Friday, April 30, 2010
The twisted-leaf yuccas in our front terrace have bud stalks as tall as Raleigh. Their creamy white blooms will appear in May. Our red yuccas' stalks of coral buds are stretching up nearly as tall. The spineless prickly pears have oodles of baby pads forming, but I haven't noticed any flower buds yet.
The majority of the terrace blooms are being provided now by the purples of the Deosperma ice plant and the Prairie verbenas, the small daisy-like whites of the Blackfoot daisies, the bright yellow of the Four Nerve daisies, the spikes of blue claimed by the Mealy blue sage, and the occasional show of coral gracing the Salvia greggii.
The roses are looking the best we've seen them in a long time! Their scents fill the rooms of the house when the southern-facing windows are open.
Now, when more rain is forecast, we pray that strong storms don't follow. I suppose we should be grateful for what we have - when we have it. For now, our yard is filled with colors, including freshly bright greens, that refresh our spirits. Life is good!
For a peak at our spring blooms, click on the title above.
Terry and I have been keeping rather busy since then. We decided to paint the interior of the bunkhouse and have made a valiant start. For those of you who have painted, you know that the easy part is picking up the roller or brush. The hard part is moving all the furniture, cleaning the surface, filling the dings and dents, masking the trim, cleaning up and moving everything back. We painted a couple of bedrooms and bathrooms and then our project was taken over by other events.
My 93 year-old step-mother, Alice Emry, caught an 18-wheeler to Dallas, Texas where we picked her up and brought her to Austin to stay with us for about three weeks. We had a fine time showing her the sites and wearing out a deck of cards playing Kings on the Corner.
We then took Alice home to O'Neill, Nebraska in time to celebrate my mother, Ortha Emry's 87th birthday in Ainsworth. We spent a week plus the two bookend weekends in the Middle of Nowhere.
We are now back in Texas and catching up. We may reinitiate our painting project although the great outdoors has now taken center stage on our chore list. This spring has been one of the best. The long-overdue winter rains have really touched off a colorful show of wildflowers this year - but with those came the fast growing weeds and grass.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Being a skeptic goes hand-in-hand with being trained in science. Not much is gained if we accept wholeheartedly whatever theories seem to make sense. For most of man's history, it seemed that the sun went around the earth and that was accepted as fact. The scientific method requires skepticism - it's healthier to test our theories from a doubtful perspective than starting with a preconceived bias regarding the outcome.
The Global Warming debate is often linked to environmental cleanliness. Would the world be a better place if we humans picked up after ourselves? I can't think of anyone who wants to promote a legacy of dirty air and water. The goal of leaving the planet a better place than we found it, in theory, is universal. Unfortunately, human civilization needs energy and the competition for finding the cheapest and most abundant sources - predominantly burning fossil fuels - has contributed to pollution even if it hasn't contributed to global warming.
When it comes to the science surrounding the Global Warming debate, I recalled writings of Mark Twain. He too was a sometimes skeptic. In Chapter 17 of his book "Life on the Mississippi" he was describing how the Mississippi River became shorter due to the serpentine bends being cut off, either through natural forces or by man's desire to navigate the river without taking hours to proceed around a long river bend that would gain only a half-mile or less as the crow flies. Here's a piece of Twain's chapter where he explains the Mississippi river cut-offs as a "scientist" might see them:
"Since my own day on the Mississippi, cut-offs have been made at Hurricane Island; at island 100; at Napoleon, Arkansas; at Walnut Bend; and at Council Bend. These shortened the river, in the aggregate, sixty-seven miles. In my own time a cut-off was made at American Bend, which shortened the river ten miles or more.
Therefore, the Mississippi between Cairo and New Orleans was twelve hundred and fifteen miles long one hundred and seventy-six years ago. It was eleven hundred and eighty after the cut-off of 1722. It was one thousand and forty after the American Bend cut-off. It has lost sixty-seven miles since. Consequently its length is only nine hundred and seventy-three miles at present.
Now, if I wanted to be one of those ponderous scientific people, and 'let on' to prove what had occurred in the remote past by what had occurred in a given time in the recent past, or what will occur in the far future by what has occurred in late years, what an opportunity is here! Geology never had such a chance, nor such exact data to argue from! Nor 'development of species,' either! Glacial epochs are great things, but they are vague--vague. Please observe:--
In the space of one hundred and seventy-six years the Lower Mississippi has shortened itself two hundred and forty-two miles. That is an average of a trifle over one mile and a third per year. Therefore, any calm person, who is not blind or idiotic, can see that in the Old Oolitic Silurian Period,' just a million years ago next November, the Lower Mississippi River was upwards of one million three hundred thousand miles long, and stuck out over the Gulf of Mexico like a fishing-rod. And by the same token any person can see that seven hundred and forty-two years from now the Lower Mississippi will be only a mile and three-quarters long, and Cairo and New Orleans will have joined their streets together, and be plodding comfortably along under a single mayor and a mutual board of aldermen. There is something fascinating about science. One gets such wholesale returns of conjecture out of such a trifling investment of fact."
Monday, February 22, 2010
That's the sort of mindless drift that I get myself into some days. On the good days, I'll rein myself in before I enter my office and sit down to my computer. Usually, I will only have to ask myself one of several questions:
"Does it really matter if I know the latest breaking news before I go out to mow the lawn?"
"Could the internet weather forecast have possibly changed in the last fifteen minutes when a look outside the window tells me 'no'?"
"Do I really need to see if there is an updated Facebook status for any of my 68 Facebook friends - especially when many of them seem as mindlessly hooked on minutiae as I am?"
"Keeping up" in this information age can be like trying to catch a tsunami in a teaspoon if we don't step back and put things into perspective.
Yesterday, when I reined myself short of another mindless hour on the computer, I remembered the Facebook alternatives of my childhood - Pen Pals and Chain Letters.
If you were a kid living in rural Nebraska and felt the need for companionship with someone your age, you could often find the name and address of a like-minded kid in the Pen Pal section of your local newspaper. If your Pen Pal interests went beyond the readership of the local newspaper, you could find similar names and addresses in the Weekly Reader, the wonderful little national newspaper for elementary school students. Once you had invested a three-cent stamp and had broken the ice, you often found a new friend.
I don't recall having a Pen Pal but I know that my sister(s) or perhaps a cousin corresponded for a while that way. If you grew up back then, perhaps you had a Pen Pal and some of you may have kept in touch for all these years.
When we lived on the Niobrara River and were far from civilization - no telephone and a sometimes radio - the Chain Letter box was the social network that kept my family in contact with our cousins in far off places. The idea was simple. All you needed was a carton large enough to hold the individual packets, a list of addresses, and enough egg money for postage.
When the battered, well-travelled carton arrived in the mail, it was filled with letters, photos, newspaper clippings, etc., in separate packets from everyone on the address list. After a few satisfying hours of reading aloud about the recent experiences of far-off family and enjoying the photos and news-clippings about births, marriages or other life-events, my parents found the packet of information that they had placed in the box possibly a year prior. Mom or Dad then replaced the old items with our recent family news, sealed up the carton and sent it to the next address on the enclosed address list.
It was a joyful time, possibly a year later, when the battered box once again arrived at our address on North Star Route, Long Pine, Nebraska.
I recall, as a child, a certain addiction to that chain-letter - much like the anticipation of Christmas and the arrival of Santa Claus. That, though, was a healthy addiction, and one that had far more value and satisfaction than discovering that a Facebook friend has recently updated their minute-by-minute status to "I'm so bored with Olympic figure skating, I could puke."
