Keeping home and hearth together.

Chimney without a finish

What am I missing here?

Entry way for birds?

 It's been 30 years since we had new siding on our house so it was time.

The original siding had faded and suffered numerous collisions with basketballs, soccer balls, and kids.

I called up a company that advertised good work and free estimates.

They came out, took pictures and calculated a way to replace what we had for a hefty price.

We assumed we were in good hands.

The company ordered the materials and it soon landed on our driveway, awaiting workmen.

It was exciting and we were confident we were doing the right thing.

Three guys showed up and started to tear away the old siding.

They pulled and ripped and hammered and cussed.

Seems our house has some challenges beyond the steep roof and front dormers.

The work went ahead.

We tried to be brave as the noise and commotion went on around us. Decorative pieces on our fireplace mantle fell off. Pictures on the walls tilted.

We smiled and waved as we went in and out of the house. The workmen smiled back and promised they were making good headway.

Then trouble arrived.

The workmen took off for lunch and didn't return that day.

They came back saying they were nearly finished.

We looked around and noticed a number of things still to be done. I started making a list and taking pictures.

The work boss came to the door.

"Can you sign this completion order so I can get paid?" he said. "My children need Christmas."

I refused to sign and took a tour of the neighborhood to see if other homes in the area had finished chimneys and edges with no open ends. I returned with a punch list of 18 problems.

The work boss sighed. He began to glower.

He said our house had taken a lot more time than he planned and we owed him money for things he hadn't anticipated.

Marc and I started hiding out to avoid him and his completion sheet.

Then it started to snow, heavily. His wife came to the door to ask if we could come show her husband what still needed to be done.

We went on a mini-tour, dropping a couple of things because we were feeling guilty but we insisted on a cap on the chimney and the dormer work.

 Eventually, we signed the paper and called it good. 

But we feel like Scrooges...

A CD player with a car attached

We got a call from a zealous, young, car salesman.

Seems our electric Leaf was in its fifth year with us and due for a battery change-out any time now. The little car had served us well and I had no real reason to trade it in but nothing lasts forever and more range was appealing. (Also the 2019 cars were being cleared out and we were likely to be persuaded to buy one.)

The deal sounded good. A pretty good discount and a free technology package with the car.

We drove in to see what was up.

They had only three left and they were 2020s so the price was higher than advertised.

With more range I could run around for longer between charges. Less stress. More fun.

Problems: They didn't have any in Sky Blue and — a deal breaker for me — No CD player or aux port for my phone.

I couldn't imagine living life without my music.

I have a whole raft of CDs that travel with me wherever I go. Sirius radio is too scratchy for me and the disc jockeys are annoying.

I almost called the whole deal off. I started to pick up my purse.

The salesman rushed to save his sale.

"I can get you a portable CD player that'll work for you," he said. "I promise."

He said he would bring one in the morning.

As we wound through the maze of papers and signings, I reminded him once or twice of his promise.

By the time we came to clean out my old car, I was pretty sure he hadn't meant what he said.

That's when he handed over a slim, silver CD player with a cord. I have one like it to record music to my computer library.

My faith in car salemen was renewed...for a little while.

Turns out the player wouldn't sync up with the car. It required a specific one that could be purchased for about $250 only from Nissan.

I realized then I would have to rely on my phone to play back my CDs in my library.

I hurried down and bought an auxiliary cord with the proper ends. (Now I know I can use the Blue Tooth to access my songs without a cord but I have a really pretty bright pink cord just in case!)

I am learning to work this new way but it's hard for a stubborn grandma to adapt.

When and why did I decide to go modern?

Hours of endless fun...

 Watch out if you're headed to Moab.

It's frightening and frustrating and that's nothing compared to what it's like on Highway 191.

We got bogged down in the traffic just outside Moab after we passed a little sign that said "3 hour 42 minute delay, use caution."

We laughed. 

That couldn't be true. Whoever heard of a 3 hour 42 minute delay?

Well, turns out it wasn't so.

It was longer!

We inched along with no further information. It got dark. The people around us and their vehicles became very familiar. The dog hanging out of the car to the side of us started grinning at us.

The ambulance driver on the other side put his feet up on the dash and drove with his hands (I guess).

We couldn't see a reason for the slowdown although we've heard since that the slowdown is being blamed on heavy fall break traffic and construction work.

Well, there is construction work just outside the town but it was all shut down by the time we passed it and we were part of the heavy fall break traffic BUT if there was someone directing the traffic or even conveying pertinent information, it would have gone much more smoothly.

The only directions we got were a couple of "Use Caution" signs. 

(At 2 miles an hour, we couldn't help but be cautious.)

When cars came in from an access road, we let them in because there was really no choice and we had to be cautious every second.

We survived the ordeal largely because we knew we had food in our picnic cooler and we could see the lighted hotel sign after about two hours.

We laughed when the ambulance pulled off and drove on the dirt shoulder to a place where he could wait, turn up his radio and dance!

It really was the worst traffic delay we've ever experienced in our 60 years.

I would complain if I knew who would care and be able to change it up.

Sharing the space...

Marc on our missionary's trail

 

When we got word that our week’s stay at Bear Lake was cancelled, we had no idea where we would go.

But we had to use our week or lose it and the exchange fee we’d paid for it.

The problem was we had three days to make a decision and the options were few.

