My To Do List

Sometimes a change of location gives a person time to think about making some other changes.

I came home from a few days away from home this summer with changes on my mind.

The knees? Time to schedule the first one.

The weight? Time to stop kidding myself and get back with the program.

That craft room in perpetual half-finished mode? Time to get it all put away.

I needed a plan. I needed prayer.

If I was planning to go ahead with surgery, it would be a whole lot easier if I were a whole lot smaller. Several years ago, I had found a plan the worked for me. I had, over the course of about 8 months, lost over 60 pounds. But, as happens, over the years, I had stopped working the plan. Oops.

I looked at the calendar. I would go back plan on on August 4th. My goal would be 30 pounds before surgery. Obviously, it was time for prayer.

A call to the orthopedic surgeon a couple weeks later and a date was scheduled for total knee replacement. November 4. Election Day.

Admittedly, I was apprehensive. Total knee replacement is ...well...total! I looked online. I cringed at the thought of what was to come. I prayed some more.

Some weeks later came the day when I was finally able to thank God for the arthritis and degenerative joint disease that got me in the place I was. "I don't know why I have this," I told God, "But I know I'll learn from this and be able to help someone else in the future." Coming to that point was a slow process. I did not...repeat...did not...come to it on my own. God is good. (All the time)

That left the craft room. (Insert shudder here)

Hours and hours later, there was a breakthrough. I could see the floor. Add more hours (many hours and a few trips to the home of a craft loving friend and to the thrift store drop off) and I had a functional space.

I continued to prepare for what I was now calling the "Great Knee Adventure". The hospital offered a class for people facing knee replacement. I took the class.

Adaptions were made to the house, to the car, and to my wardrobe, which was now beginning to look a little looser than it had.

November 4 arrived. I was 30 pounds lighter. I had a craft room I could actually use and a stack of Christmas cards ready for sending this year.

I voted. Then I went to the hospital.

Treasures

I've been cleaning again.

As always, the first thing that comes to my mind is the question, "Why did I keep all this stuff?'

Okay, I admit, I come by my pack rat mentality naturally.

Grandpa's little bungalow was neat as a pin but crammed to the rafters with "stuff". Grandpa had glassware from every deceased relative in the history or the family. His unmatched kitchen chairs rivaled the many bowls and plates in quantity.

Having been a farmer is his early years, Grandpa refused to give up his stash of "it might be useful someday" treasures. His shed featured things like an ancient post hold digger, a bone crusher, and a two seater (perhaps in case the plumbing in his Minneapolis home failed and he would have to resort to digging an outhouse.)

When Grandpa moved into the city, he'd taken a job as a garbage man. Numerable items of interest then entered his life.

Even after retiring, Grandpa stalked the alley on trash day. Years ago a college aged girl from our church asked us to pray about a special dress she would need in a few months. The next day Grandpa asked me if I knew anyone who needed a wedding dress. Needless to say, I claimed it for Terri, who found it to fit perfectly.

My father, like his own, was a saver, although not nearly as neatly organized. Dad, who came of age during the Great Depression years, saved ice cream pails, wires from old electronics, and pieces to games and puzzles no one in the family owned. If, eventually, he couldn't find a use for the "stuff" he glued the small things to cigar boxes and spray painted them gold. (In case there were not enough small things, he would fill in the gaps with macaroni. Seriously.

Sometime after his passing as we cleaned the basement of the house where he and Mom had lived for over 40 years, we found a jar of peach pits. We all smiled at Dad dutifully saving peach pits for a future spray painted project.

Which brings me to my bulging closets.

Stay tuned. I sense a garage sale in the making.

Reality Check

First, an apology. Can it really be over a month since my last post? Oh, boy! Life seems to have gotten the better of me in recent weeks.

Is there an excuse? Only wishy-washy ones, I guess.

It threw me for a loop when, after a hastily scheduled MRI, the Orthopedist confirmed that I need knees....two of them. Yes, you are saying, knees are important. And I, of anyone, knew mine were, to put it mildly, tricky.

