Housebound - March 26, 2020

If you've judged me for all the whining and complaining I do on this blog, it may surprise you to know that I really am a person who regularly counts my blessings.

* I have a job, and my boss is a really great person who puts family and health above all else.
* The Husband has a job that is stable, even in these uncertain times.
* My children have good jobs in industries that are considered essential.
* My grandchildren are smart and healthy.
* We live in a rural community, surrounded by family, where our every-day dangers are generally not all that life-threatening.

But this virus thing . . . .

This is a scary time, for sure, but I recognize - every day - that it is not nearly as scary for me as it is for some of you.  Healthcare workers.  Small business owners and their employees who depend on foot traffic to survive.  Scary times, indeed.

My family and I are doing our part to help stop the spread of this virus.  We are staying home, cooking our own meals, sanitizing like crazy, hoping it will be enough to spare us from illness.  And praying.  Lots of prayers, for ourselves, for you, for the whole country, for the whole world.

Staying at home is not a chore for me.  I'd rather be here than anywhere (though, frankly, I do miss our Friday night dinners out).  My stash of craft supplies should last me for the rest of my life, even if it's a long life.  I've got plenty to keep me occupied.

Take yesterday, for example, which will require a bit of back-story.

My cousin sent me a text last Thursday.  She was in a panic.  Her daughter's wedding was 2 days away, on Saturday.  The original wedding venue plans had been nixed by the virus-related restriction on crowd gatherings, and the wedding location (and guest list) had to be modified at the last minute.  My cousin asked me for ideas on how to decorate the small country church we all attended as children.  Given more time and freedom to move around, I might have been able to come up with something "simple but pretty," as she had requested.  As it was, the best I could do was offer her the beat-up, rusted, (we'll call it "shabby-chic") walk-under arch from my yard and a access to my ribbon stash.

She and her husband came to get the arch Friday evening.  It had been raining here for days and days.  As we walked across my front yard to the side yard where the arch was located, we marred up to our ankles in mud, thanks to a multitude of mole tunnels hidden by the spring weeds.  I vowed then that as soon as I could, I would mow down the weeds to reveal the mole trails, stomp down the hills, and set a trap for the disgusting little critters when they resumed their digging.

Yesterday, I was sent home from work early.  It was not raining, so I put on my mud boots, dragged the push-mower out of the shed, and filled the tank with gas.  Miraculously, it cranked on the second pull.  This was meant to happen, I thought.

It didn't happen easily.  The mower marred up in the mole tunnels, and it required all the effort I had to push it.  Remembering that horses pull wagons instead of pushing them, I resorted to pulling the mower behind me, which was only slightly less exhausting that pushing it ahead of me.  Finally, finally, I managed to cut the grass and weeds from the area where the mole(s?) had been busy.  It positively scalped the yard down to the dirt in many places, and there are deep footprints everywhere.  I'm not sure I will be able to distinguish new mole diggings from the trenches left by my feet and the mower.  We'll see.

My 12-year-old grandson has been here for almost two straight weeks.  The schools have been closed, but luckily his dad's crazy work schedule combined with my modified work schedule have allowed one of us to be here with him all week.  Poor kid has been bored out of his mind.  Ordinarily, I would have protested his constant video-game playing and internet surfing, but these are crazy times, and I've just let him do his thing.  But since it wasn't raining yesterday, I mustered the troops (him and his dad) and enlisted their help in the yard.  Once the mowing and weed-eating and leaf-blowing were done, the grandson said, "Hey, Grandmama, can I wash the Jeep?"  It needed it, and it was a physical activity, one that didn't involve electronics, so I gave him the thumbs up.