It was already August.

Everything we looked at was only available in early November or out of the United States which with Coronavirus taking over the planet made that unworkable.

We looked and looked until we found one that fit our timetable.

It was in Pinetop/Lakeside, Arizona, which sounded familiar.

I couldn’t figure out why for a few minutes.

Oh, yeah. That is where our granddaughter was sent to serve her mission.

My heart leapt a little.

I realized we couldn’t and shouldn’t invade her mission space but it would still be interesting to see where she was and had been. (Turned out she was transferred a couple of weeks before we arrived in Pinetop.)

But we could walk in the woods and enjoy the beauty.

We could breathe the same fresh air and revel in the joy she'd found there.

We got a list of places she frequented while she was there, a diner, a soda shop, and a Mexican dinner place.

We found the church and the room she used for a missionary broadcast with her companion.

We walked the trails near to where she told us she lived.

We counted the stars in the sky, 

It was wonderful, sharing the same space.

It was kind of surreal. We'd driven a lot of miles to get where she wasn't anymore, spent a bit of cash and even came close to getting lost a time or two.

I don't regret a minute of it. 

P.S. Samantha was reassigned back to Pinetop/Lakeside shortly after we left. Curious, don't you think?

Post stress..

 

 

Who's laffing now?

 

 Who knew going to the post office would be a high stress event for me?

I've been to the post office many times in my life and I'm aware of what it entails.

I know how to fill out customs forms and how to buy postage.

I am also aware that it costs a bit of money to send things overseas. I was prepared to pay hostage rates to get some American candy to my grandson in England.

However, I was taken aback that it cost almost $37.50 to send $10 worth of Laffy Taffy and Jolly Ranchers. This was for candy squashed into a postal bag after I had carefully sorted it into two lighter bags bought for this purpose.

By the time I got to the point of handing over my credit card, I just wanted the endeavor to be over so I paid the high price, partly because I knew Laffy Taffy is unavailable in England and I want the good grandma award!

I had put on my working wardrobe and planned for this ordeal.

I stood in line with my mask on and on the social distancing spot.

I remembered I would need customs forms so I looked over and grabbed some green ones.

In a few minutes, I realized the customs forms are NOT green anymore so I got out of line and went searching for the proper paperwork.

They are five sheets of carbon paper deep with many lines

of information demanded.

I began to write (with pressure), the address of my grandson and my address, over and over.

My address is simple. His is not.

I described the contents of the bubble envelope: "candy." It seemed silly to write "Jolly Ranchers" and "Laffy Taffy."

I passed on insurance and certification while remembering the Valentine chocolates that NEVER reached my missionary granddaughter in Arizona.

I rejoined the line, several people longer now, and waited, my face getting hot from the mask and my nerves.

I noticed the same two people who had been at the counter when I came in 30 minutes earlier were still at the counter. That was okay. I had come with no deadline.

Finally, it was my turn and I handed my precious packages to the nice girl.

"Do they both go to the same place?" she asked.

Yes. I had some for Jack to share with his mom and some just for Jack. I was trying to be clever. 

"Well, it'll be cheaper to put them in the same envelope," she said, as she squished them together and pushed them into a bag.

"Now, do these say the same thing?" she asked, looking at the forms I had so painstakingly filled out.

Yes. I realized I had overdone the form thing.

She tore one up.

"Does this say Jock?" she asked. "And is this their postal code?" (The code is an odd combination of letters and numbers that have always confused me.)

"It says "Jack!" I said with definition. And yes, the code is weird.

"Sign here!" she commanded. "And here!"

I did.

She made some notes and plopped the package in a bin.
Almost done. I handed over my money and she affixed the postage, handing me a receipt. The people behind me in line applauded. (Just kidding.)

It's on its way now: pure sugar worth its weight in gold to "Jade Morrey!"

A brilliant Bryce Canyon moonscape

Hear your heart sing at Bryce Canyon

This week, in another attempt to prevent the Corona Virus situation from completely defeating us and — heeding the advice of a nine-year-old granddaughter, Marc and I made it a point to check out Mossy Cave and its delightful waterfall in Bryce Canyon National Park.
We packed plenty of hand sanitizer and plenty of sandwich material in the cooler and took off for the brilliantly beautiful park Tuesday, feeling like we could break out or stay home some more and blow up!
As it turned out, we made a wonderful decision.
We hiked to the waterfall by the Mossy Cave, peeked inside and listened to the dripping from the ceiling of the cool, dark cave itself.
We found the waterfall and even slipped behind the water.
It was refreshing, magical.

Water's way

Only God can make a slot canyon

From there, we climbed from overlook to overlook, finding the rocks that looked like a sinking ship, a Mormon temple, chess pieces.
We practically had the park to ourselves, sharing it with pronghorn deer, skittering chipmunks and rock-climbing lizards and only the occasional fellow tourist.

A Natural Bridge to beauty

We discovered red rocks sculpted into incredible shapes.
We explored slot canyons with fantastical, steep walls layered in geological history.

Mossy Cave is eternally cool and wet

Everywhere we looked there was evidence that there is a divine hand in the creation of a marvelous, awesome world.
Inspiration Point led to hoodoos and pink cliffs and white and striped folded rocks.
The Natural Bridge opens the way to beauty waiting in the great beyond, created without a nail or a hammer strike.
Fairyland Loop Trail is full of funny-shaped rock creatures.
We waited for golden coin (otherwise known as the moon) to rise and shine like a lamp on all of the forest.
It was well worth the wait as was Jupiter and Saturn.
We felt free and unfettered for the first time in months.
Good to take the advice of a child.