There was that moment, a couple months ago, when, in a moment of total ungracefulness, I tumbled out the front door when the one on the right gave out on me. I ended up landing in an embarrassed heap in my front yard. (My first thought was, "I'm glad nobody saw that move." The second was, "I'm glad I'm not wearing a dress.")

Still, hearing the news that my knee caps are minus any padding did a number on my

pseudo-youthful ego.

Old. I'm getting there...quickly.

If there was any consolation in the diagnosis, it might have been that the doctor wants me to wait until I am older before scheduling surgery. Since most replacement knees last between 15 and 18 years, having the surgery in my fifties (albeit v e r y late fifties) means most likely having to have it done again in my seventies.

The down-side of that, of course, is living with the bad knees for several years.

Naturally, my doctor insists, the timing of the surgery is ultimately my call.

I'm contemplating the next move.

But in the meantime, the doctor informs me, I should walk with a cane. A cane? What does he think I am, for crying out loud....elderly?

Within days of the knee news, the cold I caught from my favorite two year old boy turned the corner and sent me to urgent care for a throat culture and the news that I had strep throat.

I was given an antibiotic. It took care of the strep, but played other nasty tricks on my body.

And, I learned some things.

Strep infections knock you for a loop, too, and they are much easier to kick when you are not pushing senior status.

Bette Davis was right. Getting old ain't for sissies!

Looking back on the last month and a half, there was a whole lot of time spent with a book in my favorite recliner. (All right. it wasn't all reading. A fair amount of dozing off incurred as well.)

Eventually, I have come to terms with the knee limitations. When I protested to my hubby that I'm really not disabled, he looked at me. His look spoke volumes. "I don't want to be disabled," I said and his comment was "I'm sure you don't.... but it is what it is."

He's absolutely correct. It's time to get over myself and get back to doin' whatever it is I do...including writing this blog.

And so I'm back, cane and all.

Fifth Grade

I admit to being one of those baby boomers that went to elementary school in the mid twentieth century.

It was a lovely time to be a kid.

We recited the Pledge of Allegiance at the start of each school day, including the words “under God”.

Our Christmas programs included actual Christmas songs.

Mrs. Peterson, my second grade teacher, even read us a verse from the Bible each day.

I started kindergarten with Miss Lavinia Mansfield, the same nice lady who had taught my mother's kindergarten class thirty-some years earlier.

Miss Mansfield was a lovely lady, but there was one teacher I wanted more than any other. Her name was Mrs. Flaidlund, and she taught fourth grade. Imagine my delight when I was assigned to her class. I spent a month with her, enjoying every minute, until she asked me to stay in when everyone else left for recess, one Friday.

There was only one known reason to stay in during recess, but being a rule follower, I couldn’t imagine what I might have done.

Mrs. Flaidlund sat on the desk in front of mine, facing me.

“I’ve already talked to your mother,” she began. Those were not words I wanted to hear.

She smiled. Tentatively, I smiled back. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be too bad.

“You are going to be bored in fourth grade,” Mrs F, said, “So I have arranged for you to move into fifth grade.”

I blinked.

“Your mother said it was all right with her.”

I nodded.

“Get all your things out of your desk and I will take you upstairs.”

Just like that, I was a fifth grader. Just like that Mrs. Flaidlund was traded for an older lady named Miss Gunhilda Reese.

She wore orange.

It took me years to like that color.

Fifth graders did reports. They wrote everything in longhand. They did (shudder) long division.

I adapted.

Fifth graders also played cat’s cradle at recess.

Fearing immediate and permanent outcast branding, I appealed to my Uncle Bill who patiently spent hours with me in our living room, twisting and re-twisting a piece of kite string donated by my brother.

Soon, I was one of them. I wrote reports (in longhand). I did long division ,chided only once by Miss Gunhilda Reese for drawing “fences” around my work (I was helping myself to know where one math problem ended and another began).

Even more important, I could “cradle” with the best of them.

Oh, The Shame of it All!

My granddaughter’s dog is a contrast in ears and tail. When she is behaving herself (which really does happen) her ears stand up in points. Her tail curls over her back.

