Long Live Lola

February 20, 2012 we became residents of Iowa.  Two years I waited in anticipation of a  wet snow.  Not this light fluffy stuff that doesn't ball up or stick to anything.  February 20, 2014, I was granted my wish.

The 10 p.m. weather man predicted 3-6 inches of wet snow the following day.  I was ecstatic.  How could I think of sleeping?

I needed to be prepared.  I positioned my warmest parka and snow pants by the garage door.  A snow shovel, water proof gloves and hand warmers were ready by the outside garage door.  Oh yeah!  How could  I forget the virgin snowball gun.  I was going to break that baby in.  Doug was home to be my target!

My eyes popped open at 7:00 a.m.  I hopped out of bed and danced over to the window.  Danced, not because I was excited.  The floor was freezing.  I yanked open the shades to reveal glistening wet snow.  It was calling my name.  "Angie!  Angie!  Come out and play."

I scurried to find Doug.  "I'm going to make us a warm bowl of cereal.  You have snow to scoop."  Doug hasn't been around much for snow scooping.  He is still in the newbie stage where it's fun.  He doesn't realize that snow scooping is code for "I am going to throw snowballs at you."

Doug whistled while he shoveled snow.  I snuck out the back door and prepared my arsenal.  Twenty-one round balls of snow were ready to be launched.  Peering around the garage Doug was still happily scooping.  I rammed the first ball into the gun and pulled the trigger.  Thud!  It propelled two inches.  Not what I had in mind.  Another ball.  I stretched the trigger as far back as my short arm would allow. That yielded me three feet of flying distance.  Doug looked up to the sky to see what was landing a full six feet from him.  Another ball and another ball.  I couldn't make them go any farther than three feet if chocolate was dependent on it.

I could always use my arm.  I played enough catch with Robby.  I was sure I would ace this.  By this time Doug was on to me.  He stood on the driveway while snowball after snowball went right and left of him.  He was a lousy target.  Maybe I need to fatten him up.  Then I remembered why Robby was such a good outfielder diving for balls.  He played catch with me and I couldn't throw straight any day of the week. 

Abandoning my target practice, I decided to make a snowman.  I had not made a snowman in over forty years.  I bunched up some snow and began to roll.  My mistake was rolling uphill.  Wet snow is heavy!  Seventeen minutes and screaming muscles later I had a true to life snowman.

Now I needed accessories.  There were still walnuts on the ground under the walnut tree.  I went rooting through the snow to dig up a handful.  They made a beautiful mouth and eyes.  Hat!  Every snowman needs a hat.  I dug around in our donation  box for a ball cap or stocking hat, something to keep this snowman's head warm.  Nothing.  Then out of the corner of my eye I spied a lampshade.  Perfect. 

A three foot, lamp shaded snow man.  Something was wrong.  It didn't look like a snowman.  It looked like a snow woman.  Lola.  I will name her Lola.

Ten days later and Lola is still standing guard.  Her lamp shade ran off to the corn field.  Her teeth fell out.  She has been wind blown into a slumped wrinkled old lady.  But she is still proof that I have made a snow lady.  And very proud of it!

Then Robby who lives in Virginia and grew up in warm climates, made a snow man of his own.  He sent me a text of the picture just to let me know he showed me up.  I have only one thing to say.  His snow man has been reduced to a puddle.  Long live Lola!

Winter Water Park

My cousin, Pat, was going to a water park with her daughter and great grandsons.  Did I want to tag along?  Sure.  It sounded like fun.  Except it was the middle of a very cold winter.

I awoke the day of the water park journey to temperatures below zero with snow flying around.  I couldn't imagine taking a fifteen month old and a four year old to a water park on a day like this.  But I was a southern girl, not a seasoned winter veteran.  Yet.

I was up for the challenge.  I pulled on my long johns, dug out my warmest sweater, crammed my feet into my cozy Ugg boots, wrapped a wool scarf around my neck, slipped into my long down coat, tugged a cap over my ears, and located two matching gloves.  I was ready.  No, wait!  Hand warmers.  I would need hand warmers.  It was frigid outside.

All the way to Omaha I envisioned the winter water park.  Children were zooming down frozen slides like the luge in the winter Olympics.   The lazy river had not tubes, but blocks of ice to float around on.  Icicles dangled everywhere for children to break off.  The water would be frozen for an impromptu game of broomball or sock skating.  This was going to be an adventure.

