The Gift: A Christmas Celebration

Over 2000 years ago, we received a gift. It was salvation, it was peace and love and joy. It was Jesus Christ.

Sometimes it seems as if the Christmas holiday is all about greed, and buying, and having something better than the next person, and overwhelmingly commercial. Sometimes that makes me sad. That’s when I try to remember the first Christmas, that magical night when God gave us his greatest gift – His own Son. And I go looking for the story of that first night.

Luke reports on that first night in a portion of the Bible (American Standard). He reports:

^_ Now it came to pass in those days, there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be enrolled.

^- This was the first enrollment made when Quirinius was governor of Syria.

^- And all went to enroll themselves, everyone to his own city.

^- And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and family of David,

^- to enroll himself with Mary, who was betrothed to him, being great with child.

^- And it came to pass, while they were there, the days were fulfilled that she should be delivered.

^- And she brought forth her firstborn son; and she wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

^- And there were shepherds in the same country abiding in the field, and keeping watch by night over their flock.

^- And an angel of the Lord stood by them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

^- And the angel said unto them, Be not afraid; for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all the people,

^- for there is born to you this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord.

^- And this [is] the sign unto you: Ye shall find a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger.

^- And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

^- Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace among men in whom he is well pleased.

^- And it came to pass, when the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing that is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

^- And they came with haste, and found both Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in the manger.

^- And when they saw it, they made known concerning the saying which was spoken to them about this child.

^- And all that heard it wondered at the things which were spoken unto them by the shepherds.

^- But Mary kept all these sayings, pondering them in her heart.

- And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, even as it was spoken unto them.

^- And when eight days were fulfilled for circumcising him, his name was called JESUS, which was so called by the angel before he was conceived in the womb.

There’s a lot more to the story, which most of you know, and depending upon which gospel you read. That first Christmas story is my favorite, because a gift, that child, was given, and the gift promised peace and love and joy. I like to think that the gifting season began on that first night, and summons me to give gifts to those I love. As I wrap each gift, I think of peace and joy and love, and hope it is included with each gift, as our Father did so long ago.

Merry Christmas to you all. May peace and love and joy be your gifts this Christmas.

Santa Visits Sallisaw

I saw Santa Claus! Yes! Really! I saw Santa Claus. I was driving east on Cherokee Street last week when Santa passed me going west. “Hey! Wait!” I yelled. Didn’t do a bit of good. He just kept on going. What was so startling about his drive past was he was driving a tiny little foreign car of some sort. It was white, and the car matched his beard perfectly. And the car was so small he nearly filled up the front window.  His beard was snow white, but I couldn’t see his belly so I don’t know if it shook like a bowl full of jelly.

What’s Santa doing in our small town? I wondered. Where’s Rudolph? Is the most famous reindeer of all suffering from a power outage? Is Santa lost because that bright nose has flickered out? And where were those other eight reindeer? You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen and Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen? Was Santa checking up on all the nice and naughty kids in Sallisaw? Which list was I on??? Oh good grief!

No, I am not hallucinating. I know this because I am not the only one who had a Santa sighting. I was present for the second sighting too. That’s when Delanna N., from here at KXMX 105.1, and I were driving somewhere, no doubt Christmas shopping. (I’m done, she’s not, HA!) Suddenly Delanna, who was behind the wheel, squealed, “There’s Santa Claus! Santa Claus is following us. He’s right behind us! I know it’s him!” I could relate, and explained my own sighting to Delanna. “I saw him last week. Was he in that little white foreign car?” Delanna didn’t know. But she reported, maybe a bit disappointed, “He had a gray beard.”

I countered, “Mine had a snow white beard.” Gray versus white beard? Made me wonder. But I have it on good authority, “His eyes — how they twinkled! His dimples: how merry, his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.” Delanna was not to be deterred. “He’s right behind us! Maybe he’s checking us out. Maybe he’s checking to see if I’m naughty or nice. I’m nice. I hope he knows that. He’s following us because I’m nice. I know he knows I’m nice.”

But things change. “Oh no!” Delanna reported. “He’s turning the corner. He’s not following us anymore. I’m nice Santa. Really, I’m nice!” And so Delanna’s communication with Santa concluded. We hope Santa heard both of us declaring how nice we are. Really. And so I concluded, as was done so long ago, “And I laugh'd when I saw him in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.” Thank you Santa. And for those of you who think Delanna and I may still be children, well of course we are. And we will always believe that Santa will visit if we are, for sure, nice.(Editor’s Note: Thank you to Clement Clark Moore, and a few others who, I hope, will forgive me in this giving season for corrupting their Christmas poems. Mr. Moore’s was published in 1823, and remains the original description of Santa.

So, quoting the author one more time, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

It's Shop-til-You-Drop Time

Christmas shopping is now in full swing! And stores were packed to the gills from Thanksgiving evening on. Well, on Black Friday they were. Other nights, hummm? Driving back from Sunny Son’s house in Fort Smith on Thanksgiving evening, I was shocked when I checked out the parking lots in front of stores where I have never seen the parking lot full. These are stores I like to shop in all the time. But not that evening! Parking a quarter mile away from the store’s entrance, if you could find a parking spot a quarter mile away, is not my idea of healthy exercise. Do not want to walk or jog that far just to save a few bucks on a gift. I should have taken a photo for future reference. There was nowhere to park in one lot that I have never seen more than a third full in the past.

Central Mall? Cars parked clear out to the street! I couldn’t believe it! Walmart? Good gracious folks. Walmart was spreading the Black Friday sales out from Thanksgiving evening on through that Friday. Was there not a better way to gift shop? Well, I know one and I might tell, maybe. I could imagine what was going on in those stores, but I wasn’t going anywhere near them. I imagined moms and dads scrambling frantically for the one gift they need for the kid. And then moms and dads get into fights with other moms and dads who are not to be denied that same gift. I could imagine shoppers finally claiming their shopping prize, then having to use it to beat off other shoppers who wanted that same prize, and the result was the gift is ruined and no one gets it.

I may be wrong. Could be all those shoppers, even though shoulder to shoulder in the stores, were polite and more than willing to share. At least I hope it was that way. It’s how I would like it to be. But there’s still no way I am going to go shoulder-to-shoulder with other shoppers. So I ventured out alone on a dreary week night recently to do some shopping of my own. I confess. On Thanksgiving, found out my little family is expanding. “You’re pregnant?” was the question of the day. And all the answers were “Yes!” All I can say is EEK! I just thought I was done shopping.

But I have a secret shopping strategy, which I will share considering it’s the sharing season. I had coupons good for Black Friday, and (this is the good part) good for the following week. I like to shop on a Tuesday or Wednesday evening. And this year it was fabulous, so far. At my first store of choice, which was staying open to midnight (good grief!), the store clerks greatly outnumbered the customers, all two of us. Yep, two. Perhaps the other shoppers had enough of Christmas shopping on Friday. I kind of felt sorry for those clerks, all of whom were absolutely sure that I needed their help. Well they kept asking anyway, even though I declined the help repeatedly. One clerk even started shopping with me. She hadn’t had a chance shop for her young daughter. I offered a few suggestions. At the next store, it was the same. I got to park in the lot in the first space closest to the entrance. There was absolutely no one about. The only other customer I noticed was a co-worker who needed shoes. It was fabulous, not only because there were few fellow shoppers, but because those great prices advertised for Black Friday were still in effect. And I had coupons, and got deals too good to publish. That night might have been the greatest Christmas shopping night of all time.

