It's A New Day

Better Start Packing

We're on the road, headed to Kansas for a little time with family. It won't be long enough; it never is but we'll take what we can get.

And traveling means we can eat in places we don't normally have in our eat-out rotation. Like Pei Wei. Yum! We don't have one in our area and their food is some of my favorite. So you can imagine how happy I was when I found out there was a Pei Wei just minutes from our hotel in Plano, Texas. It was scrumptious.

You can't eat Asian food without ending the meal with a fortune cookie...well, we can't anyway. My fortune proclaimed that honesty and good friends would take me far in life. I couldn't agree more.

Wayne, however, rolled his eyes as he handed the little slip of paper over to me. "I'm not sure I like this." There in black and white was the prediction that he would live in a wonderful new house within a year.

New house? In a year? What's up with that? We have no plans to move...but maybe the gods of Asian food know something we don't. When we get back from this trip, I might need to start packing.

Boring, Boring, Boring

I have new shoes. I usually have them on for only an hour or so a day but when you cover four miles in that hour, they wear out quickly. Well, not the uppers; the old ones still look great when seen from this view but those miles eventually take their toll. Mostly they lose their cushion but the sole shows the wear too.

But wait, you say. Those look just like the last pair. And they are...and like the pair before that too. I seem to be stuck in a rut.

I took a little heat about my boring shoes in Muscle Max a few days ago. Lee suggested I was going to have to get with the program and get some colorful shoes like everyone else in the class. I looked around and sure enough, all I saw was hot pinks, fluorescent oranges, neon yellow-greens and even a shade of blue that looked as though it would glow in the dark. Some shoes even sported a combination of these colors.

I started to point out to them that I'd lived through the neon colors in the 80's and didn't feel the need to repeat them but thought better of it. Almost everyone in there is young enough to be my daughter as it is; no need to remind them of that fact. Truth is, they're all runners and frequently talk of getting up at 4:30am to get their miles in before getting their children up for school. If I got up at that hour for any purpose, I'd need bright colors on my feet to keep me awake too.

Still, I was tempted when I went shoe-shopping. I pretty little pair of blue running shoes with bright yellow laces called my name. Or maybe it was that the sample was at eye-level and given the colors could not be ignored. Whatever the reason, they moved out of the box and onto my feet rather swiftly. They were a happy sight as a gazed down on them and if gazing at them was all I needed to do with them, the pretty little blue shoes might have come home with me. But walking on them was another matter, and they just didn't cut it in that department.

So back I went to my trusty old companions...my on-sale, 20%-off-coupon old companions. I may be boring but at least my feet won't hurt.

It Wasn't What We Expected

Just because I haven't ranted written about them lately doesn't mean that the yard is free of squirrels. Far from it but the battle rages on.

I graduated from the gun to a live trap. It doesn't take the squirrels long to figure out that when the door opens, Annie's got her gun and they hightail it for the nearest tree. Add to that the fact that I'm clearly not Annie Oakley either so it was far more a game of hide and seek between squirrels and me rather than seek and destroy. The golfers are probably safer too.

So I bought a trap. It's my silent sentry, ready to snare one of those just-a-rat-with-a-furry-tail pests at all hours of the day or night. It's pretty cool too. It's roughly 2'x2' and about 5" high...just right for squirrels. There are two "hallways" to the interior and each has a sloped "door" that the squirrel pushes open as he enters. When it falls behind him, the angle keeps him from opening it to go out. Set it out in an area they frequent, drop some sunflower seed and whole peanuts in and catch those varmints. It works, too; sometimes we nab two at a time.

The trap has been out by the magnolia tree the last week or so, a convenient place since I can see it from the pool deck without having to walk all the way out in the yard. When I went to check on it first thing this morning, I could see it was occupied but I was confused. There was too much light gray for it to be a squirrel and it wasn't scurrying around like they do when they see movement. As I got closer, here's what I saw:

Well, technically, this is after we were trying to extricate him; you can see the release door on the top is open. When I saw him, he wasn't hissing and showing his teeth. In fact, he was asleep...or doing a darned good job of playing possum. And I wasn't nearly as close to him as this picture makes it appear. Zoom lenses are a wonderful thing.

We can't believe he got in there as you can see the size of the entry just to the left and down from his head. And he wasn't really interested in coming out either. I can sort of relate; I don't move too quickly when you first wake me up either. Wayne finally had to maneuver Mr. Opossum to the middle with a stick then flip the trap over to dislodge him. Even after that, he wasn't in any hurry to leave, falling back asleep in the same spot for an hour or more before moving on. He must have found the sound of falling magnolia leaves soothing.

The trap's on the porch tonight...not necessarily because I think the possum will be back but because there are rains in the forecast. No need washing away my sunflower seeds. The possum can move on and the squirrels get a break. But only for a day. The war's back on come Sunday.

Watch The Birdie

The hummingbirds are back. Yes, John...I know; you're looking for the photo to go with this post but there isn't one. They're camera-shy at this point. Well, they're pretty much people-shy, darting off to the safety of the canopy of green that is the big oak tree in the backyard. We're making progress though. I was headed from the side porch to the back patio the other day when I realized there was a hummer at the feeder. I stopped dead still in my tracks and although she kept pulling back to watch me, she continued to feed.

We only get Ruby-Throated Hummingbirds around here but there's both a male and female we're seeing  regularly this year. The male flies in, lands on the perch and sits, enjoying a leisurely meal. He slurps up a little sugar water, looks around and then goes for more. And while any movement, even inside the house, will scare him off, he's pretty mellow about his meal otherwise. Well, except for today when I saw him fly in and be started by the anole, a chameleon-like lizard common in our area. It was mutual; the anole was initially concerned his bask in the sun on the pole holding the feeder was going to end in his being some bird's meal until he saw the size of that bird. They eyed each other with the hummingbird hovering instead of sitting and the anole moving to the far side of the pole.

The little female, however, never sits. Sounds familiar, huh? Mom's too busy to sit down for lunch; there's always something that needs to be done. She hovers then slips in for a drink, repeating the process over and over until she has her fill. We have yet to see both of them come at the same time although we have with other pairs in the past.

Carol says the hummingbirds she had at her feeder have moved on and maybe ours will too but we've been lucky some years in the past to have one or more stay throughout the summer. My cardinal flower is looking particularly healthy this year. With any luck, it will produce some flowers to supplement the sugar water. Sadly, it's never quite as dramatic as the photos in the Wikipedia entry but it pretty much grows itself.

The whole yard has been full of birds, a fact Wayne and I were discussing just a few days ago as we enjoyed lunch on the patio. There are cardinals, wrens, thrushes and more blue jays than we can ever remember seeing, Even the bluebird house is occupied although by chickadees, I think. And, of course, the ever-present mockingbird. Yep, you don't have to look far to watch the birdie around here.

The Bad Memory Blues

A few weeks ago I asked Wayne to stop at the store for me on his way home from the fish market. He's good about doing errands like that and I try not to abuse it by asking him to pick up more than a couple of things. While we try to make a meal plan for the week before we hit the store on Saturday, it's not that unusual for us to need an "emergency run" to the store for a couple things we ran out of or didn't realize we would need.

I can't remember what the dish was that needed them for but I wanted green onions. And I knew his return trip from the fish market would take him right by a little family-run market that is easy-in-easy-out and somewhere we've been known to stop at on occasion when coming home from downtown Pensacola. It was a natural fit.

And since he was stopping, I cut out a coupon I'd seen in the paper that morning for a free tomato with purchase. My tomato-loving buddy could have a reward for the extra effort of stopping. Oh...and see if there's any interesting rice to go with the fish, I told him. This little market is known for having hard-to-find and unique items; they were sure to have some different choices. There was a fourth item too, although what it was at this point escapes me.

When he rolled in from his shopping trip and handed me his sack, I looked in and saw he had dutifully purchased three of the four items. The one he forgot? The green onions that were the real purpose behind him stopping to begin with. Needless to say, the recipe got made without green onions and we never really missed them.

Fast forward to today. My better half was heading to Walmart to pick up a refill on his prescription. Need anything from the store, he asked. As a matter of fact, I did...but only because we'd decided to have a corn and black bean dish we like with the tacos planned for later in the week. Since that decision came in the middle of our grocery shopping on Saturday, I didn't have the recipe in front of me. I remembered most of it but forgot a couple of ingredients that weren't staples in the pantry. I had, however, learned my lesson: I wrote him a list for the four missing ingredients.

This time there were four items in the sack when he came home...the right four too, in case you thought that was where this story was headed. When I complimented him on his effort, he gave me a sheepish look in reply. There's a story, he said. After picking up his pills, he reached in his pocket for the list and it wasn't there; he'd left it on the desk. Fortunately, having seen the items written down on paper was enough to lock it into his memory. Or maybe it was that it isn't nearly as far to Walmart as it is to the fish market and he hadn't had time to forget them yet.

I can't give him too hard of a time. It hasn't been that long ago I had a memory lapse of my own. We got a block or so away from home when I realized I had some coupons I wanted to use as they were about to expire so we turned around so I could retrieve them. I intentionally left one in the car at Walmart since I intended to buy that particular product at Publix, then I got all the way inside Publix before remembering the coupon was still in the car so I walked back out to get it. I did get the product off the shelf but I went to put the basket away while Wayne paid and I walked out the door with the coupon still in my hand.

Good thing we did so well on that memory test we took a few months back when we were considering long-term care insurance or I'd really be concerned about us. Still, it's clear we need to join Tom Rush and sing a little Bad Memory Blues:

 

That's What It's All About

You put your GPS in
You put your GPS out
You put your GPS
And you shake it all about

Yes, those madcap Northwest Florida geocachers are at it again...this time doing the Hokey Pokey and turning themselves around for World Wide Flash Mob Day. What? You didn't know there was such a thing as World Wide Flash Mob Day? Join the club; I didn't either. And clearly we're behind the times because this was the tenth anniversary of the event.

Cachers from 42 different countries attended 556 events although I'm sure only a few chose to do the Hokey Pokey as their flash mob. Pity too...it's such a fun little dance.

My roommate claims this may well be his first experience doing the Hokey Pokey as he does not remember doing it on any prior occasion. Obviously, he didn't spend every Friday night at the local skating rink where we turned ourselves around with wheels under our feet. I thought that's what all junior high students did...I certainly did. There wasn't a mall, we couldn't drive and we were too young for dancing at "The Cage," our local youth center. Skating was about it and the Hokey Pokey was as much a regular as the spotlight on the mirrored ball for couples skate. Ahhhh...the memories!

No longer a Hokey Pokey virgin, he has a pretty little World Wide Flash Mob coin to his name along with some dance experience. There were forty or so of his geocaching comrades who participated in today's event. They did the traditional lyrics/steps through the first time (the one in which Wayne participated) and then they did it again with an added verse to put their GPS in and that's the part he filmed. Not everyone got in the video but you'll get the idea.

 

And if you're like me, you'll now be singing this song for days. That is, after all, what it's all about.

Slel1npg Rl4ely Ds3no’7 Mtt43r A73fr 4ll

Apparently my time in the gym is strengthening more than just my biceps, abs and glutes. I have a strong mind too...if the latest "test" making its way from one Facebook wall to another is to be believed, that is. And if you're not on Facebook or haven't seen it and want to test the strength of your mind, see if you can read this:

Let me guess: You thought the first few words were garbage until you got the rhythm of the letter/number combos and then you could read it as easily as if it were written in traditional English. Me too.

Brains are pretty amazing things, aren't they. They're trained by years of reading to scan the text and pick out markers that make the words easy to identify, even if those words don't have the right letters or have them in the right order. We don't read letter by letter; we read word by word so the ol' noggin is looking for certain letter combinations, sounds or patterns that are familiar. And once it finds them, it ignores the fact that there's a 7 where a t should be and "sees" the correct word.

It's actually even more magical than that. Our brains don't rely solely on what is shown in the eyes in in order to see but constructs a complex prediction of what it should see by drawing on previous experiences. Even if some of the letters were missing, our brains could fill in the blanks and "see" the entire word. You needn't look any further than today's text messaging for proof of this in action. The next generation doesn't know words have vowels.

So next time you see a typo in the text of my post, just think of it as my way of helping you make your brain a little stronger. I'm just doing my part to rid the world of weak minds since slel1npg rl43ly ds3no'7 mtt43r a73fr 4ll (spelling really doesn't matter after all).

