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!