Why We're Tired

This has been the work of our Memorial Day weekend so far. We've weeded, edged and mulched all of it as well as planned the last new bed under the tree in front of the house where nothing much will grow. It will soon be hostas and ivy!

Today it's a picnic and then on to a new landscaping job. . . one that pays actual money, not just pretty pictures and compliments from people walking by!

Motel H-E-Double Toothpicks

You know that feeling when you've been in the car for more than ten hours and your butt is paralyzed and you're wondering why you ever thought a vacation was a good idea in the first place? That feeling that comes over you when you see a beautifully glowing neon sign, nestled in the mountains of upstate New York that spells out "M O T E L"? It's that feeling that consumes you as you beg the driver of your vehicle to stop for the night. It's that feeling that, even though the said motel looks a little sketchy, you manage to convince yourself that it's quaint?

Yeah. That feeling. . .

We pulled into the parking lot and thought it a bit curious that we are the only people there. Weighing that against the paralysis present in the nether-regions, we walked to the office. That was our first warning. The second came when we asked the room rate – $65. . . Quick looks were exchanged, but the lure of not returning to the car was too great.

"We'll take it."

With the key (note I said key – not keycard) to Room 230 in hand we drove around to park. At this point we received our third warning – a new-ish Acura, parked sideways in the lot, with no license plates and flat tires. Apparently we aren't the sharpest knives in the drawer because we proceeded to ignore that as well and haul our suitcases to the second floor.

Now, mind you, we weren't expecting the Holiday Inn. It was only $65 bucks and all we wanted to do was sleep and hit the road early. . . We were however, hoping for something along the lines of Motel 6, but, alas, it was not to be.

Inserting the key into the doorknob, we entered a stinky room from 1945. And not the kitschy, interesting 1945. The dirty, rundown 1945. The 1945 where you didn't lock your door and no one else could possibly have the key. . .

There was no deadbolt, no latch and chain thingy and no little do-hitchy with the bar. Just a handle and a key. . .with who knows who all having copies. Our next move was to put all the available furniture, including the mini refrigerator in front of the door.

It was looking to be a long night.

Discussing all the scary motel movies we had ever watched, we were getting a bit distressed. There was a gas station close by – the only establishment for miles – and we wondered aloud if they sold pepper spray. Or pocket knives.

We decided to investigate.

Honest to God, it's the only gas station I've ever been in that had a lounge, replete with a couch that may have been borrowed from the hotel we were staying in. It was plaid, dirty and "vintage." And there wasn't a self-defense item in sight. Getting a little panicky, I came up with a plan. Clorox in a cup next to the bed would have to do in case of emergency.

Ali took some Benadryl in order to sleep. I decided to remain a bit more alert and took a pass on the drugs.

At 5:02 AM we awoke to hear someone trying the door. I'll just leave it that we were more than a bit concerned. . .When the handle didn't give, whoever it was started pounding. Ali flew to the window (since we couldn't get near the door because of all the furniture!) and looked out. A rough looking guy yelled, "Who's room is this??" She responded, "Mine!"

"Is my buddy in there??" he shouted.

"Uhh. Noooo."

"Oh. I thought this was my buddy's room." (And that made Ali what?? A prostitute that he wasn't surprised to see at 5 am??)

As adrenaline is given to do, we were a bit too keyed up to sleep any further. We showered and packed in record time. When going downstairs to return the key we had one of those "everything looks better in the daylight" kind of revelations. We noticed fresh paint. And a truck full of landscaping materials ready for installation. The very nice owner offered us coffee and donuts and wished us safe travels.

It was then that I remembered the note left on the little table in Room 230.

"Thank you for choosing Berkshire Motor Lodge. It's our goal to make your stay a pleasant experience. I hope you find your bed and bath clean and fresh. If you have any suggestions or comments please let us know. Your housekeeper, Chuck"

Just one suggestion. . .maybe put off the landscaping and make your first big investment some new security?

I'm just sayin'. . .

Adventuring :: The New England Coast

We had such a relaxing time on the coast of New England. Old friends. New friends. Great food and funny stories. For today, there are images.

Mystic, Connecticut Drawbridge

Rhode Island Beach

Lighthouse, duBois Beach, CT

Niagara Falls (This was a spur of the moment side trip! I had never been and Ali suggested we duck a few miles out of the way.)

Episcopal Divinity School, garden sculpture • Cambridge, MA

Episcopal Divinity School Chapel • Cambridge, MA

Rhode Island Coast

Tomorrow, a funny story about a motel and overactive imaginations! It's good to be home.

