What’s this? She’s posting twice in a week?
*rifles through desk*
*checks calendar* Hmm, not a holiday. What gives?
*Gasp* Has Jupiter aligned with Mars?
Um… don’t think so. Truth is I’m feeling a little loopy because I had a colonoscopy today.
I mean, sure, it was several hours ago and people my age (or, ahem, younger) get this test with little fanfare. But this time I did it, okay?
And I feel this deserves some recognition.
Normally I just avoid doctors and pretend nothing is wrong. It’s a simple medical plan and it served me well for years.
I was more than content to continue said plan and then, boom! Husband has a heart attack.
The day after — he was in the hospital and I was home — I woke up and looked at his pillow.
It occurred to me that had things gone differently — had we waited too long to go to the hospital, had he said, “eh, I’m sure it’s just heartburn,” or whatever — I could so easily have woken up a widow. In just a few short moments, my life would have changed forever.
The second thing that occurred to me: I couldn’t have blamed him for anything. Sure, he has always enjoyed his steak and maybe he didn’t eat as healthy as he could have, but he did better than most people.
More importantly, he has always gone for his annual physicals, gets all the tests they recommend, even exercises regularly.
Where as I…
And that’s when it occurred to me: we should take care of ourselves for the people we love.
The next day I spent some time online, researching local doctors. Found one with really good reviews and made an appointment. When we met she ordered all these tests because… well, everything was overdue. In this last month I’ve been poked and prodded and… yeah, now probed.
The good news is, all is well and fine and clean as a whistle. The colonoscopy guy was very impressed. He told me they rarely see colons as smooth as mine.
I wonder if they offer medals for these kinds of things? Seems like they should.
Okay, yeah, maybe I am feeling a little loopy.
In any case, consider this a public service announcement. Have you been practicing doctor avoidance? Are there issues you’ve been neglecting, a lump you’re curious about, or something just doesn’t feel right?
Been putting off that physical?
Look at the people you love, pick up the damn phone and make the appointment.
Even if it means you have to drink something funky for a colonoscopy. Do it for the ones you love.
And just for kicks, and because I’m still a little loopy, here’s Kermit’s visit to the doctor:
Spring has officially arrived to our Minnesota home:
Yeah, I know according to the calendar Spring has been here awhile, but it’s only really felt like Spring for the past week or so. And it’s not that a flowering crabapple is an official start, but it sounds good to me.
Speaking of trees, we had to remove a maple that was too close to the house. The tree man did the deed last week. Underneath the maple were a whole lotta hostas.
With the maple gone, so was the shade for the hostas. I transplanted them to our far more shady backyard.
Wanna know how many I transplanted? Sixty-five! Crazy, right?
But they sure look nice in my pretty little woodland corner, so it was worth it. As I worked, the neighborhood birds entertained me. (You knew birds had to come into the conversation eventually, right?)
The chickadees were being their typical adorable selves, ‘natch, and our downy woodpecker is ever the charmer.
By the way, all the bird photos you’ll be seeing here have been shamelessly pilfered from the site WhatBird.com.
Please don’t tell.
Have you ever been to that site? Their search feature is pretty cool. By giving them beak size, approximate body size, primary & secondary colors, or any other features you might notice, they will give you a pretty good guess as to what the bird is. Or at least a list of birds that you can narrow down yourself.
That’s how I found out who our newest visitor to the bird feeder is: a Rose-breasted Grosbeak.
And the bird that was with him was his mate, though I never would have guessed it.
Another site I use is allaboutbirds.org. It’s a great spot for learning cool facts, such as while the Grosbeak won’t be winning any awards for their nest-building – “so flimsy you can sometimes see the eggs from underneath” – their song has been described as “a Robin who’s had opera training.”
I haven’t seen a lot of this couple. (Too busy with their voice lessons, I assume.) Mostly it’s Chickadees and my Downy Woodpecker. Oh — and the Goldfinches! Let’s not forget them.He might be tiny, but I sure wouldn’t want to be alone in a room with him. Just look into those eyes! He means business.
