Once Upon a Time Back in the Dark Ages

Remember when you were a kid and went trick or treating? I most definitely do. It wasn't anything like it is now. Halloween seems to have become a holiday just as much for adults now as for kids. Maybe it's all us kids that grew up and didn't want to give up the candy and the goodies - like our waistlines need them now, right?

My mother would never have even considered going to a store and buying a costume. We had to come up with our own ideas made from whatever we happened to have around the house. We would spend days contemplating what we were going to be and days putting it together. The afternoon of Halloween was always celebrated in school with a costume party where we could show off our handywork and then vote on the best costume. You did those kinds of things when you attended a two-room school. Things were different back then. You didn't have to be afraid of hurting someone's feelings because they didn't win the costume contest. It was just friendly competition and good sportsmanship.

Then there were halloween treats made by somebody's mother that we all feasted on with lots of talk of planning our "route" for the night. Had to get a good start on our sugar high, you know. We went home to an early supper and would never have thought of going out trick or treating before dark. After all, that was the fun of it, and you could do those kinds of things back then in a small town without the fear of getting kidnapped or getting a razorblade in your apple. Did we not have as many nut cases back then or did we just not hear about them?

We would meet up with our costumed buddies and hit every house in town along with the businesses and more than likely wouldn't get home until 10 o'clock. It just took that long what with having to stop on the street corners and compare candy bags with other groups of trick or treaters. After all, you had to share the news of what you got from which house and what was the best.

Below is a picture of Ole when he was a kid, along with his sister on the right. I don't know who the little gal is in the middle.



Then we grew up and didn't want to give up the fun of halloween. We didn't go trick or treating anymore, but still attended costume parties. The last one we went to was a year ago down at the Local Watering Hole. Ole and I dressed up as Hagar the Horrible and his wife Lena. Quite appropriate for us ScandiHOOvians, I thought. The costumes were still homemade out of stuff I had laying around the house, other than the helmets, of course. Ole's helmet is quite authentic. He made it out of hammered copper and it has REAL cow horns on it. (He wears it to all the Vikings football games and usually gets on the jumbotron. He's going again this weekend, so watch for him if you watch the game.) His sword was a wooden one and his shield was an old hubcap. I thought we looked pretty authentic - just like the funny papers (snicker).

Now, halloween in Iceland got to be quite unique. The Icelandic folks didn't celebrate the night of ghosts and goblins - just the Americans. The Icelandics are very superstitious people and believe in trolls, nasty ones. After driving on their roads at night you could certainly understand where their imaginations could go wild.

The entire island is made up of volcanic rock and most of the roads are just bladed through the lava fields - sample below. Can you imagine winding your way through the lava fields on a dark night seeing all the shadows that your headlights create and not imagine some nasty troll jumping out in front of you? And that's without any aquavit under your belt (snicker).

The picture below is of the Three Trolls of Vik, just off the southern coast of Iceland.

This one looks like he could be from the Lord of the Rings.

So what will you be doing tonight? Handing out candy to the cute little gremlins that come to your door? Because we haven't had any Trick or Treaters since Lovely Daughter was a little girl, we'll have to find something else to do. There's a big costume party at the Local Watering Hole, but we're not going there. I have found my life to be so much more peaceful since I avoid being around Dick & Jane and Ted & Alice. No more gossip mongering, no more snide, hurtful remarks, no more attitude.

Oh yes, for those of you who know Jane from my past writing, Jane has decided to run for an open position on city council. The city fathers are in an uproar because they don't want her on the council. After election day I'll tell you all about it. Then Jane will find out just how many friends she has (which is a big fat goose egg!)

Happy Halloween!!

Love, Lena

Ole's Cousin Helga

Ole's Cousin Helga came to visit over the weekend all decked out in her Halloween costume. She got into a bit too much of Ole's chokecherry juice, and we were quite concerned about her when she left. She had a hard time walking, let alone trying to operate any other mode of transportation. But against our better judgment and due to her insistance, we let her go on her own with the idea that we would call her in about a half hour, more than plenty of time for her to arrive safely at home.

We let the half hour pass and then Ole dialed her number - no answer. We waited five more minutes and tried again - still no answer. After trying several more times and not getting an answer we went to bed, thinking that if she managed to get a DUI, we would be getting a call to come bail her out. Helga can be quite a rounder at times, you know. You should see her when she gets into the aquavit!

Well, anyway, the next morning as Ole was walking out to get the mail and the paper, who should he spy at the end of the drive way lodged in the telephone pole, but Helga!!

She must have gotten a bit on the wild side when she was trying to do her aerobatic flying so she ended up upsidedown.

Helga has been around our house for many years - long before you started seeing this type of thing available for purchase in the stores. She was totally a creation of one of Ole's brain farts one day before Halloween many years ago, and unfortunately she's starting to show her age. She's in need of a lot of plastic surgery (new mask), although her designer clothing is still in reasonable shape. We decided after we got her hung up this year that we really should have had a pair of red and white striped bloomers for her, but that will come next year.

Normally Helga gets hung on the pole about the first of October, but we were a little late this year. Ole also had to perform a couple of surgeries on her to repair some portions that had come apart. Folks who have driven by and noticed that Helga wasn't in her usual place have all asked what happened to her this year - so we KNOW they're paying attention.

Now as far as Ole's chokecherry juice is concerned - I'm not going to tell you what that is - I'll leave that to your imagination. It started out as sugar beet wine - but that's a story for another day.

Lena

Smokey the Crow

Oh, the conveniences that we take for granted in our lifetime. Electricity for instance. This past weekend we had a severe wind storm with what were supposed to be snow FLURRIES. Well, let me tell you that at times there were white out conditions and you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Trees were blown over onto electrical wires and folks were without electricity for hours at a time. Fortunately, Ole has the foresight to be well prepared for living in a rural area in this part of the Upper Midwest. It was getting mighty cold here with temperatures below freezing and a strong wind blowing. Without electricity in your house, it gets pretty miserable.

The first thing you think of is, of course, no lights. But don’t forget – without electricity to run the pump in your well you have no water let alone HOT water, no heat, no TV or even radio unless you have a battery operated one. We happen to have an electric kitchen stove so I couldn’t even cook let alone run the microwave. But good old Ole is prepared with two big generators that he can hook up – big enough to run EVERYTHING!!

Now when I was a kid and we were living the life of the gypsies and moving from camp to camp, there was no electricity in these pastures that we camped in. The construction company did furnish a large generator that ran throughout the evening hours so you could have lights in your house after dark. But you better be in bed by midnight unless you wanted to sit in the dark. We had long, long extension cords that would run from our trailers to this big generator. If someone wanted to play a mean trick on you, they’d go unplug your cord from the generator and then you’d have to stumble around in the dark and try to plug it back in as there were no yard lights outside so you could see where you were going.

Big Brother had a pet crow one summer when we were “camping out.” We had been in one location where there were some large trees, one of which had a crow’s nest in it. For some reason, I don’t remember what it was, the mother crow had died and fallen out of the nest, leaving four baby crows hanging over the edges with their mouths gaping, crying for food. My brother and some of his buddies shinnied up the tree, took the crows out of the nest and each took one home. These crows were so small they didn’t even have feathers on yet – just bare skin. I remember them being extremely ugly. Well, Big Brother is a very determined person and was going to do everything possible to keep this baby crow alive. We had a dog at that time who ate canned dog food, so some of his dog food was confiscated to feed the baby crow, along with a variety of bugs, beetles and worms that Big Brother would go scrounging for during the day. And of course the crow, being so small, was hungry ALL the time, so Big Brother would be up several times during the night to feed this poor, squawking thing. Of the four crows that were taken from the nest, Big Brother’s was the only one that lived, and grew into a fine, feathered friend for quite a number of years.

