw the Polaris into reverse, and then shifted into low forward.  (Yes, this time I was paying attention.)  His foot stomped on the gas and we fish tailed our way through the impassable drift narrowing missing a lone standing pine tree.

"Stop!" I screamed.  I snatched the seat belt from its resting place behind me and clicked it securely around my body.

Rolling his eyes, Doug once again pounced on the accelerator of the Polaris.  We swerved side to side, tossing snow every which way.  The sea-sickening madness continued through the snow bank to inches from a small shed.

"Stop" I screamed again.

"What now?"  Doug groaned.

"Where is my bicycle helmet?  I think if I ride with you any more I may need it!"

Needless to say, I got out and Doug continued his lesson without his pupil.

Now on to the secret.

Later that day Doug decided to pull the trailer out to take his baby (the lawnmower, of course) to the lawnmower doctor to have it primed for spring.  I glanced out the window and saw the Polaris several feet in front of the shed door.  Doug was pulling around with the pick-up.  "Not unusual," I think. Until Doug comes in for the evening.

As he is peeling off his outdoor gear, he makes the comment he was awfully glad I was not out with him to help.  This is strange; he usually wants me to help with all sorts of cold jobs.

He begins to explain.  He, the Florida boy known for instructing in snow removal, had gotten the Polaris stuck in one of the impassible snow drifts.  Doug then preceded to sneak in the garage, back the pick-up out, and pull the Polaris out of the drift without me ever taking a picture.  He was sure if I had a picture it would end up a story in my blog.

Newsflash for my loving husband.  I do not need a picture to blog about it!

I suppose the moral of this story is:  No person hailing from the south really appreciates the power of snow until they have succumbed to its life stopping ability.

Know anyone with a tractor for sale?

Spring Has Sprung

Yesterday was March 20th, the official start of spring according to the calendar.  Without checking the calendar there are ways to know spring is in the air in western Iowa.

My first clue was two weeks ago as I was gazing at the bunnies hopping across the yard. A movement in the trees caught my attention. A bird was perched on a branch with its wings blow drying in the wind.  This was not just any bird.  It was a chubby red-breasted robin.  The first sign of spring!

Another sign of spring is the itchy hand syndrome.  Around the middle of March my palms become frigidity and itchy.  They long to be outside raking dried leaves and thousands of corn husks.  My fingernails start to beg for dirt to be packed deep into their depths.  My gardening gloves develop legs and position themselves on the outside step so I can trip on them.  I slip them onto my winter white hands assuring them it won't be long until we are digging in the earth again.

I was excited to see my tulips popping up yesterday.  How they knew it was March 20th is beyond me.  Pointy green leaves pierce the brown winter dirt giving it much needed color. I am eagerly awaiting all the tulips awakening.  Then I will probably say to myself, "Why did I plant tulip bulbs there?"

Living in the country a sure sign of spring are the farmers coming out of hibernation. Tractors start to rumble down the road lugging large clean implements behind them.  Pick-up trucks are spied in the middle of fields.  Farmers walk their land looking for...?  I really don't know what they search for. Maybe it's the itchy farmer syndrome.

This is a great time of year for a drive around the county.  Babies have arrived!  With the windows cranked down the soft bleat of baby lambs carry in the wind.  Fields are sprinkled with black baby calves kicking up their rear legs and playing games of tag.  I have yet to see a brown calf.  Or a spotted calf.  Or a white calf.  Not even a calf in Easter colors. Always black.

Every animal is thinking babies.  A friend whispered to me she has two stray female cats that she has been feeding on her back deck.  These homeless cats are about to have kittens.  Doug will be going back to work soon.  I wonder if I dare?

The most sure sign of spring at my house depends on our cat Snuggles.  Yesterday she played in the cool spring air.  She tore up a tree, cried  like she didn't know how to come down, then darted to the ground.  She smelled under out buildings and pine trees.  The spring wind blew her tail into a long puff ball.  But when she emerged from the ditch with a long garter snake dangling from her mouth, there was no doubt in my mind spring had made its arrival.