Letting (or forcing) and teaching a kid to do a chore is sometimes harder than doing it, yourself.  He had tried to help me mow, but he had never used a push-mower, and I was afraid that he would slip in the mud and cut his leg off.  Car-washing seemed like a safe enough activity, one that wouldn't require much assistance from me.  Still, I helped him find a bucket.  I dragged the water hose out for him.  When he asked where he could find a rag to do the scrubbing, I sent him to the kitchen to get a rag from the basket where I throw the dirty dish rags and hand towels.  I did not pay attention to which dirty rag he had chosen until I heard my son say, "Boy, you need a rag that'll scrub a little better than that one."  I raised up from picking up yard debris and discovered that he had chosen one of my white, embroidered, flour-sack dish towels and had already used it to scrub off road grime and tree sap.

*sigh*

It's just a dish towel, right?  In the grand scheme of things, it's a small matter.  Maybe it'll come clean with bleach.

Mustard on the Ceiling - 2/1/2020

My telephone rang about 4:30 p.m. last Friday afternoon.  It was Nanny, wondering if I wanted to ride to town with her.  I was puzzled.  Was there some plan that I had not known about?  When she reminded me that it was Uncle Jack's birthday (#81!) and that there was a party for him starting at 6 p.m., I panicked.  Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I'd known about this party.  I hadn't bought a present or even a card.  A birthday party at a family member's house always required making a dish, and my cupboard was nearly bare.  I told Nanny that, yes, I would ride with her, and immediately began to scratch around in the refrigerator and the pantry to see if I could find something to cook for the party.

I found a big block of cheese and a can of chili-ready diced tomatoes.  Cheese dip coming up!

While I was perusing the contents of the refrigerator, I came across a big stick of summer sausage made from a deer The Husband had shot last year.  The sausage had been in the freezer for about a year.  I'd found it earlier in the week when I was digging through the freezer looking for something else, and I'd put it in the refrigerator to thaw.  All of Uncle Jack's offspring are hunters.  I knew that if there was ever a crowd that would appreciate deer sausage, it would be his folks.  I peeled the cover off of the sausage and sliced it up on a platter.  As I was slicing, I was thinking about what I could use to make a dip for the sausage.  The refrigerator yielded some spicy brown mustard and some jalapeno pepper jelly.  I splashed some of each into a small bowl and stuck it in the microwave to melt the jelly.

It was pushing 5:30 by this time.  Nanny was supposed to pick me up at 5:45.  I was rushing to finish by the time she got here.

When the microwave bell dinged, I grabbed the bowl.  It was hot, and I dropped it.  It landed on the floor, square on its bottom.  I watched as, seemingly in slow motion, the mustard/jelly mixture exploded upward.  The sh*t went EVERYWHERE - on me, on the floor, on the table, on the microwave and the wall and the curtains . . . . I grabbed a dishrag and started mopping up the mess.  Fortunately, enough of the mustard/jelly remained in the bowl to reserve a little for the sausage.

We had a good time at the party.  Uncle Jack and Aunt Myra are about the sweetest two people on earth, and it was good to visit with them and other family members that we don't get to see very often.

The next morning, I happened to look up while sitting at my kitchen table.  There was mustard on the ceiling and on the light fixture over the table.  It's a 1980's "popcorn" ceiling.  If I try to scrub it, the popcorn will come off, and there'll be a bare spot.

Wonder what will cover up mustard?

Old Pictures - 11/14/2019

Cousin Tammy from Texas texted me some pictures one night last week.  She had come into a couple of boxes of her mother's things, and send me pictures of the pictures that had me and my folks in them.

Here's one of my favorites:

This picture was probably taken in the late 50s or very early 60s.  That's my uncle, J.W., in the foreground.  He chewed plug tobacco and would spit off the porch.  He got me right in the top of my head, once.  He said he didn't do it on purpose, but I never believed him.  He called me "Squirrel Dog."  My younger cousins were "Hound Dog," "Coon Dog," and "Spud."  

Back in the shadows is Granddad, sitting astride a ladder-back chair, his usual pose.  I never heard him call me anything but "Girl."  Granddad smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes, and lit them with big old kitchen matches, which he flicked off the side of the porch.  There was a pile of them on the ground.  In the summer, I'd use them as legs for pigs made out of cucumbers that had gotten too big.