Big Brother named him Smokey – and what a pest he was. My Mother would drape an old towel across the back of a chair and would allow the bird to come in the house for short periods of time if he would sit on the back of the chair. He would fly to the door and squawk when he wanted to go back out, so I don’t remember many “accidents” happening. But then I wasn’t the one that cleaned them up either. If he were left alone for any period of time things would disappear. Things like car keys, buttons, pens, coins, anything shiny that was left laying around would disappear instantly. Once a week my Mother would clean behind the davenport and there – lo and behold – would be all of Smokey’s treasures. He became a very “cocky” bird, which led to his demise. One day he was dive-bombing one of the local dogs and the dog snapped at him as he flew overhead – and that was the end of Smokey.

Here’s a shot of what “road camp” looked like – that’s our trailer second from the right. And it must have been a Saturday afternoon when we were headed for town to buy groceries. That’s me running toward the car with my Dad getting in on the other side. Note the long blonde Shirley Temple curls? Oh, how I hated those things. My mother would make these ringlets every morning, and when I was old enough to go to school I would go immediately to the bathroom and brush them all out. I wanted straight hair like the other girls.

To be continued,

Love Lena

The Edge of the World

The leaves have come off the trees, fall is here and that always seems to put me in a reflective mood. Thinking about times past, where I've been and where I'm at now. What is it that made my life turn out the way it did.

When I was a little girl my father was a farmer in north central North Dakota, where the farms are small compared to what they are here in the Red River Valley. My father farmed 400 acres of soil that wasn't very productive, especially during the dry years of the early 50s. In order to hang onto the farm he had to take another job, which ended up being something called a "grease monkey" for a road construction crew. Not exactly a politically correct job title in today's society, but back then that's what it was. Today he would have been called a mechanic for heavy equipment.

So my Mother was forced to move from an eleven room farm house into a 25 foot trailer house with three kids, and no indoor plumbing. We lived like gypsies. I won't say we even became "trailer trash" because that indicates you embed yourself in one place. We didn't. We moved from one location to another, following the progress of the road that the construction crew was working on. Many times I remember my Father coming to the trailer and telling my Mother, "We've got to be moved down the road to the next location within one hour." And we would.

Now mind you, there were 20 to 30 families living like this - vagabonds. And a big "cook car" - which was a mobile kitchen, run by several ladies who would do all the meal preparation for the single guys who worked on the crew. Inside on one end was a kitchen, and the remainder was one long table going through the center of the car with benches on each side for the guys to sit and eat.

So this whole procession of trailers and the cook car would go down the road several miles to another location, which was usually some rancher's pasture, pull in and set up camp. Now think about this - this was a pasture - no well for running water, or sanitation faciliites. First things first - several holes would be dug for the outdoor biffies, then one very large hole to bury garbage. Then a truck with a huge water tank on the back would arrive and park itself somewhat centrally located. One of my brother's regular jobs was to fill water into buckets and haul it to our trailer whenever needed so we had water to drink, cook and wash dishes with. Baths were taken once a week in a large round galvanized tub that my mother used to wash clothes in every Monday. Otherwise you did a "spit and polish" between the times when you would sit in the galvanized tub. And all HOT water was made hot by heating it in a large pot on a gas kitchen stove.

I often think when we're out traveling in our motorhome, my Mother would have thought she'd died and gone to heaven with all the conveniences I have. Completely self-contained - solar powered, gas/electric hot water heater, same for the frig, TV, air conditioning - We often park in the middle of the desert for weeks at a time when we travel in the winter, and have all those conveniences. She had NONE of that. But then neither did anyone else in the "camp."

Going to town for groceries on Saturday afternoon was always a big event. We got to go to TOWN!! They were mere wide spots in the road, and sometimes up to 30 miles away on gravel roads, but it was still a big event. Places like Elgin, Carson, Cannon Ball, Amidon, Black Butte, Flasher - some of which no longer even exist other than a few fallen in buildings. But at that time most every little town had some kind of a grocery store where a big treat would be a bottle of pop (soda to you NON-upper-midwesterners). Nesbitts orange and grape nehi were my favorites.

I have very fond memories of those days as a kid - playing with all the other "camp kids" out in the pasture not knowing what you were going to "step" in or find - and that included rattle snakes!! Most generally the rattle snakes were hunted out of the area we were going to be camping in. The construction company would send their snake crew in ahead of time and they would locate the snake dens and clean them out. An ugly, dangerous job, but it had to be done.

I remember very vividly a time when a large bull snake decided he was going to move in under our trailer. He was only about six feet long and possibly six inches in circumference. The scariest part was that these snakes would crawl up into the underside of the trailers looking for warmth on chilly nights, and could possibly get into your house. Wouldn't that be cute - wake up during the night and have a snake that size trying to crawl under your covers to warm up!! That's just slightly intimidating. We didn't know it at the time but bull snakes weren't poisonous - but beneficial. They caught lots of mice. I don't care - I still wouldn't want him for a bed partner - AAAACCCCKKKK!

Most of the roads that my Father worked on were in western North Dakota and all over South Dakota - a very slimly populated area, even back then. It's even more thinly populated now, but still holds a mystique for me when I travel the area. There's something so hauntingly beautiful about it. Take a look.

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The Tale of the Receding Hairline

Now first of all, there are some stipulations to reading this entry today. You have to sign your life away on the dotted line in the comments section that you won't EVER tell Ole that I have written this. Because if you do, the consequences would most certainly be divorce - mine - not yours - and I don't think you'd want that on your conscience for eternity, would you?

When I met Ole back in my senior year of high school he was one handsome dude. Actually, he's still pretty handsome in a mature way, right K-Lo? But back in high school he had dark, thick, curly hair combed into a pompadour and a ducktail (the fashion of that time) all the way down to his bedroom brown eyes. The bedroom brown eyes are his mother's description. I'm not going there, okay? He was kinda like John Travolta in Grease. He had a reputation of being a "hood" which meant a tough guy back then. Being tough back then meant you smoked and probably drank beer on Friday nights. Drugs hadn't entered our school system at that point.

He drove a 1949 Ford with straight pipes on it and would drive around the block during lunch hour and gun the engine so his pipes would rap. One day the principal had enough of that junk, stopped him and pleasantly asked him not to come back to school. He was suspended for a period of time for that. He also was suspended once when he was seen smoking by a teacher at a fast food restaurant over the lunch hour. Where would that get you in today's society?

Here's what Ole looked like when I met him. Note the hairline.


We were married two years after we graduated from high school and a year after we were married he joined the Navy. One year later he was shipped to a NATO base in Keflavik, Iceland where I joined him. Of course when he joined the Navy he had to wear a white hat, and that's when the hairline started to recede. Here's a picture taken about a year after we moved to Iceland. He really was a handsome sailor in his bell bottom pants and that slight swagger that he had. But note the hairline is turning into a widow's peak.

After a two year stint in Iceland he was sent to an aircraft carrier to prove that he had sea legs. They had to keep their hair a bit on the shorter side then, although they could have long sideburns and their hair could be long enough to touch their shirt collars. That's when his moustache turned into a Snidley Whiplash moustache. Note the hair is combed forward now covering up the thinning widow's peak.