The Project

It was road-trip Monday at our house yesterday. Well, technically, we weren't *at* our house but you get the idea. We headed up the interstate for a date with our favorite girl and the chance to see "The Project."

Kayla attends a magnet high school, one of four in her city. Incoming freshmen can attend the school they are zoned for or if their grades are good enough, they can apply to any of the magnet schools. I can't remember all the different specialties of these schools (one was math/science), but the one she settled on was college prep. Students are responsible for their own transportation and have to go back to the zoned school if they don't keep up their grades but these school offer unique learning opportunities.

Like the formal sit-down dinner at Christmas where they learn what silverware to use with what course and how to carry on a conversation with people they don't know thanks to a seating chart that guaranteed they wouldn't be sitting next to friends. Oh, they learned calculus and world history too but we're talking unique opportunities here.

And like the Senior Project. One of the requirements for graduation is that each senior completes a year-long project of their choosing. They select a skill, a hobby or something they have an interest in and learn how to do it. A personal enrichment experience, if you will. It's not willy-nilly; there are rules. They have to have a mentor and spend 25 hours with that individual who not only instructs them but signs off on their work, and the mentor cannot be a relative. And they have to put in a minimum of 75 more hours in on their own.

During the course of the school year they do research papers, a power point presentation, compile a big notebook documenting their progress and give four speeches about their project as well as present to a panel of three judges at what is called "boards." And they have to have something to show as evidence of their project. For some it's an instructional video and for others it's a physical product. The topics vary widely, from learning to fly an airplane to photography to sign language. The idea is more than just the students picking up a skill/hobby they might enjoy; it's also about a year-long commitment supervised by someone from outside the school. You don't finish your project; you don't graduate.

Kayla chose quilting and 127 hours later, here is her Senior Project:

This is a girl who'd never sewn a single seam before she embarked on this project and the result is stunning. Before embarking on the full-sized quilt, she got her sewing skills up to par on a pillowcase and then a baby-sized quilt, both of which turned out great too but I'm so impressed by this big one. I made one quilt a long time ago and it was enough for me to know I didn't want to do that again.

The pattern is called a blooming nine-patch and when I saw all those teeny-tiny squares she was sewing together at her birthday in early December, I worried how she was going to get it all done by May given her other course work...and social life too. The little squares aren't but maybe 1.5" including the seam allowance. Nine of them go together to make a block and then there are some blocks of the same size that are solid fabric so they're not pieced. Together they just blend from one patterned material to the next.

The back side is the floral print that is in the middle of the front. And in true modern fashion, she chose the stitching pattern that quilted it all together from a computerized list and then let a machine do its thing. Quilting may be an old-fashioned skill but it's got plenty of modern technology to it too.

This smile might be a little bigger than usual because I know how relieved she is to have this project done. Well...done except for the boards which are tomorrow night. And I feel sure she won't be making a run to the fabric store next week for material for the next quilt either. Still, she's clearly proud of the job she's done and rightfully so. One more requirement down; graduation is just around the corner.

Time Flies

One day she's a little munchkin clomping around in Grandma's shoes and posing for pictures in her Mickey Mouse pajamas. She could have had her choice of half a dozen different colors but she was always drawn to the red ones.

And the next day she's a beautiful young lady posing with her dad as she's preparing to leave for her Senior Prom. The hair's a little neater and hopefully she has her shoes on the right feet this time but she's still drawn to red...and I can't think of a better color for her. More importantly, I can't wait to see her on Monday to hear all about her night.

Woof, Woof

We don't have a dog but that doesn't mean I don't get a chance to scratch a few ears and experience the exuberance of a tail wagging 90 m.p.h. Thanks to all the dog owners in my neighborhood, there's always a four-footed friend somewhere on my walk who is not only man's best friend but mine as well.

Just today I shared a few steps of my walk with a yellow lab. Well, I was stepping; Molly was riding in a golf cart and obviously loving every minute of it. Molly and her owner could benefit from a few blocks on foot but since I'm not in charge of their lives, I'll just appreciate how great it is that they're out getting some fresh air together. And as I neared home, a not-to-be ignored miniature schnauzer was clamoring for my attention along with his little mixed-breed companion and I was happy to oblige them both. Usually the schnauzer is running at the end of a leash as his owner rides in his golf cart. He whines and cries for me then too but doesn't get to stop for the scratches and sweet talks he knows I'll dish out. We were both happy today.

There's a new dog making a lap on our street these days...and a new means of transportation too. It looks to be a white poodle but it's hard to tell for sure because it's in a baby buggy. Well, technically I suppose it's a doggy buggy since it appears to be designed just for that purpose. Think of an old-fashioned baby buggy like one designed for a girl to push her dolls around in and add some mesh in the front and that's the limo transporting the poodle down to the cul-de-sac and back. Wayne was as surprised in seeing it as I was, mostly because it's just so out of place here in our corner of the world. Poodles in baby carriages don't exactly fit with camouflage clothing, NASCAR and redneck jokes that have more than just a grain of truth to them. To each their own.

My first thought was that it was nice the owner wanted to take the dog with her while she got in her daily exercise. Then I noticed her shoes. The platform flip-flops she was wearing seemed to be saying fitness wasn't the motivation behind the walks; fresh air and a change of scenery for the dog was. I suppose when you get down to it the only real difference between a dog riding in a baby buggy and one in a golf cart is the price of the wheels.

Rumor has it there's a pony Great Dane living on the other side of the neighborhood. I can't wait to see what his means of transportation is.

Cleared For Takeoff

Things have been busy in the yard lately. In the backyard, Wayne helped me for about three hours this morning in the never-ending screened enclosure clean-up. Not only was it dirtier than it's ever been any Spring, it was grubby in places that have never had algae before. I climbed the big ladder (higher than I really like, I might add) to scrub part of the roof and he moved the ladder and handed me the scrub brush and sprayer filled with bleach. And while it seemed like this job would never be finished, with the investment of another three this afternoon, it.is.DONE.

But the backyard wasn't the only happening place. There was plenty going on in the front too.

The first guy showed up in a bright green vest and he sprayed orange lines on the lawn. That was yesterday. Today a guy in a neon orange vest appeared and he sprayed two more sets of orange lines, punctuated by orange flags, then he made another pass and sprayed two sets of red lines and added red  flags to them. I was waiting for someone to paint blue lines but maybe that's tomorrow.

The painted lines sort of disappear in the grass in the photo but they're pretty obvious in person. Wayne says it looks a lot like a runway but actually the lines are cable, phone and electric. And I'm not really sure what we might be in for. Given the current FAA controller issues being blamed on budget cuts, I just hope some pilot doesn't mistake this for his landing strip. That would make for some real excitement.

We'll just have to see who shows up to do what in the yard next.

There's An App For That

Maybe it's all the family history research I've been doing that made me pay attention to the headline as I worked my way through a recent edition of USA Today. Or maybe it was the catching wording of it. You've got to admit, the words "In Iceland, you tap the app so you won't kiss your cousin" are intended to draw you in...and they certainly worked on me.

Turns out that in Iceland, a country where most of its 320,000 citizens are distantly related, inadvertently kissing your cousin is a real possibility. Those madcap Vikings. There needed to be more of them that settled the country in the 9th century so the gene pool would be more diverse. Apparently most of the population traces their ancestry back to this same small group. As the article pointed out, too many Icelanders have heard stories of going to a family event and running into someone they hooked up with a few months/years back not knowing they were related. Not good on several levels.

And while that may make the app necessary, it's also what makes it possible. Iceland, it appears, has some elaborate database called Islendingabok, or Book of Iceland, which records the residents and their family trees stretching back 1,200 years. The app was created by three software engineering students as part of a contest seeking new and creative uses of the database. Users download the app and then "bump" smartphones with someone who's kindling a romantic flame in them. The phones will emit a warning alarm if they're closely related. Bump the app before you bump in bed is the app's tagline, promoting what's called the Incest Prevention Alarm. Seriously; I can't make up stuff this good.

That, of course, was entertaining although I figure if you and your new acquaintance can't figure out if you have a common grandparent (the default to trigger the alarm), you should spend more time talking before you jump in the sack together. Maybe I'm just old-fashioned.

But the part that really intrigued me in the article was a database of residents that tracks their family trees back 1,200 years. Wow! is all I can say. While I've had incredible luck in parts of my family history quest, I still have a great-grandfather and a great-great-grandfather I know next to nothing about. I can only imagine what a terrific resource that would be. It's an idea that works due to the size and unique heritage of the country.

Can't you just imagine the conversation at the local bars though. Well, hello there. Come here often? Shall we bump phones to see if we're cousins? Pick-up lines in Iceland will never be the same.

Home Sweet Home

If it seems like everything I'm writing about lately involves the house, that's because our little world is revolving around it right now. Fix it or clean it...that's our life Spring 2013. Ah, the joys of home ownership.

The pool deck is shiny-clean...well, as shiny as concrete can be and Wayne's finished the driveway and sidewalks so they look just as good. He got a little encouragement as he washed the curb and gutter out front when several neighbors driving past gave him a thumbs up for his effort. It does look nice; if only it would stay so clean and white.

My efforts this week are directed at the screened enclosure around the pool. It's amazing how something that's mostly holes can be so dirty and it seems worse than ever this year. I think it's because we had such a rainy year last year so the algae on the screen is really bad.

Nasty, isn't it! Thankfully, it only looks this bad when you see it at an angle. Straight-on you don't see the green...but I know it's there.

One scrub doesn't cut it, even with bleach added to the wash water; it takes a second round. And I've even made up a stronger bleach mix in the sprayer and used it on the worst ones. That's why the pieces of blue tarp are there...to keep this stronger bleach solution off the plants that are growing there.

I must admit this isn't my favorite chore in the springtime job jar. I don't mind the screens themselves, even as dirty as they are but I don't like the overhead portion of the framework. My shoulders and neck are reminding me of just how hard of a job it is.

The good news is all the inside is done...hallelujah! And with rain in the forecast for tomorrow, my aching muscles are going to get a break. Double hallelujah! And since I have only so much control over where all that dirt I'm washing off is going, cleaning the pool is next on the list. I'm not allowing myself to think beyond that.

I love my home; I'll just be glad when these clean-up chores are done.

Possibilities

The wind mitigation work is all done on our house now. Even though it's been several weeks since they started, the work hasn't been constant. In fact, all of the jobs were done in two days or less...they were just scattered out over time while we waited for materials to arrive. And we've had the third and last inspection done now too. Everyone who was anyone has signed off on it it would seem.

From the street the house doesn't look one bit different. The clips are up under the soffit, the back door looks just like the old one and the hurricane shutters are safely tucked away in a nook in the garage. Yep, pretty much invisible.

Until you get right up next to the house, that is. Then you see these:

Every window and door (except the new one) has a series of these pegs along two sides. I look at them and see possibilities...like string art. I could easily work some red, white and blue twine back and forth between them then hang some stars along it for a Fourth of July festive window. And with some creative knot-making, I'll bet I could come up with a tree shape out of green fiber and hang a few Christmas ornaments from it to take my outdoor decorations to a new level.

But that's not the purpose. They're made to hold these:

Those aren't our actual shutters as I didn't get any photos of them when they were installing them but we have some that look just like them. All the openings that face the golf course have the metal shutters on them. There's one regular window, one regular door and three sliding glass doors on that side with shutters like these. All of them go across except the largest sliding glass door and the panels are vertical on it just because of the size. Each panel had two "mountains" and three "valleys" and they overlap. You start at the bottom, match the holes with the pegs pictures above and work your way up. They're all numbered so we have panels 1-5 for opening 23, for instance. And they gave us a drawing of the house with all the openings numbered to use as a guide.

The other three sides of the house have Fabric-Shield. Think of it as giant pieces of canvas but, of course, it's a specially woven and treated fabric made to withstand wind, rain and wind-borne objects. Follow the link and you can watch them shoot an 8' 2x4 at the Fabric-Shield and see it actually fares better than plywood or the metal shutters.

That wasn't why we chose it, however. It's easier to put up, first of all. It's much lighter and it's one panel per opening. It's the same theory; there are holes along the edges that go over the pegs only you start at the top and go down, stretching it tight as you install it. Another advantage is it lets in a little light. Not enough that you can see what's going on outside but you can tell if it's day or night. That's only important for life between when you put the shutters up and when the storm hits. There's not much light anywhere in the middle of a hurricane...it's raining too hard. We did, however, order two clear panels per door to mix in with the metal shutters so we'd be able to see a little of what was happening outside...and not feel like we were living in a cave.