Behind Granddad, you can see a pulley that drew the water bucket out of the cistern.  The building behind Uncle Jay is a smokehouse.  There's a wringer washing machine just barely visible on the left.  If you could see behind the smokehouse, you'd see an honest-to-God outhouse, which I would not enter, mostly because I was scared of the wasps.  I preferred to do my business behind the tractor shed, which was a good way off from the house.   

That porch was way taller when I was a kid.  ;)  My sister said the same thing when she saw the picture.  She also said she's surprised it never fell on some of us and killed us, the way it's stacked on those blocks and bricks.  

My brother said Granddad got after him to spank him one day, and he ran, but when he got to the edge of the porch, he feared what would happen to him if Granddad caught him, and he feared what would happen to him if he jumped.  I don't remember if he jumped.  If he did, he probably got a whipping, anyway, sooner or later.  

Hydrangeas - 11/1/2019

Back in the summer, I trimmed some hydrangea limbs that were trying to eat the air conditioner unit.  I whacked a couple of the limbs into about 10 pieces and jabbed them into a large pot in which I'd grown (or tried to grow) a tomato plant last year.  Every one of them rooted. 

I've been telling myself to plant the hydrangea sprouts in the ground before frost.  Well, it frosted last night - just a light frost - and I figured I'd better get at it.  So I did it today.  Scattered them all around our shady back yard.  If they all live, they should considerably improve the looks of the back yard. 

Farting on the brother-in-law

In the interest of propriety, I probably should not tell this story.

But I'm gonna.  ;)

This happened . . . maybe last year . . . in February.  I remember the date because of something else that happened that day.  It comes to mind now because of something that happened last weekend.

You see, one of our favorite activities is what we call "junkin."  Several times a year, we get together with The Husband's sister and her husband and do day-trips to flea markets and antique stores.  We usually do more looking than buying.

We did a junkin' trip to McKenzie, Tennessee two weekends ago, and it was this trip that spawned the memory of what happened last year in February.

That day last February, our junkin' destination was Corinth, Mississippi, with a side-trip to Selmer, Tennessee, where there was a bluegrass concert that evening.

You'll need a little background information to understand why I did what I did.

In 2017, we did a two-day road trip with the in-laws.  This trip was the West Tennessee Wine Trail.  It started in Millington (lower left corner of the state) and ended in Kenton (upper west corner).  We visited about 7 wineries that weekend.  On the first day, we stopped for lunch at the Old Country Store in Jackson, TN.  They have a big, southern cooking buffet - fried chicken, fried fish, turnip greens, great northern beans, you name it.  I don't remember what I had for lunch that day except for a fateful serving of beans that caused the whole ruckus.  By that time, we'd already visited two or three wineries, plus a distillery, and had sampled probably a dozen wines,some "Tenn-quila," and some moonshine.  After lunch, we got back on the wine trail.  As we were leaving the next winery, I sneezed in the parking lot, and when I did, I accidentally let out a big, loud fart that probably registered on the Richter scale.

My brother-in-law has not let me forget it.  Every time we go junkin' (or anywhere else, for that matter), he recalls my little indiscretion, and when we stop to eat, he cautions me not to eat any beans.

So.  February of last year.  We'd been junkin' in Corinth.  We'd been to the bluegrass concert in Selmer.  We'd eaten catfish for dinner in Michie, Tennessee.  While The Husband was paying the restaurant bill and the Sister-in-Law was visiting the ladies' room, the Brother-in-Law and I walked outside.  As we were coming out of the restaurant, the Brother-in-Law (his name is Richard, but we'll call him "Dick") said, "I'm glad they didn't have any beans on the menu since I have to be shut up in the truck with you for a hundred miles."

Well, that did it.

I was already feeling a big bubble in the lower intestinal area.  I had kind of planned to "ease one out" in the parking lot before we all got in the truck.  But just as he said that, The Husband came out of the restaurant, and hit the beeper to unlock the doors.  I quickly reached to open the door where Dick would be sitting, intending to turn around and blast the fart right into his breathing space, just to teach him a lesson.  However, he was also reaching for the door handle, and he bumped into my backside before I could turn it toward the truck, and I ended up blasting the fart right onto HIS LEG.  He not only heard it, he FELT it.