Yes, good neighbors, there is an exciting life that we can all still find without the use of a GPS or computer. In fact, the only way to find it is to turn off those distractions and look around. There it is staring you in the face. It might be only a gecko on the window screen or new buds on the buckeye tree, but you won't see it if you don't take the time to look.
Now don't you wish you would have tried that prior to reading this blog entry?
Sunday, February 21, 2010
You can access it by clicking on the title of this post.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
This was one of the mornings during my visit with Steven, Sara and the twins that I made a quick trip to the local grocery down the street for breakfast goodies. The smell of cinnamon rolls warming in the microwave along with the smell of coffee and cooking oatmeal can also lure sleepyheads out of bed.
I am content to spend as much time as possible with my New York family. The baby girls are a delight to behold with their sweet faces of ever-changing expressions. Steven laments that he misses out on so much just going to work each day: Magnolia and Dorothy's daily progress in holding their heads up on their own, their laughing out loud for the first time, that intense eye-contact, and their unique personalities emerging. I think of how much I will miss them when I am back in Texas.
Steven and Sara encourage me to get out of the apartment and enjoy the sights a bit during this opportune visit. Sara suggests a visit to the old Jefferson Market Courthouse in the West Village. This impressive building was saved from demolition and converted into a branch of the New York Public Library in the 1950s. I had noticed the prominent, red-bricked, Bavarian castle-like landmark on my several treks to Citarella Market. During Raleigh's and my spring visit to New York City several years ago, Steven and Sara had taken us on a stroll through the community garden next to the library, both being located on a triangular plot of land formed by Greenwich Avenue & West 10th Street and 6th Avenue. Sara reminds me to take my camera as she is sure I will want to capture the beauty of the many leaded, stained-glass windows from within the building.
I head out the door of the apartment building into the cold, late afternoon air and am enveloped into the bustling New York scene. I pass by several police cars slowly motoring with other cars down W. 9th Street as I near 6th Avenue. Sara and I had noticed sirens earlier. At the corner, I notice more police cars - these parked across the avenue near the intersection. Policemen are directing people across the street - lots of people around - most of them talking on their cell phones. I even notice a local TV news van parked down the street. I don't see any emergency vehicles and traffic does seem to be progressing slowly along the streets. I assume that whatever happened has already taken place and has been mostly taken care of by the police.
I proceed across 6th Avenue and check out the community garden, but I notice nothing blooming this time of year. I walk along Greenwich Avenue and then cut back along W. 10th Street which connects with 6th Avenue. At the avenue entrance to the library, I walk up the front steps and enter this spacious building with its high ceilings, luminous stained-glass windows, and winding staircase to the upper floors. I take lots of pictures! I think about the twins coming here to check out library books or to enjoy the special programs offered. A beautiful setting for reading!
Back outside, I go north down the sidewalk along 6th Avenue (also named the Avenue of the Americas) to check out a small art store/print shop I had passed on my way to the Food Emporium grocery near W. 12th Street earlier in the week. I overhear a lady speaking to her young son in French. I love the musical flow of her words. As I step inside the shop, the owner (I presume), is talking with a lady customer in a language I can't identify. I look at large, framed photos of Washington Square Arch and other architecturally pleasing pictures of New York brownstones, parks and skyscrapers, etc. My attention is drawn to a large painting of the familiar, lime green storefront of the Vesuvio Bakery in SoHo. Steven and Sara had treated Raleigh and me to a delectable lunch at this popular historic eatery on an earlier visit. I was saddened to hear from Steven that it had closed its door to business in the past year and that the store was up for rent. Later, talking with the shop owner, I pointed to the painting and remarked on Vesuvio's closing being too bad. The older gentleman just replied, matter-of-factly - "Well, times change!" Perhaps that sums up the general New York attitude of getting on with the present and not spending a lot of time looking back. I leave the shop and turn at the corner away from 6th Avenue to walk down W. 11th Street eastward to 5th Avenue. This is a long block!
The Manhattan streets above Greenwich Village are laid out on a straight grid pattern of avenues running north to south and streets running east to west. Most are one-way, alternating, except for Park Avenue which runs both ways. 5th Avenue is the dividing line between the East and West sides. Distinguishing their considerable differences in length, going a block along a street is considered a long block, and going a block along an avenue is considered a short block. Twenty short blocks is approximately a mile. So, if one were to walk down 5th Avenue, from 29th Street to 9th Street, then that would be a mile walk. Walking down 5th Avenue from the Empire State Building southward to Washington Square Park is equal to walking 26 short blocks, or 1.3 miles. So, I could easily walk from Steven and Sara's apartment to the Empire State Building, but then I would have to walk all that way back!
I stroll along 5th Avenue to 18th Street and spot a large Barnes & Noble Book Store which I choose as a likely spot to find a restroom. The restrooms are located way in the back where the visitor is enticed to peruse the many shelves of books and nice displays when finished with the foremost task in mind. I am such a visitor. On my return from the ladies' room, I check over the display table of Newbery Medal-winning fiction for young people. Having been a 5th grade teacher, I can still appreciate the joy of reading such books. I look through one with several adorable line drawings about a hound dog living in the swamps with a cruel master. I love dog stories - like Old Yeller, Where The Red Fern Grows, etc. This hound invites a forlorn, abandoned, soon-to-be-a-mother cat to share his space under the cabin porch. He grows very protective of her newborn kitties - but warns them all to stay under the porch, or else they would likely become alligator bait if his master ever caught them. But then, one of the kitties is very curious..... I keep the book in hand and look at another one. This one is a young girl's journaling of living through the depression years of the 30s in a Midwestern state. It is full of fine poetry. The young girl is motherless - did her mother die, run away? I leave that section with the 2 books and come by the shelf that has Sarah Palin's book. I thumb through it, looking at the pictures. I put it down, return the other 2 books to their table in the back, and proceed to the front of the store. Then I notice in the travel section the Top 10 New York City guide to the 10 best of everything. Yep, I buy it. Might pick up some choice tidbits for future visits.
Leaving the store, I notice the Empire State Building to the north is awash in bright green light. During this past Christmas season when we had visited here, it was red and green. The sky is getting dark and the temperature colder as I head down 5th Avenue to the apartment. Quite a nice exhilarating outing!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Her purse easily passed through security checks into all of the historical sites we visited along the National Mall. The list of prohibited items, posted at the door, included many things including backpacks - but purses, fanny packs, etc., are allowed.
Terry usually carries her Bagallini purse over one shoulder on the single shoulder strap. For added convenience, the "single" shoulder strap however has a zipper along its length. If she unzips the zipper, one shoulder strap becomes two so she can then wear her purse like you wear a backpack. This gives her more freedom with her arms and hands to take photos, etc., without her purse slipping from her shoulder.
Unfortunately, if once beyond the security check she decides to unzip the zipper and wear it like a backpack she immediately catches the attention of security guards who insist that she must wear it like a purse. For what reason? Because, rules are rules. Meanwhile I am wearing my fanny-pack on my fanny. Perhaps if she fastened the shoulder straps around her waist and wore her purse like a fanny-pack and not like a back-pack she would be in compliance.
This brings me to 3.4 ounces of shampoo. If you have traveled via the airlines, you know that you must restrict your liquid items, such as shampoo, to 3.4 ounces or less - and then have no more bottles than will comfortably fit in a one-quart plastic bag.