And the Fabric-Shield is easier to store. Several of them stack together and then roll up to fit into these giant tubes. Some people hang them by one edge against a wall in the garage but this system makes more sense to us. More out of the way.

There are other types of shutters...some that pull down, some slide across, some rest on tracks. We settled on a combination of what we think will work best for our house and for us in putting them up.

The first step in installing the shutters no matter which type is to pop the little white plastic cap off the peg and the last step is to screw on a wing nut to hold it in place. Wondering how many wing nuts we have? How about 400; it's a big ziplock bagful. Fortunately, they showed us the attachment we'd need to go on an electric screwdriver to make the on and off and my good Boy Scout hubby has already acquired it. No need to wait until there's a storm in the Gulf to try to track one down.

I can't help but look at those panels of Fabric-Shield and think it sure would be nice if they weren't so plain. No painting on the outside for these; whose going to look at that in the middle of a storm anyway. But a nice scene on the side that faces inward might be nice. A pretty blue sky with some puffy white clouds and a rainbow might be nice. It's a possibility anyway.

Neighbors

It's nice to be able to look out the front door and see lights on in the house across the street. The previous owners moved out the better part of a year ago and although the house sold before they moved, it's been dark over there. The new owners had their own house to sell and, as we all know, that can be a challenge in these economic times. But the moving truck showed up earlier in the week and they're well on their way to settling in. They seem like pleasant people...another retired couple but we're slowing gaining a monopoly on that in this corner of the neighborhood. They probably will wished they had moved in October instead of April; Florida summers will be a whole lot different than the ones in New Hampshire.

No such luck with the mess house next door; it's become even more unkept and overgrown in that same time period. Foreclosures move even slower than home sales it seems and I'm told that thanks to all the robo-signing controversy, there are only twelve judges able to hear foreclosure cases in the entire state. We're closing in on four years now since the owners abandoned it. I shudder to think what all is living in the jungle that surrounds it and it would be worse if Wayne didn't mow it from time to time in an effort to keep the weeds from finding their way into our yard.

I cornered the inspector when I saw him over there a few days ago. He comes by about once a month and walks around the house, taking photos with his tablet computer. You do know that there are doors unlocked there, I asked. A neighbor down the street had called me a few days before, concerned that there might be a squatter living there or teens using it for some nefarious purpose. The clothes strewn around in some rooms only added to her alarm. She'd done a walk-around as someone she knew was interested in buying it if it ever gets to a foreclosure sale. She hadn't found my explanation that the previous owner left all her dead husband's clothes behind and that the house had been unlocked for some time to be very reassuring.

Yes, the inspector knew there were doors unlocked. He'd been finding them that way for months and each month relocked them. He was sure the previous owner was returning to the home but I don't think so. She certainly didn't sneak in before and I feel sure this house and the memories it evokes are far, far back in her rearview mirror. No, I'm guessing the inspector was only making a half-hearted effort to check and relock the doors since he never went inside the screened porch. And since he said there didn't appear to be any vandalism inside, I wasn't going behind him to see that his job was done right. You can see the mold in the house through the sliding glass doors; I'll not be going inside to lock doors.

I did, however, fuss about the conditions outside. This is the pool. About a year ago a crew showed up and constructed this framework of wood, wire and plastic in an effort to make the pool less of a hazard. I suppose the bank or the property management company it hired was behind it and it probably did reduce the chances of a small child falling in or something. The water is so stagnant and nasty you wouldn't see your hand six inches into the water...assuming you wanted to put your hand in there in the first place. And it might have eliminated a prime breeding spot for mosquitoes as well as a home for frogs when it first went together but the plastic has long since rotted and fallen apart. Even the wire is rusted and curling up off the wooden frame. It's a mess, just like the rest of the place. Too bad, too; it was a beautiful home when our friends Bonnie and Hiram lived there three owners ago.

The inspector was sympathetic but said he didn't have much power. After all, he allowed, he'd been trying to get the locks changed on the house since January and it hadn't happened yet. We talked about putting pressure on the bank/management company via the homeowner's association or the health department and then he went on his way.

He must have gotten in touch with the powers that be after he left, however, because it wasn't but just an hour or two later that a crew showed up next door with mowers and trimmers. The bushes are still overgrown but at least the weeds have been leveled. And the pool? No progress there yet but I feel sure the health department won't be happy about its condition given the effort they've been making to control those pesky blood-suckers. Too many cases of West Nile not to.

Someday the foreclosure will be done and there will be lights on at that house again too, chasing off the snakes and other creepy-crawlers we have for neighbors now. And that will be a welcome sight indeed.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

I ironed today. Well, after the gym and after a date with the power washer, the fourth this week for those keeping score. It's been so much fun I wanted to share it with Wayne so he's working his way down the driveway.

Ironing means the chance to watch mindless TV. Sometimes it's shows I've recorded and haven't had a chance to watch and sometimes it's whatever I land on while flipping. Today's choice was the Jodi Arias trial from Arizona. Arias is on trial for the 2008 murder of her boyfriend, Travis Alexander, after the couple broke up. While she's told several stories over time, including one to 48 Hours that involved two ninja's breaking in to commit the crime, she now admits that she slit Alexander's throat, stabbed him 27 time and shot him in the head. She now claims she was a victim of domestic violence and it was self-defense. Sex. Lies. Murder. It has the makings of a best seller.

But the reason I find it fascinating is that the jury can ask questions. As the attorneys are conducting their direct and cross examination of witnesses, the members of the jury are dropping their written questions into a box which are then read by the judge. There is a screening process and lawyers can argue against queries to which they object so not all questions make the cut but it's surprising how many do.

This whole concept is just foreign to me and I'm sure that's why it's so intriguing. In all the years I worked for trial lawyers, jurors were never allowed to take notes let alone ask questions. Only a handful of states allow it and I was surprised to see Florida on that list since I've never seen or heard of it done here, at least in our corner of the state.

It's a real shift in power for the jury to take an active role in extracting the facts in the hopes of assuring justice is done. Lawyers, you know, aren't like Perry Mason. They're trained not to ask questions they don't know the answer to so dramatic surprises are rare in the courtroom. But jurors don't have to worry about putting the facts in the light most favorable to their client; they just want the truth.

And listening to the type of questions, and maybe more specifically the wording of those questions, the lawyers are getting a hint of what the jury might be buying into and what they're struggling with. I suspect the practice adds a whole new layer of complexity to prosecuting/defending a case as you might need to taylor the rest of your evidence to how the jury responded to the first part. From what I heard, it didn't sound like this jury was embracing the domestic violence/self-defense arguments but you never know. I only heard an hour or two in a trial that has already lasted several months.

Watching the trial all day every day would get old even for a legal beagle like me. Murders don't go from crime scenes to verdicts in an hour; real courtroom proceedings are a little slow and tedious. Still it was interesting to hear what the jury wanted to know while I made the wrinkles go away on some shirts and shorts. I'll be back to scrubbing outside tomorrow.

By The Hour

The short version of today's activities:
     7:00am     Crawl out of bed
     8:00am     Make like a pretzel at yoga
     9:00am     Squats, lunges and oblique crunches...oh, my!
   10:00am     Miles and miles but the scenery never changes
   11:00am     Check out the new hurricane shutters
   12:00pm     Cheese, crackers, hummus and fruit...the usual
     1:00pm     Pull the cord, start the power washer
     2:00pm     Working my way around the pool
     3:00pm     Pool deck is getting clean; I'm getting dirty
     4:00pm     Washing, washing, washing.
     5:00pm     It's a lot of concrete
     6:00pm     Dinner after a shower
     7:00pm     Washer humming, dryer tumblinG
     8:00pm     I think I need some Advil
     9:00pm     Collapse; get ready to do it again tomorrow

Progress

It's me...back again. Via Firefox. I hate being bullied but it's their way or the highway. Well, actually, I can blog; I just can't us any pictures. What fun is that? So life goes on.

Things are getting done on the hurricane hardening project going on at our house but it's still a process. They're specialized, you know. The crew that did the roof clips isn't the same one that installs garage door or the new back door or the hurricane shutters. I suppose it's better that way; we're getting experts at doing one piece of the whole puzzle so the end result should be better, right? It just moves a little slower this way.

The garage doors went in at the end of last week and while a garage door is a garage door, there's still a world of difference between our old ones and the new ones. What does it take to be a hurricane-rated garage door?

Strips of 2x4 for one thing. Each panel in all three doors has two sections of 2x4 between the door itself and the frame at the end. It serves as a means of reinforcement when Mother Nature decides to huff and puff.

And for lateral support there's a heavy bar-like metal beam across the top of most panels but the bottom of the top one. Our old door just had those rolled edges of each panel where they meet up with one another.

This photo shows how thick those bars are. They stick out a good two inches beyond the tracks that the door rolls up on. Fortunately, we have plenty of room in our garage to allow for that. They added some serious hardware to the piece of wood that holds the tracks too. It's definitely anchored to the frame of the house now.

I should have taken a photo of the exterior but didn't think of it because there's a noticeable change there too. There are no windows. Wayne and I did a mental tour through all of our other houses (it wasn't long...there are only three others) and we've never had a house that didn't have windows in the garage door. It looks so strange...and dark...to walk out in the garage now; it's taking some getting used to. You can buy garage doors with hurricane-proof glass but the insurance companies won't give you the discount if you do. So we're going windowless.

There are also these little extra flaps on the outside at the edges of the door. They're little in that they're only a couple of inches wide but they run from the top to the bottom of the door and help seal the opening where the door meets the house. Not only does it keep the wind from finding a way in, it also keeps out the critters. Like the snake and two lizards we found when we cleaned the garage before the installation started. I'm sure they were thrilled when they found a gap in the weatherstripping to come inside. It was cold enough they weren't moving much so they're history...and in pieces.

One plus of these new garage doors that has nothing to do with their wind rating is the fact that they're so quiet. Ah...new is a good thing.

And just a few days ago they came to put in our new exit door. It too is hurricane-rated and will be the only opening that won't have shutters.

But it looks just like the old door you're probably thinking if you've been to our house before. Yes it does with two notable exceptions. There's hurricane-proof glass, obviously but the best part is the blinds are between those two panes of glass. No more dusting them or listening to them rattle as the door opens and closes. Can you hear me cheering?

And we have new hardward on them too. Sleek, modern handles as opposed to knobs. Wayne loves how he can now easily when the door when he comes in from the grill even if his hands are full of plates of something yummy. Of course, that means we're having to replace the hardware on all the other doors so they match. It too is a process but we're getting there.

The final step is the shutters which they started today. The end is in sight. Good thing...hurricane season starts June 1.

Bumps in the Road

Technology is a wonderful thing...when it works, that is. And right now, it isn't.

I planned a post for tonight; even made the effort to take multiple photos for it. Had them all edited and began writing the story to go with them when the problem arose. You see, my computer updated to Internet Explorer 10 the other day and every time that happens, Typepad (the website hosting the blog) has issues. Photos don't upload. They try but the little icon just sits there, spinning and spinning and nothing ever happens.

Sadly, Typepad isn't very sympathetic to this problem. They eventually create a work-around but their standard response is to use Firefox as a browser. When I read that, I'm tempted to shout at the computer screen that if I wanted to use Firefox, I'd have already installed it. Typepad is the only place I have a browser issue.

So there is no informative post; you're subjected to my rant instead. And the blog may be very black and white for a while until Typepad fixes the problem. It's a minor bump in the road in the grand scheme of things but that doesn't mean it's not frustrating me right now.

Turning Back The Clock

We've all heard of people who say they aren't having any more birthdays. Well, technically, they're OK with having the birthdays; they just don't want to add another year to their age. And some have even joked that they're going to start subtracting a year on their annual aging day instead of adding one. For those of you who want to know how to make that happen, you just need to meet my dad.

It was Dad's birthday today: 89 years young. And he had quite the busy day. He started with coffee with his cronies at the local McDonald's...but that's an almost-every-day event. Breakfast is just the excuse to chit-chat, good-naturedly harass and just generally hang out with old friends. And if someone doesn't show up as expected, well then one of the guys calls to make sure everything's OK. Thursdays are laundry days at his house so he'd done multiple loads for the washer and dryer. When I jokingly said I'd figured he'd be out bar-hopping when I called to wish him "Happy Birthday," he replied that he had just gotten home. He was at a celebratory dinner and then the bowling alley, however, not bar-hopping.