Whenever the dog gets in trouble she looks sheepish. Her head hangs. Her eyes get that, “I really shouldn’t have done it” look. Her ears and tail droop.

Sometimes the look follows catching a rabbit in the yard.

Sometimes it is for barking profusely at the UPS deliveryman.

Sometimes that sheepish looking dog has found something really tasty that wasn’t quite rinsed out of something we are recycling.

Sometimes it is because, although the dog knows this is a “no dog on the furniture” household, she has, in our absence, chosen to disregard that rule.

Sometimes I wonder if I look sheepish when I get myself in trouble. Does my head hang dejectedly when I spend an entire afternoon cruising the paper arts stores on the internet or stop by Starbucks for a $4 coffee I could make at home for pennies?

Unfortunately, I probably rationalize my time or monetary indiscretions.

Does a dog have more discretion than I? Do her mistakes in judgment bother her more than mine bother me?

Yesterday, the dog looked sheepish.

Today we found two newly dug holes in the back yard.

Yesterday I got the munchies and ate ice cream right before bedtime.

I guess need to work on my sheepish look.

Oh, my!

We’ve become zoo patrons since we started babysitting for Little Man and The Princess. Here in the Twin Cities, we are privileged to have choices.

St. Paul is been home to Como Zoo for over 100 years. It was where we baby boomers went when our parents took us to visit the tigers and bears. It may be a little worn around the edges, but it does bring back good memories.

(One of those memories is when, as an engaged couple, we took three little kids to the zoo for an afternoon of animal watching. At the end of that experience, we decided since we were still in love, the marriage was sure to work.)

When we took the two grandkids to Como Zoo a few weeks ago, we had not realized it was Earth Day. Expecting few people, we were surprised to find hundreds of moms, kids, strollers, and, since it was early in the season, few animals outside.

We entered through the visitor building. There were two doors: left for zoo…right for conservatory. Our doublewide stroller would not manage the narrow walkways in the conservatory, but we parked outside the window and I pointed out the jungle.

Two and a half year old Little Man turned and gave me “the look” and said, “That’s the rain forest, Grandma.”

I stood corrected.

The Minnesota Zoo is a relative newcomer, having come on the scene some thirty years ago. The exhibits are easier to navigate. The Zoo is minutes away. And if that were not enough to convince us to choose it, our daughter bought us a grandparent’s membership.

We venture there weekly to visit different areas.

Little Man loves the tigers and the monkeys. The Princess was brave enough to touch a wolf pelt held by a grandmotherly volunteer.

And then there is the dead animal zoo. The dead animal zoo is actually a sporting goods store named Cabela’s. It was given the name years ago by a friend of ours who was surprised at the prominent displays of taxidermy throughout the store.

Little Man and The Princess ended up at the dead animal zoo with their grandpa one afternoon. At the dead animal zoo, kids can get right under the trunk of the elephant. They can see the lion up close and personal. Nothing is sleeping in a corner. And, if that were not enough, there are no strange odors.

Little Man and The Princess saw it all from the comfortable height of a shopping cart.

And when they get to the other side of the store, they wandered through a room of aquariums filled with (live) Minnesota fish. Little Man was fascinated with the fish.
Once was not enough, so Grandpa had to take the kids back to see some of the taxidermy a second time before heading back to the car with his little Cabela’s purchase.



Little Man and the Princess like going to the zoo. Guess which one is their favorite?

Moving

My friend Roxy’s move got me thinking of some memorable moves I’ve made over the years.

My childhood had been spent in one house, the one my mother had grown up in. Our family had moved there when I was only a few months old. We were there to take care of Grandpa, who was lost after Grandma’s death.

Moving did not happen again until, as an about to be married person, I went apartment hunting.

I remember looking at an apartment shown to us by a frazzled female caretaker. Her own apartment featured a Dutch door, and she kept the top half open so she could keep track of several turbo tots while she showed us the apartment across the hall.

The apartment needed many repairs. The caretaker was unsure when those repairs would happen and when we could actually move in.