I had to shop, there are a couple more great-grandbabies to add to my list. And, oh dear, I had to make a list. I’m losing track of great-grandbabies. But I announce that with pride, because, as one grandchild put it, “Well, it’s all your fault. You started it.” Yes, I confess. I started it, with a little help, and am very happy to Christmas shop for any and all grand- and great-grandchildren. Can hardly wait til I’m out there again, going undercover on dark and rainy week night, shopping til I drop for the greatest gift, a new grandchild. Yay!

Black Friday Temptations

Now that eating ourselves silly at the Thanksgiving table is over, it’s on to the Jolly Old Elf season. At last. Everyone else has been at least one, or maybe two, holidays ahead of me. And, you may have noticed, I complain at least once a year about that. Nevertheless, we’re on to Christmas, the gifting season. And I love gift giving. I love it so much, as I’ve reported before, I begin my Christmas shopping on Dec. 26 every year. The deals are incredible. The only problem is my dear family members rarely get what they want. Hey, if it’s not on sale, it does not get bought and parked in my spare bedroom for, at most, 364 days until the next Christmas. The only problem with that, of course, is I forget what’s in there. I’ll confess that on one Christmas a granddaughter got something she was supposed to have received for her birthday months earlier. I remembered that gift when she looked at me quizzically and asked, “What teddy bear?” when I asked her how she liked her new teddy bear. Had to tell her on Christmas day it was THAT teddy bear. And you know what? This fall I found another teddy bear in there. Oops.

Never mind. I am affectionately known as G-G (for great-granny) by four new little kiddies this year. It’s a name I proudly wear, and all those who call me G-G, get great goodies. It’s three-Gs from the 2-G. I am now the proud G-G of four new little ones. All my grandkids have dutifully delivered to us one child each. Yep, three girls and one boy. I am happy. And my role as G-G is to make them happy. And here comes Christmas. (Just made a mental note to check out the spare bedroom before any new purchases.) And right on the heels of Thanksgiving is the dreaded Black Friday! Followed closely for Cyber Monday! Oh no! But I love shopping! Shopping is my hobby! And Clearance Sale is the name of my game. Black Friday is already tempting me beyond sensibility. My gift shopping is done. I have bragged about that, not only here but to my friends and relatives who have not even begun that happy, to me at least, chore yet. (Insert image of me pointing finger at best bud Delanna N. I also love to gloat.) But wait! There are tiny little people out there who are related to me, and need many, many toys. Truthfully, on a recent visit to granddaughter’s house, I could not walk across the living room without setting foot upon a toy. “He’s got everything,” granddaughter moaned. But can I help it if this 18-month-old has a huge, extended family, all of whom dote on him? Nope. So I must shop on!

And this year, all the stores have started Black Friday early. EEK! I have always disdained Black Friday. I do not like the crowds. I do not like another grandma tackling me cause I got the last Woody, from the movie “Toy Story,” on the shelf. Literally. It happened at a K-Mart. Please folks, Go to www.disneystore.com. And if you look closely, some of those great prices can be had at other times of the year. But it’s oh so tempting. I argue with myself. ‘NO. NO. NO.” I recite. Doesn’t work. And ‘Great-grandkid already has enough toys,’ I argue with me. ‘No he doesn’t. NO. NO. NO.’

And it’s not just for the grandkids. Yes, I really want that super mixer on sale for a smidgen of what it costs normally. ‘And,’ I ask myself, ‘What’s to be done with the other two mixers you already own, one of which has never been out of the package?’ ‘Uh yeah,’ I answer myself. ‘But it’s on sale!’ ‘On what piece of kitchen counter space do you plan to park it? There’s none left!’ OK. OK. And I deleted the super mixer off that store’s website shopping bag. My heart is broken.

No it’s not. This particular early Black Friday sale, which is on the internet meaning I don’t have to deal with crowds, is going on through Monday. Ooh. Cyber Monday. I may revisit. And besides that, this particular store has the one and only particular toy my great-grandson needs. And it’s half price. And I make the promise to my four wee ones, “I’ll be back. For I am Super G-G!”

“Now, let’s shop,” I cry as I fly off into the sky, able to fly with my invisible Great-Grandma cape.

Hello Winter!

Hello Winter. We like your shiver-causing chill and falling snow flakes (well, most of the time) during the holiday season, but couldn’t Fall have tarried a while longer. Oklahoma provided us with a Fantastic Fall, enjoyed by all. Lovely temperatures, fanned by a light breeze that cooled us so well we almost forgot Oklahoma’s hot summer.  It’s too early for your arrival Winter. We want Fall to stay with us through Thanksgiving, at least. We need Fall’s just-right afternoon temperatures so we can play football out in the yard after filling up on Thanksgiving’s feast, or at least to know that all outside is well while horizontal on the couch, watching others play football for lots of money. Speaking of football, Winter, your early arrival punted us too quickly into the Christmas season. Good grief. Your too-early cold temps and all that snow got our schedules all confused. I do not need to be singing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” while still gobbling up all that Halloween candy. Yes, I buy candy for Halloween, but live way out in the country where no little kids come to visit as ghosts and goblins. Oh, occasionally a grandchild use to show up, but they are all grown now and would be terribly embarrassed if they had to wear Halloween costumes. We are hopefully awaiting those G-Gs, otherwise known as great-grandchildren, but until them, I have to dispose of all that candy somehow. And what better way is there than to eat it.

Back to you Winter. So I’m humming Christmas songs while munching on another holiday’s candy and while snow is falling outside my window. And we are not the only ones kicked too early into the Christmas season.  Even before the ghost-and- goblin season, we noticed the Christmas decorations going up in stores. Yes, we have heard the myth that stores depend upon the Christmas season to make a profit from year to year. Is that why Christmas is dangled before our eyes while the Halloween costumes haven’t yet gone on sale? Where has Thanksgiving gone? I like Thanksgiving, and the time we use to bring in the harvest and to give thanks for it. We don’t want Thanksgiving to disappear amid the Christmas hustle and bustle. I like the family gathered around that big country table, laden with the feast. I like the camaraderie, and can even put up with a little sibling snipping if laughter follows. We want Thanksgiving to remain, and to lie around recuperating on the following Friday, not Black Friday shopping that starts on Thanksgiving Day for goodness sakes! Shopping? Yes, shopping is my hobby, and my Christmas shopping starts on Dec. 26, every year. Christmas shopping? Yep. I’m done.

So, Winter. Can you hold yourself at bay just a bit longer? Just give us the time to harvest the pumpkins for Halloween and Thanksgiving’s pumpkin pies, and the time to enjoy our families just because we’re families. Give us the time to give thanks and celebrate together without other holiday stresses. And when that is done, bring on those chilly temps and the snow flakes. We will sing those beautiful Christmas songs clear into the New Year. And that’s why we want Winter and Christmas to arrive on the designated schedule, because arriving too early means we will tire of you quickly. Arriving on time means we will be sustained through Winter’s most cold and harsh season with Christmas joy still in our hearts.

One Great List, or Things I Wish I Had Said

My apologies to readers for not showing up last week. A nasty little cold bug struck, and I was home on the couch, sound asleep when I could after a coughing fit. A lot of sleep and chicken soup, and some high-powered antibiotics saved me, so I’m back, but still in need of a long nap. Wait! That may be due to my age. Oh never mind. I’m back and my head cold has left the premises.