If a passenger's carry-on bag is inspected and the traveler forgot that he had a ten ounce bottle of Breck tucked inside, the bottle of Breck is tossed into the confiscation bin along with all the confiscated over-sized hand-lotions, tooth-pastes, mouth-washes and makeups.
When the over-sized liquid rule was enacted, the first instinct of the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) was to give the confiscated items to charity or, for some enterprising airports - to sell them on e-Bay. The TSA then considered the liability risk. According to the TSA, (a quote from their website) "As you can imagine we have voluminous amounts of liquid items surrendered daily. ... Early on there was a move to donate the liquid items to local homeless shelters but we were forced to suspend that practice after the determination was made that there is a liability risk. We couldn't continue to donate items and not know if the water was truly water or if the shampoo was truly shampoo. While unfortunate, the litigious world in which we live forced the abandonment of that process. So now, those items are tossed out."
But wait a minute, here! Why were those over-sized items confiscated in the first place?
The only reason that those over-sized bottles are confiscated is because they could be potentially dangerous terrorist weapons in disguise! If such items, either separately or in combinations, are potentially lethal wouldn't you think that a government Hazardous Materials (HAZMAT) Team would rush in the moment that an over-sized bottle is discovered, handle it with kid-gloves, take it to some concrete revetment and destroy it?
If confiscated items can be tossed into collection containers, and thought sufficiently safe to be donated to charities or sold on e-Bay, then why are we going through this mindless exercise? Even the TSA wasn't concerned with the danger about blowing up a homeless shelter or having a homeless person consume a lethal substance that they thought was water. The TSA, in their own words, were not as concerned about being safe as they were concerned about being sued!
The terrorists want to destroy our way of life - or so we say, and we are allowing mindless rules and faulty logic of our bureaucracies to do it to us instead.
Good night nurse! What next?
Thursday, February 11, 2010
When it comes to garbage disposal, I just have to walk down the hallway to the exit sign, open the door to the stairwell landing, and then dump the garbage bag into the chute provided for this chore. There is a container for recyclables nearby.
Laundry chores are conveniently dispatched with a quick trip down the elevator to the 2 large laundry rooms in the basement. I use Steven and Sara's large, mesh collapsible bag for transporting about all the dirty clothes I can handle in one trip, at least 2 washer-loads worth. I don't even need jangling change to wash or dry the clothes. All that is required is a swipe of a plastic card good for a pre-paid amount. After checking how many minutes are needed to complete the wash (usually 58 minutes), I return to their 6th floor apartment to help with the babies or other things, or even take a walk down the block to the Citarella Gourmet Market to buy groceries for dinner. After an hour, Sara or I return to the laundry room to cart the newly washed clothes to the dryers, swipe the handy card, then head back up to the apartment to return later when the clothes are dry. The laundry rooms do have a long table for folding the clothes. I take care of that chore on the final trip while the clothes are still warm from the dryer instead of lugging scrunched, wrinkled, bagged clothes onto the elevator. I am even praised on how well I layer 2 clothes-dryers worth of assorted sized clothing into the tall mesh bag by 2 other apartment dwellers. These New Yorkers are certainly friendly.
Grocery shopping is easy in New York City, even if one doesn't own a car, which Sara and Steven don't. Sara lets me know that If the purchased groceries are more than I can carry home, then the store will deliver. Likewise, we can order in a meal from the many restaurants in the area (which Steven did on the first day I arrived). They have found that Alice.com is a great boon to grocery shopping. This service has been a life-saver as they can deliver (free-delivery) paper goods (like diapers, toilet paper, towel paper, etc.), canned and packaged goods, even milk and juices - nearly everything except for meats, fresh fruits and veggies.
I am enjoying the short walks to either Citarella Gourmet Market or Food Emporium to buy our food. I think the fresh air must increase my appetite! Such wonderful produce and such good looking meats I find in these stores! On different trips, I add mangos, blueberries, bananas, grapes, strawberries, Jonagold apples, limes along with salad greens and other veggies to my grocery cart, along with ingredients for fixing fish tacos, spaghetti dinner, ham steak dinner, ham fried rice, roast chicken dinner, chicken noodle soup, pork chop dinner - and not forgetting the desserts - vanilla gelato and ingredients for making homemade oatmeal cookies and fudge brownies. On several visits I also add paper-sacked French bread and cinnamon-scented sweet rolls from the bakery section to the cart. I only buy what I can carry home, even though it's nice knowing they can deliver. I am impressed with how friendly the cashiers in these markets are to the customers.
The first Sunday morning of my visit, I am up early before the others are stirring. I shower, bundle up well in my winter clothes and head out the door, waving to the friendly man on the first floor behind the lobby desk after departing the elevator (He already knows I am the grandmother of the twins on the 6th floor.), and then stepping out the front door of what use to be the Fifth Avenue Hotel before it became an apartment building. I walk a block down 5th Avenue to Le Pain Quotidien. Steven had taken Raleigh and me to brunch at this place on our first visit to see him and Sara 2 summers ago. Googling this restaurant's name on-line, one can find the name translates to "daily bread", or pertains to the "French philosophy that embraces the sustenance of the spirit as well as the body". It is listed on-line as an organic bakery/ coffee (tea & hot chocolate) shop/patisserie/and restaurant. Sort of like Chuck's Deli and Coffee House in Manchaca, TX - without the fancy French words. It's actually one of an international chain of Belgian restaurants. I order 2 coffees and a hot chocolate (the latter for Sara), and eyeing the beautiful, buttery sweet rolls in the patisserie's glassed cabinet, I order up a few of those to add to our breakfast treats. After returning to the apartment, I find that my purchases are very much welcomed. I make oatmeal with blueberries to add some balance to the sweets. Considering that Sara is a nursing mother, the twins probably appreciate the breakfast too.
The second Sunday morning, I am out early again for a run to Citarella for some breakfast goodies (again). The sky is overcast, but it feels good to be outside. Walking up 9th Street on my return to the apartment, a light drizzle starts to fall. I notice the townhouse apartment on the opposite side of the street where Steven has told me the actress Uma Thurman lives. He and Sara have both seen her in the neighborhood. One day when Sara, obviously pregnant, was walking down the sidewalk, she saw Uma walking her way. Before passing, the actress noticed Sara's sizable tummy and gave her a big thumbs-up. Friendly! Now this morning, as I am nearing the side door entrance to the apartment building, I look up and catch the eye of an approaching man who I'm quite certain is the actor F. Murray Abraham. You may know him for his Oscar-winning performance as Salieri in Milos Forman's acclaimed film "Amadeus" (1984), or perhaps as the talking leaf from the Fruit of the Loom TV commercial. He speaks - and to me! "Where did the sun go?"
Oh my goodness! I quickly answer - "Yes!"
I can't believe I said that! What kind of answer is that? I must be prepared to meet anyone on the streets of New York!
Yes, this apartment living in a city like New York, and especially in Greenwich Village, isn't bad at all. I can dig it. I would probably even have some bright red geraniums in a couple pots over by the windows. I wouldn't recommend that for Steven and Sara though. I can imagine what 2 up-and-coming toddlers could do with those!