Bowling is a big part of his life. He still bowls a line or two just for fun during the week as well as bowling on a team in a weekly league. Yes, at 89. And he not only bowls, he bowls well. In our conversation tonight he told me he rolled a 638 series last week; that's an average of almost 213 that night. And a few weeks ago, he had a 258 game. At 89.

I had to smile as I listened to him recount the events in his life since we talked a week or so ago. He's not exactly sitting around in a rocking chair, is he...and I love it. So I said to him "It sounds to me like you're getting younger on your birthday instead of older." "Well, I feel like it too!" he replied. We agreed that he needed to figure out how to patent that because he could make a lot of money with his ability to turn back the clock.

We're both blessed...him at having his health and being able to lead such an active life at 89 and me at being able to enjoy his enthusiasm for it. I should be so lucky to inherit those genes.

 

The Right Place At The Right Time

The hubs has been heading off for a day of caching most weekends lately. Sometimes he meets up with friends but this weekend he was by himself. And he doesn't mind that a bit. I can relate to that; I like company on my walks sometimes but I'm happy to hit the streets all alone too. Sometimes you can appreciate nature more when there isn't any conversation.

He was heading down a trail looking for a particular cache when he heard a terrible racket in the nearby trees. He looked up and could see a lot of wings flapping around but couldn't make out what was happening. He got his cache and when he returned, he was found this:

A hawk had managed to snatch a large black bird, probably a crow, out of the tree and was ready to make it his dinner. Whether he caught it mid-air, swooped down on a nest or just plucked it from a limb, he didn't know but it caused quite a stir among the crow's compatriots. They were diving at the hawk on the ground but Wayne said they weren't getting very close. Perhaps they feared meeting the same fate as their fallen brethren.

The hawk was guarding his prey closely and even though he kept a wary eye on Wayne, he allowed him to move in pretty close. I'm not sure how many geocachers carry a camera with them but Wayne does. It could be because he's married to a scrapbooker. It's just a little point-and-shoot and the sun wasn't at the best angle but they're pretty good pictures.

As Wayne finished snapping his photos and moved back, the hawk clutched his prize and took flight. Wayne said it was all he could do to fly with such a heavy catch but I'm sure the hawk, and perhaps its offspring, probably dined well. This would be one instance when eating crow is a good thing...if you're a hawk.

Sometimes you get lucky and you're in the right place at the right time to witness nature up close and personal. This was one of them.

A Wardrobe Notation

I never gave it a second thought when I grabbed a T-shirt to throw on for my walk on Saturday. We'd been running errands and the shirt I had on was a little too nice to troop around the neighborhood in so I was looking for something a little more "worn." It was an easy choice...it was right there on the closet shelf where I'd tossed it a few days earlier. I'd had it on but only for a short time so it wasn't dirty enough for the hamper but not clean enough to go back in the drawer either. Little did I know it was going to be such a conversation starter.

My route was half-done when a man hollered at me from his front yard as I walked by. "Is that really a Jayhawk on the front of your shirt?" he asked. I'm not used to much more than a generic hello from strangers I pass on my walk but this guy was intent on needling a Kansas fan fresh off a heartbreaking loss in the NCAA basketball tournament. "Yes," I replied. "It is...and it takes a real fan to wear their team's colors the day after they gave up a double-digit lead and lost the game." He went on to recount how he had jumped up with his arms raised at the end of the game and shouted, "KU lost!" I expected him to tell me that he was a Michigan fan but it was worse; he pulled for Missouri. I resisted the urge to tell him if his team hadn't been so greedy and bolted to the SEC, one of the longest and most storied rivalry in sports would still be going strong.

Down the hill and around the corner I passed Paul's house. I barely know Paul but he and Wayne know one another from the golf course so as he saw me approaching he made a beeline in my direction. "I can't believe they lost that game!" he said before launching into a far more detailed and enthusiastic analysis of the Florida-Florida Gulf Coast game which had also been played on Friday. That's because Paul is a huge Florida fan. "Pull for us on Sunday," Paul said. "We'll do what Kansas couldn't." Hmfph. Me...root for the Gators? That will never happen. Wonder how Paul feels tonight after Michigan pummeled Florida. At least Kansas took them down to the wire...in overtime, no less.

I wasn't far from home when I passed Dr. Dale out painting around the mailbox. "Is the Big Guy still mourning last night's loss?" he asked. In fairness, he probably would have asked the same question no matter what shirt I was wearing...that's just the kind of friend he is. "He's disappointed but philosophical," I said. "It's a game and in the end only the fans of one team are going to be happy with the way the tournament turned out."

And as if all this wasn't enough, the cart boy wanted to get his two cents in as I walked by the golf shop. "Kansas," he said, pointing to my shirt. "They got beat." Did he really think I didn't know that?

Life...and the tournament...goes on. I'm pulling for the Shockers now; after all, I have a diploma from that university. And if they don't win it, then it might as well be Michigan.

I have, however, made a note for future tournaments. Don't wear the KU shirt out in public the day after they exit the tournament unless you want to stop and talk with people you know and don't know.

In The "Small World" Category

There were copies of three old photos spread before me when I signed on to the Internet last night. These happened to belong to my brother, part of the bottomless box that holds his share of the old family photos that I'm scrapbooking for him at a far-too-slowly pace, but I have an identical set of my own. We found the three when we were cleaning out Mother's house several years after her death and while there were names on the envelope that held them, I didn't know how or from whom she got them. And since the names didn't necessarily match up with the photos I was seeing from others researching the same family lines on Ancestry.com, I was trying to resolve the discrepancy.

There wasn't much doubt about this being a photo of William Cowdry Hedrick, my maternal great-grandfather

And I thought this was Nancy Hazelton Hedrick, his wife.

But was this Nancy Logan Hedrick, his mother as my notes indicated, or Jane Campbell Logan, his grandmother as some thought?

Not finding an answer at Ancestry.com, I turned to my good friend Mr. Google. While he'll do his best to help under any circumstance, he likes it best when you give him something unique to work with and the names Nancy Logan and Jane Campbell just aren't that unique. So I searched on Nancy's father/Jane's husband Tarlton Logan.

The first few places weren't much help as they had no photos but then I clicked on a blog devoted to entirely to the author's family history. Ol' Tarlton's name was clearly there as was a reference to the Logan Family History, a book I'd also found at Mother's house. While the blog entry was about one of Tarlton's sons, I was intrigued enough to want to read more. What was her connection to the Logan family, I wondered. So I clicked to the home page.

The first entry or two dealt with names I was unfamiliar with. Maybe this wasn't going to be so fruitful after all. Then there in the fourth entry I saw the photo of the man first pictured above...my great-grandfather. It was a strange sensation to have the same photo staring at me from the desk and the screen at the same time; I swear I heard spookie music faintly coming from some far-off place. In addition to the photo, the blog entry contained his obituary from the Fairview Republician, November 21, 1913, something I did not have.

I've exchanged emails with Kathleen, the blog's author, who it turns out is also a great-granddaughter of William Cowdry Hedrick...the child of my grandfather's brother Frank. And she was kind enough to share some old Logan photos with me which indicate that the second picture is that of Nancy Logan Hedrick (William's mother) and not Nancy Hazelton Hedrick (William's wife). And the third photo, the one that prompted my date with Mr. Google? That's apparently his grandmother, Jane Campbell Logan.

It would be a cool "small world" story if it ended here but it doesn't. You see, there's a scrapbook page on my table with some of those old pictures that belong to my brother. There's just five pictures on the layout because that's all I had that fit a common theme...and in this case, that theme is my grandfather and his siblings. Frank, Kathleen's grandfather, is in two of them and Frank's daughter Leota, Kathleen's mother, is in a third. I've had the box of my brother's photos for years; what are the odds that these particular pictures would be on my table at this moment in time? It makes the hair on my arms stand up just thinking about it.

The Internet's reach is an amazing thing, allowing us to find information we might not ever uncover otherwise and connecting us to people we'd never come across in real life. It's just eerie to me that on this occasion fate dropped people and facts beyond my reach right into my lap while the faces of those involved were literally at my fingertips. It really is a small world.

Holy Barbells, Batman!

So I've been going to yoga for 14 months now and I love it. The pretzel-like moves no longer seem strange and while my crane is far from picture-perfect, I can get my toes off the ground now...at least for a short time. The improvements in my strength, balance and flexibility are noticeable, at least to me anyway. There's still plenty of room for improvement in all those areas but my body is no longer in agony from the contortions I've put it through in class like it was at the beginning.

The strength class is another matter. We do an ever-changing series of exercises using barbells and while you're free to choose your own, the instructor gets her two cents in too. Like last week when she rolled the 10-pound weights to me and said I needed them for the next set. I've been gradually increasing the weights I use in the four months since I started the class but had been using fives and eights depending on what we were doing. She was right though; I could do the ten.

Little did I know I'd be wishing I had those tens back again.

Today there were only two of us in class, a rarity since it's usually five to seven of us in there. And when there's just two, she takes the training out to the machines.

The good news is it's like having your own personal trainer for an hour. Well, technically that's what she does when she isn't teaching classes but all those people are paying her for her time; we weren't. She's a stickler for proper form which is wonderful for a novice like me. Learn it right from the get-go. And my gym experience has been limited to classes and the treadmill so it was nice to get some instructions on what machines to use and how they worked.

The bad news is there were no ten pound weights. Or twentys...and darn few thirtys. She's tough! But she kept her eyes on the two of us, even if we were on different machines. If we didn't seem to be challenged, she added weight but by the same token, she took it off if we struggled too much. One of the guys who's usually on the treadmills at the same time I am chuckled as he took his spot at the machine next to me. You may be sorry you let Lisa take you out of that room, he said nodding toward the classroom. She's a taskmaster. I told him she was a taskmaster in that room too.

My little muscles were just a-quivering by the time our hour was done. Now that I know how they work, I'll be back on those machines again...but it won't be tomorrow. Advil is once again my new best friend.

We all need to step outside our comfort zone now and then and challenge ourselves in ways we didn't expect. There's a real sense of accomplishment when you do things you didn't think you could. My sore muscles are a reminder of that. But I'm not sure I can endure a workout like that one every week. I may have to resort to calling around to assure we have more than two of us there for the strength class next Tuesday.

Where The Heck Is Spring?

I can't be the only one who's had their fill of Winter weather and is craving the warm days of Spring. Say what you will about global warming but this seems to be the Winter that never ends.

Sunday was one of those days I've been longing for...sunny, breezy and 82 degrees. I was in heaven! More importantly, I got things done. Trimmed bushes. Washed porches. Cleaned the pool.

Those in my corner of the world who relied on local lore that it never freezes after St. Patrick's Day are likely to be disappointed come morning, especially if they took advantage of Sunday's 82 degrees to set out some new plants. By this time last year the yard was fertilized, the pool deck was power washed and the screens were all cleaned. This year? Nada. We can't get decent weather for more than a day here or there.

And tonight at 10:05pm I was out arranging buckets and blankets on my blueberries to protect them from freezing. Eighty-two on Sunday, thirty on Monday. The weatherman threw me a curve, however, as it wasn't predicted to get that low tonight when I listened last night so I was surprised when the first story on the 10pm news was about a freeze warning. My neighbor's were probably wondering what I was up to with my late night trips around the back yard but my blueberries are now snuggled in for the night.

Those in my corner of the world who relied on local lore that makes St. Patrick's Day as the end of freezing weather and set out plants on Sunday were probably out there with me tonight...only likely not at such a late hour. They probably didn't wait until 10pm to turn on their televisions.

The headlines in my USA Today said this is Winter's last gasp and April is sure to bring warmer weather. It can't get here fast enough to suit me.

Facebook Could Be Hazardous To Your Waistline

I've managed to resist the lure of Pinterest, the online equivalent of a bulletin board where you pin things that interest you. While I can see the benefit, I can also see it turning into big time-sucker and I already have enough of those in my life. Still,  it would be nice to have a place to save something from the World Wide Web so I could go back to it later. Like recipes.

Oh, wait...there's my news feed on Facebook for that.