While I was sick and feeling sorry for myself, my friends pitched in with some funny emails, and to make up some time, I’m forwarding them on to you. Read, philosophize, and laugh loudly please. That’s the only way to overcome a nasty head cold, and other interruptions.

­­­*The Rev. Edward Everette Hale when asked if he prayed for U.S. senators:   “No. I look at the senators and pray for the country.”

*Drunk man: “I can’t bear fools.” Dorothy Parker:  “Apparently your mother could.”

*Reporter:  “What do you think of Western civilization?” Mahatma Gandhi:  “I think it would be a good idea.”

*Oscar Wilde after having a rotten cabbage thrown at him on stage:  “Thank you my friend. Every time I smell it, I shall be reminded of you.”

*Babe Ruth, after being told by a reporter that he made more money than President Hoover, “Maybe so, but I had a better year than he did.”

*Mark Twain:  “I’ve never killed a man, but I’ve read many an obituary with a great deal of satisfaction.”

*Abraham Lincoln after being called two faced:  “If I had two faces, do you think I’d be wearing this one?”

*Henry Clay:  “I would rather be right than be president.” Thomas Reed: “The gentleman need not trouble himself. He’ll never be either.”

*Member of British Parliament:  “Mr. Churchill, must you fall asleep while I’m speaking?” Winston Churchill:  “No. It’s purely voluntary.”

*Reporter:  “How many people work at the Vatican?” Pope John XXIII:  “About half.”

*Lewis Morris, after not being chosen for Poet Laureateship:  “There’s a conspiracy against me, a conspiracy of silence, but what can one do?  What should I do?” Oscar Wilde:  “Join it.”

*Mark Twain:  “It is not that I believe that there are too many idiots in this world, just that lightning isn’t distributed right.”

*Actress: “I enjoyed reading your book. Who wrote it for you?” Author Ilka Chase:  “Darling, I’m so glad you liked it. Who read it to you?”

*Senator Fritz Hollings when challenged by his Republican opponent, Henry McMastor:  “I’ll take a drug test, if you’ll take an IQ test.”

*Bessie Braddock:  “Winston, you are drunk, and what’s more you are disgustingly drunk.” Winston Churchill:  “Bessie, my dear, you are ugly, and what’s more, you are disgustingly ugly. But tomorrow I shall be sober and you will still be disgustingly ugly.”

*Opera audience member:  “What do you think of the singers’ execution?” Calvin Coolidge:  “I’m all for it.”

*Groucho Marx:  “I never forget a face, but in your case, I will make an exception.”

I think of this list as the best put-down comebacks, or things I wish I had said at the time. Unfortunately, I never think of a good comeback until the next day, when it’s way too late. So, I’m gonna print this list and take it with me, in case a need a clever person to put words in my mouth.

The Hearse and I

As all know, I am NOT mechanical. I’d like to be. Just didn’t turn out that way. So when old pickup decided to eat its battery, I had no idea what to do. Managed to get it started one more time and dropped in off at the fix-it shop, hoping for the best. Well, it’s a week and a half later, and pickup truck remains in the auto shop’s critical care unit.

Thus on foot, I had to call upon family and friends to provide transportation for me for the 10-minute ride back and forth to home. Family didn’t answer the call, but Lunch Bunch member and best bud Delanna did. She and I have shared many OMG moments. Those moments include being left at an international airport not once, not twice, but THREE times by an airline which I refuse to do business with ever again! And we both had our granddaughters in tow. Then there was the flight through a powerful lightning storm on one of that airline’s planes. I still have the marks on my hand where Delanna, who hates to fly, grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go. Perhaps she didn’t like being that much closer to heaven.

Delanna gave me a kitten years ago. I named it in her honor, and he still lives with me even though I call him Delanna’s cat. Delanna hates cats. And when she has a question about dog illnesses she calls me if no vet is immediately available. Not that I know much. Through critter and our own illnesses, we support one another. So that’s why Delanna offered me the use of her extra vehicle. It’s always nice to have one. I hesitated. Being responsible for your own vehicle is one thing. Driving someone else’s vehicle scares the daylights out of me. What if I wreck it? What if somebody comes out of nowhere and wrecks it with no assistance from me? EEK! But, under the circumstances, i.e. walking the seven miles home and back. I accepted the offer.

Now, this vehicle has a history of its own. It’s paid for, which is a good thing. But its long body style and dark navy blue color have led Lunch Bunch members and others to give it a name. We call it The Hearse. We have enjoyed a lot of jokes about The Hearse, but I didn’t at this particular time. Number 1 – The Hearse’s name seemed to predict for me a forbidding wrecked future. Number 2 – It’s always hard to drive a vehicle, even a rental, when all the controls are in opposite places from the norm in your own vehicle. That happened big time to me on one trip to The Mouse House, otherwise known as Disney World. I tried unsuccessfully over and over to put gas in a tank that was already full, but I didn’t realize it because gas gauge was the exact opposite of mine own vehicle’s. Remember, I said I am NOT mechanical.

So, when Delanna introduced me to The Hearse’s controls, I paid closed attention. The one thing The Hearse has got that I don’t have on the old pickup is that key-locking door, with sound effects. Turned out I needed them all.

Thus The Hearse and I set out upon our adventure together. But, I was halfway to Fort Smith stores, and I had coupons. Was this hobby shopper gonna turn back to go home? Absolutely not. I went shopping. Yep. Did good too. Came out with arms full of packages. Couldn’t find door-unlocking key. Had to drop all packages to initiate key search. Finally found key. Couldn’t figure out how to open The Hearse’s rear door. Called The Hearse a few names, then stuffed all packages next to me in the passenger’s seat. Ok. Off we went. Next store has a huge parking lot, and on this day, parking lot was full. I was not intimidate and I found a spot to park The Hearse. I shopped. After all, I had coupons! Exited store after dark with armload of packages. Had put key in accessible place, and was proud of myself for doing so. But I couldn’t find The Hearse. Where had I parked? Knew the parking spot was off from my usual parking area, but how hard can it be to find a hearse? It was hard in the dark. I wandered that parking lot for 10 minutes, hoping nobody was noticing that I couldn’t find my ride. Then it hit me. I had the key! And this magic key would make The Hearse sound off and flash lights. Thus I staggered around parking lot, loaded down like a donkey with goods, and squeezing that key continually, hoping The Hearse would announce itself. Didn’t realize until then that you sort of have to be within key range for the magic key to work. On my third trip around the lot, The Hearse finally spoke to me and flashed its lights, unlocking and locking its doors, over and over as I clicked that key. The only thing that could have been better was if it had been my own old pickup, who is really easy to find in a dark parking lot, but doesn’t talk or flash at all. But that truck is all mine.

Yes. I appreciate the loan of The Hearse, but I want my pickup truck back!

Confessions of a Football-Crazed Grandma

I must confess the condition I’m in, a condition that may not afflict other grandmas and great-grandmas. Or maybe I’ll be surprised. Who knows?

My confession is, I am in love with Peyton Manning. Must warn my kids to not flip out on that confession. In fact, he is a bit younger than my kids, so it’s OK my darling children. I warn my wonderful sons that I am not in love with the quarterbacks of their favorite teams – the Chicago Bears and Green Bay Packers. Yeah, those teams are kinda good, and the Packers quarterback is sort of cute too. But I’m not in love with those teams, or for that matter I’m not in love with the Denver Broncos, for whom charming Manning tosses a football. I just think Manning is exceptional, which he proved again this week by defeating the San Diego Chargers. As I watched that game, and listened to the exuberant broadcasters, it did not escape my notice that, as the voices remarked, we were watching one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time and a future NFL Hall of Fame member, the quarterback who has thrown the most touchdown passes ever!