No Corona Virus here

Stand behind the waterfall if you like

Mia's bill

I came into my "office" to find the Cabbage Patch dolls and various stuffed dolls all piled up together in my office chair.
After I sorted them out and reclaimed my chair, I found this bill: I hope it's not for me to pay:

My special talent

Just tell me, where do you want to go on vacation or who do you want to see in concert?
I'll make sure it's cancelled.
It's my gift.
I set something up, make reservations, long lists and elaborate plans and poof! It goes away.
Look at my past year, for example.
For the first time ever, we decided to go on a cruise (even though I don't like water, traveling with lots of people or staying in enclosed spaces).
We chose Alaska and started packing layers of warm clothes, essentials like binoculars and gloves.
The ship was to sail in mid-May but the ports in Canada closed and our cruise was off, as in cancelled until further notice.
We signed up for a Cher concert and for a Frankie Valli concert.
Both have been cancelled for now, postponed for a while and now postponed until 2021.
We tried to head out to Iowa to see my brother. That got a legitimate kibosh from his Home Health Care nurses.
We were set for a relaxing Bear Lake vacation with raspberry shakes and a visit to Minnetonka Cave. I checked faithfully on availability — despite CoVid 19 — until the first of the month.
We just got a call.
Ideal Beach Resort is closed. Our condo is no longer open to us or anybody else for the coming weeks.
That means three families who were going with us are having to make other plans.
That means the menus and grocery lists I've been assembling are no longer needed.
That means no Jet-skiing, no mini-golf, no lounging in the lovely Bear Lake water. No hike to Bloomington Lake or tour of the cave.
The nice lady who had to call and deliver the bad news said we can rebook to another resort and save our trade fee. (We have two days to do that!)
But Marc and I are a little reluctant to choose another place to pick on

.
It feels a little like we have the Midas Touch.

Mia's map

We were at the end of a sunny Sunday afternoon.
We'd eaten dinner. The parents were chatting with the grandparents .
The kids were playing in the sandbox when Mia came up with an idea.
"I want to make an inside-outside treasure hunt," she whispered. "Ok," I whispered back. "Do you have a treasure?"
She nodded and went off into the house, full of purpose.
I wondered what she'd do. We have treats in various places in the house but would she feel like she could "borrow" what she needed?
Mia is 9 and this is grandma's house so I figured she'd be fine.
She came back a little later with a tiny treasure map and a plastic bag filled with cookies left over from dinner.
She looked around and quickly buried the sack in the sand with nobody noticing.
Then she announced to her siblings that there was treasure somewhere. She handed them the map.
Off they went.
Not much later, they came back and unearthed the treasure.
They were thrilled with the cookies and proud of their success.
I think her treasure map is worth sharing...

Bee back soon...

In my ongoing effort to grow a decent zucchini, we planted carefully this year.
Marc prepared the soil.
I re-read my Western Gardens book and planted seeds in two little hills.
We watered faithfully and kept our fingers well crossed.
Now we have lush, flowering, big-leafed zucchini plants.
But no zucchini.
The plants are huge with large yellow flowers.
The leaves are green and there is a lot of potential.
But no zucchini.
(Actually there's one, a tiny 3-inch fruit that we reaped and cooked and ate. Given the size of the plants, there should be more!)
We couldn't figure out what was wrong until we read a story in the newspaper about a serious lack of bumblebees.
Apparently we are not the only ones out there wondering what happened to our garden crops.
They are not being pollinated.
The bees are not coming by and doing their job.
That's apparently because there is a shortage of bees due to global warming, pesticide use and loss of habitat.
In fact, according to the Deseret News story, there are 93 percent fewer bumblebees than there have been in the last 20 years.
The bumblebee may make the endangered species list.
I'm worried and not just about my zucchini.
I think it's a serious sign of trouble.
We are cutting down forests, wiping out coral reefs, warming the arctic ice and generally messing up the planet.
I think it's time to redefine ourselves and our goals.
There's a lot at stake, billions of dollars and food for bears since the huckeberries in the wild aren't getting what they need either.
Meanwhile, to be clear, I need my zucchini.

A new ride...

Marc doesn't ask much of a bicycle, just for it to let him log thousands of carefree miles and to keep on chugging day after day, ride after ride.
He tries to "hop on his bike and take a short ride" every chance he gets.
So when he didn't immediately fix his latest flat and get back out on the road, I knew there was a problem.
Seems the tire had developed a malady that popped the inner tube the minute he put one back into place.
It hissed when Marc put it in the garage. It made a booming sound in the night.
I slowly realized it was time for a new one — a new bike, that is.
(This is after the Trek had been in rigorous service for 20 years.)
Marc has faithfully hit the road for years, working off calories and burning rubber in hot and cold weather.
He has replaced almost every part of the bicycle, especially inner tubes and tires as he has a tendency to run over bullheads. ("I don't know where they come from, Sharon!")
He's been quite happy and tracked himself religiously over the years.
He's ridden to the various canyons and back again. He's biked around Bear Lake a few times. He's flown home from Midway on his wheels.
I sometimes go with him but not often. I slow him down.
I know he loves the speed and the wind in his hair.
He likes to live dangerously, I think.
He does wear a helmet and he will come in out of the rain if he sees lightning.
He claims he doesn't go too fast probably because he can't usually get a top speed of more than 15 miles an hour.
(However, he does tell me the new bike goes faster all by itself!)
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I asked him if it was time for a new bike and he said, "Maybe."
The next day he had one on hold at the bike shop in town.
There is a bike shortage right now, he told me. One has to move quickly to get the one you want.
We are now the proud owners of a new, sleek Trek that amazingly has everything he wants in a bike.
The old gadgets fit right on.
It's lightweight and very nice.
I'm happy for my husband.
Just not sure if I've been taken for a ride...