I don't spend a lot of time on Facebook but I do usually check in once or twice a day. Now instead of photos of cute kids and short updates on the day's events in my friends' lives, I'm finding one recipe after another when I sign in. Maybe it was the snow making an appearance in parts of the country  that's to blame for it but my news feed seemed to have more food entries than current events today.

One thing I've learned about my Facebook friends, however,  is that they do like their sweets. Want a recipe for Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Brownie Bombs? I've got one on Facebook. How about Snickerdoodle Poppers or Reeces Peanut Butter Cup Fudge? Yep, it's there too. One could gain five pounds just checking up on their friends. And even the non-sweet ones are calorie-laden. Cheesy Chicken Tater Tot Casserole anyone?

I couldn't help but notice that not a single one of these shared recipes would qualify as healthy eating. Whether that's a commentary on the way America eats today or simply that good-for-you food isn't nearly as worthy of making Facebook status as a sinful dessert. I'll let you decide.

I know one thing. You can still enjoy a coconut-flavored yogurt while perusing the ingredients in a Mounds Brownie...at least I can anyway. And if you need the recipe, let me know. I'll check Facebook.

Clip It Up

We're in the midst of a little home improvement project here on the homestead. The first round saw contractors here most of the day Tuesday disassembling and installing, an inspector here yesterday to give the work the OK, and the contractors back to put things back together. And what did we get in this first step?

Clips.

I know...how boring. Home improvements are supposed to be more exciting than metal clips. It's function over beauty, however, with some economics thrown in too.

In case it's not obvious, that's a picture of the underside of the roof with the soffit removed and the black pieces you see are the clips they installed. Two of the 365 they put in. They're another way to fasten the trusses to the walls...kind of like wearing a belt and suspenders. In the 22 years since our house was built, building codes have changed to require extra steps to secure the roof. We have hurricanes, you know. And while we can't go back and add the tie-downs that are used in new construction now, we can add these clips. In fact, there are incentives to do just that.

Our county and the one next door have been given a FEMA grant to retrofit homes built before the code changed to mitigate wind damage. It's an awesome program from a homeowner's standpoint as the grant covers 75% of the cost. You sign up for the program, they evaluate your home and give you a list of improvements that need to be made. It's an all-or-nothing deal; you do everything they recommend or you don't participate in the program. And, of course, you pay your 25% share plus for any upgrades you select. In addition to the clips, we're getting hurricane-rated garage doors, a hurricane-rated exit door and storm shutters for all other windows and doors.

FEMA isn't the only entity urging homeowners to retrofit their homes; insurance companies are too. There are half a dozen categories of discounts available to lower your homeowner's insurance premium if you meet the criteria, and those 365 clips fit in one of them. The shutters and doors will meet another one. And those big ugly nails holding the shingles to the roof deck are another one. We're lucky our builder went above and beyond the code in effect at the time when the house was originally roofed and when it was re-shingled after Hurricane Ivan.

So we're spending money on home improvements that really are going to improve the home, just not make it prettier. And while I can think of plenty of other things I'd like to be doing with that money, it's the right thing to do. And I'll be perfectly happy to pay for those shutters and never have a reason to put them up because that would mean we didn't have any more hurricanes. But that's probably wishful thinking. At least we'll feel safer when one does come our way.

What We Have Here Is A Failure To Communicate

"It's your brother. Call me on the house phone at 123-456-7890 when you get home." That was the message on the answering machine when we came back from running a few errands in town this morning. Simple. To the point. Serious-sounding.

"That doesn't sound like good news," Wayne observed from the other side of the kitchen...and I agreed. What could have happened with Dad, I wondered...he was fine last week when I talked with him. And I immediately reached for my cellphone to dutifully return the call. Off I went to my scrapbook room where it would be quieter since by this time Wayne was engaged in a conversation with the garage door people, the other message on the answering machine.

It took me a few minutes to get to the phone call and then it went to voice mail. Just like in our house, some nameless-but-nice-sounding institutional voice instructed me to leave a message so I did. Telephone tag did nothing to calm my anxiety.

When I returned to the kitchen, Wayne was deep into a conversation with his brother Maurice. Hrmpf, I thought; they're talking basketball and geocaching and I'm trying to figure out what family crisis has arisen that would require my normally-jovial older brother to leave such a serious message. I'd just have to wait for him to call back to find out. Neither Wayne nor Maurice are ones to spend much time on the phone so their conversation didn't last too long, and as Wayne was powering down his cellphone, I mentioned that I hadn't gotten an answer at Jerry's and had to leave a message.

It was only minutes later when my cellphone began to ring. Surprised to see Maurice's name in the Caller ID, I assumed he had something else to tell Wayne and couldn't reach him on his phone since he'd just turned it off. No, Maurice was calling to talk to me....because I'd left the message on his answering machine while he was chatting with Wayne.

I'd assumed "It's your brother" was my brother; it sounded just like him. And Wayne, listening to the same message, knew it was his brother and called him back. It didn't occur to me that the number I was calling from the message on the machine wasn't the right one for my brother, and it didn't occur to Wayne when I told him I couldn't reach Jerry that I had thought it was Jerry who'd left the message. When we realized what had happened, we were both laughing and shaking our heads.

Normally we're pretty good at communicating or knowing what one another are thinking but today? Well, we might as well have been two ships that passed in the night. As it turns out, the reason behind the call wasn't serious at all...and I enjoyed the unexpected opportunity to visit for a few minutes with my brother-in-law. Who knew calling your brother could present such a dilemma.

Sunday...In A Few Chosen Words

One word: Spring-like.

Two words: Rock chalk!

Three words: Fireworks outside...why?

Four words: Corned beef and cabbage.

Five words: It's now my favorite song.

Six words: Walking + good friend = miles go fast.

Seven words: What's fair about weeds growing all winter?

Eight words: There's a scrapbook layout on my desk...finally.

Nine words: Wayne is practicing the Hokey Pokey. Don'tcha wonder why?

Ten words: The last half of March; where does the time go?

A Particularly Good Thursday

I love Thursdays. The housework that defines the early part of the week is over and done and there's the promise of the weekend just around the corner. And today was particular good as Thursdays go.

It started with yoga and then my miles on the treadmill. I've cranked up the elevation over time to where it's a real workout now by 10:15 am on Thursday morning, I've worked up quite a sweat. As I stepped off the treadmill this morning, a woman on one of the stationary bikes asked if I was done. When I said that I was, her response was "Good! Now you can feel noble for the rest of the day, knowing that you've done something good for yourself." Noble, huh. I never thought of it those terms but I like her thinking. I tried to live up to her recommendation.

And it's Pi Day. You know pi...the ratio of a circle's circumference to it's diameter or 3.14. March 14. Get it? And how do you celebrate Pi Day? With pie, of course. Well, If you're a geocacher like my favorite guy, you celebrate it with a geocaching get-together where everyone brings pie. I got the benefit of that on two fronts: I didn't have to cook dinner and he brought home a piece of pie for me.

And I enjoyed that piece of pie while flipping through the latest issue of Cooking Light which arrived in my mailbox today. Yes, I realize that there's a contradiction there between eating pie and reading Cooking Light but I enjoyed them both. All those cherries, blueberries and raspberries in that mixed berry pie had to be healthy, right? I'm excited to have a whole host of new recipes to try out in the coming weeks.

Add in the fact that Thursday night is filled with my favorite television shows and an already good day is put over the top. I watch maybe one show per night most nights but on Thursdays, there are five that I like. Good think we have a Hopper so I can DVR to help me out. I usually watch Project Runway and record Glee, Persons of Interest, The First 48 and After the First 48. I put up with the drama of Project Runway because I love to see the creative process the designers go through in constructing their garments. I don't always agree with the judges but it's different and interesting, even when it's a little stupid like tonight's episode. What can I say...from true-crime murder to song-and-dance, my interests run the gamut.

Ah, Thursday...you've been good to me. I really hate to see you come to an end. Same time next week?

I Read It On The Internet...It Must Be True

The girl in the State Farm commercial would have us believe they can't put anything on the Internet that isn't true so I decided to put her proclamation to the test on a couple of cleaning tips I kept seeing online. Unlike her date who claimed to be a French model, I think my results came close to being the real deal.

Homemade Tub and Shower Cleaner:

I've seen this one numerous places but after I saw a friend (Hi, Jan!) post it had worked for her, I decided to give it a go. Mix equal parts white vinegar and Dawn dishwashing soap, spray it on and let it sit for an hour before rinsing it off. Most instructions call for heating the vinegar first although some said they skipped this step and had good results; I zapped mine in the microwave for a minute...cause I'm a rule-follower.

What I liked about this: Dawn. Vinegar. No caustic chemicals that I had to worry about breathing or having my hands in for an extended period...I knew exactly what was in it. Plus, the Dawn is bright blue so I could see exactly where I'd sprayed, making it easier to get good coverage. It cut right through the soap scum with minimal scrubbing, especially on the glass portion of the shower enclosure and the tub positively shines. The shower needed cleaning but wasn't necessarily mildewy so I can't say how effect it would be eliminating that.

What I didn't like about it: Rinsing down shower walls is a challenge anyway but it was particularly so with that much full-strength Dawn. A detachable shower head would make the job easier but we don't have that so it took a while to get completely rid of the soap. Needless to say, the tub was easier. And that soap is more slippery than commercial cleaners so you need to use extra care not to fall.

Conclusion: I'd use it again. Apparently the mixture retains it's cleaning power so you don't have to throw out (or reheat) what is left over so I'll probably try it in a few other locations. It won't be the tile floor, however; I don't know how you'd ever get that soap-free.

Pumie Scouring Stick:

I have one toilet bowl in the house that developed an ugly ring at the water line. Why this one and not any of the others I have no idea as they're all getting the same water but that ring has been the bane of my existence. I've tried everything...cleanser with a wire brush, bleach, CLR; nothing worked. Thanks to some Internet recommendations and the Pumie Scouring Stick, it's now completely gone. I've linked to Amazon so you can read additional reviews and get ideas for other uses for it but you can find it at Walmart (cheaper, too). I had to look three times before I located it though as it was with the Damp-Rid and other related products, not with the cleansers or scrubbing tools.

What I liked about it: It worked and it was cheap. You do have to put a little effort into it but I don't mind that if I'm going to get the desired result.

What I didn't like about it: It's really coarse so it feels like you must be scratching the porcelain but it didn't. I would, however, be selective about where I used it because of this. I don't know if the gritty residue was from the stick or the mineral deposits but I suppose it doesn't matter since it worked. I didn't have the same experience as the one critical review on Amazon; mine wasn't even noticeably smaller after my task was done.

Conclusion: This is a handy addition to my cleaning supplies and a good investment of a couple of bucks. I'm already planning some yard-tool clean-up with the Pumie.

Despite the assurances of the girl in the commercial, you can't blindly accept what you read on the Internet. In this case, however, it did turn out to be true. Bonjour!

The Definition of Hardy

We must have been quite the sight those (almost) 36 years ago when we packed up and moved to Florida. Everything we owned (again, almost) fit into a Ryder truck as we set off on what we thought was going to be a three-year experiment. Little did we know we'd love it enough to stay twelve times that long.

It wasn't that truck per se that made us such a sight; it was the Chevrolet Blazer that accompanied it. First of all, it was bright orange with a white top and plaid seats. It was purr-dy! And even though it was Wayne's truck, I was behind the wheel. That's because Wayne was driving the real truck. Me, one of the two boys, an Irish Setter and a whole bunch of plants.

Wayne had custom-built a plant rack to fit behind the back seat so I could bring an assortment of hanging baskets with me. In hindsight, it probably would have made more sense to just pitch them and start over but they were healthy and growing and I wanted them to come along. And like any good husband, Wayne had learned there are brownie points to be made in doing what is necessary to keep your wife happy.

The plant rack was genius. There were eye bolts to keep the pots securely in place although it probably looked weird to all the vehicles following us to see a bunch of potted plants swinging to and fro in the rear window of the Blazer in front of them. The only time we encountered a problem was when we stopped for gas. When Wayne would come to the rear corner of the Blazer to pump the gas and the dog took high-jumped the back seat in an effort to get close to him. Needless to say, the plants went swinging.

Despite being tossed and battered by our now long-departed best friend, the plants arrived in pretty good shape and were soon hung from real plant hangers on the back patio of our new home. I can only tell you what one of those plants was after all these years...an asparagus fern. I know that because that fern lives on in my yard today. Well, technically it's the descendants of that fern but still.