Here's a picture of Ole about the time he got out of the Navy. The hair is getting thinner, but it's longer once again.

The picture below was taken about 4 years after he got out of the Navy. The hair is even thinner so he's back to combing it forward again. Here's where the moustache really turned into Snidley Whiplash. It would take him longer in the morning to apply the moustache wax than to do anything else to get ready for work. If I remember correctly, at this point in time the moustache was long enough to reach his ears if he stretched it out. But that was the style of the day.

It was about this time that Ole went to work for Large International Corporation where he wore a 3-piece suit, white shirt and a tie for 30 years. Can you imagine that? Going from a tough guy to a productive member of society? Strange things do happen, you know.

BTW, that is not Lovely Daughter in the picture. It's the daughter of friends that were stationed in Iceland with us.

Anyway, one of the technicians that worked for him at that time became a good friend (and still is). After many years of watching Ole wear a combover that got worse as the years went by, he came into Ole's office and said, "Come with me, we're going on a little ride." Ole, of course, thought he was too busy to go for a ride in the middle of the day, but Don wouldn't hear of it and grabbed him by the arm and out of the office they went. Unknown to Ole, Don had made arrangements with a hair stylist friend of his to "fix" Ole's hair. They walked into the shop and Don told the hair stylist, "He's bald, make him look like it." Ole came out with a very nice haircut that didn't have one side 9 inches long that was combed over the top of his head to "hide" the baldness. You know that never works anyway, it just looks silly.

Here's a picture of Ole and Lovely Daughter taken when she was just out of college and just a couple of years before he retired. By this time he had grown a goatee to go along with the moustache, and had gotten rid of the Snidley Whiplash look. Thank heavens - because that thing would always go up my nose when he kissed me.

Ole always said that before he retired he was going to shave his head and get an earring - shades of his rebellious high school days I think. So about six months before he retired he got his ear pierced and I had an earring made for him with one of the diamonds from his first wedding band. I also had one made up for Lovely Daughter, so she's got the other diamond from his first wedding band. (He wore it out - we've been married THAT long.) Wearing an earring was strictly against company policy - but like I said, shades of rebellion. About two months before he retired he started shaving his head, although by that time there wasn't much left to shave (tee hee). When I asked him about company disapproval his response was, "What are they going to do, fire me?"

So here's what Ole looks like now. A few pounds heavier, shaved head and facial hair. He always says he's mean, evil, bad, nasty and rotten and besides that he's not nice guy. Liar.

Are You Over Fifty?

Everybody says that today's 50 is really yesterday's 30. Do I have that right? Maybe not - but anyway, the idea is that people are acting younger than they did previously. I remember that Ole's folks were in their early 40s when we got married and they acted SO old. Maybe that was just my perception at that time, but gosh, all they did was sit around and watch TV and go to bed by 9 o'clock. When Ole and I were 40 we were still out prowling around half the night.

Well, anyway, the years go by and as you get older there are certain things in the health categories that the doctors like to see you do. All kinds of tests and things that are supposed to keep you healthy or find your problems at an early stage. Now one of them is the colonoscopy. This is really a very serious thing as finding issues at an early stage can certainly save your life. Ole's Mom never had one of these things - ever - and guess what - she died from colon cancer. She had numerous surgeries that only prolonged her life. We watched her die for five years and it was horrible.

Now I'm truly not making light of this issue, but sometimes you just have to laugh, right? I received the following in an email this afternoon, and just had to pass it along. If you've ever been the victim on the receiving end of a colonoscopy you'll know exactly what this is all about. Be prepared to laugh.


Dave Barry on his Colonoscopy:

I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy. A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis.

Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner. I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, quote, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'

I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called 'MoviPrep,' which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it it fall into the hands of America's enemies. I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous. Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation.

In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor. Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons.) Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.

The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose watery bowel movement may result.' This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground. MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but: Have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch? This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.

After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep. The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage. I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that? Flowers would not be enough.

At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said. Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked.

Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their MoviPrep. At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this is, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. You would have no choice but to burn your house.

When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point. Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand. There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was 'Dancing Queen' by ABBA I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, 'Dancing Queen' has to be the least appropriate. 'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy, from somewhere behind me. 'Ha ha,' I said. And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade.

If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like. I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, ABBA was yelling 'Dancing Queen, Feel the beat of the tambourine,' and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood. Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that it was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors.

I have never been prouder of an internal organ.

Days of our Lives, Chapter II

I did something really fun with a couple of gal friends yesterday. I went to a movie in the middle of the week in the middle of the afternoon. If you haven't seen Nights in Rodanthe yet it's a must. I thought it was just as good or even better than The Notebook. I love Diane Lane and who can resist Richard Gere. It's definitely a chick flick and remember to bring a box of kleenx. The movie kind of put me in a reflective mood, thus today's entry.

A few days ago I wrote about some history (A Look Back in Time) and told you that I would continue the story for those of you who are newer readers. So here goes.



* * * * * * *
Prior to shipping out of Iceland, Ole tried in vain to have his duty station extended so that we could spend his last year of service there also. We both loved it a lot. But Uncle Sam had different plans for Ole. I guess he thought if Ole was going to be a Sailor, then he better be a Sailor and sent him to an aircraft carrier so that he could get his sea legs.

Now remember, this was during the time of the Viet Nam war, and the carriers were normally stationed somewhere in the China Sea, sending all their planes in to do bombing missions and such. The field that Ole was in would have put him right smack into all the turmoil. But Lady Luck shone on us AGAIN, and he caught a carrier off the east coast that was headed for a six-month Med Cruise. We were sent to Mayport, Florida, where three days after our arrival I waved goodbye again, and again, didn't know when I would see him.

Meanwhile I had to find a place to live, and ended up in a "trailer park" just out the gate from the base. That was all we could afford. I inspected the trailer prior to moving in and it looked good, someone had done a pretty good job of cleaning. I managed to get my stuff moved in and somewhat settled, and that evening sat down to watch a little TV. I had no lights on other than the light from the TV screen, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed some kind of movement. I thought I was seeing things, so went back to the TV. A few minutes later I noticed the same thing and had the eerie feeling something was going on that I didn't know about. So - I flipped on the light and THE WHOLE FLOOR MOVED! There were cockroaches EVERYWHERE - scurrying to hide anywhere they could - under the fridge, into the cupboards, I swear they were able to get between the baseboard and the vinyl flooring in the kitchen.

Now you have to understand - I'm a kid from the North Country where the cockroaches don't manage to live through the winter. I had never seen one before in my life, and hadn't the foggiest idea what to do to get rid of them. Up here we don't move out of our house every six months, encase it in a tent-like affair and call in the exterminator. The only bug we have that's large and offensive is the Minnesota Mosquito, and at least they're outside, not trying to live in your cupboards leaving tracks throughout all your food - Yech!!! Anyway - long story short - I managed to get rid of all of them and have a roach-free house for the remainder of the time I was living there, but it took constant work on my part and the purchase of a ton of roach paper and spray.

But - back to Ole and his Med Cruise. Three months into the six month cruise I found out that there was going to be a contingent of military wives chartering a plane to fly to Athens, Greece, where the carrier was going to be in port for approximately three weeks. So guess who was first in line to buy a ticket?? Lena, of course.