A man and his new friend.

Road tripping...

My younger brother is gravely ill in Iowa.
So Marc and I thought we could (with a little luck, a supply of masks and a lot of disinfectant wipes) pull off a trip out to see him, maybe give him a last in-person goodbye.
It's so hard to sit here thousands of miles away and try to love and help by remote control.
We found an affordable air flight out to Des Moines and started plotting out a road trip back to Utah that would include seeing Marc's son and his wife in Nebraska and checking out Mt. Rushmore and maybe Yellowstone.
We knew it might be risky to travel through several states and mingle with populations that might have Corona Virus. We also knew they might not welcome out-of-state visitors.
But, anxious to break out of our self-imposed isolation, and thinking we could be careful enough, we booked a flight and a car and called my sister-in-law to let her know we were coming.
"Oh! Absolutely not!" she said in alarm. "The Home Health people here forbid it! It's too much risk!"
Ok. I understand. We got kind of carried away with the vision of the freedom of the open road. I totally see the wisdom in protecting my brother and his precarious state.
So, we reined it in and redrew our plans.
We dropped the visit to Iowa. We cancelled the plane ride. We decided NOT to stop in Omaha because now it was pretty much out of the way.
We decided on a four-day run that would include some Mormon Trail history sites, a hike around the base of Devil's Tower, a trip over to see Mt. Rushmore and visits to Yellowstone, the bears and the geysers.
Marc had his GPS all programmed. I had a cooler stocked with snacks and provisions for roadside picnics.
It looked like fun compared to staying within our four walls and Utah's restrictions. (This way we were dealing with Wyoming's, South Dakota's, and Idaho's as well.)
It turned out to be low level fun and a LOT of driving, over 1,700 miles on our rental Outlander.
Marc had never been to Wyoming so a half-inch on the map didn't look like the endless road it was. The GPS counted a gravel and dirt road as a real road.
The travel time we calculated didn't factor in the construction areas where we waited and waited for the pilot cars to come free us.
We didn't expect the hotel in Cody to NOT have an elevator or to supply soap as a given.
We only missed Old Faithful's eruption by 10 minutes.
On the plus side, the little ELKS movie house across from our hotel in Rapid City showed us a zombie movie about a pandemic with Brad Pitt playing the lead. That took our minds off our troubles.
We fit through the 8-foot, 0-inch Needles Eye tunnel in Custer State Park. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-QbHhYSSdk)
We had some unique picnic lunches, sitting on the side of the road in the sun.
We saw the Crazy Horse Monument.
We didn't get eaten by a bear.

New oven, old me...

There's a lot to keep up with right now what with all the rules that go along with the Pandemic.
If I decide to go shopping, I have to remember if the store is open, grab my mask and plan a good route.
If I want to look around at anything, I have to pretty well know what it is I want before I start.
I need, more than ever, to plan things ahead even though there is not much to actually plan.
It's blowing my mind.
That became clear the other day when I decided my granddaughters and I would bake some banana bread.
I had ripe bananas begging to be put to good use.
I had a trusted recipe in my recipe card box.
I had brown sugar and white sugar and oil and eggs.
We started organizing the ingredients.
One granddaughter greased the glass baking pans and started beating the eggs.
The other one measured out the spices, poured in the oil and the sugars.
We mashed the bananas.
At one point, the question came up? "Should we mix all the wet things first and then the dry things?"
"No," I showed them the recipe card. "It says, mix in the order given."
We soldiered on, adding everything in a bowl and pouring the mixture into the two loaf pans.
I looked at my new oven which is supposed to be a new age convection oven if I wanted it to be.
I decided I didn't want to fuss with a newfangled process so I punched in the button that I thought kept it being a conventional oven.
(One button said "Conv bake." The other said Conv roast." Above that it said "Bake" but what oven doesn't?)
I opted for the "Conv bake" thinking that meant conventional bake.
I soon realized I chose wrong.
The bread was bubbling and the fan kept coming on and off.
I'm thinking I mistakenly put it on convection oven mode so I decided to keep the temperature down and cut the baking time.
I turned on the oven light and started watching carefully.
The bread turned brown, then dark brown and continued to bubble.
It smelled really good and I crossed my fingers a lot.
Finally, after 45 minutes had passed, we lost hope.
I figured the convection oven process had ruined our good effort.
We pulled out some underdone, burned banana loaves.
"Maybe we needed some flour?" said my older granddaughter carefully.
What? Flour?
I looked at the recipe card. Sure enough, it asked for three cups flour.
Why had I not noticed that earlier?
The last line was hidden in the slot for the recipe card so that's a bit of an excuse but not really.
I had blown it and let down my granddaughters who now had to settle for a couple of store-bought donuts instead of warm, fragrant, homemade banana bread. I'm embarrassed.
Blame it on the Pandemic, I say.