We're Back!

and we had a fabulous time. . .

Outta Here!

Why is it that getting ready to go on vacation is so stressful that you almost don't want to go? Note that I said "almost." I'm sure it will all be fine by the time we pull out of the driveway. It's just the getting there, from here part that stands in the way.

We are going to Boston and Connecticut to witness the graduation from seminary of a very dear friend. She and I have been friends a long time and our winding paths have many, many mirrored moments. I'm so joyful for her and I can't wait to be there. After graduation we are meeting up with other friends who live in the vicinity. (Note to self: Why do so many fun, interesting, intelligent people live in New England while so few live in Ohio???)

Standing between us and the highway is:

:: one last deep cleaning of the house - we found out just yesterday that our house/dog sitter is allergic to cats. . .

:: taking said cat to another friend's house, who stepped in at the last moment and saved our sanity. . .there is NO WAY Izzy was going with us. . .

:: getting the cleaning account substitute ready to take over for me for a few days

:: those agonizing, last minute packing decisions

:: saying goodbye to those sweet, lovable mutts (That's the worst part for me!)

We will be back at the beginning of next week. Say a little prayer for our dog sitter. Oliver is a handful! Pray he doesn't get a squirrel. . .

589 South Main Street

A couple of views of 589 South Main Street • The Bluffton Dari-Freeze

My Mother's/Granny's Chocolate Pudding Cobbler/Cake

My mom used to make a dessert we all called a pudding cake. It was kind of a strange little dessert. The pan contained a layer of cake batter, a layer of a crumb kind of thing and then the whole mess was topped by a cup and a half of hot water – dumped right over the whole thing. No mixing occurred before going straight in the oven. When it came out 40 minutes later there was a layer of cake on the top with pudding on the bottom.

My sister and I thought it was magical.

It was good but not quite great. As my adult tastes evolved I thought the pudding was a little thin and it lacked a really deep, chocolate tang.

Then, yesterday, just as I was in the throes of a chocolate craving I saw this recipe called My Granny's Chocolate Cobbler. It looked suspiciously like the pudding cake from my childhood. After comparing it to my Mom's handwritten recipe I thought it might be just what I was looking for. . .pudding cake on chocolate steroids.

1 C all-purpose flour
2 t baking powder
¼ t salt
7 T cocoa powder, divided
1-¼ cup sugar, divided
½ C milk
⅓ C melted butter
1-½ t vanilla
½ C brown sugar
1-½ C hot tap water

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

First stir together the flour, baking powder, salt, 3 tablespoons of the cocoa, and 3/4 cup of the white sugar. Reserve the remaining cocoa and sugar.

Stir in the milk, melted butter, and vanilla to the flour mixture. Mix until smooth. Pour the mixture into an ungreased 8-inch baking dish.

In a separate small bowl, mix the remaining white sugar (it should be 1/2 cup), the brown sugar, and remaining 4 tablespoons of cocoa. Sprinkle this mixture evenly over the batter. Pour the hot tap water over all. DO NOT STIR! Bake for about 45 minutes or until the center is set.

Oh. My. God. It was perfect. The pudding/sauce part was thick and really richly flavored and the cake was like a flawless brownie - crispy on top and gooey on the inside. The biggest difference between the two recipes was really quite simple– the addition of some butter.

Paula Deen is nodding and winking as we speak. . .

Hellfire and Grace

My father moved us to Ohio the summer before my junior year of high school. I went from attending a high school that housed almost 4,000 kids to one that saw me graduate with fewer than 60. On my first day at the new school I was shown to my locker and met R. The lockers were in alphabetical order and his last name was the one next to mine. I remember thinking that he was tiny – maybe 5'2" and had fiery red hair. He was also impossibly nice to the new kid.

As the year went on I got to know R. well. We shared classes, but most importantly, we both sang in the choir. It didn't take long to realize that R. was an amazingly gifted musician. He played the piano like no one I had ever heard, adults included.

One of the things that helped me fit into a new school was music. I was a fairly adept clarinet player. Music gave me an immediate community, while talent gave me a few instant enemies. R. and I were comrades in that sense.

My father was the new pastor at one of the local Southern Baptist churches. R.'s parents started attending. He and I stayed friends through the end of high school, commiserating every day at our lockers, and generally surviving life in a small town school, full of gossip and innuendo. I always had a sense that R. was gay and that he was struggling with all the same things I was – a religiously fundamental family and fears of being abandoned.