Speaking of little birds – I witnessed a bunch of sparrows taking on a crow!
Here’s how it happened: Our neighbor has this platform feeder where he puts fruit, nuts, cracked corn, etc. So here I am plugging another hosta in the ground — think it was number 54 — when I hear a crow making an awful racket. Cawing away something awful. I look over to see what’s pissing him off.
There he is in a tree near the feeder, flapping his wings and bobbing his head in a threatening manner. I follow his gaze and there they were, a group of sparrows.
Every time that crow tried to wing on over to the feeder, the sparrows dive bombed him! They swooped down all together, right at that old crow.
How do you suppose sparrows work together like that? Do they draw up a battle plan ahead of time?
Gosh, I wonder if they have a squad leader? “Sparrow One to Sparrow Two, come in from the right… Sparrow Four, wait for my call… steady… steady….move, move, move!”
Sparrows got moxie.
Oh, and here’s the best part: As I’m watching this battle raging, along comes a blue jay who just flew in and took whatever was on the feeder.
Which just goes to show: there’s no sense in fighting. The Blue Jay will win, every time.
I know a lot of people don’t like Blue Jays, but you gotta admit, with that sassy crest and stylish coloring? They cut a fine figure.
Some positive characteristics I’ve learned about jays: They mate for life, are very good parents, are highly intelligent and can make mincemeat of wasp nests in no time flat.
Oh, and here’s an interesting tidbit from the site:
The Blue Jay’s coloration is not derived by pigments, but is the result of light refraction due to the internal structure of the feathers; if a Blue Jay feather is crushed, the blue disappears as the structure is destroyed.
This is indeed true. I once found a pretty Blue Jay feather while walking Dog and brought it inside where she promptly decided to eat it. When she spit it out, it was no longer blue.
It was also covered in dog spit so I didn’t take a picture. Sorry.
And that wraps up our bird discussion for today. In review, please remember: even the most ordinary birds can be interesting if you just give them a chance.
Here I am beginning a blog post with both Okay and So. The sure sign a blogger is in a slump and feeling desperate.
Not only have I not been posting for the last, oh, two weeks or so, I haven’t been writing or reading or facebook-ing or any other social media-ing. I might have looked at my email once or twice, but that’s about it.
I’d like say the reason was because I’ve been on a far-away island with endless ceviche and mojitos served by a cabana boy named Liam, an NYU grad who couldn’t make it in the cutthroat world of teaching high school ceramics, so used his latte money to purchase a plane ticket to a far-away island where he’s now a cabana boy serving me damn-fine mojitos and ceviche.
I’d like to say that, but I can’t.
Fact is, my absence was due to a hospital stay. Not by me, but by another member of this household and that, my friends, is why this blog post begins with an Okay and a So. I assure you, had I been the one in the hospital bed, there would have been no occasion for either Okay or So.
But Husband? No. He’s not supposed to be the one in the hospital bed. That was our agreement and I really don’t understand how he missed the memo on that subject, but somehow he did.
A few weeks ago, on a Saturday morning to be precise, I awake early and begin doing my morning routine, i.e. making tea and talking to myself. Then Husband walks in and says he’s having some heartburn, only he’s also sweaty and clammy and for some reason his left elbow hurts.
“Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“Maybe… I don’t know… It’s probably nothing.”
“Well, I’m going to get dressed just in case.”
Two minutes later...
“Um… yeah, I think we should go.”
Thankfully we live within a very short distance to a hospital and, thankfully, that hospital moved him to another hospital which, thankfully, has a top-notch cardiac unit. An angioplasty and three stents later, he’s doing well and I’m now cooking without salt and minimal fat and beginning blog posts with Okay and So.
All this is to say, when it came to writing and reading blogs, my head just wasn’t in the game. But things are going better now and I’ve got tons of things I could tell you about.