For the uninitiated, NFL is the National Football League. It may seem odd that I, a grandma and great-grandma now, am a NFL football fanatic. I rejoice on that first Sunday every September when my favorite sport to watch returns to the TV. But I come by my NFL addition honestly. Got it straight from my Dad, then channeled through my hubby, and finally sparked by sons.

Dad was the best football instructor. We watched every Sunday. Mom didn’t stay around. Dad was the sports fan and lived by the radio when it broadcast both football and baseball games. When the NFL made it to TV, that’s where we were on any Sunday. One of my favorite childhood memories was hanging out with Dad watching football on Sunday afternoons. Dad always had a snack, usually cheese and crackers, the crumbs of which often fell to the carpet, where they stayed. That’s because Mom wasn’t around. But we lived in the country. That big old country house had mice. Those mice knew where to go for cheese and crackers on Sundays. Yep. Right at Dad’s feet. Now every member of my family is an animal lover, even Dad. So instead of jumping up and trying to dispatch those mice, Dad just kept feeding them. I watched, cause they were so cute. In fact, they almost became tame and our house pets. At one point in time, Mom got upset with the invading varmints and set out mouse traps. But, when she wasn’t around, if I heard a trap snap, I ran to liberate the trapped mouse. After all, it may have been one of Dad’s football Sunday pets. But what happened was our country home became inhabited by the strangest bunch of crippled mice ever seen. Well that trap was awful. It broke their little legs, or snapped off their little tales. And that just made Dad and I love them more, so Dad kept feeding them, while I imagined I was Disney’s Cinderella for whom those mice would make a magnificent ball gown some day. That was my favorite movie when I was small.

Nurtured by Dad, my love of football continued into marriage, where we both shared a fondness for the game. As children, especially sons, arrived, I grew even more attuned to football, a liking shared by my boys. It continues to this day, and one son texts he can’t stand Peyton Manning cause he beat his Bears, and the other son sends texts to me that his Green Bay Packers are gonna’ eat Peyton’s lunch. Oh yeah. You better watch out. That Super Bowl isn’t too far away. But hey, Peyton and the Broncos made it to the Super Bowl last year, and it was a fiasco. But things improve (Hopefully the defense!) and it may be that the Broncos are on the way again.

Funny, as I scrounged my mind to decide what to write about this week, for those few devoted readers (Thank You So Much!) I couldn’t remember anything worth telling about The Lunch Bunch, who have been pretty tame lately. Really ladies! Let’s get going! Even my critters seem to be tired out and sound asleep. I thought about those monarch butterflies whose flight paths take them right over us. That’s amazing. But I don’t know much about butterflies, even though I’d like to. Then brain kicked into gear. ‘Write about what you know,’ it told me. And today, that would be Peyton Manning and football.

Grandmas and great-grandmas unite, and yell “Go Peyton!”

Stink Adventures at Home and Elsewhere

We’ve been skunked! Eew! Both KXMX Ad Lady Delanna N. and I were skunked recently. Me, just last week. I don’t like skunks. They are sort of cute and cuddly, based on looks alone of course. They have that cute little pointy face, and that distinguishing stripe down the back. If you like kittens and puppies, like I do, you occasionally think you would like to get your hands on those babies and just pet them for a bit.

Then you remember why you don’t EVER do that. It’s that smell. That smell invaded my home one night last week. Eew! And Eew again! It was really pungent. And it wasn’t the first time. It may be that some skunk has taken up residence under my house. It’s pretty bad when you get the skunk squirt in the evening, and the next day you take the lingering stink to the office. That doesn’t endear you to co-workers.

Then that little devil did it again last week! I’m just sitting there, happily watching whatever OETA had on that evening, when that smell invaded my space. Oh good grief! And I always think I’ve got to check the premises to make sure it isn’t only that smell in my space. It might be that the odor owner has dropped in too. Well, what I am going to do if it did? I can guarantee that the only answer to that question is I’m going to turn around and run. To where I’m not sure. But I’ll be out of there.

And NO! I am not going to try to relocate that devil. Trapping or doing away with the stinker will most likely leave a forever odor I do not want to deal with. The only thing I can’t figure out is why skunk sprays under my house. There are no dogs or cats under there to challenge skunk. And it is kind of scary to wonder what is under there causing skunk to spray. I don’t even want to think about it. I just turned on the fans and hoped smell would dissipate before I left for KXMX the next morning.

Delanna’s skunk run-in was a bit more dramatic. And led to a skunk’s demise for a good reason. She related she had dropped into the office of Dr. Gary Cox, Sallisaw veterinarian, just to pick up some flea meds for her dogs. Tiffany is the doc’s vet assistant, and if you know Tiff, you know she is dedicated, super friendly, and has certain strong opinions. For instance, my house dog, Penny, the Mini-pincher, drives her crazy. Never mind that. We’re on a skunk story, which illustrates Tiffany’s dedication to her career.

Delanna related that while there, a skunk strolled up to doc’s front door, and began scratching at the glass, trying to enter. Now I can imagine Delanna’s response. It could have been screams heard round the world. But Tiffany took over. She decided, correctly, that the skunk was rabid, and called for help. At about the same time a couple drove up to collect their pet. As they began to get out of their vehicle, Tiffany, according to Delanna, started frantically waving for them to stay in their vehicle because that skunk was claiming the parking lot as its own.

Delanna said, “Tiffany had already locked the door, so she couldn’t open it to tell them to stay in their car. She kept yelling and waving, until they finally got the message. They got back in their car.

“Then,” Delanna continued, “we saw the skunk leaving.”

Delanna gave Tiffany her highest honor. She laughed. “I couldn’t believe it,” Delanna said. “Tiffany went out and followed that skunk! She followed it down the highway! And when the animal control officer arrived, she was out there on the highway waving at him to show him where the skunk was.”

Officer dispatched skunk, Delanna related, and all was well with no harm done to anyone or any pets. And Delanna was determined that Tiffany should get her just rewards. Thank you Tiffany! And I’m sorry Penny drives you crazy.

Hmmm. Delanna’s skunk adventure makes me wonder about my resident skunk. Well, it hasn’t tried, to the best of my knowledge, to get in the house yet. I’d like to think that perhaps its only concern is keeping my home’s crawl space as its own. Maybe it was spraying stink at something else trying to move in. Like that snake we killed last summer. So for now, skunk has a winter residence, and I sincerely hope skunks hibernate. A stink-free winter would be great, music to my ears and roses to my nose.

Nobody Told Me That Gardening Is a Dirty Job

I ate my tomato. Yep. After two years and 12 tomato plants, I finally got to eat my one and only tomato.

Never mind that I didn’t plant that plant. Darling Daughter did. But it was my plant and my dirt. So technically it was mine.

Some may wonder why this self-proclaimed Indiana farm girl has trouble growing vegetables. I was the horse and cow farm girl. Dad was the gardener. He grew a great garden every year. But he couldn’t milk a cow. I can.