I thought of that today as I was filling my yard waste barrel with hunks of green asparagus fern. That little 12" hanging basket of fern has morphed into the plant that's everywhere. Peeking out of the azaleas in the front bed. Shooting up through the bushes by the garage. Overtaking the steps down to the pool deck in the back. When the fern got too big for the hanging basket, it went into a big pot which eventually got divided into two huge pots. And Mother Nature took over from there, sending the little berries with the seeds inside off to new locations, often with the aid of birds. I whack it off. I dig it up. I even spray it with Round-Up and still I have ferns in places where I don't want them. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to bring it from Kansas after all.

There isn't any in the bed next to the pool deck now though. I chopped it off at the same time I cut the hibiscus down to stubs. This is the first winter in a long time that the weather didn't get cold enough to kill it back so much of what I cut off was green. Straggly but green. It should be ready to grow now.

And that's just what the asparagus fern in the pot is ready to do; new shoots are popping out already. But then what else would I expect from such a resilient plant. It is, without a doubt, the definition of hardy.

And So It Begins

Bright sunshine and 70 degrees can only mean one thing: It's time to start the spring chores.

Actually, it's past time. I feel sure that most years I've ticked a few things off the Get-Rid-Of-Winter list before March 8 but not this year. Things looked promising in January when a warm spell gave me the chance to prune the crepe myrtles and roses ahead of the usual February 14 deadline but then February arrived and with it weather that wasn't yard-work friendly. It was either too cold or raining.

Today, however, was beautiful and it felt good to be outside in the fresh air, even if it was full of pine pollen. That was the first chore...de-pollen the pool. Instead of a ring around the tub, I have a ring around the pool, only in this case it's yellow pollen. Well, I did; it's gone now. Unfortunately, I'll have the opportunity to do this chore again (and maybe even again-again) before the pine trees are done doing their thing.

I cleaned out a flower bed, gave the lemon tree a fresh layer of peat/cow manure/top soil, pulled a few weeds and tended to some plants in pots. While I've begrudged the cold temperatures that winter brings to our corner of paradise, the geranium has found them delightful. Of course, it helped that I covered it up on those nights the thermometer dipped down to freezing.

Before I knew it the day had slipped away. If I stop to think of all that needs to be done this time of the year, I know today's effort was barely a drop in the bucket. But it's a start.

Going International

I didn't exactly plan it this way but we've kinda been on a trip around the world with our meal plan the past few days.

First stop: Italy. We countered those cold weekend temperatures with a bowl of hot soup on Saturday night...Tortellini Soup, to be exact. This recipe has become a family staple around our house and it totally tastes like way more work than it is. Think of it as a grown-up twist on tomato soup and grilled cheese as it has those same components but with an Italian spin. Yum-O!

Moving on: Mexico. It was Green Chili Stew on Sunday night. I started with this Cookwell and Company mix which I've used before and added what sounded good at the time. The downside is that this was my last jar and I can't find it locally. I have, however, bookmarked this recipe to try if I can't find the mix next trip through Texas. The plan this time was to add black beans to make a meatless version for me but dice up a grilled chicken breast I'd saved from a meal last week for Wayne to add to his. As we're standing in the grocery aisle where the canned beans are, Wayne spotted to Rotel tomatoes with lime and cilantro. That sounds good, he mused. How about adding that to the stew? Good, it was...just hot very hot. If we were looking for something to warm us up, we found it!

Next stop: The Orient. Last night's offering was a knock-off of P. F. Chang's Lettuce Wraps and a pretty tasty one at that. I used this recipe but, based on the comments, cut down on the amount of onion and doubled the soy sauce and hoisin sauce. Oh, man...are they good! Paired with some stir-fried vegetables and it was not only colorful but well-balanced.

I did get a hard time from my other half for the number of bottles I had strung out on the cabinet but I used them all. Actually, there was more at one time as I had the oil out to saute the vegetables and had used up the last of the jar of hoisin before opening a new one. There are two types of chili paste, one much hotter than the other. After the green chili stew, I was pretty cautious with the spices and mixed the two. It was just the right amount of heat.

And where will we go next? I suppose you could say it was back to Italy tonight as we had leftover tortellini soup but I had in mind tomorrow night's meal when I typed that. We'll be out for the usual night with the gang so it won't be too exotic. I'm betting good ol' American food will be the choice...and that will be just fine. After our around-the-world dining adventures, it will be good to come home.

Links Laughs

Those Golf Boys are at it again.

You might remember the crazy rap video professional golfers Bubba Watson, Ben Crane, Ricky Fowler and Hunter Mahan did for charity almost two years ago. Their silly costumes and outlandish antics kicked the staid image of PGA professionals to the curb and raised a lot of money for charity in the process. And if you don't remember it, you can find my post about it here. It still makes me giggle.

But not as much as the new one; I literally laughed out loud. In fact, I had to watch it twice, once to see what was going to happen next and a second time to really listen to the lyrics. They're pretty clever because they've incorporated the names of other professional golfers into the rap. I can't decide if "I found the I like olives in my Rory Sabbatini" or "I've got a drip in my stewie stewie sink" (Stewart Cink) better but both are funny.

Bubba will be back at Augusta in a few weeks defending his Master's title and I can't help but think the members of this exclusive club probably aren't too thrilled at the persona he projects in the video but then they aren't the target audience. Nothing wrong with marketing to a different demographic, especially if you can benefit charity in the process.

Enough explanation...here's your chuckle for the day:

 

Another Entry For My "Someday" Travel List

It's been a cold and windy weekend here...well, cold and windy by our standards anyway. When my shivers the other night were accompanied by complaints that I was *so over* winter, Wayne reminded me that I could live someplace where they had a real winter. No, I said, that's why we moved to the South. But even the South gets cold and windy sometimes and this weekend was one of those.

I dealt with today's cold by sitting at my computer and pretending that the bright sunlight out the window was actually warmer than it really was. And by doing a little family history research. I'm now working my way through a third book on all of the English ancestors I've found who, of course, have roots far beyond England. And the section I was working in today had Viking names.

Centuries ago people didn't have first and last names like we do now. Names were tied to the places they were from or the parent from whom they descended so Halfdan, son of Olaf, is named Halfdan Olafsson but his son Eystein is known as Eystein Halfdansson. Females added "-dotter" to their father's name so Rognhild, daughter of Hrolf, is Rognhild Hrolfsdotter. Eystein and Halfdan were quite common then so I'm typing them a lot. Believe me, John Smith would definitely be easier on my brain but it's interesting.

They also had other names too, names that described traits associated with them. For instance, Rognhild Hrolfsdotter mentioned above married Rognvald the Wise. Now being known as "the Wise" is a desirable thing I think...at least compared to some of the other names I came across today. Somehow a nickname of "Red Lips' doesn't sound very Viking-ish, does it, but that name along with "White Legs" and "the Stingy" were dutifully entered into the tree. Halfdan the Stingy was apparently generous with his gold but a tightwad when it came to food. And it's safe to say I could easily be known as Brenda White Legs when shorts weather finally makes its appearance.

Perhaps the most entertaining though was Eystein the Fart. My first thought was poor Eystein...he apparently has serious digestive issues to have earned his "the Fart" nickname. And to be saddled with it for life and beyond since a whole lot of people can trace their family roots back to him. Then I found that in Old Norse the Fart possibly means "the swift." Who knew that when you referred to someone as an old fart, you were complimenting their ability to get around quickly!

I found the Fart = swift info by Goggling Eystein the Fart. Given all the confusion surrounding the names, it's a regular part of my research routine. If nothing else, I usually get a Wikipedia entry in the responses and while that's not a reliable reference, it is a clue as to the most widely accepted name.

And that leads me to the "Someday" travel list. (And you wondered if I was ever going to get there.) I was looking for information on Asa, wife of Gudrod the Magnificient, and trying to determine if she was really a queen of Norway. My Google search lead me to the story of one of Scandinavia's greatest archaeological treasures...a Viking-era ship thought to be the tomb of Asa. This link has a photo of the beautiful curving bow at the front of the ship (note it's size compared to the people in the background) and tells the personal story of Asa. She was kidnapped by Gudrod and forced to become his wife but obtained revenge when she killed him while he lay in a drunken stupor. In addition to the skeletal remains of two women (one assumed to be a slave to a royal), the ship contained kitchen utensils, a bed, a loom, silks and tapestries, 13 horses, 3 dogs and an ox...everything one would need in the afterlife.

How cool to know that something like this from the 800's still exists! It was buried in a rock and peat-filled trench and the blue clay preserved the ship's timbers in tact for more than a millennium before being uncovered in 1904. I think I need to go to the Viking Ship Museum in Oslo, Norway, to see this, especially if it did hold the remains of my 40th great-grandmother.

I just won't be making the trip in the winter.

A Honey-Do Day

Some days are Errand Days, some are Housework Days and some are Stay-Home-And-Do-Nothing Days. Today, however, was a Honey-Do Day...as in Honey, do this task or Honey, do that one. I'm willing to assume part of the blame but my better half started it himself. Well...sort of anyway.

I'd mentioned to him yesterday that we had a very small leak in one of the toilets. So small, in fact, that it took me several days to figure out where it was coming from, and since it was the same place as one we'd had in another toilet a few months ago, I knew he'd know just how to fix it. I'd placed a pan under it to contain the mess and brought it to Wayne's attention, telling him he could fix it whenever he was ready. He was ready this morning...and he made short work of that repair.

Then he said we'd just as well tackle the filing cabinet in his office. The bottom drawer has been contrary for years, refusing to close completely so we'd tried not to have to open it. But that's where the previous years' tax returns are stored, and since Wayne was working on taxes this week (another Honey-Do, I suppose), he'd had to open it. Used to you could get it to close with lots of pressure in the right spot...and holding your nose just right too...but the last time we had to take the back off of it before it would cooperate.

So we were standing in front of the filing cabinet looking at the semi-open drawer when I asked why we keep fighting this. Why don't we just go get a new one that will work? So we did. If only it were so easy. It required a stop at Target, one at Walmart, one at Office Depot and even a brief foray into Home Depot. (They don't have filing cabinets, in case you're wondering.) And then back to Target to purchase one. That's not the end of it, however. The freshly-purchased cabinet was damaged when we got it home so back we went to Target for our refund and then back to Office Depot again to purchase File Cabinet #2. Good thing the toilet job was easy because this one was way more complicated than it should have been.

From there Wayne's job was to dismantle the old cabinet which started out in the house since it was too heavy to carry very far. The drawer wouldn't close but it wouldn't come out of the cabinet either.

Once he got one of the drawers out, we moved to the driveway where disassembly proceeded at a faster and less careful pace. The cabinet served us well over the years but it's history now.

And you know what job I got: sorting through the folders, pitching the outdated stuff and organizing it all in the new cabinet. I think I threw out a good three inches or more of papers, etc...how does it all accumulate like that? Even with that, I said to Wayne at one point when our kid have to go through this after we're gone, you know they're going to wonder why did we kept some of this stuff. It's a right of passage, I suppose; we did the same thing with our parents. 

So it was a productive day...not what I expected when I got up this morning but still good to have it done. It's not the end of the Honey-Do's around here; if you own a home, there's always a Honey-Do  needing to be done but it's two less than when we got up this morning. I'll spring the hall closet clean-up on him another day.

Change Is Good

Change. It's a concept I don't always embrace...or do well with, for that matter. I'll freely admit that I'm a creature of habit and I like it that way. Unfortunately, things rarely stay the same.

Like when the space that normally holds my favorite brand on the grocery story shelf is suddenly occupied by something else. That happened a few weeks ago with the fiber bar I consume with great regularity. Strawberries and almonds...a great combination of healthy and tasty. And all of a sudden they were gone, not only from Walmart but from Publix as well. I don't know if they were discontinued by the manufacturer or just temporarily in short supply but they weren't there for me to buy. I was crushed; I didn't want another flavor. But I picked one amyway...chocolate and oats. Turns out I like it, perhaps even better than the strawberry one since the chocolate is dark, not milk chocolate. Change, it would seem, is good, even when it wasn't voluntary.