Like, I could tell you about the little chickadees visiting the bird feeder in our backyard, who I’m beginning to suspect are chirping naughty things to each other.
Or I could tell you about the nun who visited my office the other day who I swear was in every respect the female version of Tim Conway’s old man.
Or maybe I’ll tell you about the Easter vigil we attended at the convent where Husband, one week from a heart attack mind you, played trumpet and I stood at the ambo (seriously never heard that word before, have you?) and read aloud the “intercessions” and gave a reasonably half-assed impression I knew what I was doing.
Instead, what I’ll say is this: I’m sorry for ghosting on you. Now that I’m back, you’ll be hearing from me. I just checked my email and I see several of my blogger buddies have posted… well shit, they posted a lot. I better get reading.
Hey, before I go, if by chance you should meet a cabana boy named Liam, tell him I’m shooting for next April, okay? And tell him if he muddles the mint particularly well, there’ll be a nice tip in it for him. Thanks.
Most of our readers know we live in Minnesota and most of our readers – being the savvy, intelligent people they are – were aware our temps recently hit record lows (-59° wind chill). Hence, our deepest apologies if our hiatus caused you any worries.
Rest assured. We are alive.
In answer to your question as to how we managed it, we did so in the same way we handled Phoenix when it hit a record high (122°). We skipped town.
The week of the dreadful cold, we were in Denver for Hey You’s funeral. And then our two day trip became a full week because for some reason airlines weren’t anxious to fly back to Minneapolis. Meaning I spent a full week sans laptop.
Yeah, yeah, I know I should have packed it. But it was only supposed to be two days and going through TSA is stressful enough for me. I don’t need to add a laptop to the mix.
So there I was with just my phone, checking my emails but only halfheartedly because if you’re going to get stuck in a city, Denver is one of the better places to do it. They got some mighty fine restaurants and many of them reasonably priced.
In any case, all this is to say that once home, my inbox was cluttered beyond reason. No matter how much I tried, I could not gain the upper hand. Something had to be done.
But first, a word about the cold.
You gotta be wondering about it, yeah? How this Arizona gal is holding up? Is she filled with remorse, wondering what in God’s name she was thinking moving to such a place?
Even if you’re not wondering, I feel I must say something to my naysayers on Facebook. Those who, when I posted pictures of the first snowfall back in October with a caption that read, “It’s soooo pretty!!!” (or something to that effect), responded with a snarky and most predictable, “Tell us what you think of it in February!”
It’s now February. It’s still pretty.
Personally, I don’t see the point of complaining about weather. Back in Phoenix there were those who got upset about the heat. Some of them even seemed angry about it. Now where’s the sense in that?
It was about a year ago when we realized a move to Minnesota might be a possibility. Naturally, I did some research. Using search terms such as, “Winter tips” and “Surviving brutal cold” and “How do Norwegians stand it?!”
I learned there’s a Scandinavian saying,
There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.
With this in mind, I bought a Queen-size quilt with arms:
Maybe you won’t find it on the cover of Vogue, but it’s rated at -50 “in moderate activity.” So far the coldest I’ve been in was a wind chill of -31°. Dog needed a walk and I couldn’t talk her out of it.
I’m here to report that Dog can do her job amazingly fast when she’s properly motivated. Also, L.L. Bean doesn’t lie. That coat is damn warm.
I learned something else from the Scandinavians: the key is not to endure winter, but to enjoy it.
Get outside when you can, appreciate the glistening snow and brisk air, wear comfy sweaters and curl up with a good book and a cup of tea.
Find the beauty in a red shed covered in snow.
After all, winter won’t last forever. It may seem like it, but eventually Spring will come.
So no worries about this Arizona gal. She’s handling winter like a champ.
Her inbox on the other hand…
Okay, so on Saturday I set a timer and whipped through Gmail’s Promotions folder and Personal folder in two half-hour sessions. I was on a roll! Then I hit the Social folder and it all came to a screeching halt.
