Personal Great Migration

Ron and I have decided to sell our country house and move closer to town. After 17 years of country living, we admit we are not young and vigorous enough for this lifestyle. Our day yesterday is a perfect illustration. First thing in the morning Sudi (our teenager) stepped into the bathroom to take his shower and discovered our cats chasing a live mouse up and down the towel rack. They never caught it. It’s hiding in the molding somewhere. I do not do rodents. They make me scream and jump on furniture. They turn me into a cartoon involving the letters E-E-K. Then, for most of the day Ron froze his ass off because a) we heat with a wood stove, b) we are having a very cold winter, and c) he is diabetic with low thyroid so his body is about one ice cube away from a mint julep when it comes to retaining heat. In the evening, just as we sat down to dinner, the power went out because of storm conditions (according to the recorded message at Pacific Gas & Electric – duh) and plunged us into pitch darkness. Sudi walked into the pantry door trying to find a flashlight. When he hollered, I thought he had stepped on the mouse. I spent the rest of the evening watching my husband and son shiver in rhythm to the wail of the back-up generator. I do confess that there are (and always will be) a million things I love about country living. For instance, this time of year the frogs are mating and they make such a happy sound you would think every one of them is about to turn into a prince or princess. But there are many things about country living that I will not miss. Our days in the country are numbered. Trust me, you will be hearing more on this blog about our personal great migration from country living to a home in town.

Pins Out

Yesterday was a big day at our house. My husband Ron got his pins out. No, he’s not a voo-doo doll or a dressmaker’s dummy. He’s formerly hammer-toed. No longer hammer-toed. His left foot only. They broke all the hammer toes and straightened them out. He’s now screwdriver-toed. His toes used to curl under, which made him get blisters and sores. So they broke his toes and put pins in to keep them straight when the bones healed. And yesterday they took the pins out and lo and behold, the toes didn’t curl up (like the feet of the Wicked Witch of the East when Dorothy took the ruby slippers). So now Ron is in a walking boot. That’s big considering he has been on crutches since August (this was actually the third and final foot surgery he has endured for a series of problems). So how did we celebrate? We invited the foot doctor and his wife over for dinner. We spend so much time in the office, they feel like family. Ron asked them if they have any special dietary needs. The wife is vegetarian. That works for me. So am I. The foot doctor, however, doesn’t eat cooked vegetables. Interesting dichotomy. They must eat a lot of brown rice and tofu. I was going to make a mushroom quiche or perhaps an eggplant parmesan. I have a great new recipe I invented for butternut au gratin. But no cooked vegetables. Hmmm. I guess Dr. Foot and his wife will be coming over to our house for mac and cheese and field greens.

Balloon Missile

It turns out that the underground bunker that my brother Bill went to on New Year’s Eve was a former missile silo. People actually live in this thing. He sent me a photo of his contribution to the event, which was a missile made out of balloons. To understand the significance of this, you have to know that Bill is the Balloonman of Lawrence, Kansas. He makes things out of balloons. Not ordinary things, not everyday things, but everything under the sun. Centerpieces for the tables at weddings. String instruments. Hats and jackets. Barbecue grills, tablecloths, staplers, table saws, soup. I even saw him bake muffins in a balloon cooker one time. Any object in the known world, my brother can make a replica out of balloons. So for the party in the missile silo, he made a missile out of balloons and he took a trick picture of it with a little person next to it so that it looked like a full-scale balloon missile. He sent me the picture and I wanted to show it to you, but I couldn’t get it to upload onto the blog. Anyway I, his dupe of a gullible sister, actually believed for a hot minute that he had made a huge missile out of balloons, until it occurred to me that they just don’t make balloons in that size.

Underground Pagans

Last week I talked to my brother Bill on the phone. I asked what he was up to for New Year’s Eve. He said he was going to a party in an underground bunker with pagans. If that wasn’t strange enough, I thought he said he was going to a party in an underground bunker with vegans. You have to understand that I have very poor hearing and even with an amplifier on my phone and a hearing aid, my world is full of absurdities based on what I think I hear and the arc of distance between that and what someone actually said. I have a very amusing life because I hear all kinds of things that were not said. By-the-way, I have nothing against vegans or pagans. I have been a vegan at times. I suspect I have been a pagan at times too. According to Webster a pagan is “one who has little or no religion and who delights in sensual pleasures and material goods.” Why anyone who delights in sensual pleasures would be living in an underground bunker eludes me. I thought sensual folk were a bit partial to sunlight. As for the material goods, it strikes me that anyone living in an underground bunker is trying to economize on housing, which might preclude an attachment to material goods. What kind of food do you suppose underground pagans serve at a party? My guess is turnips in a dark chocolate sauce. What do you think? Perhaps they are underground pagan vegans. There’s a concept. I’ll have to call Bill to get the details.

Ron's Closet

My 2008 is off to a good start. The unthinkable happened. My husband Ron cleaned his closet. I didn’t even ask him to do it. At first I wasn’t sure what possessed him, but then I realized it was very likely the avalanche of old clothing that tumbled out on our bedroom floor when he went to look for something to wear for New Year’s Eve. Once the clothes fell out we could see what he had back there. Squash racket. Wrapping paper (and I thought I had run out). Air mattresses (that’s where they went). Foot bath. Ping pong balls (we don’t have a ping pong table). Ping pong table (yikes, I guess we do have a ping pong table). One-year supply of biodegradable drain cleaner. 1982 Chicago phone book. Two boxes of old phone bills. Cuckoo clock. My nephew (thank goodness, my sister-in-law will be so relieved that he turned up).

I even noticed that he still has the photography dark room in the back corner of his closet. His dark room is a large cardboard box with two black sleeves for his arms. I’m not sure how exactly you develop the film in there. Especially since you can’t see into the box. And wouldn’t you think that cardboard would dissolve when it comes in contact with film-developing chemicals? Well, I guess I’m too thick to get how this system works. Although I have yet to recall any photos that Ron has developed in that box, I do know it has been in his closet for at least 25 years. But we can’t throw it out. I mean what if he discovered film that needed developing? In the meantime, it seems like a halfway decent repository for the old pairs of jeans that he swears he’ll get back into by the spring.

When I started my blog, I warned Ron that he was going to be fodder for my blog entries. He replied, “I expected it. I’m already the fodder of your children.”