Five Dollar Showers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Doug, can you drive faster?"

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

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

Flying Ice Pops?

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

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

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

                                                                                     

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

What kind of parade was this?

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

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

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

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

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

I Didn't Do It!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Yellow Flags

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slave Labor vs. Life Insurance

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this.

And this!

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

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

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

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

Ode To My Lawnmower

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

I ride you in the grass and then you die.

You make me want to cry!

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

I tinker with you so you'll run.

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

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

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

I think I'm going to be sick!

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

A divorce is coming between you and I.

I'm giving a green one a try!

Escapees

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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