That’s where all the bloggers I follow wind up, and Lordy they are a productive lot. Initially I thought I’d delete all the old posts and only read the most current, but after deleting a few I got to thinking. Is it their fault I got behind?
So then I thought, oh I’ll just read them fast and click “like” without commenting, but… well, that felt wrong too. Instead, I decided to throw caution to the wind and read every single one of them and comment too. (I’m reckless like that.)
As of now, I’ve 28 left to read. Which doesn’t sound bad but the day is young. There’ll probably be 14 new posts by dinnertime. Meaning the cold might not be bad, but the emails might do me in.
But hey, I’m not complaining. I’ll just brew a cup of tea, curl up by the fireplace with my laptop and read its soft, blue screen.
For those of you who landed here in the hope of finding a recipe for bread pudding with bourbon sauce, let not your heart be troubled. For indeed, there is one.
And since I know how irritating it is to have to scroll through an entire blog post when all you want is the freakin’ recipe–seriously, do we need a picture for every time they crack an egg?–I made you a jump link straight to it: Click to jump to recipe
(Gosh, it’s been so long since I did a jump link, sure hope I did it right. If not, I wonder where they all went to?)
Oh well. On my nativity set. Here’s a picture of it:
The set is from the Willow Creek collection and is ridiculously popular, but for the record, I bought it when it first came out. Before it was popular. Just so you know.
It’s the first nativity set I ever bought and the only reason I did so is that Mary is holding the baby.
Most sets have her praying, like she wishes he’d go to sleep already…
Other times she looks surprised there’s a baby at all, which I guess is reasonable given the circumstances…
Once I saw a set where Mary was holding up a cloth. I told Husband, “Look! She’s got a diaper!” He thought it was the swaddling cloth. Sadly, I never saw the set again.
Anyway, the reason I’m musing on nativity sets, other than it being Christmas and all, is that it recently came to my attention it was St. Francis who came up with the idea.
(For those of you who follow this blog and don’t just come here hoping to snag a recipe, you’ll know I recently started working at a Franciscan convent. Hence, my recently acquired knowledge of nativity sets.)
It was St Francis who created the first living nativity. He set it up in a cave in central Italy and it was so popular that for several years after it was reenacted throughout Italy. Eventually they created small replicas for people to keep in their homes.
His intent, St. Francis’ that is, was to have a scene where people could reflect on the event; no one cared if it was historically accurate or not.
Even so, for a lot of us, it became gospel truth. The stable, the wooden manger filled with straw, the shepherds and wise men jockeying for space, the stingy innkeeper, the whole shtick.
Several years ago I saw a video of a theologian talking about the nativity story. It was quite entertaining, mostly because he talked with so much enthusiasm.
According to this theologian — his name was Dr. Bailey — it’s far more likely Jesus was born in a home, not a stable. The homes of that time and region consisted of one big room, a portion of which was lower and that’s where the animals were kept at night. Mainly to protect them from thieves, but also because they added warmth to the house.
As for the manger, it was probably a concave spot cut into the main floor for feeding the animals on the lower level. When the angels told the shepherds, “You will find the babe wrapped in bands of cloth, lying in a manger,” they would have pictured a home just like one they grew up in. The message was clear: “He’s one of us!”
There’s a lot more Dr. Bailey said, including specifics as to why they’d be in a house. If you’d like to read an article he wrote, you can do so here.
What I love about this rendition is that it becomes a tale of hospitality and family. A new baby lain not on scratchy straw but in a cozy nook, a young couple assisted by relatives they probably never met before, the nervous new mother comforted by wise and knowing women. And however poor the family, they would have shared their food as well.
It could be that this is where our present day Christmas gets it right. Families and friends getting together, sharing food and conversation, a extra room if needed.
And here’s where we segue into the bread pudding with bourbon sauce, because if you’re going to be hospitable toward your family, a little bourbon can’t hurt.