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Trying to fall asleep at 2:30 AM on a Sunday morning while nestled into the bedding on the couch in the living room, I can hear the revelers walking down the sidewalk along 9th Street - just down from the corner of 5th Avenue. The room's 6th floor apartment windows are open a bit at the top to let in some continuous riffle of refreshingly cool air. The young folks' laughter and high voices enter as well. I like the happy sounds. They don't seem to provoke any stirrings from the twins and their parents sleeping in the next room. Sleep is at a premium when living with infant twins not yet adjusted to sleeping through the night, but I am being flexible knowing that this is a short term visit, I don't have to get up to go to work in the morning, and if the little girls awake during the night several times, which is inevitable! - then I can remain in my couch potato status while Steven and Sara take care of business.
Sara informs me later that the hardly noticeable entrance, just down the block, to the PATH subway train, connects northern New Jersey with Manhattan. She adds that Saturday night is a big night for Jersey visitors when the cafes, theaters, and clubs in the village beckon. Also, New York University occupies many blocks around Washington Square Park. It has the distinction of being the largest private university in America. All these things contribute to the night sounds.
Nothing defines Greenwich Village to me as much as Washington Square Park, and likewise the Washington Square Arch. The present-day marble arch was preceded by a wooden version that marked the centenary of George Washington's inauguration. Washington took his oath of office on the steps of what is now the Federal Hall National Memorial on Wall Street, cattycornered across the street from the New York Stock Exchange in Lower Manhattan. I don't know why the monument wasn't erected closer to that area, but I do appreciate its beautiful setting with 5th Avenue arriving just short of the base of the arch on its long stretch southward down Manhattan Island alongside the eastern edge of Central Park and alongside the Empire State Building to end at Washington Square Park. I can also greatly appreciate the fact that the apartment building where Steven, Sara, Magnolia and Dorothy live is just 2 short blocks up 5th Avenue from the park!
One evening just after sundown, I am out walking in the neighborhood to stretch my legs a bit. Steven will be coming home late again, so I have some time before I start preparing dinner. Before leaving the apartment, I notice on the news that it is 39 degrees outside, so I don't plan to stay out long. I wander down to the park with camera in hand. It is lovely at night with the glowing white monument first demanding attention, and then I notice the soft lovely glow of the mid-19th century style iron street lights making shadows of the tall elm trees along the walks and out into the spreading green spaces. The central plaza around the park's sunken fountain — the site of impromptu musical gatherings for decades and where Bob Dylan sang his first folk songs— underwent major renovations in recent years to shift the fountain about 22 feet to the east to align it with the arch and Fifth Avenue, making its placement more symmetrical. Folks are wandering about and I feel perfectly safe in this 10 acre park. I wish I could witness the magic of snow turning it into a true wonderland of beauty, but no snow is forecast during my visit. Time to head back up 5th Avenue to the warm coziness of twinsville.
Another evening I am out late heading for the CVS pharmacy. Dorothy and Magnolia had their 9th-week checkup this day and are now feeling the effects of the 3 vaccinations they had received in their upper leg muscles. Sara and I decide not to wait for Steven to arrive home from work with the infant pain medication - we need it now! I walk a block south and then cross 5th Avenue to head eastward, per Sara's directions. I am a grandmother on a mission - don't get in my way! Yet, as I am crossing the street, I overhear the young man in front of me exclaiming, "Oh La La! Oh La La!" He is talking on his cell phone in rapid French. (Luckily, I took French in high school.) He doesn't turn after crossing the street, but continues the same way I am heading. I gather a few more phrases - " très belle femme", and then later "ma petite chou". Ha! He's talking about a mademoiselle! A very beautiful mademoiselle! Some more "Oh La La!"s - Darn! I wish I knew more French!
I have to laugh inside - my memory flashing back to a favorite John Wayne movie, "North To Alaska". John Wayne is playing the part of Big Sam McCord and he shows up on his gold-panning partner's cabin doorstep after being gone for awhile (Stewart Granger playing the part of George Pratt, with the other member of the team being his younger brother - Fabian playing the part of Billy Pratt) - anyway, back to the doorstep - here is Big Sam presenting to him not Frenchie, the bride-to-be, whom George is expecting his buddy to fetch from Seattle to cure his lovesickness, but a fetching substitute nonetheless, Michelle 'Angel' (played by the actress Capucine). Well, it turns out that MIchelle had fallen for Big Sam, and he likewise for Michelle, on the long boat ride to Alaska - but there is tension between them - and there is good ol' pal George who is heartbroken that his precious Frenchie had jilted him for another man down stateside. The plot thickens as Michelle, in pity, calls George "mon petit chou". He is entranced! Why, that is the very thing Frenchie use to call him! Michelle explains that it is a French endearment (for Darling) which literally translates to "my little cabbage". Go figure the French!
Lo and behold, this Frenchie goes into the CVS pharmacy ahead of me, and I hear no more of La La land as I head for the pain medication aisle and locate the desired bottle of Tylenol Infant Drops. Then, I quickly pay for my purchase and head back to the apartment and mes petites choux on the 6th floor. Another interesting evening - on the streets of New York.
The photo shows what's purported to be a "rugged-dressed" man wearing clothes very similar to some I have owned - not only back in "yesteryear" but also into the twenty-first century.
His shirt, a pinkish and grayish plaid western style "snappy" shirt looks very much like one I was wearing when I caught a whopper of a trout in the Deschutes River of Oregon in the fall of 1966. A photo, that day, shows me holding my 36" catch and wearing the strikingly similar shirt. It was a Wrangler denim, western shirt. I may have received it as a Christmas gift. If I bought it, it was for the durability of denim and not to make a fashion statement - and quite likely on deep discount at the Ranchland western-wear store in Ainsworth, Nebraska.
The model in the newspaper article has his shirt-tail out; a manly man of yesteryear would not be caught in public with his western shirt flapping at the tail. He might wear it out if he's pitching hay or engaged in other dusty chores just to keep sharp grasses and debris from trickling down inside his pants and causing a pain in the posterior. However, any guy celebrating his manly mystique would definitely have his shirttail tucked in so you could admire his silver rodeo belt buckle the size of a serving platter. The newspaper model's shirt-tail hides his belt - if any - underneath. It also shrouds any distinctive markings of his blue jeans that might betray their maker. At the bottom of each leg of his jeans is about a four-inch cuff.
I seldom wore my Levi's with a cuff - yet, back when Levi's shrunk a size or two, it wasn't uncommon to start out that way. I have a photo of my father wearing at least four inches of cuff. I remember when smokers who were caught indoors without an ash tray would use the cuffs of their Levi's to catch the long gray ash that precariously teetered on the ends of their cigarettes. I wondered, back then, if this was risky, but apparently not; cowboys usually have enough common sense to not deliberately torch their Levi's in polite company.
Having recently bought some "good" Lee jeans for twenty-nine ninety-five when I could have bought some inexpensive blue jeans for ten dollars less, I figure both shirt and pants, today, should easily fit inside a fifty dollar bill - and that includes the sunglasses and gloves.
The masculine mystique model wears a pair of sun-glasses - aviators - much like those I'm wearing in my fishy photo. I'm certain, however, having been an aviator, that there are many more aviator wannabes sporting aviator sunglasses than aviators. It's the same phenomenon as horses' arses. A sage once opined, "Why are there so many more horses' arses than there are horses?" Aviator glasses that could pass for the ones in the newspaper article are hanging by the dozens on the rack at the local grocery store. Ten bucks would get you close to the top of their line.