He screamed, "What the F*CK!?" and staggered backwards, nearly getting hit by a car that was pulling into the parking space next to ours.

I doubled over laughing, machine-gunning a few more toots in the process (which the people in the car probably heard).

It did not exactly teach him the lesson I intended, and it certainly did not curtail his teasing, but I am still laughing about it today.  :)

Wildlife - 9/24/2019

It's pretty near 9 p.m., and I am sitting on the back porch de-compressing from a long, tiring day.  It's quiet, except for the crickets and the frogs, and there's just a little whiff of fall in the air.

A few mornings ago, I woke up early and came out here with laptop and my first cup of coffee about 4:30.  It wasn't quite daylight yet; the birds were still asleep.  All of a sudden, I heard the growl of what sounded like a very large cat.  VERY LARGE.  I'm talking jungle movie large.  It was also very close, sounded like it was coming from the pond at the bottom of the hill.  It make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.  Local folks claim to have sighted a panther in the vicinity.  I even saw one, myself, a year or two ago, and a few miles from here.  I gathered up my stuff and went inside.

I don't think it was really a panther.  I think it was a bobcat.  Still . . . .

Seems like we're over-run with critters these days.  Coyotes are yipping down in the bottom every night.  An armadillo is digging up the entire yard.  There's a bunny living under the shed, some chipmunks under the porch, and several skinks living ON the porch (they pooped on my settee!). 

The insects are thriving, too.  A couple of weeks ago, The Husband and I were weeding a flower bed by the porch, and a bumble-bee got after me.  I moved back, and the bee kept coming.  Chased me right onto the porch, and when I closed the screen door between him and me, he hovered right outside the door, like he was daring me to come out.  The next morning, I noticed the buzz of several bees around a four-o'-clock plant by the porch.  The next day, when the four-o'-clocks were still closed up, I noticed the bees still humming around it.  After watching them for a while, I realized that they weren't working on the flowers, they were going UNDER the porch.  This porch is built right on the ground, and there was no way I could see what they were doing under there, but I could hear a fairly constant, muffled, mini-chainsaw sound.

A bumble-bee nest under the porch concerned me a little.  I called the County Extension Service.  The agent told me that I ought to get some bug poison and spray it under the porch, but I don't think he understood that this porch is literally right on the ground.  I'd be shooting poison blindly (and I might accidentally squirt the chipmunks).  Besides that, I hated to kill the bees.  The world needs bees.  So I decided to leave them alone.

But then one got INSIDE the porch.  And then another.  And then another.  And one of them swooped my head.  I almost broke my neck stumbling over furniture, trying to get away from him.  I picked up a board that I'd been painting, and swung it like a baseball bat.  Knocked the bee into the screen, and he fell onto the floor, but before I could off him, he shook himself, got up and flew up into the rafters where I couldn't get him.  He sat up there for hours, contemplating my death. 

That did it.  I called the exterminator.  He sprinkled some powder around the place where they were going under the porch, but they are still under there, chain-sawing.

We had to call him again last weekend to rid us of some yellow-jackets that appeared to have nested under the roof.

And now a bobcat. 

From the back porch - 7/31/2019 - Summer shenanigans

When I typed the date in the subject line of this post, I could hardly believe the month is almost over.  School will be starting next week.  Where has this year gone?

Our granddaughters from across the state were able to come "home" a couple of times this summer, and we've enjoyed their visit.  Two weekends ago, we had a birthday party for the Middle Granddaughter, who is turning 9.  It was a pool party, and hot as blue blazes.  My job for the party was to provide the birthday cake.  When I asked the birthday girl whether she wanted a fancy store-bought cake or a home-made cake, she asked for an Orange Crush Cake like I'd made for her a couple of years ago.  "With sprinkles!" she said.  Can do.  She and her sisters were eager to assist with the baking, and we whipped up the cake on Friday afternoon for the Saturday party:  Orange Crush Cake with a thick layer of Cream Cheese Frosting.  Mmmmm!  We decorated it with those sugar "Happy Birthday" letters that you get in the grocery store, the kind that you peel off of paper sheets.  Worried that  sprinkles would fade or dissolve overnight, we decided to put them on at the party.   