And if my jump-link worked, we’re now joined with our recipe hunters too.
This is a tasty, grown-up version of bread pudding, with cranberries because I’m not fond of raisins. But feel free to use whatever dried fruit you’d like. Also, if you’d rather not have bourbon in it, use apple cider instead.
4 or 5 cups dry bread cubes
2 cups half-n-half (can use milk or almond milk instead)
1 cup sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2 cup dried cranberries, soaked a couple hours in 1/2 cup bourbon or apple cider
1/8 teaspoon allspice
1/2 to 1 teaspoon cinnamon
2 Tablespoons butter, melted
4 Tablespoons butter
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup bourbon whiskey (reserved from soaking fruit)
First off, put the dried cranberries (or dried fruit of choice) in a bowl and soak in bourbon (or liquid of choice). Let soak for a good 2 hours.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Pour half-n-half (or milk) in a mixing bowl and add the bread cubes. Stir gently until all the liquid is absorbed. In a separate bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar, vanilla and spices. Strain the dried cranberries, reserving 1/4 cup liquid for the sauce. Pour the egg mixture over the bread cubes and add the cranberries, stir gently until combined.
Grease an 8×8-inch pan with the melted butter. Pour the bread and egg mixture into the baking pan; bake at 350°F for 35 minutes or until the liquid has set.
To make bourbon sauce: Melt the butter in a saucepan over low heat; stir in sugar and egg and whisk until smooth. Slowly cook over low heat, stirring constantly, until it thickens a little. Remove from heat and stir in bourbon. (Note: the alcohol does not cook out.)
Pour the bourbon sauce over the bread pudding to serve. Enjoy!
On a post about five or so months ago, where I told of my relocation up North, I ended by saying I got a job at a hospital near our house.
Maybe you wondered why I never mentioned this job again? Or maybe you never thought about it, which is completely understandable because why would you?
The reason I never talked about the job was because 10 days into said job, I quit.
Have you ever started working at a place and as you stood there watching the other employees do their thing, know deep in your heart it’s not your thing and never would be your thing and what in God’s name ever made you think it could be your thing?
Also, what I was told would be my schedule turned out to be more theory than practice. It might one day be my schedule, but for now it was anything goes. So I went.
What followed was a time of self-reflection, doubt, and existential malaise. Or, what is commonly known as, a job search.
I forget how many interviews I had. Or how many times Indeed-dot-com notified me with: “______ looked at your resume!” Without bothering to note that “_____” was in California or Florida or Guam.
I tried to stay positive.
Hey, with all this free time, I can write blog posts galore! Resuscitate its Facebook page, update the blog theme, tidy up the sidebar!
Gosh, maybe I’ll even dig out that novel I’ve been working on for… oh gee, I don’t know… 15 years? Hey, now I can be a full-time writer!
Oh, if only I had a smoking jacket! Or smoked!
But lo, this writer’s dream was not to be. I found that with no pressure on my time, I make sad use of it. I needed to get out of the house. I needed a sense of purpose. I needed—gasp!—I needed to be around people. (For an introvert, this is a startling revelation.)
Then Husband found a help wanted ad in the paper:
Administrative Assistant with desktop publishing and database skills; ability to write and format newsletters; creativity and good writing skills a must; knowledge of video editing software a plus. Please send letter of introduction with resume.
There was one peculiar addition:
Must be knowledgeable of Franciscan spirituality or willing to learn.
Forgot to mention, the job was at a convent.
So, yeah. I’m working at a convent now. Have been for a little over a month. It’s a fascinating place.
I don’t mean to put down men—honestly, I love you guys—but there’s something about women who choose to live without them. It’s like they come into their own.
Also, this Franciscan thing.
The couple I work for–they’re a lay couple who oversee two of the convent’s ministries–they give me books to read so I can understand their work better. They reserve a quiet room for me, I can get free popcorn at the convent’s top-notch cafeteria. We meet afterwards to discuss what I read.