The big day of departure came, I arrived at the airport in plenty of time, everyone got aboard and settled in for the long flight. The plane taxied out to the runway and stopped. And we sat there, and we sat there and we sat there. After a long period of time the pilot finally announced that there would be a "slight" delay in departure due to mechanical problems. TWELVE hours later, we're finally winging our way east toward Greece. Believe me, you haven't seen "upset" until you've seen 300 angry (horny) military wives who haven't seen their husbands for three months and they're running twelve hours late! I think that's why the plane captain kept his cabin door locked throughout the flight!!

We finally arrived, and it was a mad dash to deboard - a free-for-all trying to locate your own personal sailor. As hard as I tried, I couldn't see Ole in the throng of people in the airport. I was nearly in tears when someone came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder and grabbed me in a tight hug before I could get turned around and see who it was. And of course it was Ole - I had walked right past him in the airport and didn't recognize him!! He had shaved off the handle-bar Snidley Whiplash moustache that he had always worn, and was as brown as an Indian. And you know, all those sailors look alike in their uniforms (snicker).

After spending a few days in Athens we struck out for quieter regions of the country, and drove up the coast to a fishing village named Halkis. We had a wonderful time just relaxing in the sun on the beach and taking in all the sites. The Greek food was out of this world. Most of the time we didn't know what we were eating, but who cared? In the little villages no one spoke English, so many times when we would stop at a cafe they would take us back into the kitchen and we would point to what we wanted and it was always tastey. The countryside was beautiful, just like a storybook, and the people were always friendly and helpful. We spent three wonderful weeks together before I had to go back home.

The flight home was uneventful once we got into the air. But getting into the air was another story AGAIN. This was during a period prior to airport security of any kind; the point in time when hijackings were just beginning and happened frequently, and bombs being planted in luggage compartments, etc. And remember how close Greece is to the Middle East? And how would the US Government react to a planeload of military wives being hijacked or blown up in mid-air? We were loaded on the plane, started taxiing down the runway accelerating to take flight when all of a sudden the captain shut the engines down and managed to get the plane stopped before it was airborne. The hatch was opened right there on the runway where we stopped, and we were instructed to exit the plane as rapidly as possible as they had received word that there was a bomb on board. You can move pretty fast under those circumstances, believe me. All the luggage was taken off the plane and gone through by officials. Yes, they did find a bomb on board, but fortunately it wasn't big enough to have done any damage other than make a mess. Pretty scarey stuff.

Anyway, I finally arrived back in Florida all in one piece, managed to exist by myself for another three months before Ole came steaming into port on the carrier and home for good.

So here's a few pictures of our time spent in Greece. I promise I won't bore you with anymore of these historical documents for awhile.

BTW, once again, turn off my juke box as this little diddy has it's own sound.

Make an on-line slideshow at www.OneTrueMedia.com

A Father-Daughter Talk

I've always made it a policy never to or maybe I should say rarely discuss politics on my blog. Mainly, I don't like to get into politics because you know you're never going to change anyone's mind, and sometimes things get said that are hurtful or insulting, etc. Everyone has their own opinion, for whatever reason, and that is how it should be. But I just couldn't keep from passing this little ditty on. I hope you will all take it in the spirit in which it's meant. But I must admit, it does make a good point. So here goes:

The Father/daughter talk

A young woman was about to finish her first year of college. Like so many others her age, she considered herself to be a very liberal Democrat, and among other liberal ideals, was very much in favor of higher taxes to support more government programs, in other words redistribution of wealth. She was deeply ashamed that her father was a rather staunch Republican, a feeling she openly expressed. Based on the lectures that she had participated in, and the occasional chat with a professor, she felt that her father had for years harbored an evil, selfish desire to keep what he thought should be his.

One day she was challenging her father on his opposition to higher taxes on the rich and the need for more government programs. The self-professed objectivity proclaimed by her professors had to be the truth and she indicated so to her father.

He responded by asking how she was doing in school. Taken aback, she answered rather haughtily that she had a 4.0 GPA, and let him know that it was tough to maintain, insisting that she was taking a very difficult course load and was constantly studying, which left her no time to go out and party like other people she knew. She didn't even have time for a boyfriend, and didn't really have many college friends because she spent all her time studying.

Her father listened and then asked, 'How is your friend Audrey doing?' She replied, 'Audrey is barely getting by. All she takes are easy classes, she never studies, and she barely has a 2.0 GPA. She is so popular on campus; college for her is a blast. She's always invited to all the parties and lots of times she doesn't even show up for classes because she's too hung over.'

Her wise father asked his daughter, 'Why don't you go to the Dean's office and ask him to deduct 1.0 off your GPA and give it to your friend who only has a 2.0. That way you will both have a 3.0 GPA and certainly that would be a fair and equal distribution of GPA.'The daughter, visibly shocked by her father's suggestion, angrily fired back, 'That's a crazy idea, how would that be fair! I've worked really hard for my grades! I've invested a lot of time, and a lot of hard work! Audrey has done next to nothing toward her degree. She played while I worked my tail off!'

The father slowly smiled, winked and said gently, 'Welcome to the Republican party.'

If anyone has a better explanation of the difference between Republicans and Democrats I'm all ears.

Meet my Buddy, Parker

Now you all know that we have two grand dogs - no grand children, just grand dogs. Ole's life pretty much centers around Beau and Daisy. They belong to Lovely Daughter, but she drops them off at our house every morning for doggie daycare.

Now don't get me wrong - I love Beau and Daisy, too. But Ole is THEIR person. I'm fine if Ole's not around, but Ole is their first choice.

If you're an animal lover you know that you don't pick them, they pick you. At one point in my life a few years back there was a dog that picked me. His name was Parker.

Now Parker was unique to say the very least. He was half black lab and half basset, and just before he died he weighed in at 90 lbs. so he was by no means small. You might wonder what in the world a mix like that would look like. Well, never fear, you'll see pictures coming up.

We got Parker from an organization called Adopt-a-pet. I had lost my dog, Jess, a big black lab, several months prior and had decided I wasn't going to have anymore dogs. Ole was still working at the time but we were traveling more so it was just easier not to have a dog. One day the AaP (Adopt-a-Pet) lady called out of the clear blue, explained who she was and told me all about this dog that was a year old, had been abused and had just gone through a major surgery on his front leg. She had gotten my name from a friend who told her that we loved dogs and had a perfect setup for pets - living in the country on 5 acres of land with lots of room to run. She said this dog needed a good home and she was sure I would like him if I met him. Well, soft-hearted that I am, I finally agreed to at least go and meet him. But, I assured her, not to count on my taking him home because I really didn't want another dog.

When I got there, Parker was sleeping in the middle of her floor, opened one eye to look at me and instantly went back to sleep. You could tell immediately that he definitely wasn't an excitable dog - not one that jumps and barks and makes all kinds of fuss when a stranger comes. So I visited with Parker a bit, got the lowdown on his background from AaP Lady and went home, telling her that I would let her know but not to count on me taking him.

When I got home Ole asked how everything had gone. I told him that the dog was a very nice dog but that I really wasn't ready to have another one. Well, the AaP Lady was pretty persistent and called again and convinced me to come play with Parker some more. I went three times to visit Parker and made Ole come with me once. By this time I had fallen in love with Parker and felt so bad for the dog because of his sad background. But, mind you, I still didn't know if I wanted the bother of having another dog. I must have been moping around because the next day Ole said, "Would you just go get the damn dog and be done with it?" So off I went and brought Parker home, still not knowing if I truly wanted another dog.