Five Amazing Aspects About My Gravel Road

Yes, there are numerous things to love about my gravel road.  Here are my top five.

1. Wal Mart.  Wal Mart is 25 miles away.  25 miles!  Our last residence in San Diego was directly across the street from Wal Mart.  They receive deliveries at 4:30. A.M.! My eyes would be pried open by the beep beeping of trucks backing into loading bays.  Cars squealed in and out of the parking lot at all hours of the night. While it was convenient to walk across the street to shop, it also lead to boredom shopping. Twenty five miles away is actually an ideal distance for a Wal Mart.
2. Seasons.  We are in the midst of winter.  Snow has been glittering on the ground. The temps have been below freezing which means I can don my thick sweaters and be cozy and warm. This morning there is a sheet of ice covering our cement driveway.  I didn't realize I would have an ice rink outside my own door!  Now I need to invest in ice skates.  Soon I will be tired of winter and spring will abound with green popping up in unexpected places.  Yes, unexpected because I can not remember where I planted the 47 tulip bulbs last fall.  On the heels of spring summer will arrive with corn standing tall and proud.  Windows will be thrown open to listen to the songs of doves, robins, blue jays, cardinals, and many more joining the chorus.  As I tire of summer, fall will sneak it's way in.  Canning and freezing from the garden will fill shelves and freezers.  Apples will be ripe and juicy for plucking off the trees.  Tractors will rumble past bringing the powdery smell of fresh combined corn.  There is always something new to be found with each season.
3. Livestock.  I can be outside on any given day and hear the crow of a far away rooster.  Cows dot the horizon giving life to harvested ground.  Cattle move in to be my neighbors for a few months during the fall and winter.  They stand as one and listen to everything I need to tell them.  Occasionally one or two will hop the fence for a more neighborly visit.  Cows are considerate too.  While roaming my side of the fence they always seem to stop and fertilize the garden.   
4. Community.  Wow!  Enough can not be said for the tight knit "how can I help you" people that live here.  Yes, there are eyes and ears on every electrical pole, but they are helpful caring eyes and ears.  People visit the shut ins, combine fields for ailing farmers, clear driveways for ignorant southern girls.  The community comes together to donate life saving blood.  (Don't forget the Irwin blood drive.  Monday, March 9th 11:00-5:00!)  I hope I am learning to contribute to this wonderful caring group of residents.
5. Snow.  I love snow.  Really!  Snow transforms the brown winter ground into a peaceful glittery oasis.  I don't mind shoveling snow.  Really!  It's exercise in the fresh air with birds keeping me company on the bird feeders.  I have only one complaint about snow and it's a personal problem.  I have no aim in throwing snow balls.  If anyone would like to volunteer to come stand around my place while I take target practice on them, I'll pay you in hot chocolate and a warm cookie.

I can see where my readers might be confused.  My last blog post was about the things I did not like about living on a gravel road.  The five examples were the same as the things I love about living here. These are the things I hear most from people who do not know the good life we have here.  "Doesn't it smell?"  "It's got to be too cold to get out of bed."  "Doesn't everyone know your business?"  Life is all about perception.  There can be good and bad in almost everything.  My parents once brought a Texas couple to visit their Iowa farmer friend.  The Texas couple stood in the farmer's back yard amazed at how beautiful it was.  The farmer said to himself, "All I could see was work!" 

Come visit my gravel road.  Doug and I will be happy to show you the beauty.  We'll take you to the Country Store for a cup of coffee.  You'll be welcomed by any number of neighborly people having their coffee and sharing life's stories.  There's always something to do to occupy our time.  Or we can just sit on the porch swing and wave at the trucks and tractors rumbling down the road.

I do have just one question burning in my mind.  Do cats count as livestock?

Five Bummers Living on a Gravel Road

Yes, there are things I do not love about living on a gravel road in the middle of nowhere.

