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!