A hour and a half later the snow had stopped.  We stopped in front of a huge building.  Bathing suit clad children raced towards  it at break neck speed.  Parents toting coats and mittens disappeared after them through the double doors.  This was not a winter water park.  It was a warm indoor child's water fantasy.  Ditch the hand warmers.  Quick!

Twenty-seven minutes later we had changed two wiggly, excited boys out of winter gear and into summer trunks.  Our cousin, Shannon, had shown up to escort the four year old, while Pat's daughter took the fifteen month old wherever his toddling legs would take him.  My job was to sit at the table and watch the mounds of towels and baby gear.

This was an "I've been in the house too long this winter" mad house.  Children of all ages ignored lifeguards warning to "walk" and sprinted in every direction.  There was jumping and sliding and splashing and laughter every where. 

Buckets filled over head with thousands of gallons of water to be dumped periodically on unsuspecting children.  There were no tubes in sight for the lazy river.  Pat disappeared.  Upon reappearing she was lugging a double tube.  She wouldn't say where she had obtained it.  I was afraid to ask what small child she had mugged for it.  Ignorance is bliss.

Toddlers swooshed down miniature slides.  Older children screamed down the larger twisty slides.  Everyone was enjoying this place of perpetual summer with their winter white bodies.

I was sitting in view of the baby pool.  It had two small slides and a lifeguard.  Parents sat around chatting or playing on their phone.  I spied one napping in a reclining chair.  They felt comfortable letting their children bop around without their supervision. 

I was beginning to wish I had brought my swim suit to join in the fun.  Then I saw it.

A small boy.  About two or three.  He was zipping down the slide, swaggering his way back up the steps, cutting in line and swooshing down again.  Between slides he was jumping from foot to foot.  Hopping up and down.  Grabbing between his legs.  I knew this dance.  The potty dance!

No parent stepped in to rescue this water-logged child.  He continued to hop and dance. Then stillness.  He walked out of the water and up the steps without so much as a bounce.  I'm thinking his legs were a bit warmer and so was the water.

Four hours later, tired boys were bundled in winter clothing and buckled in their car seats.  The car was headed towards home with snow falling around us.  Pat says she's bringing her other grandchildren next week.  Did I want to come?  I could bring my swimsuit next time.  She assured me the water was not at all cold.

Next time I will ditch the long johns.  But I will continue to view the craziness from the side lines.  I know why the water is warm.

Hot Firemen!

I whipped out my cell phone and sent an urgent text to my daughters (unmarried daughters).  "There are 30 hot firemen in my back yard.  Get here quick!"

The responding text was not quite what I had expected.  "What? Why??  Are your sheds on fire?"

Didn't they realize their not-so-normal mother would not text them about a shed going up in flames?  I am trying to find them Iowa boyfriends!  Never mind the girls are on the west coast and wouldn't make it to  my house before these hot firemen hit the road.

A few weeks earlier Doug arrived home from a firefighter meeting with his arm in a sling.  Someone was going to be holding a tree cutting class for firefighters.  (Really.  They do not know how to cut down trees?  Even my Marine son can man-handle a chain saw.)  The firefighters needed some volunteer trees to be chopped on.  That's when I realized how Doug had hurt himself.  He threw his shoulder out shoving  his hand skyward while jumping up and down. 

Yes, we have trees to be removed.  When we purchased this lovely acreage we were informed we would need a chain saw.  (Doug salivated at that.)  The many, many pine trees on the property had spider mites and were dying at an epidemic rate.  Doug was more than happy to oblige and donate his trees to a class.

That is how I got 30 hot firemen in my back yard. 

It was one of those days where the temperature didn't rise above freezing. Twelve vehicles descended upon my property.  Men spilled out and began dressing.  Well they were dressed, but not for cutting trees.  They donned chaps and bright orange and yellow hard hats.  Their breath clouded the air and they stamped their feet trying to find warmth.  It was like a tree cutting mating dance.

They divided up into groups of ten.  Each group had an instructor.  The instructor pointed and talked and handed over chain saws.  Soon the air was full of buzzing.  I'm sad to say these men were not trained well.  As the dead tree started to topple, no one yelled "Timber!"  All I heard was "Tree coming down!"  Duh!  We could see that.