Parker was born sometime in 1990 and lived with a family right here in my little village. Unfortunately, the husband in the family was a drunk and when he'd spent too much time down at the bar he would come home and kick the dog and beat on him. One night the wife had enough of the dog abuse and the next day called the AaP Lady and asked her to take Parker before her husband killed him. AaP Lady came immediately, took Parker and brought him to a kennel about 3 miles from where I live. This was not the norm for animals that AaP took in. They're usually placed in foster homes, but the AaP Lady felt she had to hide this dog. And it's a good thing she did because the husband came looking for him. Came right to AaP Lady's house and demanded his dog back.

It was then determined that Parker was having difficulty walking. You've heard of hip dysplasia in dogs, well Poor Parker had dysplasia in one of his front leg joints. You know how bassets are so knock-kneed in front. Parker was so bad that surgery had to be performed on one of his legs so he could walk without pain. The surgery was successful, and following that AaP Lady started looking for a home. That's when she called me.

Now, Parker was the MOST mellow dog I have ever met in my life. His major concerns were sleeping and eating - in that order. He was a social butterfly and was everybody's friend. I spent a lot of time working in my flowerbeds, and would encourage him to come outside with me. And he would - but it wouldn't last long. He'd be outside, poking around and eventually, after a short time come and poke me in leg and then amble up to the patio door and sit. If I didn't get up soon enough to suit his fancy he would come poke me again and head for the patio door. He was much more interested in going to his bed and sleeping the afternoon away than being outside in the fresh air and sunshine.

Parker was a good camper too. One weekend we were involved in a rod run camp out, staying in a campground of 10 acres that were totally fenced. Sunday morning there was the fragrance of frying bacon, sausage, pancakes and eggs. We never kept Parker leashed because he always hung around so close - didn't want me out of his sight. But this particular morning he disappeared. We went looking for him (of course he wasn't difficult to describe) and were hot on his trail. He had been making the rounds of the campground all right, and had his technique down pat. He would wander up to the campsite and sit down close to whoever was doing the cooking. He never barked or whined, but would just sit there and put the most pitiful look on his face. We had reports of how many pancakes he had eaten - 7 at one campsite - how many bones he had been given, how many sausage links he had devoured, etc. Can you believe he never threw up? But he didn't eat for three days after we got him home.

Then there was the time I had baked a batch of brownies. I put them on the back of the counter to cool intending to frost them later, and then had to leave the house. When I came home several hours later there lay Parker on his belly, all four feet stretched out in front of and in back of him with the brownie pan licked clean in front of him on the floor. There was not a molecule of brownie left in that pan. Now how this dog with little short legs managed to jump high enough to get the brownies off the back of the counter I never figured out. He did the same thing with two apple pies that I had freshly baked also. Ole is famous for snitching freshly baked things so I had even left a note on the counter, "Ole, stay out of these pies, they're for church." When I came home there stood Ole in front of the counter with a smirk on his face, and the two apple pie pans laying on the floor - licked so clean you would have thought they had come from the dishwasher. Needless to say, there lay Parker, on his belly, looking guilty.

Several years after we got him we discovered that Parker had skin allergies - he was allergic to EVERYTHING. On the advice of our vet we tried all kinds of across the counter stuff, changed his food, everything we could think of to no avail. The poor dog was so miserable we had to do something so we finally bit the bullet, brought him in to the vet and had allergy tests run on him. He was allergic to over 200 things. Things like grass, carpet, dust mites; I could go on and on. We had to have a special formula made up for him at the University of Minnesota that was shipped to us on a monthly basis, and Ole had to give Parker an allergy shot once a week. This special formula cost $109 for a 30-day supply. And then sometimes it wouldn't do the trick completely, depending on the time of year it was. Skin infections would set in and there would be a trip to the vet. Over the years the vet, the technicians and the office crew became very attached to Parker - it was almost like his second home. But I firmly believe if you have a pet you MUST take care of them. So we did.

In his later years Parker became extremely sensitive to loud noise. I always knew several hours ahead of time if we were going to get a thunderstorm in the summer because Parker would get very nervous. As the storm grew closer he would start to shake, and nothing would console him. We didn't realize it at the time, but Parker had some pretty serious back problems, and I think the change in air pressure prior to these storms may have caused him pain. He apparently had back issues for several years that we didn't know about because he never indicated that he was in pain. He moved slower as he got older and had more difficulty getting up, but then don't we all as we age.

The summer that Parker turned 14 he woke up one morning and couldn't use his back legs. He dragged himself down the hallway on his front legs heading for the door to go out. I was terrified and thought he'd possibly had a stroke during the night. I took him to the vet immediately - lifting a 90 lbs. dog wasn't easy. The vet had sad news after he'd x-rayed him. Parker had 4 herniated discs - severely herniated and he was in a terrible amount of pain.

We discussed all kinds of possibilities and came up with the only one that was fair to Parker. With the vet's blessings we decided to have Parker go to Doggy Heaven. With tears the vet's eyes and sniffles from the rest of the staff, Parker left us that day, never to be forgotten. He was definitely one of a kind.

Psssst: Remember to turn off the jukebox before you play the video. Just sayin' is all.

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Wa- Wa- Wa

Be ready for the new TV era. Turn off my jukebox and turn up your sound. I guarantee you'll get a chuckle.

How to De-skunk a Dog

This is certainly an age of "Better Living through Chemistry." You guys have heard that before I'm sure. That little blue pill that the doc prescribed for me on Tuesday (NO, not viagra THAT one you sillies) when I went to the walk-in clinic has done a wonderful job - so far - (knocks on head wood.) I better not speak too soon, huh? I've only broken out in three little spots, the spots don't itch, and the pain level is managing to stay down to a dull roar at times, and at times I don't have any pain. And I'm already at the end of week 1. This is a good thing.

So yesterday afternoon I was actually able to go outside and accomplish something - I started to clean out my garden shed. After all, whether we want it or not, winter is coming in this neck of the woods and we folks of the Great White Northland have to be ready. So as soon as it warms up a bit more I'm headed that direction to finish the job.

Then I have to move into the garage with my high pressure washer and some very strong soap and clean out the garage. You see it smells very strongly of skunk. Yes - skunk. And not because we had one come and let go inside the garage, but you see we have this lovely girl dog, Daisy by name, who just doesn't understand that you can't bite those black and white kitties and come out smelling like a rose. She's been skunked so many times I've lost count - one time twice in one week!!

We had the granddoggers out for their routine run Wednesday late afternoon. They are so entrenched in routine that if Ole doesn't quit what he's doing by 5 o'clock they start poking him in the leg. If he ignores them and wants to finish up his project they get very obnoxious and persistent, keep poking and will eventually start barking at him to get his act together.

Anyway, we were going down a road that had a large cornfield alongside it. They were running in the ditches on either side, poking their noses in every hole they could find and peeing on every dirt lump they came across. This is a good opportunity for Ole and I to share the day's experiences, visit about various subjects and plans and give the doggers lots of good exercise. Ole happened to look in his rearview mirror and saw Daisy toss something in the air, and within several seconds we were hit with the unpleasant aroma of skunk oil. If you've never had that experience you're really not missing much. Even being that far away from the skunk, the "fragrance" gets in your nose and your mouth and you can actually taste it (peee-uw). Ole gunned the engine of the truck which is the dogger's signal that it's time to end the fun and go home, and they both came running. Ole had the unfortunate ugly job of dropping the tailgate holding his breath the entire time. He quickly hopped back into the cab and tried to take another breath. Not good - the skunk smell was so bad inside the cab even with the windows rolled up that we could hardly breath.

