Terrorist in my Bed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lamb Sandwiches?

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

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

                 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

L.M.A.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five Dollar Showers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Doug, can you drive faster?"

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

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

Flying Ice Pops?

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

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

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

                                                                                     

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

What kind of parade was this?

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

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

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

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

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

I Didn't Do It!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Yellow Flags

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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