It’s like I’m getting paid to attend a book club.
Things I’ve learned: St. Francis was a radical. And here I thought he was just a guy who liked birds.
These nuns can be pretty radical too. Never before have I worked with a group of people who are so focused outwardly. Even things like tossing a piece of paper in the garbage—Wait! That can be recycled!—Wait! Did we write on both sides first?
The woman I work for, let’s call her Mrs. Boss, said if anything were to happen in town—if some injustice was occurring—these sisters would be the first ones marching out the door, carrying signs in protest.
And I can see it happening, too. Though it would be a slow procession, given their ages and several using walkers.
Such is my life now. Living in a blue state, working among Franciscan nuns.
And here I thought the biggest change for me would be the weather. 😉
For context, see this article on how several towns are making it illegal for teenagers to go trick-or-treating.
However you stand on the proper age for trick-or-treating, you gotta admit that spending time and energy on passing a law is the type of folly this blog feeds upon. 🤗
Hello, I’m Roger Stolid and this is your evening news.
Our lead story tonight — trick-or-treaters are making their rounds tonight, but before you pass out those mini-Snickers, be aware: You might be abetting a criminal. On location with this story is Paula Propellant. Paula, what have you found out for us?
Paula: Thank you, Roger. Yes, it’s true, some of these trick-or-treaters are risking steep fines and possible jail time for soliciting suckers from citizens. I’m standing at the corner of 12th and Ambrose Street and by my side is Officer Handy, who’s been patrolling the area. Officer, who are these desperate individuals seeking sweets?
Off Handy: Well, Paula, it’s now illegal for anyone over the age of twelve to trick-or-treat, and that means we got ourselves a situation. Fact is, some teenagers think it’s fun to get all dressed up like, oh, I don’t know, vampires or serial killers or Hello Kitty. And that’s all well and good. But if we catch them going door-to-door asking for candy? We’re just gonna have to run them in.
Paula: I see. What should homeowners do if they suspect one of the children at their door is past the age of legal trick-or-treating? Should they attempt any action on their own?
Off Handy: No, I don’t recommend that. There’s no telling what a teenager might do in that kind of situation. I’d say the best course of action would be to ask their age and if they’re over twelve, tell them to kindly step away from your porch. But if they say they’re younger and you think they’re lying? You can call the station with a description and we’ll send someone over.
Paula: I see. They could say something like, “There’s a witch on fifth street who looks old enough to drive.”
Off Handy: Exactly.
Paula: What do we tell parents whose child looks big for their age? Like, let’s say their ten-year-old looks fifteen? Should they be concerned?
Off Handy: We’ve thought of that Paula. What we’re recommending to parents is if their Tommy makes a tall mummy, consider slipping his birth certificate into his treat bag. That way if anyone detains him, he can prove his age.
Paula: What if they bring their school ID? Would that help?
Off Handy: Problem there Paula is school IDs don’t show their age, and we might have a SquareBob SpongePants who’s been held back a few years.
Paula: You mean SpongeBob SquarePants?
Off Handy: Yeah, that guy.
Paula: I see what you mean. Like over there, that boy in the banana suit. He looks like he needs a shave.
Off Handy: I’m on it! Hey, you there! Drop the candy! (Runs across street; Banana splits.)
Paula: Thank you, Officer Handy. Roger, we’re also speaking with Bella Buttinsky, head of the local watchdog group, No Treats for Teens. Bella, when did your group start meeting?
Bella: Let’s see… I guess it started after last Halloween. One of my neighbors posted on Facebook that a Batman grabbed her whole bowl of candy. I mean, he just took it! The whole bowl! So we were all like, how old was he? That sort of thing. She was pretty sure he was a teenager. It’s a real problem. These kids are just too blame old to be trick-or-treating. I know with my kids–
Paula: So all this is on account of one rogue Batman?
Bella: No, he just started it. Her post wound up going viral. I think it got over a hundred likes.