He went on to college and so did I, and gradually we lost track of each other. About a year ago I heard that he had died a dozen years before and that he had been yet another casualty of HIV. I was pretty devastated by the news and hoped that he had been surrounded by people who loved him.

Then, last week, through the miracle of Facebook I found his brother. I never knew his brother well, he was quite a bit younger than me. I sent him a note and told him how much his brother's friendship had meant to me and how sorry I was that he was gone. It opened up an avenue of conversation what was both difficult and cleansing.

I learned that, because of their "religious" beliefs, R.'s parents did indeed abandon him as his death drew near. I learned that his brother became his caretaker and support in the last months of his life.

His words:

When my brother became ill, I was left to be responsible for his affairs, but I would not change it for the world. It is amazing that the foundations of Christ's teachings were centered around love and acceptance and how quickly some hide behind the bible to cast someone else out. It is sad.

I asked myself how he could be so loving? Hadn't he sat in the same church services where my father spewed condemnation of homosexuality and preached the hellfires of damnation with regularity? His parents had certainly heard that message. . .

My return message to him:

I can't help but think about the similarities between your parents and mine - and how religion factored into their choices.

I distinctly remember going to a church softball game. (Your dad must have played on the team?) I sat with R. watching the game and we talked about feeling so "apart" from everyone and so alone. He was afraid of the condemnation that coming out would bring and I was absolutely no help to him, as I was struggling with the same things.

I guess where I'm going with this is that I want to apologize for the ugliness and hate that my father taught and preached from his pulpit. I know that I can't take responsibility for his words, but I also can't help but believe that some of your parents responses to the tragedy that unfolded in R.'s life were directly influenced by his words.

And that breaks my heart. And it hurts for you as well, because you were the one who had the courage to step in and be what your brother needed - family.

When I think about my friend R. the image that comes to mind is of a beautifully flowering tree that you might come upon in the middle of a forest full of pines. When everything around him was the same color, texture and appearance, he stood out with his own unique gifts. And, as I celebrate who he was, I also celebrate his brother who embodied grace and love until the end.

Garden Karma

Remember this?

Here's our response! (Almost a year later!)

Of course, it only took them about 12 and a half seconds to figure out who was responsible. They quickly returned the empty goose, dressed to the nines with an orange bandana in addition to the delightful plastic leis!

"I believe in Karma.

If the good is sown, the good is collected.

When positive things are made and given, that returns as well."

- Yannick Noah

Obviously, that includes ugly garden statues!

The Weekend that Was

:: Willie is injured. The concert was postponed. I was heartbroken. I'm sort of convinced that I may never see him. And sort of concerned we won't get our money back. . .

:: Samson went to the vet on Saturday for his annual checkup. He's a healthy, if slightly stupid dog. He's also the sweetest animal I've ever encountered. Makes me wonder if lack of IQ transfers directly into the charm department.

Anyhow, did you know that instead of buying those ridiculously overpriced dog dental bones you can freeze carrots? Yep. The vet told us to try it and the dogs went nuts. Oliver ate two on Saturday before Sammy figured out that they were pretty tasty too!

For some reason, outsmarting corporate America with something inexpensive, wholesome and healthy just makes me unreasonably happy!

:: Speaking of Sammy – sometimes that dog just breaks my heart. He tries so hard to be good that sometimes he's just downright silly. The first year of his life he had to have medicated baths just about every other day to fight his skin condition. He never liked it, especially when he had to stand in the tub all soaped up for 15 minutes at a whack, giving the medication time to work. Since then, he tries to avoid the bathroom at all costs.

Last night, Ali drew herself a bath, left the water running and went upstairs to get her pajamas. When she came back downstairs I heard her giggle. She called me to come look and we found Sam, standing in the full tub, sadly looking around – waiting for the inevitable.

:: In our neck of the Ohio woods, Mother's Day is the traditional date for safe summer planting. Mother Nature decided it might be amusing to lower the thermostat to the upper 20's last night so we had to corral and blanket most of the garden.

:: Speaking of the garden, our next door neighbor told us that he has had dozens of people ask him about our greenhouse and comment on our garden. (He's home during the day. We're not.) On Saturday I happened to look out the window and there were a couple of women in a minivan parked in front of the house, happily snapping pictures of our garden! Made us feel kind of good about all our hard work!

Good Enough?