1. Wal Mart.  Wal Mart is 25 miles away.  25 miles!  And it is a tiny Super Wal Mart.  If I want a mega sized Wal Mart I must drive for an entire hour there and back.  Two hours of my life wasted in the truck.  I need a list with no dumb blond moments. Forgetting something becomes a federal crime punishable by not having something important like bird seed.  No bird seed leads to angry birds who retaliate by decorating the house windows.
2. Seasons.  Winter gives presents of chapped lips and cracked, bleeding fingers. Spring brings mucky, slippery mud.  It cakes everything from boots, hems on blue jeans, to my rump as I fly down.  Summer arrives with bugs of all shapes and sizes. Some you can see others are called "No See Ums" for a reason.  Harvest arrives in the fall.  This means numerous tractors and big rigs roaring up and down the gravel road.  Dust rolls across the yard and sneaks into every crack this 115 year old house owns.
3. Livestock.  They stink.  Plain and simple.
4. Community.  Small towns have eyes and ears posted on every electrical pole and spots in between.  Every one in town knows Doug tried in vain to send his 27 year old daughter to her room.  I must not extend my ladder to it's full twelve feet extension while Doug is away. People I've never seen before yell at me as they cruise by, "Hey!  You're too high.  You're going to take a tumble."
5. Snow.  It's wet.  It's cold.  It's heavy to shovel.  Snow makes tires spin and cars do loop-d-loops.  It blows, giving the illusion of living in a snow globe.  A person could be trapped in their homes for weeks on end with only a cat for company.

These are my top five detrimental things about living on a gravel road.  Is there more I should add?

My Knight in Shining Green

I have been drumming my fingers against the frosty windows anxiously awaiting a snow fall amounting to more than "jam the truck in 4-wheel drive and drive over that white stuff." It finally happened.

Thursday evening the more experienced weather forecaster expected 1-3 inches of snow on Saturday. It would be pretty outside, but nothing out of the ordinary.  Friday morning the young intense forecaster predicted 5-8 inches of snow for the weekend.

I jumped off the couch whooping and hollering sending cats scurrying in all directions.  The kitchen was scanned for necessities-bread, milk, popcorn, and hot chocolate.  Books were dusted off.  The time had come to be snowed in!

The snow fell silently all day Saturday.  Sunday morning I was awakened by the shrill of the telephone.  (Yes Paul, you did wake me.)  No church today.  I was officially snowed bound.

The ground glistened like God had sprinkled millions of diamonds.  Wind blown snow swirled like icing on a frozen cake.  Inside was warm and toasty.  I had furry cats to warm my feet and vanilla flavored chocolate to warm my insides.

Monday morning reality hit.  I was snowed in.  Really snowed in.  The wind had howled all night. It's icy breath picked up snow and thrust it into drifts knee deep to hip high.  I would want to leave my house sometime before the Forth of July.

I put on my winter gear and forged through the drifts to the shed where my snow plow lay waiting for me.  I had the forethought to tote along the snow shovel.  The snow had to be shoveled away to slide the shed door open.  My frozen fingers turned the plow's ignition key.  The frigid snow plow coughed, sneezed, and shuddered but wouldn't come to life.

Great.  I trudged back down the hill to nab the 114 pound battery charger.  It had to have weighed at least that much.  Probably more.

Gasping and panting, I made it back up the hill and jumped the snow plow to life. I roared out of the shed lowering the steely blade.  Snow slowly parted for ten yards.  It was then the snow decided to become a brick wall.  Knee deep drifts has frozen in the overnight sub-zero temps.

There was no choice but to back the plow back in the shed.  I prayed the snow would melt before Memorial Day.

A couple hours later I was inside praying now that the snow would melt before Easter.  A green streak appeared in my peripheral vision.  I trotted to the window to find my Knight in shinning Green clearing the driveway.

I grabbed my parka and shoved my feet into snow boots.  By the time I was outside the green angel had cleared my way to freedom.