P.S. We regrouped and tried it again. This time the bread rose, the oven was great and I didn't get in the way of Adell and Hannah's success. Woo hoo!

Dropping in and off...

Lately I feel rather like a thief in the night.
Except I'm not taking things.
I am leaving things: books, video tapes, old socks, shoes, sacks of old toys, a CD player that still works but doesn't play cassette tapes.
Since the Covid-19 hit, everything has changed.
My routines have been the same for decades.
I clean out a garage or sort through a closet and end up with boxes and sacks of discards, some with perfectly good items like a collection of books I reviewed and don't have room to keep.
I then make a run to the Deseret Industries drop-off area and bequeath the store with my treasures.
I sometimes claim a tax deduction and always, at the very least, I get away clean.
I feel I've done something good with my items and stopped short of adding to the community landfill.
Now, as of several months ago, I have to change my habits.
I have limited options.
DI has been closed and when it is reopened, I will need an appointment.
The library used to take stacks of books I didn't care to keep any longer. Now they are having to be so much more careful.
Nobody wants my worn-out stuff.
I drove around the other day with a trunk full of material to toss.
I finally selected a no-name drop-box for the old clothes, a drop-box surrounded by bags and bundles of similar cast-offs.
I left several books at the donation site by the grocery store.
I am still looking for a dumpster to take my videos.
My trunk is now nearly clear.
But my conscience isn't.
It feels wrong somehow. I don't feel honest about the drop-and-run, sort of the opposite of a Porch Thief. Am I Dumpster Lady?
I can't quite identify my problem but I've now made an official appointment with Deseret Industries so I can legitimately take a number of sacks and boxes for donation in a couple of weeks.
It's good to live honorably!

Police lives matter too...

Watching the disrespect Saturday night and the havoc and peril that protesters created for police officers in Salt Lake City, I couldn't take their side in things.
Certainly the man who died in Minnesota deserved some justice and consideration.
For sure, the situation was sad and unwarranted and shouldn't happen again.
But, what does it accomplish for Salt Lake City people to go on record as lawbreakers and hooligans?
Why burn up a patrol car and ruin TRAX stations and toss rocks and scooters at each other?
What exactly does any of that accomplish?
Years ago, I had to carry a small black box with me one week of each month to keep me informed of trouble in the streets.
The police scanner was a pain because I could never fully relax.
If something wasn't going on, something was going to.
If I missed a code or failed to recognize a situation that would be a significant story, I would have to explain it to an unhappy editor.
Many times, the story developing was buried in static and something I was trying to follow, melted away into just a burst water main or a garage fire.
But often, it required I get in my car, drive to a dark address and try to get information on something that involved life and death and upset families.
Last night, Marc and I were both happy to not be involved.
Although our Spidey senses were going off, we very quickly started thanking our lucky stars that we were safely at home, watching the chaos on TV.
When people get out of control like some of them did, it's scary.
There's no telling what they will do.
The throwing rocks and bottles, the smashing of glass, the reckless destruction of cars and property, propels people to unleash anger that hurts.
Sometimes the mob mentality changes a usually decent guy or girl into a hellion.
I couldn't help wonder if the protestors forgot that police officers are people too; fathers, brothers, husbands, mothers.
Do they really want to "Kill All Pigs?" Do they understand that the police protection is the very thing that makes it possible for them to exercise their freedom to run wild?
As the police formed shoulder-to-shoulder lines to try and walk back the crowds, I was impressed with their training, their patience, their courage in the face of real and volatile danger.
I didn't see fear or loss of temper.
I was somewhat ashamed of Salt Lake City folks who look to the nation as if we are out of control and unaware that destruction costs us all.
I was glad no one died, that no one persuaded the police to directly engage to the point that more harm would be done in the name of George Floyd.
I'm also hoping this won't be repeated and if it is, I want no part of it.

Hee haw!

Being up on a horse is where he wants to be.

Serenity at last!

A cowgirl's dream...

The tiny cowgirl on the white pony (really a small mule) hollered as she came around the circle at Thanksgiving Point.
"Yee Haw!" shouted our 3-year-old granddaughter who, as far as we knew and according to her mother, had never been on a horse before.
How she knew the lingo is a mystery to all of us.
And how she stayed on was another one of our questions. We figured one of us would need to walk in the dirt beside her as the ponies went round and round.
But she didn't want any help, thank you very much.
It was just part of our day at the newly reopened Farm Country at Thanksgiving Point.
We checked out the Butterfly Biosphere first where the big plastic caterpillar was the top attraction and the scary scorpion illuminated in the dark cage didn't get out.
The three kiddos chased butterflies and marveled at the butterflies ready to burst out of their cocoons as the lady strung them on a string for display.
They liked the goats and the llamas and the big ungainly turkey and they liked feeding the animals that didn't bite.
But they HATED the slime and slobber on their hands that came with feeding the flock.
We went through a whole pack of wipes and got a lot of "yuck" expressions.
For these three grandkids the fun came in riding the wagon and climbing on the display tractor.

Loving the butterflies!