Paula: I don’t think that’s what “going viral” means.
Bella: Well, there were tons of comments. Everyone agreed teenagers were ruining Halloween. I mean, honestly, parents need to–
Paula: Did you have any specific concerns about teenagers? Other than the lone Batman?
Bella: Of course we did! Anytime you get a group of teenagers hanging around together, you’re just asking for trouble. They’ll be smoking, drinking… they could be selling drugs to your little princesses and cowboys. Listen, all you have to do is let your imagination run wild and then you’ll see my point.
Bella: And teenagers are just plain rude. The little kids will take whatever candy you give them, but these older kids are all like, “Don’t you have chocolate?” and “I hate coconut.”
Paula: Okay, thank you, Bella.
Bella: If you’re begging for candy, you take what you get!
Paula: Thank you for talking with us, Bella.
Bella: Where are their parents? That’s what I want to know. I mean, when my kids were little–
Paula: Thank you, Bella. Roger, we were hoping to speak to someone in favor of teens trick-or-treating — or just in favor of teens in general — but we couldn’t find anyone. Until now, that is. Roger, this is Bud Light, a concerned citizen and father of the banana we saw earlier. Mr. Light, were you aware there was an age restriction on trick-or-treating?
Bud: Damn straight, I knew.
Paula: And yet you allowed your son to go trick-or-treating?
Bud: Allowed him? Hell, I told him to do it! I said, “Son, if you want to go out with your friends and enjoy Halloween, you damn well do it.” I even helped pay for the banana.
Paula: Even though you knew he might get fined or arrested?
Bud: Oh hell, the banana suit cost more than the fine. Listen, it ain’t often the boy still wants to do something fun from his childhood. If it means I have to pay a little fine to help him do it, then I damn well will.
Paula: I see. But what if the fine was higher? What if it was five hundred dollars?
Bud: The fine is five hundred dollars?
Paula: No, I think it’s a hundred dollars.
Bud: It’s a hundred dollars?! He told me it was twenty-five dollars! That damn kid lied to me! (runs across street)
Paula: Sir? Sir?!
Bud: (from a distance) Someone grab that banana!
Paula: Well, that’s it from me. Back to you, Roger.
Roger: Paula, what about adults? Can adults trick-or-treat?
Paula: I don’t think so, Roger. The law states no one over the age of twelve.
Roger: Oh, that’s a shame. Guess I’ll have to break it to the wife. Haha.
Paula: Haha. Happy Halloween, Roger.
Roger: Happy Halloween, Paula. And Happy Halloween to all our viewers out there. Have fun, be safe, and keep a lookout for fugitive bananas.
If you’d rather I read this story to you (think of it as story time for grownups) click here:
Once upon a time there was a very useful garden shed; it was made of wood and painted red. It had no windows, but it had two big doors that stuck a little in humid weather.
The shed belonged to a blogger named CJ Hartwell.
CJ was a gardener, or at least she liked to say she was a gardener. Between you and me, she kinda let things go to seed.
One afternoon on a frosty October day, CJ decided it was time to pick the last of the apples on her apple tree. She put on her coat and her Isotoner gloves and walked out to her garden shed to get a ladder. For the apples were very high on the tree and she could not reach them.
First, she unlatched the big wooden doors and pulled them all the way open. Next, she pulled out her seldom used lawn mower and her even more seldom used rake. And who do you suppose she saw hiding behind the rake?
Why, it was none other than Ethan, who made the garden shed his home.
Ethan was a mouse.
Ethan looked at CJ; CJ looked at Ethan.
Ethan didn’t say anything because Ethan was a quiet, unassuming little mouse. CJ did say some things, but we will not repeat them here because some of the words were naughty, and good little boys and girls ought never to use them.
Ethan didn’t know what the fuss was about, for while the garden shed was a modest home, he did his mousy best to keep it tidy and clean. So he squeaked a soft little squeak, which was to say, “I’ve seen your house, lady. You think you can do better?”