The black work boots protruding below the masculine mystique model's four-inch cuffs are similar to the "engineer boots" that some rugged-dressed men wore back in yesteryear - heavy black leather with a buckle across the arch. They were durable, long-lasting work boots that I believe most wearers would kick off on Saturday night in favor of some Justin's or Tony Lama's for "boot-scootin'" at the Johnstown dance. It's certain that a pair of engineer boots, bought for work, would cost far less than a fancy pair of pointy-toed boots with eagles stitched into the leather shafts.
The engineer boots were for necessarily long wear and were not necessarily for good looks. However, I can think of one exception where both may have been in play back in yesteryear. Lyle Wheeler - a rather handsome and rugged young fellow who lived a few miles south of us and who baled hay on contract - dressed top-to-bottom pretty much like the guy in this newspaper photo.
Lyle's orange Allis-Chalmers baler kicked out little round bales in those days. Lyle had wavy black hair that was slicked into place with ample slatherings of hair oil. He baled hay for my Dad one summer and I noticed his black engineer boots with some admiration. His tractor had to be clutched twice to produce one hay bale. After conveying up enough hay for a bale, the tractor was clutched and taken out of gear. Then the clutch was released while the baler wrapped twine on the bale and kicked it out the back. Then he depressed the clutch again, shifted back into gear and released the clutch to move forward into the windrow so the conveyor could pick up hay for the next bale. Lyle's engineer boots with thick soles and heavy heels were ideal for all that clutch work - at least two depressions for each hay bale. Hay baling was obviously depressing work. When Lyle clomped around with his shirttail out, kicking wayward hay bales out of the way of his tractor, you could say he was a reasonable facsimile of the guy in the newspaper photo - minus the cuffs.
In one hand, this guy in the photo, the guy who is advertised to ooze masculine mystique is holding a pair of work gloves. I have a pair exactly like them - think I bought them at Lowe's or Home Depot. They are my "cheap" work gloves - split horsehide leather fingers and palms with a canvas or denim back. They are too stiff for general work but are handy for handling rough stuff like cinder blocks. They aren't expensive - no point wearing out the fingers of twenty dollar gloves in an afternoon. I think I gave about eight bucks for my pair. I'm not sure if the masculine mystique look is to wear the gloves or to hold them in one hand as an accessory. I presume it's the latter.
Here's the price tag as per the newspaper article: "Shirt by Ben Sherman, $88, at Service Menswear; jeans by Levi's, $55 at Service Menswear; sunglasses by Mosley Tribes, $170, at - you guessed it - Service Menswear (Service Menswear has quite the markup, it seems); gloves $14.50 at Stag and boots by Red Wing, $308, at Luther's."
I can't price this fellow's underwear - or lack thereof - but what you see in the photo is what you get for $635.50 if you want to look like a rugged-dressed man with masculine mystique.
If you are the real deal and if you shop where I shop, you will save about five-hundred bucks on the regalia.
Monday, February 08, 2010
The rooms look cheerful with lots of light coming in the apartment's four tall windows and it's tastefully decorated. The IKEA store located in New Jersey, a short ferry trip away from Manhattan, just across the Hudson River, has been a handy place for their finding functionally chic apartment furniture like wardrobe storage units and bookcases, etc. The kitchen is small, but I am looking forward to doing the cooking. I will just have to follow the McDonald's meal prep rule of CAYG (clean as you go).
The height of contentment is feeling my sweet-smelling, sleeping grandbaby's small head tucked up under my chin while her tiny, extended little arms and drawn up legs and the rest of her body are cradled against me. Magnolia and Dorothy are little city girls and the street sounds of garbage trucks, beeping taxi horns, construction on the top of the townhouse apartment down the street, and emergency vehicle sirens seem to be taken in stride with nary a bat of tiny eyelid or grimace. I wonder if the sounds of the country will put them on-edge some day.
Steven has uploaded a vast assortment of songs onto their computer in the living room. Lots of melodies there to lull the twins into dreamland. One tune that never has failed to calm the twins' occasional upsets is "The Music of the Night" from the musical "The Phantom of the Opera". They are not living that far from Broadway, and here they are seeming to enjoy one of the finest tunes to come from the stage in recent times. I witness the effects of this song on quieting their cries several times, so luckily I know right where to turn to employ the same tactic when I am babysitting one day while Sara is enjoying a much-needed outing. The effect is mercifully immediate and the resulting calm allows me time to warm up their bottles before all is lost! I am a believer in the "magic of the music of the night" - whether night or day!
The twins were born 2 weeks earlier than their due date, so even though they are now 9 weeks old they seem so tiny. I am surprised at how alert they are and also at how attentive they can be. Steven and Sara read to them out of the little children's books they received as baby gifts. The girls' attention lasts amazingly long - or so it seems to me - at least during the length of time it takes to read 2 or 3 of the short books. Magnolia and Dorothy seem to tune in to the subject matter on each page of the books shown to them- maybe it's the bright colors or the shapes. Certainly they don't have any references to what a monkey or a hat is. Maybe it's the charming rhythm of their Mommy's or Daddy's reading voices. Whatever it is - it's another wonderful thing to witness during this visit. I only wish some of my past 5th grade students had been so attentive!
Steven is working late nights this week - often arriving home between 10 pm and midnight. This is typical when special projects come due at his advertising firm. My long days with Sara seem to pass by too quickly, and I can certainly appreciate first-hand how busy the parents of twin babies can be! I wish I could be here more often to help throughout the year, but my living in Texas puts the kibosh on that. It's a good thing for parents to be affirmed in their knowledge of what good parents their own offspring have become. It is a treat to observe Steven and Sara's loving interaction with their little girls.
One afternoon, while I am holding Magnolia and Sara is resting on the sofa holding a sleeping Dorothy, I observe how much baby Dorothy's hands look like her Mommy's hands - but in miniature - narrow, tapered hands with long slender fingers - very lovely! Sara seems pleased when I mention this to her. Later on that afternoon, while Dorothy is sleeping in the playpen bed in the living room and Sara is folding up clothes in the bedroom, I lay Magnolia in her baby crib after her diaper change with a promise to return quickly after washing my hands. On my return to the bedroom, I notice Magnolia's tiny hands swinging about her head. Remembering a funny line from the "Seinfeld" reruns Sara and I had been watching on the TV, I blurt out, "Why, I think Magnolia has 'man hands'!" - referring to an episode in which Seinfeld is turned off by his blind date's sizable hands - calling them 'man hands'. Well, of course, little Magnolia's sweet, tiny, girlish hands aren't even close to fitting that outrageous description - but it seems like a funny, quirky thing to say in context to our earlier conversation regarding hands. Anyway, I grin at Sara and she grins back, and at the same time, to both of our surprise, Magnolia laughs out loud and grins really big too! It is a glorious moment. I can't recall having heard the twins laughing before and neither can Sara.
Later that day, after Steven has returned home from work, I can overhear Sara telling him about the whole experience. I'm not sure he is very amused that his precious daughter's hands could be labeled 'man hands'. I even feel proud that Steven could be a bit chagrined about anyone suggesting such a thing about his darling little girls. At the same time, Magnolia got Grandmama's joke! I just say - you had to be there!
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
After watching several food shows, I change channels to check out our flight route plotted right on the map of the US showing on the screen. I notice we are presently flying over Kentucky, having left Austin at 7 AM (CT), skirting up the Texas Gulf Coast, then flying diagonally across Louisiana and then across a corner of Mississippi, and straight across western Tennessee into the Bluegrass State. I leave the TV on this channel and settle down to enjoy my Olive Kitteridge book.