They also liked the freedom.
They live in an apartment building that's kind of out of the outside of town so space in the outdoors is a gift.
They have been stuck inside without access to play equipment, pools or climb-on stuff so mom was thrilled when we offered to come get them, ferry them over to Lehi and visit Farm Country for the afternoon.
It gave them a change of pace. It gave mom a much-needed break. And we got big grins and a Yee Haw!
What more can you ask for at the end of a pandemic.
(We're hoping it's the end!)

In your dreams...

Conner

Keslie

There are kids all around us graduating...in robes of their school colors, with caps and tassels, with pomp and ceremony.
It's all very exciting at the same time that it is very sad.
It's all virtual except for the graduate and maybe a guy in a mask handing out a diploma from the side of the setup for the photo.
This global pandemic has forced us all to do what we're used to doing differently every year.
We still give the grads a gift.
Some get leis tied with flowers folded out of money.
Some get a sort of low-key party.
I suppose somewhere, somehow, somebody gets a car.
But it's not quite the same.
It lacks the pomp and circumstance, despite our best efforts to make it memorable and real.
Former President Barack Obama gave a good speech on the MSNBC television special.
The musical numbers on the graduation show were fun and well-done.
My husband and I enjoyed the silliness, the goofy moves and the tremendous effort that must have gone into the making of the graduation special for the Class of 2020.
But there's still some honest-to-goodness heartache.
There's still some very real concern for the losses, the people who aren't alive for this milestone, the good-byes and last months that were missed.
Over the years, we've taken it for granted that our children (and grandchildren) are born, grow up, go to school and graduate to go on to a job and/or college.
It just wasn't a question as to whether or not it happened.
You just sort of made sure the kids hung in there long enough and went to enough school to take the walk.
We had kids who tested the plan, skipped class, missed the dress rehearsal, didn't turn in that last assignment or literally missed the bus.
But every one expected to have the chance to do it, to walk across a stage and hear their name read to an audience waiting in an auditorium for the magic moment.
It was a given, a rite of passage that included those who didn't really think it mattered, those who had to be dragged in to attend.
This year, it seems pretty surreal.
It matters a lot to us all.
And suddenly, we all care.
(Here's the URL if you want to see the show: https://www.msnbc.com/morning-joe/watch/-graduate-together-honors-the-class-of-2020-83504709710)

I want a patio...

We were outside sitting and swinging in our backyard when I decided to complain about my feet brushing the dirt.
Where the lawn used to be, there were now bare patches and I didn't like the feeling.
I told Marc I would like some stones or something to protect the lawn and feel better on my socks.
He sort of sighed and said he would look into it.
Ummm, 2700 lbs. and $300 later, we have a small patio where the dirt used to be.
I like it.
It feels nice and will stand up through the seasons but I had no idea that's what I was asking of him at the time.
I had envisioned maybe four or five flat rocks laid into the lawn.
He saw himself digging and dragging in bags of gravel and sand and 30 pavers.
He did a good job.

Before

He watched some YouTube videos and put on his mask to ward off Corona Virus and went to Lowe's where he bought heavy paving stones and equally heavy bags of material.
He had to move everything by hand several times, from the display to the cart, from the cart to the car, from the car to the backyard, from the backyard to the lawn (after he dug out the sod and piled it further back).
We guessed he move about 3,000 lbs. of yard goods before he finished.
He also had to measure and think things through several times, time he'd rather be spending on his bike.
I was impressed and still am.
It looks nice and makes a serious place for the swing that's been sort of hanging around without a real home for more than a year.
The grandkids like it.
Marc likes it.
And more importantly, I like it.
And I didn't even realize that is precisely what I wanted.
Thank you, dear!

Out with the old...

Rashly, a few weeks back, I told Marc he could get a new TV with his stimulus check.
There were two reasons I made this promise.
First, I didn't think there would ever be a stimulus check.
And secondly, I didn't really think he'd take me up on it.
Our current TV was working fine and it was just about as big enough as the space would allow.
It also had some quirks that made it so it required three remotes working together to get it going.
I had finally mastered the system so I could get my shows without having to call him up at work (back when he did that) or rehearsal (back when they could hold rehearsals).
I really was quite happy with the way things were and I've never been very impressed with how the different TVs broadcast their pictures.
He kept pointing out the ones at Costco that had such good pictures and I'd just keep going to the produce department.
But then, the dad gum government actually started to send out the money.
I was standing in the kitchen making lunch for grandkids when Marc started celebrating.
"I know just the one I want!' he hollered.
I realized we were committed and I even said a mild cuss word. "Grandma!, said shocked kids.
I immediately regretted my slip and Marc stopped talking about his new TV but he didn't stop measuring.
A few days later, I realized my mistake.
I owned up to the fact that one of the stimulus checks was truly his and a new TV would lift his spirits in this pandemic period.
We put on our masks and headed to Costco.
Now we have this lovely, large TV where the old, outdated cast-off used to be.
We took that one downstairs and started to figure out how to get rid of the big, boxy HD thing that preceded it.
It's a huge, heavy monster that has actually served well as a game monitor for many years.
It took Marc and my son 10 years off their lives to wrangle it up the stairs and out to the porch so some guys could haul it off for $90.
Now we have this smart, Samsung 55-inch television that walks, talks and does our taxes and laundry for us.
It's nice.
I just can't really tell the difference.

Easter funny...