Apparently his green-thumb gene jumped my generation and went straight to Darling Daughter’s. She can grow anything. It’s disgusting to we black-thumb people. And my experience with the tomatoes has pretty much convinced me that I should work on other garden veggies. So this fall I popped some lettuce seeds in a big garden container. Oops. Now I’ve got lettuce everywhere. This stuff grows like weeds. It won’t be long before I’ll have to eat lettuce, lots of lettuce. But that’s why I planted it. I had a sudden craving for Mom’s old-fashioned wilted-lettuce salad. Why, I don’t know. Perhaps my stomach wants to wander back to my childhood years when all had I had to do was milk the cow and gather the eggs.

Why the need to garden has cornered me in my older years, I do not know. To tell the truth, being semi-retired is kind of boring. And I’ve been told that if a person doesn't take on new challenges in later life, brain degeneration is sure to follow. So I've taken on several new challenges, which keep me busy buying things. Everyone knows my number one hobby is SHOPPING! I love to shop. I love to get deals. And I never pay full price for anything. In gardening, I filled up my pickup truck with plants when they went on sale for a buck each. Some of those plants still have to be planted. I really got to get on that.

But it was such an unpleasant surprise that, as a gardener, I have to dig in the dirt. With a shovel. And I have to put my hands in the dirt. And they get dirty. I got dirt ground under my fingernails so deep I may have to resort to bleach manicures. I have to get down on my knees and rear end to get to all those plants. And let me tell you, at my age, after sitting in the flower bed for an hour, digging, pulling weeds, mulching, etc., it is not easy to get up! I just hope no neighbors or passers-by are watching as I attempt to get off my derriere. That’s why I look around for possible peekers at my predicament before my struggle to rise. I usually make it with no watchers running in to ask if I need assistance. I may be getting on in years, but I do not have a need for a Boy Scout at every corner to escort me across whatever street, or challenge, I may be attempting to cross. I did notice it is easier to garden on your knees, but only if your knees work. Mine seem to have forgotten how to bend, without pain, climb stairs, or work at all. So it’s bottoms down for me in the flower garden.

Speaking of flower gardens, I may not be growing veggies, but I am patting myself on the back for my flower garden. That little plot is amazing! Did I do that?!? Wow! Ok, I’ll give the flower nursery the kudos for great, and apparently hardy, plants. I give them applause because I haven’t killed those plants yet. They are growing so well, I went out and shopped around for more. I did mention shopping, didn’t I? Shopping on the Internet is so much fun. Oops. I need to quit buying plants. As I write this I get another email message. My fifth order for flower bulbs is on its way. Better get busy! So far I have purchased 223 flower bulbs for various flowers, from anemones to zephyr lilies, whatever those are. It just occurred to me, that’s 223 more holes I have to dig, a lot, in the dirty dirt. Good grief. Get me away from the buy-by-internet sites. Now I really have to go outside and play in the dirt. Dad would be proud.

No Mechanical Minds Here

My children are all mechanically minded. Son can fix anything, literally. Darling Daughter can too, but she might take a different route than Mechanically-minded Son. Don’t know how they got that way. Must have been their dad, cause it sure didn’t come from me, or even from my Mom and Dad.

I am not mechanically minded. My latest inabilities are related to TV reception. Being a rural resident for most of life, I am used to wrangling with TV reception and its idiosyncrasies. And, I was raised when TV channels were free, if you could get the TV aerial aligned just right. Consequently I refuse to pay cable companies for TV reception. Not that any of them venture into rural areas anyway. That leaves me with TV by satellite. Nope. Not going to do it. TV should be free. Those commercials are for bathroom and snack breaks. And those political commercials (Anyone as tired of them as me?) are good times to surf the stations and find out what else is on.

So, if we are to watch TV at my house, an aerial of some sort is required. We had one on the outside once upon a time. But a huge lightning strike took that out of commission. Even then, when trying to tune in a station, one of us had to go outside and twist the pole around while another sat inside yelling instructions on how much to turn it. After lightning strike, I was not in the mood to hoist another TV aerial on pole into the air.

So I went the rabbit-ears method. Now everyone knows that rabbit ears are not the best method to tune into your favorite TV show. Nevertheless, I persisted. And, usually, I can tune into all the free TV stations. But (there’s always a but), it’s amazing what outside forces can ruin your TV reception, especially at my house. First, of course, as is true of any reception, there’s the weather. Lots of rain and low clouds actually help stations arrive better. Storms on the sun, forget it. There will be no TV while storms swirl on the sun. Windy? Wind blows my favorite Oklahoma PBS stations right out of the living room. Loud vehicle passing by on my country road? TV goes into “scrambled” reception until loud vehicle is totally out of range. And, believe it or not, my little Penny, my house dog, took to scratching her fleas right in front of the TV last night, and I swear, it messed up my reception. I had to bathe Penny.

I don’t care if good TV reception is mechanical or not, I decided. I want great TV reception. And that requires rabbit-ears manipulation. And sometimes I think I might be better off with a real rabbit! If good reception is to be realized with rabbit ears, one must be prepared to be strong and athletic. It sometimes also requires numerous body poses. In the past year I have had to hang my rabbit ears from the ceiling, on top a bookcase set in the middle of the living room, on top the lamp next to the TV. Also have to hold rabbit ears in numerous configurations to seek out one TV station from another. That’s when I begin to look like the Statue of Liberty, only I’m holding rabbit ears up in the air. My monument inscription would be different from Ms. Liberty’s. It would read, “Give me your tired, your poor, your best TV reception.”

But for the past two weeks, my TV reception has required another novel positioning of the rabbit ears, which frightens me. It frightens me because I am working on my fourth pair of rabbit ears this year. When rabbit ears have to be placed in crazy places, they sometimes fall down and break. But I’m working with a brand new pair now, so I expect great things. I did not think I would have to hang my rabbit ears upside down. Yes. I said upside down. Don’t know what is going on in the atmosphere, or with Penny’s fleas, but the only way I’m getting good reception is if the rabbit ears are hanging, upside down, off that book case in the middle of the room. How in the world can those two slender pieces of metal grab signals out of the air and direct them to my TV while upside down? Oh, who cares. It works. And I don’t have to pay cable or satellite companies big bucks for TV. Well, I guess I should count the cost of rabbit ears. But I’m not complaining. Just explaining. I love my rabbit ears.

Cobwebs in My Hair, Not My Brain

Thank you to all of you who sent me Happy Birthday greetings. It is so nice to be remembered by all of you. Of course for the last 10 years, or more, I’ve tried to convince my family and friends to stop remembering I was having another birthday.  Nobody listened. Told Darling Daughter not to put candles on the cake. There would be so many we might catch the house on fire. It’s downright embarrassing to be the center of so much attention. I even talked the waitress at a restaurant where I was being treated for my birthday that I would crawl under the table if all those waiters and waitresses came over to sing Happy Birthday to me. And no. I do not turn birthday meals.

I try not to remember my birthday. And I’ve sort of succeeded. But remembering anything gets a bit harder as we get older. As I sit on the couch, watching TV and writing this, a car commercial comes on. Strange. That commercial took me right back to my teenage years, a long, long time ago, in a galaxy (Oops) state, far, far away. That’s when, as I remember, one of the great and most-anticipated events of the fall was the unveiling of the products of the big three – Chevrolet, Ford, and I forget who else. Those car models, introduced usually in September or October, were the discussion of many, especially we teens, the next day. And shouting matches sometimes broke out between the Chevy lovers versus the Ford lovers. Now there are so many different car companies, I couldn’t tell which car belongs to which company. And the new models aren’t kept under wraps until a much-ballyhooed reveal. New models, now days, seem to be introduced all year long. If I could go back in time, I would snatch up one of those 1950s models, cause they are worth a fortune now.