Justin, a neighbor climbed down from his lofty perch.  (He's not really a neighbor, but his grain bins are and his corn and sometimes his cattle.)  "Hey, I was just driving down the road and saw you might need a hand."

That was an understatement.  I was now free to go somewhere before Easter.  Justin you saved me from having to eat canned tuna for the next three months.

I have decided to ask Doug for a tractor for my birthday.  I can then scoop myself out and cruise the roads in green style.  So, if you spy my husband in passing, please mention that his wife really needs a tractor.  You might also add it needs to be an automatic tractor!

Burnin' Christmas Eve

I asked for a new range for Christmas.  Presents were piling up under the Christmas tree.  None of them looked or felt (not that I shake presents) the right size for a kitchen range.  It's not that I wanted one exactly, I needed one.  

Yes, this current one matched the other appliances and had the flat cook top that I prefer.   Those were the only two characteristics that endeared this maker of meals to me.  The oven is as loony as an addict on crack.  It takes twelve and a half minutes to preheat.  The center of the oven might read 350 degrees while the sides would be dancing at different tunes.  275 on one side 425 on the other.  Food has to be rotated every quarter of the cooking time.

And the broiler doesn't work at all.  My brother-in-law visited and wanted to make nachos.  The broiler wouldn't heat to pop a single kernel of popcorn much less melt cheese on nachos.  My brother-in-law was not happy.  Shouldn't we keep extended relatives contented cooks in our homes?

Christmas Eve arrived and still no large heavy box taking up most of the space under the Christmas tree.  But the children were home and life was good.  Robby awoke and requested chocolate chip muffins for breakfast.  It is a pleasure to cook for your children when you don't do it on a regular basis.

I mixed up batter and turned on the turtle oven to preheat.  Robby called out, "Hey Mom!  I'm going to town with Dad.  I'll eat the muffins when we get back."  No problem.  The oven might be at an acceptable temperature by the time you return.

Nicole awoke and staggered into the kitchen.  "What smells?"

What did smell?  It wasn't an offending smell, like the cats had eaten too many mice.  It was a plasticie smell.

I opened the oven door and discovered what it was.  Flames were doing a tango in my oven!

This year I was extremely organized.  The bread for the stuffing had been dried, cut and stored in plastic bowls.  However with so many sweets on the counter there was a lack of storage.  So I stuck them in the oven.  After all I always peek in the oven before I turn it on.

Flames danced around the inside of the oven.  Plastic dripped from the racks.  Bread crumbs lay charred at the bottom.  The fire alarm in the oven began a piercing chirping.

Luckily Doug had not left for town yet.  "Fire!  Get Daddy!"  I hollered to Nicole.  He's the fireman. He can have this out in a snap.

Doug doesn't move too fast.  I'm sure he didn't really believe there was a fire.  But, I knew how to get those flames out.  I am known for my hot air and ability to blow out numerous birthday candles with one breath.  Taking a deep breath I began to blow on the flames.

"Mom!  What are you doing?  Don't you know oxygen makes fire bigger?" Nicole screamed.

When did the kids get so smart?   I didn't know I was blowing oxygen.  Just hot air.

Finally Doug arrives on the scene.  He scampered out to the garage for a fire extinguisher.  Pushing us all aside he prepares to PASS.  Pull.  Aim.  Squeeze.  Sweep.  Nothing came out.  Not even a trickle.  Nada.

Nicole squatted down to assess the mess and think.  She is of the generation that can not go for 1.2 seconds without a phone in their hand.  My wonderful, stressed husband assumed she is talking on the phone.  Did he think she was punching 911?  Doug snapped at Nicole, "Go to your room!"

Nicole is 27.  She doesn't live with us.  Who tells a 27 year old to go to their room?  A room they don't have.

About this time the fire really gains speed.  The entire oven is now engulfed in bright orange, intense flames.  Someone says to Doug, "Maybe we should call the fire department."