We got her home and took her out to the "dog washer" located in the shop. Lovely Daughter and Ole soaked her down in layers using 409, odo-ban and car wash soap several times, scrubbed and suds her down and rinsed and rinsed and rinsed. Then dried her off using the air hose. She loves the air hose and it's funny when she's done as her fur stands straight up or backwards. She looks like she's got a mohawk.

After she was dry she was allowed to come up to the closed garage and wait there while we finished supper. Lovely Daughter took her home later and just about gagged when she walked through the garage. Daisy no longer smelled, but for some reason the garage did. It still does this morning and I don't know why. Beau can't stand to even get close to her. Even though we can't smell her there must still be something in her fur that's leaving residuals behind. You can still smell the odo-ban on her and she walks around looking so sheepish.

Poor Daisy.

Here's another little video I put together. I did it some time ago and put it up on one of my entries. But as I've said previously, I've got a number of new readers that might enjoy it.

Happy Friday!!

PS: This one has its own music too, so you may want to turn off the jukebox before you start it.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

I'm Done Now - Don't Give Me Anymore

(FYI: I took the picture above just a little ways from where I live. Isn't the tree beautiful?)

You know, somebody once told me that the Good Lord would never give you more than you can handle. He must think I’m a lot tougher than I do then, because now I’ve got another issue. That seems to be all my life has been lately is issues. I know that lots of people have lots more serious issues than I do, but a very smart person also told me never to compare my issues with someone else’s. It’s really been an issue-filled summer for me, and I’m kind of worn thin, if you know what I mean.

First it was Ole getting sick back the beginning of July and ending up in the hospital almost losing his leg due to the incompetence of Indian Lady Doctor. Just a bit of stress there (did you note my sarcasm?) We did manage to take the one trip out of three that we had planned for the summer and got to Sturgis for the bike rally. When we got home, of course, we had a month to deal with all the wedding arrangements, and all the stress that went along with that. Not only physical stress but emotional stress too. Then we had a bit of a respite before Ole had surgery on his leg. Fortunately that all went well, but it’s still stressful to go through, wondering if he’s going to end up with infections and have to be hospitalized again, as he did previously.

And of course, mixed in with all of that were all the issues caused by Dick & Jane & Alice. They’ve always got to have their two cents installed, you know.

Then we had the meatball supper at church, which somehow got dumped in my lap – and definitely not because I volunteered for it. I haven’t written about that yet – but I will soon. At this point let’s just say that there are always those who set out to cause problems and then love to criticize the outcome, but never want to take control – they just want to bitch. Their criticism and judgmental attitudes have caused great stress for me to the point where I’m about to leave the organization completely. And it’s always the same “old bags,” you know. The ones whose mantra is “But we’ve always done it THIS way.”

THEN the area south of us had 5 inches of rain over the weekend, which has now created a flooding situation for us. The river has gone up 8 feet since last Saturday, but fortunately crested last night sometime and is now on its way down. It came within 6 inches of going into our storage building. Ole was about to start emptying the building out but decided to give it a few more hours, and then the river started to go down.

Here's a few pictures of our now Lake Front Properpty. Unfortunately it doesn't increase the value of our property.






We're in the process of dealing with the federal government and the state to have a ring dike built around our property. You can't imagine the hoops you have to jump through to get all the permits to have this done. Everyone who lives along the river for many miles both upstream and downstream has to be notified and sign an approval form in order to have this done because it MIGHT impact their property. What about all the farmers who are ditching their land and making the water run faster into the river channel? They don't need OUR permissions to ditch their property and it certainly affects us. Oh well, don't get me started, okay?

So last weekend the coup de grace was added. Wikipedia defines coup de grace as “the death blow intended to end the suffering of a wounded creature.” Well, maybe it wasn’t THAT bad, but I certainly didn’t need it. I was diagnosed with shingles. Just in case you don’t know the chicken pox virus causes shingles. If you had chicken pox when you were a kid, the virus lies dormant in your spinal column until later in life at a point when you have been under a lot of stress. At that point it chooses to raise its ugly head and BLOSSOM again. I was having a lot of pain in my shoulder and upper arm but thought it was just from overdoing stuff – you know – lifting those roasters full of meatballs at the supper, or some such thing. I visited my friendly chiropractor several times and it didn’t improve. Then the surface of my skin on my shoulder and upper arm became so sensitive it hurt to have the fabric of my flannel shirt even touch it. Since I really didn’t want to go around topless (that’s an ugly thought) I decided to go to the walk-in clinic. By this time I had started to break out in little blister-like thingies on my arm and my back. Then I knew what I was in for without the doc even telling me. You see Ole had shingles a number of years ago. There’s no cure for them, but the doc gave me a prescription for something called Valtrex, which is supposed to shorten the duration by several days. The doc told me they would last from 4 to 6 weeks but the meds would shorten the duration by 3 to 4 days. Whoopee!! He also gave me Tylenol with codeine for the pain. That only makes me want to throw up, so I’m sticking to just plain Tylenol and ibuprofen. You can’t imagine the pain – it comes in waves and is worse than labor pains.

Oh well, I’m a ScandiHOOvian. I will survive.

A Look Back in Time

In yesterday's entry I made mention that I didn't go out for orchestra in my senior year because this dude named Ole had entered my life. Here's a bit of history from a long ago entry - just for my newer readers:

Ole and I were high school sweethearts. We met in first hour study hall of our senior year. He sat in the front of the room, and I sat about mid-way back. He was well over six feet tall and had the most beautiful brown eyes - his mother called them "bedroom brown" - (I'm not going there!) Every morning during the Pledge of Allegiance (yes, we said the Pledge back then,) he would turn around and give me a big smile with this perfect white teeth.

Ole had kind of a reputation back then. He was one of those "hoods" as they were called back in the 60s. A bad guy, he smoked and had been "requested" by the principal to not attend classes on more than one occasion. Must have been the mystique that drew me to him, because by the time Sadie Hawkins Day came around I asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance, and from that point on we were a "thing."

I was 20 by one week, and he was 20 by 26 days when we were married. The Viet Nam War was raging, and lots of our high school friends were being drafted. About a year after Ole and I were married we knew his number was getting close, so he decided to enlist in the Navy where he would have some choices about what he would do, instead of being drafted and sent into the infantry. Luck leaned our way, and following basic training and additional school, he was sent to the NATO Base at Keflavik, Iceland.

You can't imagine the chagrin when he came home with his orders for Iceland. Neither of us even knew where the place was, let alone whether or not I would be able to go with him. After a short leave, I put him on the plane, not knowing when I would see him again.

As things went at that time, there was a postal strike for all APO/FPO addresses, and even though I wrote to him every day, I didn't receive ANY mail from him for over six weeks. I was SURE that that was the end of our marriage and that he had found some little chickie and had written me off. And that was back in the days when making an overseas telephone call was extremely difficult and much more costly than a seaman in the Navy could afford. At this point in his military career he was bringing home $32.46 every two weeks. Even back then that wouldn't buy many groceries.

FINALLY I received six weeks worth of mail all in one bundle. Somewhere in that stack of letters was one telling me that I would be able to join him, but that it would be at our own expense - because he was only a seaman, the military wouldn't pay for any of my travel expenses or shipping any household items. So I sold everything we owned, paid off all our bills and bought an airplace ticket to Reykjavik, Iceland. At this point, I had $100 to my name and I started off to an unknown location halfway around the world.