My generation was obsessed with those cars, our favorite movie stars, and rock and roll, which we invented. Rock and roll always takes me back to Elvis Presley, who is still a much-loved star to many. But I didn’t care for Elvis, strangely. I did own a 45 version of “You Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog.” For those in the not-know, a 45 is a vinyl record with a big hole in the middle. What was really odd was that my Mom, my gospel-singing and piano-playing Mom, loved Elvis the Pelvis. Now that was embarrassing. My singer of choice was Bobby Darin. At one point in time, I could sing all the lyrics to “Splish Splash,” “Mack the Knife,” “Dream Lover,” and my all-time favorite, “Beyond the Sea.” But Elvis and Bobby both died too soon. Then, The Beatles bandwagon came along, and I hoped right on.

All my teen crushes seemed to have died too soon. My own movie man to swoon over was James Dean, who was from the same state as I – Indiana. His was the only movie star photo ever hung up on my bedroom wall, right next to the mirror. And I would gaze at that photo every morning, totally enamored, as I prepared for school. But we lost Mr. Dean in 1955 in a car crash. I was saddened beyond sad, but stuck with him, as he was my  ”Dream Lover.” To this day, when Oklahoma’s great public television system, OETA, plays one of Dean’s movies such as “Giant” in which he plays a great villain, or “East of Eden,” or “Rebel Without a Cause,” (in which he is described as the icon of teenage disillusionment) I watch every minute.

Those teenage memories are so easy to recall because, perhaps, they were branded into our brains during the too-hot transition from childhood to adulthood, or not. One day this week I reached up to pay my unruly hair back into place. My hand came back sticky. Huh? Sticky? A few more investigative pats revealed I had a glob of cobwebs in my hair. How did I get that in my hair, I wondered. Am I growing so old I now have web-weaving spiders on top? Well, it is fall, when the industrious spiders are weaving webs everywhere. I must have walked through an airborne web I didn’t detect beforehand. But, it makes me feel really old when I literally find cobwebs in my hair. I can only be thankful that those cobwebs are not in my brain.

Crazy Critters Cause Consternation

My critters, and others, continue to bemuse me. I say others because I don’t claim ownership of the wild ones who live in my tame ten acres. And, oh joy, I get to add another bird to my bird-watchers list. For those who don’t know, those of us who retire or semi-retire, take up new hobbies. Or, you might say, I have begun to collect hobbies as a hobby. And bird-watching was one of the first. I even bought binoculars, cheap binoculars, because I wasn’t sure how long this hobby would last before I moved on to a new hobby, and a bird-watchers ID manual. Well, bird-watching is hanging in there pretty good. I reasoned that the birds I get to watch are so much like people I know, I could name them. My new bird, spied right on top of Wild Horse Mountain, is the effervescent road runner. And this one was like those seen in the cartoon. They are phrenic, crazy, and this spied road runner lived up to road-runner reputations. It spied me, when I spied it, and ran in circles as though trying to lure me in, into what, I don’t know. Maybe a good chase. I just slammed on the brakes and watched it, laughing all the way. Have a good day bird.

Speaking of birds, does anyone know anything about that big white goose that was waddling around my yard recently? He or she or it was in need of a good bath. Perhaps goose was out all night on a wild goose hunt. But the mystery remains. Where did it come from?

And then there’s my house cat Holly. Good grief this cat is weird. In the past week Holly has begun switching her tail like a mad bucking bronc. Well, I confess. She may be mad at me. That’s because of her latest flea pill. I don’t like flea pills. When you gotta stick a pill down a cat’s throat, the chances are pill pusher is going to bleed a lot more than pill patient. Yes, I bleed every time. But I got that pill down Holly’s throat the last time with little effort, or blood. But then strange things began to happen. Holly went ballistic. It looked like her tail was her motion crank, like that on a wind-up toy. And when it had wound sufficiently, Holly took off like that proverbial bat out of somewhere down below. She raced around the living room. She ran up every chair in the living room. She would pause, then take off again. Round, and round, and round she went. I wondered if she’d been watching road runner cartoons. She raced along the back of the couch. She jumped from couch to love seat. She ran up the lamp, and just launched herself into midair. Don’t worry. She did land on her four feet. Needless to say, I was a bit concerned. But all I could do was watch. I wasn’t gonna grab that crazy cat. Had I poisoned her? I got the flea pill box out of the garbage. And read the fine print. In little, tiny, teeny letters, pill box informed me that pill might cause your cat to itch uncontrollably for a few minutes. Itch? Uncontrollably? For how long? Holly’s uncontrollable itch continued for the entire afternoon. Note to self:  Never buy that flea pill again!

Ah, but Holly got her revenge. Just this past week, she took up a new hobby of her own. I don’t know how she would describe it, since I don’t speak cat. I call it Holly’s revenge ambush. And I never see it coming. For instance, she may be strolling across the living room nonchalantly, or sniffing out a corner for some odor undetected by me, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, she decides to attack me where I am sitting on the couch, at a dead run. Uh, it’s rather startling. Like, here comes this black and white cat, at supersonic speed, who then launches herself into the air from six feet away, all four legs extended outward and looking somewhat like a flying squirrel, apparently with the goal of landing in my lap. Then my survival instincts take over, causing me to instinctively raise arms and hands to ward off flying Holly. That usually disrupts her flight, but doesn’t do me a bit of good. Consequently I have scratches on my leg, where I deflected her and she tried to grab onto my calf like a tree trunk. And I have scratches on the back of my hands when I did not deflect Holly but she had to grab hold of something, that being my outstretched hands. I bled a lot that time. But there is a solution to this new and unwanted behavior, come upon accidently. When Holly does her crazy flying cat routine at me, I scream. Loudly. It’s sort of a primal thing, like I was being attacked by a hungry lion. I didn’t do it purposefully. It just happened. It turns out that primal scream scares the lion right out of Holly. When scream is heard, Holly turns and runs the other way. And I can relax. At last, I think I’ve learned at least one word in cat language.

Good Grief! or What Life Teaches Us

Good grief. When life goes south, does it have to do it all at once? So it was with my life last week. That’s when a water pipe blew up and an old tree fell down. It’s a wonder I didn’t do the same. Went to bed Wednesday night, happy with life, suspecting nothing but a soaking rain, cooler temperatures and a good night’s sleep. When I woke up in the morning I found two new life adventures. Well, not really new. My house is an old house, and it, like many of its age, has plumbing problems. As I prepared for the day in the bathroom I heard that telltale splish-splash from down under. Oops. Another water pipe gone bad. There are several things you need in this world. I figure rural residents need to count among their friends three of the good guys. That’s a good mechanic, a good veterinarian, and a good plumber. I called my plumber. They know me well. All I have to do is say, “This is Sally,” and they instantly figure out where I live and what they will have to be doing. They really are good guys. I’ve got them on my cell phone’s speed dial list. But it was still a bit early. I don’t call and I don’t want to receive calls before 8 a.m. So I made the coffee and stared out the window, counting down the minutes till I could push the speed dial button.