I've made some voluntary changes too though. I've used the same detergent in the dishwasher for years. Now that I think about it, I believe I've bought the same brand since my first dishwasher way back in the 70's and while it served me well for most of those years, I've become more and more unhappy with it in recent months. At first I chalked the residue on my dishes up to my old dishwasher. It is, after all, 22 years old now...may it just doesn't have what it takes to clean my plates and silverware. Then I read that my old standby had revamped its formula a few years ago so I revamped my choice. And you know what...it made all the difference in the world. Everything is squeaky-clean now when it comes out of the dishwasher.

Not every change is good, however. I'm not sure what we were thinking when we picked up the store brand of toilet tissue when we were in Walmart. It is, to say the least, pitiful. It's been good for a few laughs though; you're never too old for a little potty humor.

I suppose if two out of every three changes that happen in my life turn out for the better, I don't have room to complain. Maybe change really is a good thing.

My New Best Friend

There's a certain element of comraderie at the gym. Maybe it's the whole getting-sweaty-together thing...or the unspoken "Atta-boys" for pushing oneself and doing something good for one's body. Or maybe it's just that we all show up at generally the same time on the same days and after enough time of doing that we sorta half-way know one another. Oh, not that we've exchanged names or anything...well, at least not on my part, but still I *know* them.

Like the guy who chews gum. He's always going to turn the television on to the Price Is Right and turn the volume up loud...then leave without wiping down his machine. Ewww! Or the gray-haired guy who likes the treadmill at the end. He asked one day if he could turn the television off, saying his head would explode if he had to listen to The View. Fine by me; that's why I have my music and headphones and an exploding head sounded like a messy situation. We have an understanding now: Last one in turns off any TV the first one is enduring when someone else finished their machine and left it on.

Then there's the Marine. Well, technically he's an ex-Marine since he's past retirement age but from his haircut to the bumper sticker on his car, he's still Marine through and through. Not that there's anything wrong with that; he just wears it proudly. He's a bit of an odd duck with his multiple sweat bands on his head and oversized headphones on his ears. I think they must have come from a stereo set he bought in the 80's. As he does his workout on both the eliptical and the treadmill, he keeps his head down and his eye closed, turning his head from side to side with each step. If I did that, I'd be so dizzy I'd fall off the machine after the first few minutes...but apparently it works for him.

When he walks into the cardio room, he immediately puts that military training to work, scanning the recesses between the treadmills and eliptical machines for the single small fan alloted to the cardio room. It's on a short little stand so it takes keen eyes to spot it if many of the machines are occupied but he's good at recon. And when his search portion of his mission is successful, he bulldozes his way between the machines for the recovery part without so much as an excuse me to those on them. His prize captured, he then hoists overhead and takes back to his base of operation.  Woe be it to anyone daring to be using it at the time for they are the enemy. Like a skilled marksman, he fires a constant barrage of dirty looks at the offender until the fan is surrendered. I know; I've been that offender.

I don't use the fan all that often but there are times it feels pretty darn good...especially since I've already done yoga and strength class before hitting the treadmill. I'm hot before I start. And sometimes the person who was on the treadmill before me was using the fan and just left it on. If the universe wants me to have an extra burst of cool air, who am I to argue?

The first few times I got the Marine death-stare, I just ignored him, keeping my short little legs churning on towards the four-mile mark. And when I got there, I told him I was finished with the fan...to which he replied with some low mutterings. I'm not exactly sure what he was saying but none of it sounded like thank you. And one time I offered up the fan when he first walked in the cardio room, even though I still had most of a mile to go. I'd finished the hardest part of my workout and figured I could do the rest without the fan. That offer did garner a somewhat begrudged thank you but after he set up the fan at his machine, he left the room and spent the next fifteen minutes socializing in the weight room. Hrmpf, I thought, I could have finished my workout *with* the fan if I'd have known he was going to do that!

Then a funny thing happened...Mr. Marine became my new best friend. Suddenly he wanted to talk to me about the shoes I was wearing and the merits of Treadmill #4 vs. Treadmill #5. Mr. Gumpypants had done an about-face. In fact, he even brought his fan over and set it up to blow on me while he went out to work in the weight room...unsolicited, I might add. He smiles and wave at me in the mirror when he comes in the room now and wishes me a good day when I leave before him.

Why the change in attitude I have no idea. And before you go concluding he's somehow making moves on me, think again...his wife usually comes to the gym with him. No, it's either a case of runner's high (assuming you can attain that walking on a treadmill) or that being nice to people really does pay off in the end. Whatever the reason, the new and improved Marine is much easier to be around. Now to figure out how to get Mr. Gum-Chewer to wipe his sweat off his machine when he finishes.

Super-Optimistic

I'm a glass-half-full kinda gal. Call me Pollyanna if you will but I subscribe to the theory that you should believe the best until life proves otherwise. Having said that, however, I'm also a realist. There are times/situations that no amount of optimism can cure.

Like today's weather forecast...100% chance of rain. There wasn't much likelihood the weatherman was going to be wrong either; those red and yellow blobs on the radar weren't going to disapppear into thin air. We were gonna get rain and we did, over 3" worth. It's 100% again tonight and 90% tomorrow too so more is still to come.

With all that rain headed our way, I made plans to stay inside. It was a great day to climb around in the family tree and look at all that moisture through the window. I did manage an escape during some of the lighter showers to get my miles in at the gym but basically I stayed put. It seemed like the sensible thing to do.

So you can imagine my surprise when I looked outside at one point to see this:

Yep, golfers on the green. The picture doesn't do a very good job of showing just how hard it was raining at the time but it was a pretty good downpour. You can almost make out the puddles of standing water on the green they had just finished putting through. It couldn't have been much fun but maybe it was better than the alternative, which might have been staying at work.

I've heard jokes about what optimists golfers are; I'd say these guys were super-optimists. And very wet ones at that.

Tom....I Know The Answer!

One of the few good things about the winter months is that our friends Tom and Durlene leave the cold and snow of Springfield, Missouri, behind and spend January on the beach at Destin. Given the ice and snow that's making its way through Kansas, Missouri and other parts of the Midwest right now, they're probably wishing they were back here. Maybe next year they'll take our suggestion that they need to stay for February too.

The four of us get together as much as possible during that time...to recall old memories, laugh at old jokes and celebrate a friendship that spans more than four decades. And to make some new memories and laugh at new jokes too. Tom is such a funny joke teller, mostly because he gets so tickled at what the punch line is going to be that he can't tell the joke because he's laughing too hard.

His favorite this year was It's been thirteen years since "Who Let The Dogs Out?" and we still don't know the answer. We got a chuckle out of it the first time he told it but we laughed even more the second time, in part because he forgot that he'd told us (it happens to all of us) but mostly because of how he was cracking up. In fact, I'm laughing to myself as I write this thinking of how entertained Tom was at the idea of the joke.

Well, Tom, thanks to the marvels of Facebook, the mystery is solved:

But I don't want to deprive you of the fun of telling your joke...I won't tell anyone.

Monday Chores

We mowed today. Well, mostly it was picking up leaves but there's a surprising amount of green grass in the lawn. It wouldn't be so unexpected as we've had a pretty mild winter overall but the coldest temperatures of the season arrived over the weekend so I pictured it all back to brown again. I think the weatherman might have over-forecast the low temperatures as the leaves weren't thick enough to cover all that green growth.

My job was raking up the "drifts" against the edge of the pool enclosure and I filled my red "barrel" twice and a little more. I love that thing.

Lest anyone think we've been lazy and allowed these leaves to live on the yard for months, let me just say this is a regular chore. Unlike their Northern cousins who seem to get the message and shed all their leaves in a bunch, trees down here take their sweet time. It's the Southern lifestyle. We have a few trees in the yard that have been bare for months but we also have some that have been trickling for those same months. And those live oaks you see in the picture that stay green all year...well, they're just starting to shed their leaves. New ones come on in the spring and push the old ones off. And the magnolias wait until late spring/early summer to send their big, leathery leaves to the ground. We may not have snow to shovel but we can rake leaves almost all year round. Lucky us.

I say that facetiously because we really are lucky. I mean really...we think it's cold when the highs are only in the 50's. And nights below 32 degrees (which have been few and far between this winter) send me scrambling trying to protect things like I did this weekend. Things like this:

This blueberry bush is an early variety but it's really early this year. Not only has it leafed out, it's already bloomed and set on fruit. So with the help of some bird seed buckets, old moving blankets, a couple of bricks and some clothespins I rigged a tent to protect it from the freezing temperatures. While I think it would put on new leaves if it froze at this point, I wasn't sure it would produce fruit so I had to try and it looks like it worked. Now if only I can keep the wildlife from getting the blueberries before I do.

And while we've had fewer nights of freezing temperatures than usual, we've had far more wind. The stiff breezes on Saturday brought down several clumps of the mistletoe that grows wild in some of the nearby trees. It can get to be pretty good sized. I think the mower was angling for a kiss, even if it isn't Christmas.

The yard looked really good when we finished...but it isn't going to last. Tomorrow's forecast is for rain and wind and that's sure to bring down another round of leaves. Picking them up will be a chore for another day. The good news is that on this one we got rid of a slew of them.

Notes to Self

Just a few things that are rolling around in my pea-brain:

1. Our Valentine's celebration shared with Carol and Dr. Dale needs to be an annual tradition. Candlelight, reservations since seating is limited, and a special menu...what more could you ask for? The fact that it's Waffle House makes it just quirky enough to be a hoot and the company can't be beat. It was just as much fun as last year.

2. I need to rekindle my love affair with my camera. It hasn't seen much use lately and must think I've abandoned it. It hasn't been intentional; there just isn't much interesting to photograph this time of year. The blog, however, needs some pictures and I miss having the documentation of our lives, boring though they may be.

3. I've already had a three-day weekend and the holiday hasn't got here yet. That's what happens when we go to Walmart on Friday instead of our usual Saturday. Friday seemed like Saturday and Saturday seemed like Sunday. Sunday felt like...well, Sunday. It's kind of nice to have a week with two Sundays. My Monday, however, will be a regular Monday and not a holiday. That's OK; when you're retired, everyday is a holiday.

4. Don't believe everything you read in the paper. Our local news carried extended coverage of the Carnival cruise ship's arrival in Mobile the other night since Mobile is just a hop,skip and a jump down the road. I must have heard them interview twenty or more passengers who got off, nineteen of whom praised the crew and said things weren't as dire as the media painted it. It wasn't the cruise they expected, but they made the best of the situation. Those who complain and threaten to sue are far more newsworthy it seems.

5. Stay away from the couch...at least after 10pm. If the last few nights are any indication, it's powers to send me off to Dreamland are increasing, or else my throid levels need to be checked again. I'm just going to have to spend more time on the Internet if I want to stay awake. I can rationalize anything.

It's a new week...make it a good one.

Shaking My Head

I've made no secret of the fact that reading the USA Today is my favorite way to wind down the day. Those black and white pages take me all over the world, offering me news and human interest stories, the obvious and the obscure...and, of course, an opportunity to exercise my brain cells by tackling the crossword puzzle. I'm all for high tech in most areas of my life but I don't see me giving up my oversized newspaper pages without a fight. I love it...and I always learn something too.

Like how a woman in New Zealand died from an addiction to Coca Cola. Well, that's what the headline would have you believe anyway. Sounds more like something out of one of those trashy tabloids you see at the grocery store check-out stand than one of some national prominence. You know...like how Bigfoot kidnapped a lumberjack as his sex slave or how Hillary Clinton adopted an alien baby. Who buys those things anyway? But I digress.

The story about the New Zealand woman's death was true; she passed away in 2010 but it was newsworthy now because the coroner had just released his report. In it he attributed her death to the consumption of large quantities of Coca Cola. Large quantities as in more than two gallons per day. Every day. That's 4,000 calories per day from sugar alone, not to mention the amount of caffeine. Couple that with her other unhealthy habits such as smoking 30 or more cigarettes per day and eating very little and it's easy to see how this lifestyle would take a toll on her body. She was only 30 when she died from a heart attack.

While I feel sympathy for this young mother's family, I'm left shaking my head at the coroner's suggestion that Coke needs to add a warning label about over-consumption of sugar and caffeine to its soft drinks. A warning label? Who doesn't know that you can't live on Coca Cola alone? We're warned to death already; what we really need is some personal responsibility.

Shifting the blame to someone else has reached epidemic proportions these days. If a child struggles in school, it must be the teacher's fault. If a favorite sports team looses, the officials must have blown the call. We've become a nation, and maybe even a world, of finding someone else to saddle with the blame for outcomes we don't like and especially for ones in which the blame might squarely belong on our own shoulders. It's easier, I suppose, than accepting the fact that we made poor choices or didn't do all that we could to bring about a different result. And it's a trend that shows no signs of slowing...unfortunately.