Arriving at J.F. Kennedy International Airport on time at 11:30 AM (ET), I encounter no problems finding the baggage carousel area. In fact, I make several celebrity sightings in that immediate vicinity. Of course, you might not be familiar with these "so-called" celebrities unless you are a University of Texas football fan. I had noticed the dad of the Longhorn's popular quarterback, Colt McCoy, get on the plane just after I had taken my seat aboard. He sat several seats in front of me across the aisle. I was sure that was who he was, even though I had only seen him on TV. I marveled at how tall he was and how his short, neatly-trimmed brown hair didn't appear to have any gray hairs. I think even I had acquired a few new gray hairs after the exciting, nerve-wracking UT - Nebraska game in which the Longhorns squeaked by with a win on a lucky kick in the final second of the game! Of course, Mr. McCoy is a high school football coach, so I guess he is use to the pressure.
So, while waiting for my checked bag to come down the carousel chute, I call Raleigh on my cell phone to let him know of my arrival, only to interrupt the conversation with my outburst of - "Oh my goodness! Guess who just walked by! Shipley!" To those with an untrained eye who might miss scouting out potential NFL greats, Jordan Shipley is another talented, sensational UT football player as well as Colt McCoy's good friend and college roommate. I figure - where there's one, couldn't there be the other close by? My eyes are peeled for more sightings.
Not long after stowing my cell phone away in my purse, I notice Colt's dad arriving at the baggage claim area and heading my way. As he is about to pass me, I introduce myself as a UT football fan after first verifying that he is indeed Colt's dad. I express how much our family will miss seeing Colt play for UT (he's a senior), but that hopefully we will be watching him play pro football in the near future. He is very nice and thanks me, and says that he is meeting up with Colt in NY. Being the helpful type, I add, "Well, there's Shipley just over there on the other side of the carousel." He walks away and I quickly get on the phone to call Steven. Before that conversation is over, I see Mr. McCoy, Shipley and another young guy depart - but no Colt.
I have no trouble getting a taxi after my bag pick-up. The driver is quite friendly and also quite skillful and speedy at his job. We drive near the site in Queens of the 1964 New York World's Fair. I crane my neck to see the large metal sphere of the Earth and the tall towers with the spaceship-like disks on their tops. The route near the Queensboro Bridge is congested, so the taxi driver goes southward to take the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan. The view from the bridge of all but the southernmost part of Manhattan is outstanding. I look to the south as we are crossing the East River to catch a peek of the Manhattan Bridge and especially the Brooklyn Bridge, but my view is blocked by the many structural beams on the bridge we are on. My excitement builds.
I have been fascinated by New York City ever since my family first visited NY during the 1964 World's Fair. Then, my admiration for the city increased many-fold following the event of 9-11 and the loss of lives of hundreds of firemen who entered the burning inferno that day to save the lives of others, as well as the other brave folks who sacrificed lives and limbs that day. Now that my son's sweet young family lives here, it has to be one of my favorite cities. I am looking forward to a memorable visit!
Yours truly, the caretaker and occasional janitor of The Bunkhouse, stops by - http://remry1.blogspot.com/ - once in a while to see if it needs my attention.
After several days of detecting no activity other than my own, I've decided that the familiar adage, "If you build it, they will come" should read, "If you build it, will they come?"
The answer is, "apparently not," but that's okay. I thought The Bunkhouse might become a substitute for The Brand Spankin' News, but perhaps it's more trouble to you than it's worth. I'll continue to offer it as a place for you neighbors to interact; some things take time.
Perhaps my long-winded instructions have made it appear more complicated than it truly is. Some of you have had difficulties commenting and that also erodes confidence.
Once in a while, when I "comment", it is rejected on the first click of the "Post Comment" button. I click it again and it has always been accepted on the second click. Perhaps if two clicks won't work for you - then the third time's a charm. I have tested the "comment" section a couple times this morning and I was successful although one test took a second click of "Post Comment" after the first failure. If you are successful, it should let you know that your comment is awaiting my screening.
Somebody somewhere in blog land understands the uses for the weird selections in the "Comment as:" section. I don't. Just scroll below the weird stuff and click either "Name/URL" (type something into the "Name" box and leave the "URL" box blank) or click "Anonymous." If you click "Anonymous" you can tell us who you are in the body of your comment.
A few of you "neighbors" have accepted my invitation to author posts although no one has yet tested the water. Come on in; the water's fine!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The diary was for year 1955, I was ten years old and ready to become a journalist. According to my personal information, I began the year standing 4 feet 6 inches tall and weighing in at a strapping 67 pounds. The cash summary page near the back showed that I began the year with $1.04 cash on hand; I apparently went on a spending binge as my cash resources had been depleted to zero before February.
The longest week in 1954 was that week from Christmas to New Years Day when I was a kid and itching to write something in my new nifty notebook. The week crawled along while I read every information page several times. The little book includes Postal Rates; in 1955 you could send a first class letter coast to coast for three cents. It lists time zones and moon phases. Facts about the world, continents and climate. Weights and Measures. Distances between cities. Average weight for males and females and several pages on how to save a life.
I sharpened up my pencil and waited for the evening of January 1, 1955 to roll around. When it finally came, these are my words to describe that day: "We went out home and cleaned the house. Went to Granddad's and had a oyster supper. Butch stayed all night last night and tonight." Those words filled the allotted space and were printed neatly. "Out home" refers to the home of my boyhood on the Niobrara - the old house we cleaned still stands today and hasn't been lived in since we moved to Ainsworth, Nebraska a few months prior to my entry. "Granddad's" referred to my Emry grandparents. "Butch" was once the nickname of my cousin, the fellow who grew up to become Dr. Melvin Campbell, MD.
My entries continued daily for a couple of months. Then, although, I was still disciplined to fill the squares, I did so with much larger print. By April my enthusiasm was waning. The last entry for 1955 was on Monday the 4th of April when my entry simply stated: "Another school day. Really chilly."
My parents never gave up on me. A couple of years later I received a five-year diary that was much smaller than the one-year diary multiplied by five. Apparently I had decided early in the first year that there was no point chronicling my days in short phrases to fit even tinier spaces. Over fifty years later, the five-year diary is still substantially empty.
That didn't dampen my enthusiasm for nifty notebooks. I enjoyed the concept; I simply didn't like the confined spaces. When I was in high school and began to work for Morris Skinner and the American Museum of Natural History, I coveted his diaries and notebooks. His diaries had one page set aside for each day. His black, leather-bound, record books were filled with lined pages with no preprinted confinements. "What nifty notebooks", I thought. I inquired as to where I might get ones like his.
The one-year diaries were rather easy to find; I may have purchased mine in Ainsworth. The record books, however, were too exotic and wonderful to be found in Ainsworth, where merchants' shelf space was needed for essentials and not luxuries. Morris told me that he bought his in a store in Lincoln, Nebraska - on O Street if my memory serves me. He gave me the address of the Lincoln store; I quickly sent off for two nifty notebooks - a 4" x 7" and a 5 1/2" x 9" Record Book each with 180 lined pages.