Uh, wait a minute. What is that outside my window? That wasn’t there before. What!?! It was a big limb. I scrambled outside. Good grief times two! A whole dang tree was laying there, just outside my window. I said out loud, “Are you kidding me?” Must have thought I should quiz Mother Nature about this new development. I got no answer of course. But yep. Whole tree. Right outside my window. I told friends that it must have been by the Grace of God that tree did not land on my roof. And it’s not a little tree. It’s a big tree. How did this happen, I wondered. Was it that soaking rain had loosened its roots? Did a gust of wind topple my tree? Why hadn’t I heard it fall? Good grief. What was I gonna do now. There’s a chain saw somewhere in my storage shed. Got it after one of our ice storms. But I’d never used it. In fact, the last time Son tried to turn it on, or pull its rope, or whatever you do to start a chain saw, it wouldn’t start. He advised me to take it to the hardware store where a new spark plug could be installed. OK. But what do I do after that. I am not a seasoned, experienced chain saw user. And Son’s a long way off in another state. Later that day I showed Darling Daughter the downed tree. She might have said something more than “Good grief.”

At my age, I have finally realized that it does no good to worry and fret. First things first, and that was to stop that leak under my house. Yes, those wonderful plumbers were right there when called, and took control of the broken pipe, successfully stopping the under-house flood. And I decided that dang tree was just gonna have to lay there until I figured out what to do about it, and that might take a while because I have no tree surgeons on my speed dial list. I may have to change that.

But the funny thing was that (or perhaps as another one of life’s lessons) as I complained to Darling Daughter and Granddaughter, they had stories to tell too. Daughter’s pickup has refused to start, three times in a row now, no matter what her fabulous mechanic can do. The Granddaughter told her tale. She related, “All summer the driver’s side window (in her old but faithful vehicle) will not go down. Not even on the hottest day. Then today when it’s cooler, it went down all by itself. And now it wants to stay down. It won’t go back up. But that’s OK.  At least we can go through the drive-through windows now.”

I like that attitude. We will make the best of this, one way or the other. I’m gonna get a saw, and maybe a refurbished chain saw, and a big bag of marshmallows, and we are gonna cut that tree up and burn it. Darling Daughter said she would help. Relieved by my family’s support and optimism, I went to bed Thursday night happy and ready for a sound slumber. Just as I lay down I heard the boom, and felt the bed shake. Good grief times three. Now what? Then I thought phooey. Whatever it is, it will more than likely still be there in the morning. Then I lay back down and went to sleep. You are never too old to learn another life lesson.

Retirement Means There Is So Much to Do

Semi-retirement has many pitfalls. You never know what is going to pop up next. All kinds of things are popping up or into my mind. I don’t understand that. It’s almost like I’m collecting hobbies. First I decided to make my own jewelry. Now I have a whole jewelry store. Then I decided I MUST crochet, mainly because all my grandkids decided to have kids of their own. I’ve got one whole living room chair full of crochet projects in progress. Hey, I did finish one baby blanket. The rest are still in the works. Then I decided to fix up the back porch for entertaining. There for a couple months all I did was buy outdoor furniture, on sale of course. Never pay full price. And the back porch does look pretty cool. That’s where I also took up my next hobby, bird watching. And then there’s my newest nemesis – the garden.  The gardening obsession, oops, I mean hobby, came out of nowhere. In the past I’ve tried a few planting projects. Two pecan trees died. The rose bush Son bought for Mother’s Day, and which he planted himself just in case, died under my watch. And then there’s the peach tree which keeps on blooming, but has not yet produced one eatable peach! What was I thinking?!? I tried that upside down tomato bag, but my one tomato came out of the bag, took a right turn, and tried to grow up toward the sun. Isn’t that what they are supposed to do? Never got one tomato out of that bag.

Just this summer I decided I must have a garden, and I will concoct a garden to be fun for the arriving great-grandkids. Uh-huh. You know, Mom and Dad had huge gardens, most of which I never set foot in. They were green-thumbers deluxe. They could grow anything. Not me. Did not get any of that green-thumbness in my genes. Nevertheless, I’m gonna do this. So, I picked a spot, and announced to Darling Daughter I was gonna grow a garden. Darling Daughter got the green-thumb gene. So she just raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “Uh-huh.” Not to be dissuaded, I dug a hole around a post in the backyard, and dropped in some marigolds. I know from experience that marigolds are hard to kill. That teeny little flowerbed turned out just fine. ‘Hey,’ I thought. ‘This is fun. I’m gonna keep going.’

So I moved on to a bigger project, a much bigger project. It’s about 50 by 10 feet. And I descended upon the flower and vegetable nurseries, both in the real world and on the Internet. My goodness, there is so much on the Internet. There’s Homes and Gardens and there’s all those shop-by-internet nurseries and there’s so much information I was overwhelmed. I am also obsessed. And sometimes, it ALL GOES ON SALE. Do I ever pass up a sale? Nope. At one such in-this-world sale I bought a whole pickup truck full of flowers. Then thought I better count all those plants. Uh, try over 100. I still don’t have them all in the ground, but I’m working on it. According to the experts, I must now “amend” the soil in my selected garden spot. But I ran out of dirt. I had to go buy dirt. It’s a good thing dirt is cheap, and sometimes on sale. I need a lot of dirt for the 50 by 10 foot flower bed. Two hundred pounds of dirt later, it finally dawned on me that a good garden needs lots and lots of dirt. And you know, this gardening thing is turning out pretty good. I’ve only killed a couple plants. Nobody told me I had to water those plants daily during Oklahoma’s hot summers. On the other hand, I only killed six mum plants. Did I know they don’t like that much water? No! I drowned by fall mums. Oh well, maybe some will go on sale soon.

Then there’s the tomatoes. I wanted yellow tomatoes. I just wanted one, but it turned out all the local plant sellers only sold tomatoes in six packs. OK. Got it. Now I have tall tomato plants tied to every one of my back porch roof posts. But, do I have any tomatoes. Uh, no. Tomato plants are growing so sky high it now looks like a jungle on my back porch. But there are no tomatoes. One day I sat and studied those plants, and I noticed something. There were no bees pollinating the tomato flowers. Oh. I guess that is important. When I mentioned same to Darling Daughter and Son, they said the lack of bees was impacting other gardens. Then Darling Daughter mentioned bee keeping, like it might be something I could take on as a hobby. Ha, ha, ha. That was me laughing out loud. So, for three years I have tried planting tomatoes. At least 14 tomato plants have been planted in various situations, some upside down, in my yard. And there are no tomatoes. But wait! What is that hanging off the one tomato plant that was planted by Darling Daughter? Oh my! I have a tomato. That makes the score three years, 14 tomato plants, and one tomato. Success at last.

On the Labor Day holiday I asked myself what I would rather do. Should I do what must be done, like cleaning house, laundry, dishes, etc., and should I do what I wanted to do. . .work in my tiny garden. Yep. I worked in my tiny garden, and loved every minute of it. Some of those plants are still alive, and I am happy and successful in my semi-retirement.

Birding is for the Soaps

Darling Daughter and I decided a long time ago that we should have been wildlife biologists. Watching wildlife of all sorts in their daily travails is better than soap opera TV. We decided that last spring when, while taking a sit-down break from the spring yard cleaning, we noticed some birds circle overhead. And they weren’t just circling, they were flying like they were in an airborne NASCAR race. “What are they doing,” we wondered. A few minutes of observation answered the question. The two subjects were woodpeckers. One was a girl. One was a boy. It was spring. But apparently, he had something on his mind that she did not favor. After a half hour of wheeling around my little oak tree patch, the two, who were not necessarily love birds, flew off to the woods. We could only hope he went to buy a diamond ring, but I couldn’t figure out how a woodpecker could get down on one knee to propose. I don’t think birds have knees, do they?