Marc and I thought we were so clever.
Since we couldn't provide Easter Egg hunts in person this year to our many precious grandkids we decided to design a virtual hunt.
We found pink and purple plastic eggs that would blend in with our cherry blossoms on the backyard tree.
We strapped rubber bands around them and hung them from various branches.
We put the little fluffy Easter bunny Marc had bought me on top sort of like a star.
We carefully positioned the eggs so in a photograph they would be a little difficult to see.
Then we took a picture.
Marc wrote a sort of poem with rhyming words like "quarantining" and "preening."
We put in a challenge about finding all the Easter things for a prize.
I told the grandchild in England he only had to find all 12 things to win, basically giving away the ending before he started.
We sent every household in America with grandchildren of ours a copy.
Then we waited, thinking everyone would be impressed with our imagination and creativity.
By late afternoon, only one family had responded but they did find 10 of the 11 eggs and the bunny.
Later a second bunch sent in their findings.
One child found nine eggs.
Another pair found all 11, including the green one and gold one hidden behind the others, and the bunny.
We haven't heard much from anybody else except one who told us it was a prettily decorated tree.
It was like "good job guys!"
We apparently didn't make our intentions very clear but it was fun to put together and it took up a little of our abundant spare time.
Happy Easter all!!

P.S. Here is the poem, a literary prize:

There’s something new in our plum tree,
An Easter bunny preening.
It was a surprise that all of you could see
If you weren’t quarantining.
So make a count and let us know
What Easter items you see.
If you get it right, not too high nor too low
We’ll deliver a prize for free
The next time we’re allowed to roam,
To wander any trail,
We’ll bring it by your very own home.
Or put it in the mail.

God Save the Queen...

With a son, daughter-in-law and grandson living in Britain and having watched "The Crown" all the way through, I feel like part of me is literally English.
I still have pounds in my luggage and several British games in my game stash.
So when Queen Elizabeth came out to speak to her subjects about the current virus crisis, I sat right down to listen.
I found her compassionate and full of grace.
Her words were carefully said, logical and well chosen. 
She is so elegant.
She made me feel a little safer and I was glad that I "know" her.
As she talked about getting through this trying time and anticipating brighter days to come, I felt my heart open.
I found some peace.
I felt the same when President Russell M. Nelson talked at the end of conference. He acknowledged the situation and offered hope without pretending any of this is easy.
Being understood is huge.
Then my granddaughter, who is on a mission in Arizona, sent her weekly message.
She was so bright and happy and full of hope for the future that I felt better just having read it.
I think our future might be good hands.
It helps to know someone you love and respect is aware of your worries.

Good rules...as opposed to...

This whole corona virus situation is a learning experience.
I think we are all finding out things about how we cope, how we share, how we panic and how we live.
"Trapped" in our homes, we find comfort and safety and bliss at the same time that we chafe at the restrictions.
The opportunity to choose where we go and when we go, along with who and how many we can go with, is a precious thing.
We realize that just walking out the door is something to cherish.
The air outside is crisper, fresher and sweeter.
The paths we walk are new.
There's much to be learned here and I get that.
But there's some stuff that is incomprehensible: the hoarding, for instance.
My son told me a story of a lady who grabbed all of the hot dogs on the newly delivered pallet, 100 packages. When he asked if she really needed 100 packages of hot dogs, she retorted, "My family likes hot dogs!"
As Marc shopped the grocery store during senior hours, he watched a customer grab not one or two, but four large jars of pizza sauce. Does she need four when the sign says "Please only take two?"
Probably.
(Maybe she makes pizza four times a week.)
I won't even go into the toilet paper sweep up or the list of unavailable items that gets longer each hour, a list that includes a wide variety of now unattainable items beyond soap, diapers and disinfectant.
But the delivery guys who didn't want to bring my daughter's new fridge up the steps and into the kitchen were unrealistic.
Is she or her husband supposed to be able to move the new fridge themselves? Would bringing it just as far as the garage be enough?
And the plumber who was asked to come out to fix a toilet and then told by an anxious homeowner that he had to stay out of the house. Is he supposed to work by remote control?
Those kinds of things mystify me.
I think our fear is messing with our minds.

Shop and get out...

We are still slightly hopeful that we'll get to see the whales in Alaska.
Our cruise is scheduled to depart the middle of May and even if it's cancelled, we figure we might get to go later in the year — if the world ever returns to normal.
So Marc and I took our gift card from Scheel's and went to buy me some new binoculars, just in case I get the chance to use them.
(I've apparently lost my last pair.)
We found the store to be open and we headed in, expecting the store to be mostly deserted.
It was.
There were very few people inside and the cashiers were all wearing protective masks, sitting behind desks that had been put in front of the registers.
Signs were posted all around, telling us to stay away from other customers and to decide what it was we wanted to buy without delay, get it and get out!
Well, maybe not so bluntly put as that, but the message clearly was "don't linger and don't wander around unattended."
We carefully looked around, then stood back and asked an associate where the binoculars were.
He pointed up and indicated we should take the escalator to the next floor.
We did that.
We arrived at the upper floor and found the binoculars in a fenced off area behind glass with a female associate standing guard.
We looked at the prices and the various options.
I found some I thought I liked and we went to tell the guardian of the display what we wanted. I thought I would get to handle them for heft and peer through the eye pieces.
"Okay," she said. "We'll get you a pair."
A man showed up with some in a few minutes, handing them to me with dispatch.
I paid for them and we retreated.
I didn't try them on until we had returned to our car.
They were fine.
I like them.
(Marc wanted to check out the hiking boots but it didn't seem like anybody wanted us to hang about.
When he picked up a shoe, I looked at him in alarm.
"I don't think you are supposed to touch things," I said as I noticed employees giving us startled glances.)
We are now back at home thinking we are probably not well suited for this new reality, this new way to shop.
We realize we like to go about, check things out and maybe buy stuff we don't need, on impulse.
It's also hard to be regarded with suspicion and to remember everything we do is dangerous.
We are wild cards.
We're older with underlying conditions and we are pretty hard to retrain.
Perhaps because we just don't understand.