The second apartment we saw was quiet, clean, and available when we needed it. We signed on the dotted line.

Three days before the wedding was “take possession” day. Our moving crew consisted of the bride, groom, maid of honor, best man, his wife (who would soon be my sister in law) the mother of the bride, brother of the bride, and, in a curious turn of events, the paternal grandparents of the bride. Grandma had insisted on helping. Nobody turned down Grandma when she insisted. Ever.

We loaded a borrowed truck with my bedroom furniture, a bookcase Grandpa had built for me years earlier, my parent’s old kitchen table and chairs, gifts from several bridal showers and the wedding gifts that had been sent to the house.

It seemed to me like there were more people helping that we really needed, but, as a novice mover, I went with the flow.

We learned a few things the hard way. The best man was quickly dispatched down the street to purchase some ice for the soda we had brought and a roll of Charmin for after we drank our fill.

Grandma stationed herself in the little apartment kitchen. “Where is the shelf paper?” She demanded.

I looked at my mom. Mom raised her eyebrow. I know. Don’t question Grandma. (Mom had learned that early in her marriage.)

“I’ll know the box when I see it,” I offered.

Not good enough.

“Go down to the truck and get it.”

I did.

Furniture began to fill the bedroom and the dining area. Furniture had been purchased for the living room, but it would take another week before it was delivered.

“I need a pair of shears!” Grandma loudly announced. (Grandma never called them scissors.)

“Hopefully I’ll see them in the next box,” I ventured.

I take a break from this story to mention that, as a teenager, I had received a Twister game as a gift. It had remained, unopened.

For anyone who might not have had the pleasure of a Twister experience, two or more people are directed to place a part of their person on various colored circles. Eventually, those playing are twisted and bridged around each other in odd formation.

I had never played Twister. I couldn’t imagine ever playing Twister. I had thought of leaving it behind, but my mother, a girl of the great depression years, had urged me to keep it so my future children would have it.

And so it was, that as that Twister game arrived in the next box, Grandma grabbed it and yelled, “This is what I’ve been waiting for!”

The thought of Grandma playing Twister was too much. I retreated into the bathroom when I sat on the edge of the tub and tried to control my laughter.

Soon after that, my mother, being a wise woman, directed everyone out except for the maid of honor and me. We got the rest of the apartment put together quickly.

I spent the remaining nights of my singleness with no bed (having already moved it to the apartment.) It did occur to me that sleeping on my parent’s sofa might just make me wake up feeling like I was playing Twister, but I never mentioned it to Grandma.

Ending and Beginnings

It was a good place to work for an old card maker like me.

It was a place where, when things were slow, I could play with the products and create samples for the walls.

It was an opportunity for me to travel to out of state trade shows and meet with people like Dee Gruening, Suze Weinberg, and Tim Holtz. It was also an opportunity to get specialized training from Kathy (lead designer for Penny Black) and Claire Hampton (Hampton Art Stamps).

Did I tell you I got to meet Tim Holtz?

It was a place where I learned to wear many hats: retail manager, buyer, designer, and instructor.

It was also a place where, over a period of four years, I made many new friends.

So when it came to an end, it was with mixed feelings that I walked away. Yes, I knew it was time to hang out the closed sign and move on. Still, the card maker in me begged for more.

My employers (also good friends of mine) were exceptionally generous, giving me free reign to take home anything I wanted.

I found things that called me name. “Judy…” said the Paper Artsy stamps, “Take me home.” I took a few sets.

“You need me,” called out the ribbon. “I cut lengths of several reels.

“Think of my name!” cried the Tim Holtz distress inks. Tim Holtz jumped into by basket.

When I was through shopping, I left my key for whomever rents the space next.

And then came the final sale. One day only. An outside crew was hired to administer it. I stayed home. I paced. A trip to the library was a challenge in not pointing the nose of my car toward the store to do a drive by.

It would be nice to know how they were doing. The manager in me needed information.

But I was strong, and I turned the car toward home.