Birds have become a new hobby for the semi-retired me. I love sitting out on the back porch watching their soap opera antics in the early morning or on a just-before-sunset evening. Trying to figure out what bird is what, and what they think they are doing, is a fascinating hobby. Although I must report I had to tell two wood thrushes (I think that’s what they were) to “Get a room!” Those two made soap operas look tame.

The next bird to show up was, according to my bird book, a tufted titmouse. How this pretty little thing got such a strange name is a mystery. The tiny tufted titmouse is a joy to watch, especially since this family was nesting in my backyard shed. Mom and dad, I presume, were constantly in and out, feeding a rather large family. And they came to the bird feeder quite often, after eyeing me to determine if I was a threat. Must have been a bunch of babies in the shed. But they are gone now. Babies must have grown up and flown the nest.

Don’t have to be in the back yard to watch the bird soaps. Across from the office in Sallisaw is a large tree. This tree provided homes for two families – mockingbirds and scissor-tailed flycatchers, our state’s main bird. But dad mockingbird and dad flycatcher did not get along. It was a constant squabble that made soap operas boring. The dads occasionally went at each other feet first with tiny talons extended as though they were going to fight to the death. It was amazing. They never once hurt each other. Food, of course, was at the center of the bird squabble. The fly catcher lives up to its name. It perches on the overhead power and phone lines, searching for insects, and, when a flying insect is spotted, flycatcher takes to the air, and can hover (wow) while snapping up the tiny morsel. But mockingbird wanted some of the action, and the two birds often sat side by side, up in the air on those lines, both seeking the same lunch, and eyeing each other with chests puffed up. But a mockingbird hunts differently from the flycatcher. He waited till the insect landed and went after dinner like a bulldozer. Dinner in hand, or mouth I should say, mockingbird would fly back to that neighborhood high rise, the tree across the street, to feed the family.

Back in my own backyard, the crow family has already been reported on. I’ve fed them ever since I saw them, so now they like to visit where I’ve thrown the leftovers out. My crows can out do the flycatcher when it comes to cats. Guess I’ll start calling them the cat-catchers because they have run ever neighborhood cat out of the neighborhood. But just last week one perched in a backyard tree out of my sight. He didn’t know I was there, but I could hear every call he made. And oh my, can crows talk. On and on and on he went, telling some sort of rumor story to his fellow crows. I wish I could understand what it was all about. I finally had to go peek around the corner of the house to make sure it was a crow I was listening to. Yep, but as soon as he saw me he was gone. Hey! I’m the lady with the food! I wish I knew what the story was. I like to think it was like that old telephone game, when the rumor is repeated so often, the first story is nothing like the end story. On the other hand, I bet that crow got the whole story right.

And then there was the attack of the hummingbird. Being tiny does not mean a lack of heroism. This tiny guy got upset with me one day, maybe because I hadn’t filled the feeders, and flew right down in my face and told me what he thought of the empty cupboard nose to nose. I confess. That hummingbird ran me out of my own backyard. But, the hummingbird feeders have been full ever since. And just last week, that hummingbird and (would you believe) a butterfly had a confrontation in my tiny flower garden. Hummer won of course, and won flower-nectar sipping rights. After one of our wind storms this summer, I found a tiny hummingbird nest on the ground under a tree. I hope the family had already left, and none were injured in the storm. I’m keeping that nest. It is a treasure, just like all those birding observations made on a summer day in the back yard.

'That Dang Chicken'

Everybody who visits here more than likely knows that Delanna N., a founding member of The Lunch Bunch, can’t cook. I mean really can’t cook. It’s bad. She called me up one day to find out how to turn her stove on. To be honest, and I always am, sort of, I told her I didn’t know how to turn her stove on over the phone. I’m pretty sure she figured it out. Or not.

Recently, Delanna has decided she will learn how to cook. But she’s not using her stove. She decided to go the Crock Pot way. All you gotta’ do with a Crock Pot is plug it in, throw supper’s ingredients in, and turn one dial to either high or low. That’s all. That’s the way mine works anyway. And Delanna went whole hog with her newest hobby. She doesn’t have just one Crock Pot, she told me one day. She has THREE! THREE Crock Pots! Who needs THREE Crock Pots? Delanna does it turns out. ‘Could that possibly be because she hasn’t yet figured out how to turn the stove on?’ I wondered. But everyone was happy for Delanna. She is finally learning how to cook. And to prove it, she got more than one, possibly more than two, new Crock Pot recipe books for Christmas, including the one from me.

And we had good news. Over the past few months Delanna, through her new Crock Pot knowledge, has finally joined the I-Can-Cook conversations all women and some guys have eventually. Yes Delanna. We know that all you have to do is stick all that stuff in the Crock Pot in the morning, set the dial on low, and supper is ready when you get home. However, I’m a scaredy cat. I do not use my Crock Pot unless I’m home. This may be due to past experiences on my part. I do not claim to be one whit better than Delanna in the kitchen. I confess. I’ve set my kitchen on fire more than once. And hubby and mom-in-law joined in and both set my kitchen on fire once each. I forgave them. I’m still ahead. And still not leaving my Crock Pot all alone on its own. Nope, I Crock Pot only when I can be there on weekends.

Delanna learned that lesson last week. She related, “I put in the rice. I put in the soup. I put in the chicken breasts. And when I got home and opened the front door, I wondered where all that smoke was coming from. I found out all that was left in the Crock Pot was the chicken, and you could bounce those breasts off the floor like basketballs!” I cautiously inquired (didn’t want to interrupt Delanna’s new-found cooking skills), “You did put it on low, right?” “YES!” I was firmly told. “I swear! The chicken bounces!”

O.K. Now I’m not telling on Delanna. I would never have brought up her unfortunate episode with her Crock Pot if she had not announced herself on Facebook for all the world to see. Good Grief woman. She also announced how both her grandmothers are GREAT cooks, but that cooking gene was not passed on to her. She and granddaughter Bailey, she reported, went out to eat to that night, and several nights since I believe. But she did get many comments on Facebook. Friends were concerned. “Oh My!” said one. Another asked, “U need help?” One was conciliatory, “See, it happens to the best of us.” (Hum, same problem perhaps?) Others offered advice. “Looks like a Sonic night,” or a pizza night, or a Mexican night. That’s the advice Delanna took. She also got many hearty laughs by likes on Facebook, including mine. Don’t take this as an indictment of Delanna’s cooking. Yes, it can happen to any one of us. All I have to do is remember that pink pie I made (was supposed to be strawberry chiffon) that would have matched Delanna’s bouncing chicken breasts bounce for bounce. And still my friends in The Lunch Bunch did their best to get it down their gullets, until I finally told them to “Never mind,” and the whole thing went in the trash. And Delanna’s Lunch Bunch friends have promised her a night out of the kitchen while we cook in our Crock Pots. One is making barbecue and I’m taking on peach cobbler. We’ll report on those choices later. Until then, take a look below at Delanna’s chicken breasts, on which she reports, “When bad things happen to good chicken! No fail recipe. Easy as pie. Ha! That DANG chicken!”