Interestingly one man was his own group.  Perhaps he told them he knew what he was doing.  An instructor led him to a lone tree, did a little pointing and yakking and left him.  This solitary man began to cut.  He cut low.  He looked skyward.  He cut high.  He looked around at all the other wood demolishing men.  He pushed on the tree.  He cut again somewhere in the middle.  The tree was stubborn.  It was still standing.  He pushed again.  Then he spread his legs lifted the chain saw and attacked that poor defenseless tree.  The tree crashed to the ground without so much as a "Tree coming down."

Two hours later sixty-one trees were prone on the ground.  The freezing men threw off their orange head coverings and chaps and piled back in their vehicles.  They roared out of the driveway probably on the way to a cold beer.  Doug had succeeded in getting the insect infested trees to the ground.  Thus leaving me a staggering amount of mangled trees to drag to the burn pit and no possibility of an Iowa firefighter boyfriend for my girls.

There is consolation in this endeavor.  If I ever need trees cleared for a fire, I know thirty hot firemen who can do the job.  Okay, I do not really know if they were hot.  It was freezing outside.  They were bundled so tightly only their eyes peered out.  But aren't all firefighters hot?  I'm married to one!

Our small Iowa town, Irwin, has a wonderful, efficient, volunteer fire department and rescue squad.  Thank you to all of them for everything they do.

On another note,  Irwin is having it's winter blood drive on Monday, February 3rd from 11:00-5:00 p.m.   There is always a need for blood from trauma patients to surgery patients to cancer and burn patients.  Please come out and donate.  The gratification is instant.  Hope to see you there.

I Won't Grow Up!

Sometimes life must be attacked as a child.  I have been known to do this many times according to my children.  I keep telling them it would be boring to have a normal mother.  This fall, once again, I enjoyed life as a child.

Have you ever had one of those ho-hum days where you wore sloppy clothes and not a trace of make-up?  You know, the day that maybe you cleaned the oven and are grimy from the roots of your hair to the socks on your feet.  Then a knock comes at the door.

The knock on my door that crisp autumn day was a ghost from childhood past.  Forty-four years to be exact!  Curt was the boy who lived two houses north of us.  At the ripe old age of five, I donned my mother's high heels, secretly borrowed my sister's prom dress,  and married Curt in my living room.  He wasn't exactly there, or knew about the arrangement.  Nonetheless, it happened.

We caught up on  lost years for over an hour.  We bragged about our wonderful spouses, the best ever children, and lively grandchildren.  (O.K.  I boasted about my grandcats.)  It was during the conversation we realized we would each be at a hay ride at his brother's house the following weekend.  Granted I was far more excited about this than he.

The evening of the hay ride was Iowa cool.  Meaning anyone from south of Interstate 10 would freeze their fanny off.  A giant John Deere tractor (I was told it wasn't a large tractor.  But by city-girl standards it was King Kong size.)  pulled a wagon piled in the middle with bales of hay.  I coerced Curt into riding along too.   He shouldn't miss the fun of bumping though a freshly cut corn field with the stars twinkling and the moon grinning at us. 

The ride was exhilarating.  All the fresh air had made us hungry.  Luckily there was a pot-luck supper in the house.  The warm house.  The men were discussing the combining happening on Monday.  It was then Curt realized they would be working by our house. 

"Hey!  Do you and Doug want to come ride along?"

Do girls from the south stick foot warmers in their boots when it's 50 outside?  Absolutely!

Monday morning I awoke to visions of five year old  me going out on the tractor with my dad.  I would beg him to let me ride along.  There was no cab, no air conditioning or heat, no jump seat.  Just him with me gripping his waist as to not fall off.  Those are memories I cherish. 

Surveying the combining operation from the road was like watching "Dancing with the Stars."  Everything was choreographed perfectly.  The hungry combine ate the corn at an alarming pace.  The grain cart appeared just as the combine was full.  Grain was transferred.  The cart lumbered away to the idling semi-trucks.  Once again there was corn flying from the back of one vehicle to another.  Then the semi roared down the road to stash the corn in the grain bins. 

I was not a child by myself.  Doug was as excited as I was.  I climbed up the five steps to the combine cab while Doug hopped in the semi.  Curt slammed the door behind me and we were off.  I didn't have to hang on to his waist for dear life, there was a jump seat.  I didn't freeze my nose off, there was heat.  But, my goodness, I had only seen so many buttons and levers and screens in an airplane.  Curt managed to cut corn, watch the screens, push buttons, move grain from the back of the combine to the grain cart, and talk to me simultaneously.  I, on the other hand, could hardly watch him do these things and chew gum.