Did it do any good? No! CJ stomped her feet on the floor making a terrible racket!
This frightened poor Ethan something awful. He called out to his very special lady friend, Tiffany, who had come home with Ethan after a romantic evening together in the woods.
At this particular moment, Tiffany was on CJ’s bicycle.
Mid-stomp, CJ saw Tiffany scurry down the bicycle. She garbled a few more choice words for now there were two mice!
Ethan called out to Tiffany, “Hey babe, over here!” and together they raced underneath the ladder that was leaning against the wall.
Quick as a flash, or rather stumbling in her haste, CJ put the mower and rake back in the shed and shut the doors, latching them tight. She said to herself, “Screw it! The apples can rot!”
Then she went inside her house and opened a bottle of red wine that she had bought at Costco for $8.99. She had two glasses, one for each mouse.
After her second glass, she decided mice in the shed were better than mice in the house, and she was very happy she had a cat in the house.
As for Ethan and Tiffany, they were very happy CJ left. They agreed the less they saw of her the better, but Tiffany did enjoy a nice bike ride now and again.
Later that evening, Tiffany made a nice dinner of mushroom salad with a rotten apple compote. Ethan said it was the best meal he’d ever had.
Afterward they had consensual sex and fell asleep in the bed Ethan fashioned out of an empty box of Milk Duds.
This is my first real Autumn in I don’t know how long.
My first, honest-to-goodness, stomping-through-piles-of-leaves kind of Autumn.
It’s not like we didn’t have Autumn in Phoenix, it’s just that we faked it.
In Phoenix you wear sleeveless shirts in fall colors, switch out your flip-flops for brown sandals, and drink iced pumpkin lattes.
And it’s not like I haven’t lived in areas with four seasons before, it’s just I don’t remember being wowed by the colors. When we lived in northern Arizona, the first snow came sudden-like. Shocking the leaves into a quick drop. When we lived in Iowa and Nebraska, there were too few trees to matter.
Clearly, Minnesota is hoarding all the trees.
Real or fake, I love this time of year. In truth, it’s the transition phase between the seasons I love best, and I’m thrilled to be living where it’s so apparent.
I’m not alone in my appreciation; several homes are decorated for Fall. I’m told it’s quite common for Minnesotans to have quirky lawn decorations and from what I’ve seen, it’s true. A home near us has 11 screen doors in front — eleven!
This is a permanent display and I’ve no idea how they mounted them, but I wondered if they’d add anything for the seasons. I’m pleased to report, they do:
Looking forward to seeing their Christmas display.
Our decor is more understated, but not without its admirers.
Last Saturday when our newspaper was delivered, I saw the delivery girl taking a picture of our display. (I wonder if we’re trending on Twitter?)
At the website for Minnesota State Parks, you can enter your email address for “color alerts.” The state park in our town, the Charles A. Lindbergh Park, is currently listed at 25% to 50% color.
I think the Hartwell Maple Tree is nearly 60%:
Neighbor Buddy told me not to worry about raking leaves; he’ll use his leaf blower and take care of them for the whole street. The total number of homes on the street being three. Even so, he’s a nice guy.
(Probably a requirement for anyone named Buddy.)
In my backyard hidden among the leaves is a petunia. I didn’t plant it and there are no petunias in the vicinity. Yet there it is. A petunia.
It’s a Petunia Miracle.
I asked someone how long we’d have the color, she guessed another couple weeks.
Guess we better enjoy it while it’s here.
Something I did in Phoenix to commemorate the seasons is to change my computer’s desktop background. My favorites pictures included curving paths, usually through woodsy areas or by rivers.
Never in my life have I lived in an area with more desktop-worthy scenes:
Question is, which photo do I use? Current contenders are first, second, and last pictures in this post. Your opinions are appreciated.
Meanwhile, if it’s Autumn where you are, find a pile of leaves and stomp through them with abandon.