Gratefully, I was able to get several reports throughout the day. (Remember me telling you the owners are also friends of mine?)

I am thankful to have held this position. It was a good place to work.

And now I’m ready for whatever comes next.

There's always room......

After thinking about the meals of Spam I consumed as a child, I was in a nostaglic food mood this week. Naturally, I thought of Jell-o.

Every meal consumed with extended family members included the wiggly stuff.

If we were at Aunt Vera's house, we were served her claim to fame...mandarin orange Jell-o. It started with orange Jell-o to which was added canned mandarin oranges and orange sherbet. It worked once. It worked every time Aunt Vera entertained.

Grandma thought, "What's not to love?" and added it to her "A list" as well. Grandma didn't entertain as much as Aunt Vera, but when she did, Mandarin Jell-o was there at the table, right along with Grandpa and Uncle Jim.

Aunt Dena made jell-o a staple as well. Hers was always molded into a fancy wreath-like appearance. If Martha Stewart had been around in Aunt Dena's day, she would have asked Uncle Harry for a subscription to the magazine for Christmas. Aunt Dena put a little extra in everything she did.

So we sat in their tidy little post-war bungalow in their tidy little dining room, eating Thanksgiving dinner that just had to include the wreath-like gelatin. The open center was then filled to overflowing with miracle whip. Looking back, it was something of a miracle I grew up at all. At the time, however, I didn't thing it got any better than lime Jell-o with gobs of Miracle Whip.

My mother's jello was lemon in color and filled with assorted chopped vegetables including, but not limited to carrots, green pepper, celery, and cabbage. I should clarify the term "filled". To say vegetables were added to the syrup before cooling is putting it mildly. Mom's Jell-o mixture was a little bit like eating slimy cole slaw. I loved it.

The picture I included this time is of a recipe called "Tuna Jell-o Salad." It has eggs and olives in it along with the tuna and celery. Fortunately, no one in my family ever heard of it.

Childhood

We’ve been listening to an audio book about growing up in mid twentieth century
Mid-America. I admit it got me thinking of my own mid twentieth century childhood.

As a child of the era, I lived in a kind of post WWII utopia in South Minneapolis.

We were a family of five, living in the house where my mother and her siblings had grown up.

I was a few months shy of kindergarten when my brother was born.

Having a brother didn’t change things for me until he was big enough to walk. Then I was elected chaser. As chaser, I was supposed to catch up with him and bring him back. Usually, it meant grabbing him off the porch and hauling his squirming self into the living room where he could be properly supervised. Once I sprinted up the sidewalk after him, reaching his naked but for a diaper body five houses away from home. After the running up the block incident, a large hook and corresponding eye were installed on the porch door and doorframe. That made my life much easier.

Mom got us off to school in the morning. She had my leftovers from the night before hot and ready to serve when I walked home from the elementary school for lunch. She was there, often times removing sun dried clothes from the lines strung all over the yard, when I came home at 3:00.

Dad left early each morning. He was home by five and dinner was served immediately after that. Usually, dinner was a (red) meat and potato affair. After a friend gave Mom a curious recipe involving Velveeta cheese, tomato paste, and Spam, the menu expanded. The Spam and cheese were put through a grinder, the tomato paste added, and then it was spread on hamburger bun halves to be broiled and eaten. I didn’t question the combination. I was nothing if not obedient. I ate it.

The other member of our household was Uncs. Uncs was my mother’s bachelor brother. Having Uncs there was like having a fan club. He read to us by the hour, delighted in handing out nickels for any and all occasions, and didn’t mind kids who liked to tag along.

I tagged along to the bakery, where the nice lady always rewarded my good behavior with a sugar cookie. I tagged along to have the oil changed. I loved watching the car as it was hoisted up in the air. I tagged along to the barbershop and watched Joe, the neighborhood barber, carefully trim Unc’s comb-over. Uncs always knew when it was time to get a haircut because he had sprouted what he referred to as “goople-feathers” at his collar. Joe was great at removing goople-feathers. He wasn’t half bad at trimming comb-overs, either.