Now remember, at this point I'm a pretty naive little girl from Minnesota, and have NEVER in my life been on an airplane. I remember the tears in my father's eyes the morning he brought me to the plane and said goodbye. I was going half a world away, and he didn't know when he would see me again. I flew into JFK in New York where I had a 12 hour layover before I could board the plane to Iceland - Loftleider Airlines flew from New York to Iceland only once a week at that time, leaving at midnight. This was in June, and as we flew north and east, within two hours of departure the sun was rising, and never set again for about a month.

Of course, Ole was there to meet me when I got off the plane. He hustled me through Customs and the extremely intimidating appearing Icelandic police, and brought me out to a car he had managed to buy. A 1959 Opal with bald tires, cracked windows, almost no muffler and a jury-rigged stick shift on the floor that was supposed to be on the column.

He had managed to find a one-bedroom apartment on the upper floor of a residence in Keflavik, where we lived for about a year. We spent the second year in Iceland in a beautiful house a little farther from the military base. Even though he made rate rapidly and we would have been able to get housing on the base, we chose to live out in town to get away from all the military BS that can take place on a NATO Base. By this time I was also working Federal Civil Service, so we both needed to get away at the end of the day.

We spent just over two wonderful years in Iceland, made a number of great friends that we still communicate with and see on occasion today, some 35 years later. The time spent in Iceland certainly made us who we are today. It broke those "apron string" completely and made us into two very independent people.

Here's some of my fondest memories from Iceland. I hope you enjoy them.

PS: You'll want to turn the sound off on my jukebox before you click on this video. It has its own sound. Thanks.

Make an on-line slideshow at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Put Another Nickel In, In the Nickelodeon

Put another nickel in,

In the nickelodeon,

All I want is lovin' you,

And music! music! music!

Anybody else remember that song? It was recorded by Teresa Brewer and the Dixieland All Stars back in 1950. Now, mind you, I'm not THAT old that I remember her singing it, but because I had a musical sister that was 11 years older than me, I cut my teeth on "that" kind of music.

The only reason all that came to mind is because (in case you haven't got your sound turned up) I put a little jukebox thingie on my blog. I don't know if I like it or not so I thought I'd let my readers decide if I should keep it there. I love the music, but sometimes I find it kind of distracting when I'm trying to read. Let me know what you think, K?

I think I've previously written about music in my life. It's just always been there. Forever. Like I said, I cut my teeth on music. My sister, being 11 years older than me, spent a lot of time taking care of me. We lived on the farm then, and my Mother would have to spend time out in the barnyard taking care of animals, etc., and on occasion helping my Dad in the fields. I then became Big Sister's charge and one of the ways she would entertain me was to set me on her lap and play the piano. Apparently I instantly fell asleep, so either she was awful (which I doubt) or I found it very relaxing. It was one of those great big old upright pianos that took 16 men to move.

Many years later when my sister was married and had a family of her own, she managed to have the piano moved from our old farmhouse to her home. She wanted it in the basement family room because of its size. They had to knock a wall out in order to get it down there, and when she moved from that house she decided to just leave it because it was too much trouble to get it out. Her daughter and SIL bought the house and didn't want the monstrosity, so they took axes and hammers and chopped it into pieces to carry it out that way. I could have cried. I would have taken it but at that time had no place to put it. It looks not so good, but it still sounded wonderful. It had that old rinky-tink sound and the player mechanism still worked. That alone made it quite valuable.

When we left the farm we couldn't move the piano with us, and my sister was missing her music a lot. We were living in Pierre, SD in an 8x32 foot trailer house at the time. Yes, Folks, I'm Trailer Trash. I've written about my Gypsy growing up years previously, but if any new readers want to hear about them I'm sure I can come up with a few more stories. Anyway, I vividly remember the night my Dad went downtown to the music store and came home with a 12-base accordion that my sister taught herself to play. And of course I was right there absorbing as much as I could also.

That's my friend, Pam, holding the accordion and me with the fiddle. I don't remember where that came from, but I do remember having a lot of fun with it and driving everyone crazy. I think we were probably 5 when this picture was taken.

It didn't take long and my sister out-grew the little 12-base and my Dad decided to trade up and one day came home with this:

Oh, how I ooo'd and ahhh'd over it - it was all gold metal flake and sparkled all over. By this time I was about 6 or so, barely big enough to see over the top of it when Big Sister strapped it on me. And certainly not strong enough to stand up and hold it. But I pecked away and picked up quickly what she taught me. By this time we were living in a Little Town outside of a Big City, and my Dad decided it was time for me to take accordion lessons. So he bought me my own 12-base and enrolled me in a music conservatory where I took lessons every Saturday morning for 6 years. This is the building, today being used as an events center.

My lessons were up on the third floor (of course) and I so vividly remember having to haul my accordion up those LONG, LONG stairs. All the ceilings in this building were 15 feet, so you can imagine how long those stairs were, especially for a little kid hauling something that heavy. Here's a picture of the room that I had my lessons in. I attended a wedding there a couple of years ago, and the room still looks the same.

By this time I had graduated from a 12-base to a full-sized accordion. So - heavier and bigger. Over the years I actually wore the poor thing out. I played in a dance band for a period of time, so I got into a lot of interesting situations. Somewhere in my archives there's an entry about playing at a roadhouse that had chicken wire over the stage. There were some interesting situations those nights, believe me.

My sister wore her gold accordion out also, and replaced it with this.

And when she died her kids were cleaning her house out and were going to throw it in the trash. I couldn't handle that, so I took it home. It still works fine, although a couple of the reeds have a tendency to stick on occasion. I haven't played either hers or mine for years, they're stuck away in a closet gathering dust bunnies.

Yes, I have a piano in my house, too. I never took any formal piano lessons, but I manage to plink away now and then. I bought it for Lovely Daughter who took lessons for a few years and then lost interest. Ole bought me an electronic keyboard a couple of years ago for my birthday. I enjoy fiddling around on that more than the piano.

Speaking of fiddling - I did take violin lessons from the time I was in third grade until I reached my junior year in high school. I sat first chair the entire time I was in high school, but was never really happy in the orchestra. You see, I wanted to "fiddle" not play all this classical garbage that the teacher wanted us to play. Don't get me wrong - I love to listen to classical music, I just don't want to play it. I love things like Orange Blossom Special, Wabash Cannon Ball, - those kinds of things. I guess you could call it Hillbilly music. And of course that kind of music was unheard of in orchestra class back then. So when I was signing up for my senior year of classes I didn't sign up for orchestra. You see, there was this guy by the name of Ole that had come into my life when I was a senior, and I just didn't have time for everything, so orchestra lost out.

But that's another story.

So you see, music has been a big part of my life since the day I was born.

PS: Sorry I get so long-winded. Just tell me to shut-up, okay?

Being Snoopy

I've discovered ANOTHER new blog - again new to me. I've just been the snoopiest thing these last few days, but I've really needed some new blogging blood in my reading. Her blog is called Stitchinbythelake.

I've really been trying to turn my life around what with all the negatives that have happened to me over the past months. Ole and I have almost completely left The Circle of acquaintances that have caused all the heartaches, and it's made me feel so much better over the last weeks. I've had more energy and a much more positive attitude about a lot of things. Sleeping better, too. Isn't it interesting how other people (if you let them, of course) can drag your attitude down with theirs.