One of the surprise bonuses about blogging for the last three or so years, for me, has been how much I enjoy photography. I think my skills are improving. Incrementally.

Slowly. Extremely. Slowly.

I've never framed any photos that I've taken before. I'm not sure why, but mostly because I didn't think they were "good enough." Which begs the question, "Why?" Because I'm not a professional? Because I think that everyone else can do better?

Stupid.

I finally decided that it was "good enough" if I enjoyed looking at it.

I used two inexpensive frames, making it simple to change out the photos if the mood strikes. They are by the front door and they are making me happy.

That's plenty "good enough" for me.

We took these two last weekend at the flea market. For some reason, the boxes of doll parts fascinate and repel me at the same time.

Not sure they will make it to the front door gallery though!

No Commentary Necessary

Keeping Score

It's a new season of outdoor activities – gardening, grilling, cookouts and killings. It's a new season of scorekeeping as well. Last night, the games began.

Although we are getting to be semi-professional squirrel body disposers, I have an idea that I believe could revolutionize the small mammal mortuary business. After each "incident" we get Oliver in the house without his quarry and Ali and I go to the scene armed with plastic bags and a shovel. Because the body is still "pliable" it's difficult to scoop it up on the shovel. We end up just pushing it around the yard – with Ali crying and me uttering obscenities like a sailor. The longer we roll the body around without actually being successful at scooping it up the more displeased I become.

Every time we repeat this little sequence of events I think there must be a better way. . .one that doesn't actually involve having to touch the body (which is normally missing the head.)

And then, like the proverbial lightbulb over my head. . .it came to me this morning.

What we need is an extra large, squirrel-sized, heavy duty, small mammal, super-duper-scooper! No muss, no fuss. Snip-Snap and you're done!

Anybody want in on the action with me?? It's a guaranteed success! I'll buy two!

tap. . .tap. . .tap. . .

Hello? This thing on?

Maybe while we're at it we should design a proper body bag. Plastic bags under the honeysuckle arbor just look so tacky. . .

Betting on the Turnout

When I arrived at my polling place this morning to do my civic duty and cast my ballot, I knew it was going to be a light turn-out. After all, it's just a primary. The parking lot was pretty deserted. I went in the building and all nine of the poll workers turned to see who was there. They needed something to do. The joint was empty.

There are two divisions in our precinct and I knew I was to vote in Section B. At the Section B table I handed over my license to the first older lady. It took her awhile to locate my name and she moved me on to the second stop at the table, where I signed my name in the little book. The third older lady was being assisted by a young man, I'm guessing high school aged. The third lady asked for my political party affiliation.

"I'm a Democrat," I responded.

Third older lady got poked in the ribs by the young high school man. She giggled (kind of girlishly I thought) and leaned over and whispered to him, "We're baaaaaad aren't we?"

I think they assumed I wasn't listening. For a long second I couldn't figure out what they were carrying on about. Did they have a date later? Were they playing footsies under the table?

Then it dawned on me. . .

"I expect that I'm what. . . maybe one of six Democrats you might actually encounter in the flesh today?"

His face flushed. He looked away, clearly embarrassed at being caught. He was quiet for a minute as he opened up the Democratic Registration Book and filled out my name and address.

"Well," he said, finally looking at me, "We have a bet that there will be less than ten. . ."

I watched him filling in my information and I couldn't help but smile too. There was only one other name in that Democratic Registration Book – one Ms. Ali W. . .

I should have asked what they were betting.

"Your Place, In The Family of Things"

Words I need to hear today. . .

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place,
in the family of things.

Perhaps That's My Problem!

click to enlarge – it's worth it!

I've been working on my string quilt, but progress is slow. I thought my lack of headway on this project might have been due to having two jobs, three animals, an ever-expanding spring garden to care for or a blog to write. I was beginning to think it could even be laziness at it's finest and was giving myself an earful for being such a bum!

Imagine my relief when I read that simply putting on a clean dress and making sure there was a bag of French chalk near my machine would take care of any problems I might be encountering!

Now where is my damn lipstick?

And does this mean I'll never finish my quilt if I don't have a husband?

Proof

Here's proof that if you look with expectation you can find beauty even while doing the worst of jobs. While picking up dog poop* I came across this little gift of new life under the walnut tree.

Such a delicate little vessel! (The egg, not the other stuff!)

*I thought about including a photo of the poop bucket, but decided it might ruin the undercurrent of this little post! Not to mention ruining my breakfast!