As my parents aged and eventually moved into a senior living apartment, my oldest daughter bought their house.

Mom, now in her nineties, still lives in the apartment. She is having some friends in for lunch this week. Guess what’s on the menu?

Back Online

I felt so unconnected!

For 42 hours, I was unable to open my email. Because I send communications for my church, this was a biggie.

First on my list was to contact PC Man, my computer geek buddy for answers. I left him a voicemail. When was the last time I actually called the guy? Probably the last time my email was down. (We usually email each other.)

PC Man called the service provider. He pressed two. He listened. He pressed 4 and 1 and 5 and 2 again before hearing, “If you’d like to speak to a technetium, press O.”

He pressed O. The phone rang 72 times. Nobody answered.

But did this stop PC Man? Oh, no.

PC Man has the cell phone number of the owner of the service. (He did not tell me how he happened to have this information. I didn’t ask.)

He called the owner’s cell number.
At 3:30.
A.M.

A series of calls later, morning arrived, but there was still no service available.

I talked to PC Man just after lunch. The tech guys were keeping him informed, sort of.

“They won’t give me details,” He said. PC Man is a detail sort of guy.

He called me back again, at dinnertime, to say we were finally up and running.

And so here I am, back in service myself.

Technology is great. Knowing the right number is priceless.

Famous Detective

We are addicted to fictional detective Nero Wolfe.

For years, a road trip has merited the borrowing of one of our county library's audio books.

After a camping trip with our granddaughter, (and with Nero along for the ride, of course) Caley looked at the clouds."That one looks like a sailing ship," She said. "Here is one that is a pretzel. And that one looks just like a wolf. I think I'll call it Nero."

Thursday's prices at the pump ($3.29 per gallon) negated any idea of a lengthy trip, but an audio book, a state park sticker that still has two months to go, and a packed lunch later, we were on the road again.

Fifteen minutes from home, we reached our destination.Our short journey took us to Fort Snelling State Park. This is a park of contrasts. Nature at its finest with river views and hiking paths competes with a mile long bridge buzzing with traffic and a sky buzzing with the planes arriving and leaving from Twin Cities' International Airport. The Mall to End Them All is minutes away.

And yet a sense of calmness remains in the park.

We ate turkey sandwiches. We munched on grapes. We drank sodas. We listened to Michael Pritchard reading one of our favorite Nero Wolfe books.

There are a dozen or more of these audio books in our library system. We've heard them all. We've heard some of them more than once. It doesn't matter. We'll listen again.

There isn't much color in the park, yet. A warming spring sun has melted the snow. Robins flutter into nearby trees. But much of the landscape remains a dull brown as it awaits the green that surely will come soon.The deer blend into this brown scene, but if you look closely, they are plentiful.

And so we sat, windows open, listening to the pickle Nero and Archie got themselves into, this time. (Nero and Archie get themselves into a pickle almost every time. It is part of their charm.)

That reminded me that I should have packed us each a pickle!

Oh well, there's always next time.

Pick One

I left the house coatless this morning. There, in the church lobby area, I noticed most others dressed in the same way.

April arrives on Tuesday.

There is one tiny patch of snow in my yard. Just behind the mailbox and protected from the warm rays of the sun’s melting power, this little spot is the last reminder of winter.

While I have yet to have the visual reminder of spring, members of my family have (finally) spotted robins in the yard.

And then, at dinner tonight, my daughter announced hearing a weather report of more of the white stuff that shall remain nameless here. And it is arriving along with April.

Ah, the idiosyncrasies of Minnesota seasons.

The year I was planning my wedding gave us an unseasonably cold summer, right up until the week before I married. The week of my wedding was one of those “you could fry an egg on the pavement” times. I threatened to ditch the long sleeved satin for shorts and a tank top, but a reprieve arrived the day of the ceremony in the form of seventy degrees.

We’ve had Halloween blizzards and balmy March days. We put our fireplace to use one year when Independence Day warranted it. Some years, we only dream of a white Christmas. Other times, we just want to stop having to shovel so much of it before the guests arrive.