Don't get me wrong...I was raised by lawyers, so to speak, so I'm all for bringing to court those who have injured others by their wrongful acts and sometimes warning labels are just what are needed to alert people to the hidden dangers. I just don't think you need to warn people about trying to subsist on a diet of 2+ gallons of Coke per day. What's next...warning labels on faucets? You can die from over-consumption of water in a specific period of time too, you know.

There's a saying in law that bad facts make bad law. In this case, I think the bad facts would make for a bad warning label. I'm stepping down from my soapbox now...but I'm still shaking my head.

Forty Winks

There hasn't been much sun in the Sunshine State these past few days. Well, at least in our part of Florida anyway and I'll confess I'm growing wearing of the gunmetal skies. It was on-again off-again rain for the second day in a row with another on tap for tomorrow. The only saving grace is it's warm...it could be worse.

And as I sat at my computer this afternoon, I found my eyelids growing heavier and heavier. The dreary weather had something to do with it, I'm sure, but the fact that it was Tuesday had a lot to do with it. Tuesday is a big day at the gym for with with yoga, strength class and then the treadmill. I often wish the classes were reversed with the yoga coming after the weight workout but then I'd probably fall asleep in the relaxation part at the end if that were to happen.

We worked hard in both classes today. Weights in yoga. Lots of squats and lunges in both yoga and strength. And then there's the treadmill. I like the challenge but I'm spent when I get home. And because the weights are pretty new to me, I'm sore too so the Advil bottle is the first stop once I get home.

The combination of dark skies, a tired body and the muscle relaxing powers of Advil made the couch more than I could resist and before I knew it I was off to the Land of Nod. I rarely ever nap but it sure felt good today to stretch out and let the soft sounds of rain falling lull me to sleep. And it wasn't some fifteen-minute power nap either; I slept for over an hour. The good news is that thanks to that nap I didn't fall asleep on that same couch after the late news was over...my usual Tuesday night routine.

Surely the sunshine will be back soon and this won't become a regular habit. But if it does, I'm getting me a T-shirt with this on the front:

The sentiment was certainly fitting today.

Skinny Genes

I have on my skinny jeans today. Oh, they're not Hollywood skinny jeans or even twenty-something-year-old's skinny jeans but they're my version of skinny jeans. Tight clothes have never been my thing (I'm much more into comfort) and these hug me a little more than I like when I first put them on. Lucky for me they've got a little stretch to them and it doesn't take long before they're comfortable. They're still  snugger than any other pair I own but maybe it's a sign I'm closer to being fashionable. Not that I worry about that.

And I'm sporting my skinny genes today...but then, technically speaking, I have them everyday. I was just reminded of them today when I was going through some old photos.

That's my mother there on the far right with her four sisters. Outside of Hazel (standing next to Mother), I don't think a one of them tipped the scales at more than a hundred pounds. Maybe Ethel (far left); she was a good bit taller but still. And while Erma (next to Ethel) and Edna Mae (in the center) have on loose clothing so it's hard to judge, I can assure you that they were rail-thin too. Heck, I think their hairdos weigh as much as the rest of them...but then, bouffants were all the rage in 1968. Come to think of it, the Hedrick women were pretty much rocking the skinny jeans then too, even if they aren't exactly jeans.

Experts say that up to 80% of our body shape is heredity with behavior and environment influencing the other 20%. Thanks to these good genes, maintaining a healthy weight isn't a battle for me. Of course, those same genes gave me short legs and skinny bones too. It's a trade-off; you take the good with the bad. I might questions those studies, however, since they also showed the tendency to exercise can be passed from parent to child. If that's true, mine came from the other side of the family because Mother didn't do anything athletic, although she'd come close to working up a sweat by the end of a mean boogie-woogie on the piano.

Sometimes it's nice to be reminded that who we are today, in body and in spirit, is a lot about the family from which we came. Old photos and skinny jeans will do that.

The Schnockered Sisters

There's a new group now teeing it up on the golf course outside my windows on Friday mornings. They've dubbed themselves the BFF's and while some of them of definitely are friends off the course, the BFF in this case stands for Best Flask Friends. And some of those BFF's could be my BFF's but in that case, it would be Best Friends Forever. I won't say who...some of them are, after all, my best friends forever for real. Although they call themselves the Best Flask Friends, I've dubbed them The Schnockered Sisters.

The Friday game requires a little nip for specific golf accomplishments...a celebration, if you will. Sandy pars. Greens hit in regulation on the par threes. Chip-ins. A par on #13, the hardest hole on the course. Think of it as a little hooch for the highlights of the round. And it's not you-drink-when-you-do-it; everyone drinks when anyone does it. They even text back and forth between the groups so no one misses a chance to celebrate the good play in the foursome ahead or behind them. We women are supportive of one another like that, you know.

We needn't worry about them getting drunk on the course; they're hardly professionals. In fact, I accused them of expanding their group to include more lower-handicapped members in the hopes of improving their chances to imbibe but they deny it. Good thing it's not booze for bogies...they might turn into sots if that were the case.

Tipping back the flask results in only a sip for most of them but there's one or two who get with the spirit (iterally and figuratively) and get a few good gulps of the sauce. And one they suspect keeps her lips pursed so she barely wets her whistle. Lushes they're not...just a group of gals looking to have a few laughs, even if it's at themselves when they play so poorly the flasks never leave the golf bags.

There's something to be said for their game. Gone is the reason to hope Jane misses the putt because she will tie you and you'll lose the skin; now you're pulling for her to make that sandy par. No more lamenting the fact that you missed the green; it's now a chance for a chip-in. And if you have a bad hole...pick up that ball and go on to the next one. No one cares.

We used to chuckle about the bloody-mary-drinking ladies at the local country club where the drink cart really lived up to its name. At least the BFF's only imbibe when the play is good. If I had a flask, I'd raise it in a toast to the Schnockered Sisters. Drink up...life and good golf shots deserve a little celebration.

Science Meets History

I love a good mystery. Start with some buried bones, add in some DNA technology and sprinkle generously with a bunch of unanswered questions and you have the perfect recipe for for a who-dun-it even if, in this case, the real question is more who is it. And the mystery is no less interesting when you've started at the last pages of the book instead of the beginning, especially since the plot has been developing for centuries.

I'm talking about the news announced Monday that a skeleton found buried under a city parking lot in Leicester, England, is without a doubt the body of Richard III. He was King of England from 1483 to 1485 when he was killed in a battle with the forces of Henry VII who went on to succeed him. His hasty and unceremonious burial resulted in his remains being lost for decades until a joint effort between the University of Leicester, Leicester City Council and the Richard III Society decided to try to locate them. And locate them they did last September.

Well, technically they located a skeleton with obvious injuries to the skull and a deformity of the spine, both of which fit with the historical accounts of Richard III and his death. Thanks to some very modern technology (DNA and radio carbon dating) the authorities announced on Monday that the bones were definitely those of Richard III.

Maybe it's because I've spent the last several months immersed in English royalty and the accompanying history that went with it that I find this so fascinating. But really, I think there's more to it than that. I love that there are people who don't let a little thing like 500 years stop them from finding the answer to long-standing mysteries. And I've always been intrigued by the idea of forensic anthropology and what experts can learn from old bones. It's almost a Patricia Cornwell novel come to life but with a Shakespearean twist. A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse! On second thought, fiction can't rival the plot twists and turns of real-life Middle Ages.

It's pretty cool that today's science has solved yesterday's mystery and now Richard III can have a proper burial, even if he didn't enjoy the best reputation before or after his death. I won't find him among the branches of my family tree although if I went far enough afield I could put him there as a distant cousin. Perhaps I should plan to attend his funeral....you know, family and all that.

You can read more about the discovery and how the experts solved the mystery here and here.

Three-Screen Wayne

My roommate is hard at work on a presentation he'll be making soon to the local geocaching group. It's on a special program called Geocaching Swiss Army Knife (GSAK, for short) and much like the name implies, it's a utility program for geocachers. If I sound like I know what I'm talking about, I don't really; I'm just a good listener. Much like the fancy cutting machine excites me, GSAK excites Wayne and he hopes to excite other geocachers by explaining all the program's bells and whistles.

And to do that he's putting together a slide presentation he'll run off his laptop which will be hooked up to a big-screen TV in a wifi-enabled room. The person who recruited Wayne for this job and who is heading up these workshops is employed by the local power company so the group will be meeting in one of their high-tech classrooms.  Pretty fancy for a bunch of people who are used to trooping around in the woods.

The idea is that those unfamiliar with the software can watch on the television as Wayne puts the program through its paces. And when he wants to go out on the Internet and show them something there, he can insert a link right in his presentation to click on to get there. Technology offers so many tools for teaching; it's just amazing.

He's been using the small television that used to be in the laundry room to test his presentation. When I snapped these pictures, he had it set up on the table in the breakfast room but he's since put up an extra table in his computer room to work on. That's because he needs to generate some parts of the presentation in Photoshop and he doesn't have it on the laptop. It's on the desktop, though, making three screens for him to keep up with. I'm confused just watching him.

And sometimes he says it's a lot for his old brain to take in too but I keep telling him that learning new things is good for those brain cells. I also told him he'd better be making notes for the next class because I feel sure he's going to do such a great job they'll want him to teach another one. And by then, he'll have this three-screen thing down pat.

Zoom. Zoom.

Miata soon to be discontinued, the call-out read, prompting me to do just what they hoped the words would...turn a few pages to read the full story inside. And like many teasers these days, it was only partially true. The cute little sporty car is being redesigned in a couple of years, a joint venture between Mazda and Fiat's Alpha Romero, so it's still going to exist...just not in the form we've come to know and love.

I had one, you know. A bright red convertible that could hardly be called practical but sure was a lot of fun. It was love at first sight when I saw the little roadster zipping around town in 1990, even if I didn't know what it was called or who made it. I don't usually get all that excited about cars...well, unless you count that Oldsmobile Toronado I obsessed over liked. My interest dwindled when I found out how much it was going to cost...too much for the state of our household budget in the 1970's. The Toronado slipped away; I wasn't going to let the Miata.

But getting one was a challege. They were new and so popular the dealers couldn't keep them in stock. Fortunately, the local Buick/Mazda dealer had one in his showroom and since we'd been buying cars and getting them serviced at that dealership for the thirteen years we'd lived in Pensacola, I felt sure we'd be treated right. Boy, was I wrong. I could look at the one on the floor but there would be no test drive and no deal. In fact, they were adding a surcharge on top of the MSRP. Hrmph! I walked out the door, vowing never to return...and I haven't.

Me and my Miata were not to be kept apart, however, and I soon ordered one from the dealer in Mobile...after a test drive and at a price without a surcharge. It came in while we were off on a trip so we made a detour on the way home to pick it up. Me, Wayne, our luggage and two sets of golf clubs (in smaller travel bags) filed that little Miata up for the hour-long ride home.

And while that size was a minus for travel, it was a plus for my day-to-day driving. It was the first car I could wash and not need a step-stool to scrub the roof. I felt right at home inside...cozy but not cramped. I didn't see that small size as a drawback at all. In fact, I managed to fit twelve flats of bedding plants inside once. As far as I was concerned, my Miata was just my size. And I loved that I could flip the latches and put the top down while stopped at a red light. From inside the car!

The article I read was actually a review of the 2013 model with plenty of comparisons to the 1990 model and reading it brought back a ton of memories about my little red Miata. The tight way it cornered. The rumble of the muffler when you downshifted. The feeling of the wind in your hair when you drove with the top down. Sigh...I loved that car. And if you're wondering where the photos of it are to accompany this story, well, there aren't any. Not a one. I wasn't a scrapbooker back then so it never crossed my mind that I'd ever want one.

I zipped around town in my little red sports car for three years before trading it in for a bigger model. It had its glory days but it was time, just like I suppose its time for the Miata brand to revamp itself. There was something special about the original though and it clearly made an impression on the reviewer...or perhaps he had owned one too. He concluded that driving the 2013 version gave a pleasant, car-loving sensation but not the goose bumps that came from the 1990 model. I'm not interested in another one but I was happy to be reminded of the excitement of the one I had too. Zoom. Zoom.