I filled those books with important stuff like addresses; my budget and expenditures; the list of all US Savings Bonds that I had begun to buy and other financial records. My Private Pilot flying log was too restrictive to record my adventures in the wild blue yonder. I amplified each flight in these nifty notebooks including my first solo on 29 Oct 1965. "Soloed! Did 3 touch and gos. Rare experience!" is how I described those short fifteen minutes while my instructor, China Henderson, stood by the end of the Fort Collins, Colorado runway holding his breath. A few years later it amplified my USAF flying log and chronicled my combat experience in Vietnam including the names of my fallen comrades.
In my younger days, I had more things to memorialize in nifty notebooks than I do today: computers have taken the place of nearly every requirement for a paper log. Yet, I still enjoy the old ways. I have several notebooks that I've purchased, I suppose, more for their feel and look than anything utilitarian. After buying them, I find I'm hard-pressed to put them into service. The computer is better for nearly all record keeping - including financial records, logs and journals. I'll consider a use for my new purchase and then decide, "This notebook is just too nice for that mundane chore; I'll use a spiral or some index cards instead." With that logic, I have ended up with several notebooks lying fallow as they are just too nifty to use.
This January, while I'm attempting to organize some end-of-year records, I've come across various spirals, index cards, post-it notes, etc., that are now a meaningless puzzle of user names and password hints for various computer accounts. Some are current; some aren't. Some password hints are no-longer familiar. Some tidbits of other crucial information that I'd thought I'd lost forever have turned up in the most unlikely of places. I exclaim "eureka" but then realize that the sought after information is no longer relevant.
This paper chase convinced me that if I had used one of my nifty notebooks instead of relying on bits and scraps of less-worthy writing materials, I would have more quickly found what I was seeking. I picked up one of my nifty notebooks and vowed to use it for "inappropriate" things. My new logic is akin to Erma Bombeck vowing to never eat another black banana. She had learned that eating black bananas so they won't go to waste will reward you with a black banana the following day. Erma concluded, with her"waste not want not" logic she never got to eat a banana when it was at its prime.
Terry returned yesterday from New York City and presented me with another nifty notebook. It's a 2010 Calendar and Engagement Book from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It's filled with Eliot Porter Landscapes and much too nifty to use. Yet, 2010 is only here for 365 days and about one month of 2010 has already sped into the past. There is no time like the present to put my pen to its pages. In eleven months it will be too late.
I have a complementary calendar from some fund-raising enterprise that until yesterday, was placed on my desk and enlisted to record my medical appointments and other routine stuff. It's not nearly as nifty as the hard-cover calendar that Terry gave me. I've decided that my mundane and unworthy words won't be anymore out-of-place in the fine book from New York City than the miles of graffiti on Big Apple subway cars. Today, the nifty notebook from the Metropolitan Museum of Art takes the place of the utilitarian "gimme" calendar.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Bunkhouse is off to a slow start; yet, I believe it may catch on. Charlotte Griffith posted a comment to the blog and mentioned its major drawback, ". it doesn't just land in your inbox, it is easy to forget to look." Charlotte mentioned that she bookmarked the web page to help remind her. Subscribing is another way to get reminders; you can do that with the subscribe buttons in the sidebar. I believe if the Brand Spankin' News was important to you, then it will only be a matter of time before you regularly go to the following link to The Bunkhouse in addition to your checking your e-mail.
There may some confusion about posts and comments.
Posts are the original contributions with titles that you see in the major column of the blog. Posts can only be written by me or the blog authors.
Comments can be left by anyone at the bottom of the Posts.As I've explained, anyone can comment to any existing Post. If you enjoy reading the comments, then it may be a hassle searching back through all the posts to see if new comments have been posted. I'm attempting to get an application to work that will show you the latest comments in the sidebar. So far, I've had no luck. I'm probably not holding my mouth right.
For your convenience, I have written a Post entitled "Quick Comments" where you can leave general comments. You can easily find that post by looking for "Quick Comments" under "Labels" on the sidebar and clicking it. If everyone will write their general Comments to that Post, they will be easier for everyone to find.
Some of you may be having trouble leaving comments. I think that, with practice, it will become easier. The blog, like all WebPages, may get persnickety at times and return an advisory that you were unsuccessful - to try again or try later. Perhaps the BlogSpot server is being over-tasked at the moment. I'm just guessing. However, each time I've had that problem, I first made sure that I hadn't inadvertently made an error and then hit the "Post Comment" button again. Each time, I've been successful.
The new blog authors have yet to post; perhaps no one wants to be first. If you are unsure of the procedures, I will explain:
If you have completed the blog author process, when you visit The Bunkhouse, you should see an indication at the far right top of the page -outside the dark blog border - whether you are signed in. If you aren't, you first must click the words "sign in." It will then ask you for the e-mail address and password that you used to become a blog author. When you are signed in, that line should show this sequence: "(your e-mail address) : New Post : Sign Out" Click the words "New Post" and a window will open with a screen very much like an e-mail drafting screen.
Anytime you are ready to become an independent Bunkhouse author, let me know via e-mail and I will send the invitation:
Friday, January 22, 2010
My old, nearly perfect, egg boiling recipe was to cover the eggs in a couple of inches of water, heat to boiling, boil for two minutes, remove from heat and let set for about 20 minutes. This morning I stumbled into an easier solution - although it might have been one step short of burning down the bunkhouse.
I placed four beautiful brown eggs into a big saucepan and covered them with a couple of inches of water. I turned the heat on high and wandered off to do a couple of things on the computer while the pot came up to a boil.
Some time later - and the "some time" is a vague guess, I heard an odd bumbling, thrumming sound. I didn't think much of it as they are always working on the railroad track - probably replacing girders or ties down on the Onion Creek trestle, I thought.
As I scrolled through my e-mail, the odd sound puzzled me. Yet, it was sort of a peaceful little bubbling, boiling sound ...
Bubbling, boiling sound!! Ack! The eggs, the eggs! I had completely forgotten the egg boiling enterprise. I scrambled to the kitchen. The pot was bubbling furiously, the glass-top burner underneath was a cherry red. I turned off the heat and removed the pan. Hmmmm... how long should I wait on the eggs? I tentatively set a timer for five minutes - thinking that my distraction was probably at least 15 minutes. I then noted that about an inch of the two inch header had boiled away.
I could have used calculus - a differential equation that took in the diameter of the pot, the inch of boiled off water, the atmospheric pressure and a few other variables and calculated the time. Instead, I figured the eggs had endured about as much cooking as they could stand. I plucked them from the water, put them in a dish and placed them in the refrigerator.
When they had cooled, I tested one. It popped clean of its shell and was perfectly cooked.
Don't try this at home.
Snow Blower in Aurora, NE
Snow Blower in Trumbull, NE
Snow Blower North of Hastings, NE
Leona Ketteler sent me the links. I decided to use them for practice inserting links into a blog post. It's straight forward and easy; if you guest authors would like to try, just click the "Link" button on the menu where you are drafting your new post and fill in the squares.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
You do not have to register to leave comments on any of the posts. Therefore, I am creating this post specifically as a comment drop box where you can leave your information in a comment at the bottom.
On the sidebar, near the top and below the search box, you will see a title "Labels". I have labeled this post "Quick Comments." Therefore, if you want to leave a quick comment or read those left by others, you can click that label to find this post when it is no longer open.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Good Morning Neighbors!
Okay, here's some more mind-numbing stuff regarding the blogity blog. The good news is that this will be the last. I'm attempting to answer all of your questions so I apologize in advance for being verbose and repetitive.
Here's my goal - pure and simple: Keep our group effort alive but without me being the middle man.