I have been married to Doug for twenty six years, four months, and 18 days.  He was thinking:  "Not going to happen.  I am not calling my friends on the fire department.  I will get this inferno out and no one will be the wiser."  Then he slammed the oven door.

Cracking open the oven door, the flames were indeed extinguished.  Black smoke poured out filling the kitchen and surrounding rooms with smoke and dead plastic smell.  Windows were thrown open. Lucky for us it was 30 degrees outside, not -30.

Doug looks at me. "I didn't buy you a new oven for Christmas."

I had found a way to get one anyway!

Then Robby pipes up.  "I can clean this up and you will be back in business."

He rummaged through my cleaning supplies.  He scrubbed and rubbed and didn't even cuss.  The darn thing looked good as new.  I didn't have the heart to tell him I really wanted a new one.

We found extra oven racks in the porch closet and indeed I was back in business.  All that excitement and not one new oven on Christmas morning.

Tamales Anyone?

There are many things you can count on in the fall in Iowa.  Sweater weather, a welcome relief from the sultry days of summer.  Apples fresh off the tree-sweet and juicy.  The kaleidoscope of colors painting the soon to be baron trees.  And corn husks.

Yes, harvest leads to loose corn husks.  The wicked Iowa wind whips these nuisance things through yards, under bushes and into crevasses that you didn't know existed.  These dried up blankets for corn do not bother me much.  They do however, make my stomach rumble.  I think they should be captured and rolled up for tamales.  Yummy!

While I can over look the blowing debris in our yard, Doug is a perfectionist and it drives him mad!

The wind had been howling and corn husks were on the loose.  Doug would be home in a few days.  I was fretting how I would dispose of them before his arrival.  I tried mowing them.  Which lead to neat rows of husks through out the yard.  I thought about raking them.  But really I am not that insane.  Then Mother Nature helped me out.  She snowed.  Fluffy, glistening, corn husk hiding snow.

Doug arrived home to a beautiful yard of white.  I just knew snowing so early in the season would mean lots more snow and cold.  This was Iowa.  I was up for a cold snow bound winter.

Mother Nature does have a sense of humor.  She warmed up.  Not just a little, but snow disappearing over night warm.

"What is all over the yard?" Doug wondered peering out the kitchen window.

 "Ahh, well...," I stammered trying to jog my brain into an acceptable answer.  "They harvested and the wind has been blowing and don't worry, they will all blow back in the field where they came from."

He just looked at me.  I knew that look.  We were about to go outside and dispose of the corn husks. Some how.

First he tried mowing them.  Even though I mentioned many times, "Tried that.  Doesn't work." Abandoning his mower, his brain began to churn again.

Doug high tailed it out to his shed.  He trotted back with one of his favorite toys.  His candy red blower.  The plan was he would blow the husks into long piles.  I would pick them up, dump them into the back of the Polaris, and off load them into the pit we had burned the day before.

Seemed to me I was doing all the manual labor.

Off we went on our corn husk disposing mission.  I noticed after a couple trips to the burn pit, it was still smoldering.  A few more trips and flames were shooting up.  Me, being the nervous nellie around fire, I insisted Doug babysit it.

I actually had an ulterior motive.  I didn't want anyone to see him blowing corn husks into line dancing rows.  I really didn't want anyone to see me out there helping with his outrageous plan.  So with Doug at the far end of the property, I could still pick up the offending husks and listen for vehicles.  When my ears picked up the sound of an approaching car, I jumped in the Polaris and hid behind the potting shed.  No one would be the wiser that I was helping in this futile plot.

This went on for what seemed like hours.  Darkness came and I was released to the seclusion of the house.  Needless to say, the corn husks continued to swirl around the yard oblivious to our efforts.  I think next year I am going to trail the combine and collect corn husks then and there.  The only thing Doug will have to complain about is the collection of husks in the garage.  I will dry them out and make good use of them.  Tamales anyone?