Several passes later, we stopped momentarily.  Curt and I jumped out and Curt's dad, Stan, and Doug jumped in.  I thanked Curt for an educational experience. 

 "Don't you want to ride in the semi and see how the corn goes into the grain bin?"

He didn't need to ask twice.  Doug had already done this with Stan.  I didn't want to be left behind.  Besides I had never seen the inside of a semi truck.  The only thing I knew about them was they roar pass my house with road dust billowing behind them.

I hauled myself into the cab and we zoomed past our house.  Yes, road dust was following in our wake.  Once at the grain bins, the corn poured out the bottom of the rig moving along into the proper bin.  It all happened very quickly and electronically. 

All too quickly our afternoon of farming was over.  Doug and I went back to our little 4.5 acres.  We felt like Cinderella.  The corn-hungry combine turned back into a pumpkin.  The tractor and grain cart tuned back into white mice.  And Doug and I were  just common folks again.  But I know I do not want to grow up and will continue to strive to live life as a child.  Sorry to my children-You're stuck with me!

The Case of Returning Children

You know you have achieved empty nest freedom when you can sleep through the night without getting up for a 2:00 am feeding.  Or in the middle of a dead sleep you are awaken by the sound of dinner being upchucked all over the newly painted wall.  Or as you softly slumber a teenager pokes you in the forehead because the cat is afraid of the thunder.  Then the children (now adults) come home for a visit.

All three of my wonderful children had been home for a few days of slave labor, bonfires, marshmallow toasting, and just fun.  Nicole stayed a few days longer than her brother and sister.  She has never been one to sleep well.  She'd roam the house like a zombie on his last night, moving do-dads, eating goodies while leaving a trail like Hansel and Gretel, waking me up to let me know Robby had missed his curfew.  Obviously things had not changed.

I awoke to an insistent tapping on the bedroom door.  "Mom, Mom!"  The screaming whisper propelled me out of bed so as not to wake Doug.  He, of course, could sleep through child "emergencies."

Stumbling into the dining room I drowsily asked Nicole what was so important at 12:30 am.

"There's something in the heating vent!  I hear it scratching!"

"I have lived here for nearly two years, dear Nicole.  There are no ghosts.  Anywhere!  Go to bed and sleep!"

"Sshhh!"  She commanded like a drill sergeant.  "Hear it?  I think it's a bat."

Sure enough, there was scratching coming from the heating vent on the floor.  We tip-toed closer and listened.  It was then the noise got louder and closer.   My angel wings propelled me back so fast I crashed into the dining room chair.  "Shut the vent!  Shut the vent!"

Brave Nicole slammed the vent closed before the offending noise could charge out at us. 

"It's probably a mouse.  We've had mice in the house before.  We can keep the vent closed and he will go back to where he came from," I rationalized. 

It was after we almost needed rescuing from the uninvited intruder that Doug appeared.  Nicole filled him in on what was happening declaring adamantly it was a bat.  "I saw it's head with my flashlight.  I feel sorry for him stuck in that vent."

Would she really feel sorry for him if he whipped out of the vent, attacked her red hair, and flew off with it?  If indeed it was a bat.  Which, of course, it was not.

We all held our breath as Doug opened the vent.  We turned blue.  We had to gasp for air.  No noise came out of the vent. 

"Let's all go back to bed.  There is nothing in that vent but imagination,"  Doug proclaimed. 

After a peaceful night sleep I joined Doug in the kitchen.  He was sipping his coffee admiring the snow covered landscape.  I brewed my tea as Doug wandered up stairs.  It was then the small brown mammal hanging on the curtain of the door caught my eye. 

A bat!

Did I yell at Doug or would this awaken the bat and he would attack my hair?  I tried to whisper loudly.  "Doug!  Doug!"  He didn't hear.  I tried to screech softly.  "Doug!  Doug!"  Then I plain out screamed.  "DOUG!"

Once again Doug came to my rescue.  Forgoing his coffee, he donned thick work gloves and a heavy towel.  I convinced him despite his close-to-the-head haircut, he needed a hat.    He efficiently snatched up the bat and threw it outside.  Bat story over!

The moral of this story is your children do grow up.  They still wake you out of a dead sleep.  But sometimes they do know what they are talking about. 

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!