Crying in the car...

I didn't expect an emotional outburst.
From the start of this Corono virus thing, I've pretty much maintained a stoic stance.
I worry.
I fret and I miss being able to make plans with my family and neighbors.
I try to keep things in perspective.
I pray.
But I haven't cried.
Until yesterday.
A sweet lady in our ward suggested we all get in our cars and meet in front of her house.
We would then drive by in a line past the houses of two of the missionaries who have quietly come home due to the perilous circumstances within their mission boundaries.
We could maintain social distance but still convey our love and good wishes.
It was an interesting idea and we were all mostly free on this particular Sunday afternoon.
Marc was asleep but I was intrigued with the plan so I went ahead and got in line.
At 5 p.m. we all started our engines.
(I asked the lady in charge if the police were on board with this. She said she didn't know but the bishop was!)
We began to circle the block, a long caravan of cars with mostly vans with teenagers standing out of the top windows waving.
As we came past the missionary's house, we all honked and waved.
And I burst into tears, the first tears I've shed since this all started.
I cried for the losses, the fears, the things we haven't been able to do together, the things that might still happen, the new normal, the empty store shelves and the countries that are closed to tourists, the suffering.
I sobbed in my car and finally turned back into my driveway because I couldn't see clearly any more.
I went in the house.
My husband was awake now and wondered what I had been doing.
He looked curiously at my wet cheeks because while I was crying, I was also smiling for the first time in two weeks.
I told him he'd missed the parade.

Burnt sugar...

Sign of the times

Scene of the crime

In my 50-odd years of baking I have often had to find a way to soften a brick-hard bag of brown sugar.
Despite my efforts to keep brown sugar soft — I've put in a ceramic bear that is supposed to keep the moisture in, I've double-bagged it, I've kept it in the fridge, I've kept it in a pantry, I've kept it in the dark downstairs, I've kept it tightly taped shut in plastic, I've even massaged it to bring the softness back — it still goes hard once the bag has been opened.
So I sometimes warm it in the microwave.
In the past five decades I've never had a problem.
Usually it takes only a few seconds and, voila!, the sugar is ready to use.
I can spoon it out and make my chocolate chip cookies.
I was warming some a week ago and admittedly, I was distracted by all the "good" news on the TV, the computer and in the newspapers.
It didn't take the first time through.
So I ran it again, 30 seconds, I think.
This time, though, I reached in to fetch the bag and my fingers sank into molten brown sugar.
Yikes!
Oww!!!
It hurt immediately.
And it hurt a lot!
I peeled the pieces of melted plastic bag from my fingers and plunged them into a stream of cold water from the tap.
Ahhh! Better.
For the next few hours I kept my hand in an ice bucket as much as possible. It kept me from crying.
I basically heated ice with my two injured fingers. 
The blisters bubbled up.
The burns were on two of my essential fingers on my right hand.
It made everything harder, cooking, cleaning, driving the car, holding hands.
It's now been long enough that the blisters are reduced to beautiful, colorful, crispy scabs.
But hope is coming back and in light of all the misery, fear and chaos in the world right now, a couple of burnt fingers don't really matter.
They will heal.
Life will return to normal for me.

It actually puts things into some perspective.

Panic shopping

I sent Marc to Smith's on Friday night just to get shrimp for our Jambalaya.
He came home without anything, discouraged and dismayed with the lines, the madness and insanity. (This is a guy who usually maintains his optimism. He was aghast at the empty shelves, the loaded shopping carts.)
We talked about the situation and assessed our basic needs and headed out again to Costco, no less, Saturday morning armed with a short list of essentials and some basic resolutions.
I wanted chicken and Marc wanted pickles.
We figured we could do this.
But we dreaded coming over the hill thinking we'd see masses of people and cars.
Actually it was all right, the lines of shoppers with their carts went clear around both ends of the building but you could see the finish line.
We got in line.
We chatted casually with other shoppers.
At 9:30 a.m., the door opened and people went in like well-mannered folks. No running. No violence.
We both headed to our stations. Marc was assigned eggs and the all-important pickles. I took the job of getting chicken and sausage.
We tossed in some fruit and bread.
We picked up a couple of cases of diced tomatoes.
Not wanting to be greedy, we stopped short of grabbing things we didn't need but opted for some creamies and a bag of potato chips for comfort.
We checked out.
It had only taken us an hour and we felt much better.
Perhaps we'll need to return in a day or so for more but this helped assuage my panic.
I think it might work to hunker down for a couple of days and think for a bit.
Maybe it's going to be all right.
Just maybe...