I've also cut out a lot of the dead wood bloggers that I used to read (snicker). If any of you followed me back when I was writing under The Adventures of Ole and Lena, and followed the little blog war that I got sucked into by The Old Crows a certain clique of bloggers, you'll understand why I used the term dead wood. I was purely an innocent bystander. Turn about is fair play - and that's all I'll say about that.



But I digress. The point I was trying to make is that I've been out there looking for new, fresh writing - with a more positive and upbeat attitude. And I've found several. Granted, I still read some of my old blogging friends - by "old" I didn't mean ancient age-wise (chuckle) - I just meant I've been reading you for awhile. I would never give you up because you stuck by me when things were down and I was being trashed.



Anyway, the amazing thing with the new blog that I found - Stitchinbythelake - is how much we have in common. She's a quilter - I'm a quilter, although I haven't had much time over this past year to accomplish much. I must admit that I go downstairs to my sewing room to work on the stack of ironing that has piled up, and I shed a tear for my wonderful sewing machine that has only been used for repair work over the last many months. I open the doors to my cupboards and look at all the fabric that I have piled there, just waiting for someone to be creative with it. I just know it's crying out to be cut and assembled into something beautiful.



I digress again. I do that a lot, you know. I don't know if it's an age thing or if I just have too much to say. Anyway, when she was in high school she worked in a dime store - so did I. How many of you remember what a dime store was?



I worked behind the soda fountain on Saturdays and one night after school. I'd race down to the dime store, jump into my white uniform, put on my apron (that was the rule, we had to wear them) and race to get behind the counter to serve up all that ice cream and pie and make chocolate sodas for the kids that would come in after school for snacks. Saturdays were really busy because we had the lunch crowd of shoppers and from the retail clothing store that was next door. We did burgers and BLTs and tuna salad and egg salad sandwiches, along with all the ice cream and pie and coffee. We made chocolate cokes and cherry cokes back then, too. I still love a big glass of icy cold Coke with a bunch of chocolate syrup drizzled into it. If you've never tried one, you're really missing something.



Ole worked next door in that retail clothing store. He started out sweeping up the floor at the end of the day and eventually graduated to a shoe salesman in the shoe department on Saturdays. He would come over to the soda fountain for lunch and his breaks on Saturdays. So I'd manage to take my break at the same time if we weren't too busy. Oh, young love, huh?



Oh yes, I was going to tell you what a dime store was, in case you're too young to remember them. Not only did they have a lunch counter, but you could buy just about anything you needed in a dime store with the exception of groceries. There was a candy counter that consisted of a long row of glass bins full of different kinds of bulk candy. You would tell the girl behind the candy counter how much you wanted, for example a quarter of a pound, or 10 cents worth, etc., and she would dig into it with her scoop, weigh it out, put it in a bag and collect your money. You could buy fabric by the yard, shades for your windows plus the hardware that you needed to hang them up, a clothes rack to hang your wet clothing on, bath towels, shower curtains - just about anything you wanted.



The dime store that I worked at was Kresge's, but we also had Woolworth's in town, and Ben Franklin, who just closed all their stores a couple of years ago in our area. Couldn't make it against all the Big Box stores like Walmart and Target.



But Walmart and Target are missing all the ambience of the local dime store. After all, none of today's store have that lunch counter where you sit on a stool next to the counter and have the girl in the white uniform and the apron wait on you.

Coming Up for Air

I have discovered a new blog - new to me anyway. It's called At Home with the Farmer's Wife. The entry that I have linked you to was so insiteful - it gave me something to ponder for the entire day. And if you know me at all, I don't ponder on much for more than just a few minutes at a time.

Her friend, Di, in a supportive moment, shared these words with her:

"The effort you have made to heal those scars is now very much a part of your beauty. We all are walking maps of our pain. Some are maps of beauty and depth and some are a mess. It's not just that out of our control, not of our choosing, tornadoes or asteroids hit our maps, it's whether we accept the damage, clean up as best we can and beautify these damaged areas as best we can. This, to me, is what separates the men from the boys, if you will allow the cliché."

I've been struck by a few too many tornadoes and asteroids over the last year, and have had a tendency to dig myself into a hole and not want to come out. I've always taken people at their face value, believing they are who and what they say they are. It's been a hard lesson to learn that a very high percentage of folks are not. They're facades and certainly don't practice what they preach. When these asteroids and tornadoes have touched down on my surface they've left deep scars that have surfaced in lack of trust and anger. I really need to work on beautifying those areas and letting go of that anger in reference to certain people that has created some pretty ugly wrinkles.

After all, at my age, I don't need anymore wrinkles character lines than what Mother Nature has given me.

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I also need to install the word "NO" into my vocabulary. I'm an officer in one of the women's organizations at church. I take care of all the money - isn't that a fun job? Me? Entrusted with money? Anyway, every fall we do a fundraiser - a meatball supper. You know how good all those church suppers are that start up in the fall. Well, this one has become famous around the area and in September folks start asking when it's going to be.

The only problem is that it's all us "old gals" that do all the work. The younger generation doesn't want to be bothered. And as the years have gone by some of those "old gals" have been dying off, leaving fewer and fewer of us younger "old gals" to do the work.

All the women are divided into serving groups. I have 19 in my serving group, some old enough that I would never call on them to work a function, but they've always agreed to bring food. Of those 19, I have 9 that I feel are capable of working. This year my group is in charge of running the kitchen for the meatball supper. I need all 9 of them in order to make things run smoothly. So far 3 have backed out telling me they either can't or don't want to. Now where does that leave me? I'm not Super Woman and can't fly from one position to another.

Ole and Lars have both volunteered to come in and help, but Lars doesn't get off work until late so the supper will be almost over by the time he gets there. I told him we'll put him on the cleanup crew - and he was fine with that. Ole will be in charge of the brand new dishwasher that we had installed a week ago.

Each of the serving groups is supposed to furnish one category of the food to be served; i.e. mashed potatoes, corn, buns, gravy, meatballs. If you're not going to participate in furnishing food you've been asked to donate $20. So we've collected lots of $20 bills, because for some reason folks just aren't into bringing food this year. Well, this is all good and well, but the food still has to somehow magically appear in the kitchen to be served. And if the gals from the other serving groups aren't going to do their part and only furnish money, somebody has to go buy all the food that we're short and prepare it!!

Somehow, that ended up being me!! I offered to help the Chairman - but because her elderly mother has a number of doctor's appointments this week, I got drafted. I met with the Chairman yesterday to determine what we would be short and went to town to buy groceries. I wasn't able to get everything I needed yesterday so back to town I go today to fill in the empty spots.

Then it's over to the church to set up the kitchen for preparation and serving. That's today. Then tomorrow I get to bake some dessert and then on Thursday I have to be there by 11 a.m. to get things going to start serving at 4:30.

On Friday I'm going to fill my bathtub with Calgon and demand that I be taken away.

Oh yeah - one bright spot in the week. The YaYa's meet today. I missed the last two gatherings - we were in Sturgis for one and I was too deep in wedding planning for the other. So I plan to enjoy this afternoon with the YaYa's.

For those of you who don't know who the YaYa's are - other than the movie, I mean. We're the REAL, LIVE YaYa's. There were six girls who started 1st grade together way back in the dark ages when we went to a two room school in our little town. We grew up together and graduated from high school together. Then some of us got married, moved away, raised our families, etc. Over the last years we've all moved back to the area. Some are widowed, some divorced; but about a year ago one of the gals contacted everyone and we now get together on a regular basis to have fun. Just yak and yak for hours on end and never run out of things to talk about. It's so fun.