We put the cake in my vintage cake cover - one of those metal ones that has a little lever that operates clamps that hold the top and bottom together - and stuck it in the refrigerator.  The next morning, I transferred the cake to a large cooler filled with ice in hopes of keeping the frosting from melting in the heat.

We arrived at the party about an hour early to help set up.  Granddaughter #1, age 14, met us at the car to help unload the lawn chairs and other things we'd brought.  When it was time to unload the cooler, I decided to take the cake out of the cooler to avoid jostling it on the trip to the table.  We set the cooler on the ground, and I picked the cake cover up by its handle.  I'd no sooner lifted the cake cover out of the cooler than the clamps let go.  The bottom fell off, and the cake dumped upside down on the grass, with me standing there in shock with the top in my hand.

My heart dropped to my feet.  Before the cake even hit the ground, I pictured myself buying a birthday cake from the grocery store, but I also pictured my granddaughter's disappointment.  She had stirred the batter and licked the spoon.  She was looking forward to putting on the sprinkles.  That was HER cake I'd wrecked.

Then, some crazy instinct took over, and I grabbed the cake off the ground and slapped it back onto the cake cover base.  To my utter surprise, the cake had stayed intact (mostly).  And it had been on the ground less than 5 seconds.  ;)

We set the cake on the tailgate to inspect the damage.  The frosting had nearly frozen in the cooler, and it had held the layers together as if they were hermetically sealed.  Only a few blades of grass had stuck to it.  Except for the ragged ring of cake crumbs around the bottom of the cake, it looked just like it looked when we'd put it in the refrigerator the day before.  This disaster could be salvaged. 

I glanced around.  Everyone else was going about their business.  Nobody had witnessed the tragedy.

I looked at Granddaughter #1 and said, "OK, we can fix this.  DON'T YOU SAY A WORD!" 

She giggled and said, "I won't." 

Right there on the tailgate, we snatched the "Happy Birthday" letters off the cake, picked off the grass, and skinned a micro-thin layer off the frosting.  With the letters back on, and a dusting of sparkly sugar and sprinkles, one would hardly know the cake had been wrecked. 

Granddaughter #1 and I looked at each other with mischief in our eyes and proudly delivered the cake to the table. 

She did not say a word about it.  Neither did I.  But we grinned at each other every time someone took a piece of cake. 

The birthday girl was a little disappointed that she had not been asked to do the sprinkles.  I forget how we explained that away.  ;)

After the party, I brought home what was left of the birthday cake and put it back in the refrigerator. 

Two days later, I texted Granddaughter #1:  "Want some birthday cake?"

She said, "Sure!" 

I took the rest of the cake to her other grandmother's house, where they were staying.  Everyone was milling about in the yard.  While Granddaughter #1 took the cake inside, I sat down on the lawn swing to chat with her "Nanny."  The former birthday girl and sister #3 were playing at a nearby mudhole. 

I had been silently debating about whether to spill the secret, myself, now that it was all over with.  On the one hand, I did not want to sully the birthday girl's memory of her cake.  On the other, from Granddaughter #1's perspective, what good is knowing that your little sister's birthday cake got dumped on the ground and served, anyway, if your little sister doesn't know it?  Or is it even better if she DOESN'T know it?

When #1 came out of the house, within earshot of Nanny and the little sisters, I asked her, "Did you tell the secret, yet?"  She grinned and replied, "Nope."

Naturally, the birthday girl and #3 (age 5) yelled, "WHAT SECRET?"

In the end, we spilled it.  As I had hoped, birthday girl took the news with her usual grace and good humor.  #1 laughed and laughed.  #3, who, only moments earlier had been building fake dog turds out of mud, said, "EWWWWWWW!"