The Bunkhouse will only be an alternative to the BSN if others join me. If it works the way I anticipate, it will be your meeting hall where you can walk in at any time and get on your soap box or just sit there and take it all in - and all without waiting for me to show up, unlock the door and lead the discussion.
A few questions from you good neighbors can be paraphrased this way: "Why can't we just e-mail our contributions to you and then you can put them on the blog?"
First: That keeps me as the middle-man. It could possibly make it even more complicated than the e-mail BSN. There is no point going to all this trouble if it continues or makes worse the hassles that I'm attempting to eliminate.
Second: If I forwarded your contributions they would post as if they came from me. I would then have to edit them to make sure they reflect the correct author. And what if I err and post a personal note from you thinking it's for the blog? That's too much like concocting the BSN . No thanks!There are exceptions. If I receive an urgent notice from someone who hasn't signed up and hasn't been a regular contributor in the past, then I'll post it. On those occasions, I will also e-mail the important message to my address list. If you become a "guest author" and receive something urgent from someone, you can do the same.
If you see a potential loophole, not so fast! I won't fall for the trick that everything e-mailed to me is an "urgent notice" or an "important message" and I won't mind posting it. I'm smarter than the average bear! If someone routinely has a lot of urgent and important stuff to share, then they will have to sign up and become a cog in The Bunkhouse sausage mill.
Here is a collection of other concerns boiled down this way: I don't want the hassle of signing up. I don't know anything about computers or blogs.
I am confident that anyone who has contributed to the BSN can complete the sign-up and learn how to send a blog entry in less time than it took me to concoct one e-mail BSN edition. If you are deliberate and already have a Google account, you can probably complete the process in only a couple minutes.Okay, listen up!
Instead of picking and choosing invitees from my address list, I am inviting all of you to be "guest authors." The blog supports 100 guest authors and that's far more capability than we need for our group. Only about ten percent of my address list has contributed to the BSN. If only a few of you sign up now, others can be added in the future.
If you want to give it a go - and yes, that means you - then please let me know by e-mail and I will send you the sign-up link.
Note: When I signed up as a "guest author" pretending to be Terry, the step-by-step suggested that "Terry" could also start a blog at the same time. You need not have a blog of your own; just ignore those steps and accept the invitation to post on The Bunkhouse.
Note 2: If you do not intend to publish your own posts, you need not sign up. You are in like Flint to read and comment on existing posts without doing anything other than keeping this blog link handy: http://remry1.blogspot.com/Before you take the leap, please keep this final thought in mind: When you are considering whether you want to participate, please disregard all thoughts about my feelings or my expectations of you. If you do not wish to participate, then that's certainly okay with me - no explanation is necessary; I mean that sincerely.
In any case, The Bunkhouse is available and if I'm the sole occupant, I'll keep the latch string out and the coffee pot on.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Good Morning Neighbors!
After stringing you along for maybe fifteen years, I owe it to you to give you a lifeboat before I scuttle this old tub.
Perhaps there is someone else who will volunteer to captain the e-mail ship. I've heard rumors, but no one has stepped forward to say, "I'll do it." Until something better comes along, the blog "The Bunkhouse" is open for business as a meeting hall.
The blog is better suited to our purpose than Facebook and it's much easier on the host than e-mail; speaking from experience, that is for certain! Yet there is reluctance against the blog.
I asked Fara Lee Ignert, "Why do you suppose some of the good neighbors are either reluctant, totally turned off or maybe even fearful of the blog idea; I mentioned that Franklin Delano Roosevelt had opined, 'There is nothing to fear but fear itself.'"
Fara Lee said, "Well them years of FDR was a much simpler time. The only things folks back then had to skeer 'em was a BIG Depression, dust-bowls and droughts, dirty thirties, a stock market kerlapse, a World War Two or two, mushroom clouds, soup lines, bein out of work and maybe catchin' tyfloid fever 'er polio and wearin an iron lung fer the rest of yer borned days. FDR was only opinin' the oblivious, that none of that was skeery. But that was years before The Blog!"
I asked Fara Lee if she was familiar with a blog.
She said, "Alls I know is "The Blog" is only one letter away from that horror show back in the late fifties where Steve McQueen got his start in Hollerwood. That oozy goo that gobbled up everthing in its path was certainly skeery. I figger a Blog is nuthin more than a Blob with the tail draggin' on that last "b". Them blogs are out to gobble up our personal information and set us to runnin' in the streets without nary a stitch to our names. Bossman, the innernet ain't to be trusted!"
I said, "What if I told you that a blog is no different than any other webpage? You don't have to sign up to read a blog; you don't have to give out any personal information to read a blog or comment; you don't have to be a "Follower" or subscribe. In fact it's safer in that regard than Facebook where you do have to join.
The only ones who will have to register to use the blog are those who want to contribute independently and on a regular basis. Then it's only a Google account. Many folks may already have a Google account and not even realize it. If you use Picasa for your photos or use Gmail, you have a Google account. If you use Google Earth, Google Maps, Google Chrome or use iGoogle or Blogger, changes are you have a Google account. Google, in my assessment, is safer than, for example, some on-line greeting card services that collect e-mail addresses, etc., when people use them.
"Blog" is short for "Web Log" - a specialized webpage designed specifically for people who want to keep a log and then either keep it private, share it with a select few, or open it for everyone. A Web Log could as easily have been called a Web Diary or Web Journal but the designer called it a Web Log and it became known as a Blog. Sort of like the army's General Purpose (GP) vehicle becoming known as a Jeep.
Fara Lee thought for a moment, "Well maybe it ain't so skeery afterall. I tell you though, bossman, If'n Blog is short fer "Web Log" then I can see why the inventer din't call it a "Web Journal."
I asked, "Why?"
Fara Lee opined, "Then one of them innernet nerds woulda giggled and called it a We-Urnal and that's what we'd be callin' it today!"
This is what happens at the bunkhouse when the Fair Bride is not around to keep order.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
If you prefer to be Anonymous then that's okay; however, I might think it's spam and not allow it when screened.
Confusing but amusing.
Friday, January 15, 2010
E-mail is an good way to communicate; I'm hoping that this blog will be even better. We never learn until we try new things - so this is my change of pace and I invite you to join me.
I don't intend to publish on a schedule but only as the urge hits. I can post to a blog whether I'm at home or traveling and I don't have to keep an everchanging e-mail address lists current on more than one computer. It seems that it will be easier for all of you to keep track of one of me than for one of me to keep track of all of you.
When I add new posts, I welcome you to add your comments below them. You need not comment on the original topic, but may ramble as you please. If you neighbors accept this format, I will invite additional authors (for example, the regular contributors to the Brand Spankin' News and other volunteers) to post original contributions directly to the blog. That way it can keep active without my involvement.
Although I haven't tested it, I understand that if you subscribe to this blog then an alert will be sent to you when a new posting or comment has been published.
If you look on the lower right column of this blog, you will see this link "My Bunkhouse Website." It's a website that I began long ago but never got around to improving. Nevertheless, it includes all of the "Story Writing 101" assignments that we wrote several years back. Click around and you should find them if you want to reread them. There is also a link at the website to get you back to this blog.
If you would like to comment about this new proposed approach but have difficulty leaving one below this post, please contact me via E-mail.
The Brand Spankin' News was not about me it was about us. If there is anyone who wants to take on the challenge of being "bossman" in an e-mail newsletter, I will certainly encourage them to give it a go. A fresh approach is always a good thing.