And that is the beauty of Minnesota. Don’t like the weather? Wait a day or two. Another (misplaced) season just might be on its way.

I tried to be good

Leo is two years old. He arrived for his day with Grammie and Boopa wearing a blue tee shirt that read: I tired to be good but I got bored.

It describes a two year old. Very well.

It also describes me.

I can tell myself I will buy absolutely no new paper-arts related this or that. I mean it.
Then, just about that time I get bored Then I see an online ad for this or that at here or there.

It won’t hurt to just take a peek.

So I take a peek and I’m sunk. I mean, those highly desirable this and that’s are right there. And, today only, I can get free shipping!

Does it matter that I worked in the industry for several years and bought enough to pretty much start my own this and that empire? Does it matter that I’m having trouble finding spots of all those past purchases of this and that? Not a bit.

Last week I got four new embossing folders for my Cuttlebug. I could justify that. I’m in a swap (due in 12 days) that will use a Cuttlebug folder. Never mind the fact that I own just about all the original folders. These were 10% off, for Pete’s sake!

I also ordered two sheets of stamps from an online store I had never seen before. My entire purchase was 20% off. I like 20% off. (Some have been known to use that in describing me, but that’s another story)

The following day I had to force myself not to open the ad from Sizzix.

This week some of my new storage units will get installed in the studio. I’ll be organized at last. Well, I’ll be organized as soon as I fill those units with all my this and that.

Hopefully this project will last awhile and keep me from getting bored. (Unless, of course, someone has a 40% off sale.)

Babysitting

One of the interesting things about marrying so young is that, in our late 50s when many of our friends are becoming first time grandparents, we are already greats. Our two great grands are aged 2 1/2 and 1 1/2 and they are here for the day.

I remind myself I am not a rookie. I have four kids, six grands, and (over a 20 year span) close to 100 who have passed through here as foster kids.

But it has been a while. And I'm going it alone for half the day, due to a husband who has graciously become chauffer for my 92 year old mother's many medical appointments.

Little Man loves Go, Diego, Go. He had a dvd. By 11 A.M., I know it by heart.

Little Man is over the back of the sofa. Rescue in order. He goes over the back of the chair. Rescue again. He opens the pantry and emerges with a box of Lucky Charms. He only eats the marshmallows. (I, in a momentary burst of wisdom, had a lock put on the pantry door when the contactor built it 14 years ago. Today, after checking every key on my ring to make sure I still had the one that fits, I used the lock.)

The Princess, who is afraid of our dog, is now attached to my side. Little Man, who is not afraid of the dog, is trying to jump over it. The Princess learns to say "Doggie says Woof." Once, she is brave enough to fleetingly touch the dog. After that, The Princess resumes being afraid of it.

The Princess calls me Mom. Her brother refers to me as Vikki. Vikki is his auntie and she showed up about noon so that he'd get us straight in his mind. Now he calls us both Vikki. (I'm actually far better with that than Vikki would be if he called her Grammie.

We have noodles and strawberries and chicken for lunch. (This is starting to come back to me.) Other than forgetting to put a bib on The Princess, lunch was a cinch.

And now, it is nap time.

I think I'll take one.

Walkin' in Memphis

What a change it has been, back in the land or 10,00 (frozen) lakes.

Yes, I admit, I am a Minnesota girl, through and through. I will also admit to appreciating the 60-degree (that’s above zero, folks!) weather we experienced in Memphis.

We sat at a table at a sidewalk café, sipping our sodas and marveling at flower boxes already sporting pansies and petunias. Back home, flower boxes are still covered with some inches of graying, late-February snow.


We strolled to a nearby park where statues honor Jefferson Davis and other Civil War era names not among the top heroes of old in the northern states.

Then we rode the trolley. The Memphis trolley line is a great way to see the downtown area. One trolley makes a loop, and for a dollar each, DH and I had not only a good view of Memphis, but also the attention of drivers who knew the answer to any question we came up with.

One afternoon we took the trolley to the National Civil Rights Museum. This eye opening tribute is built onto the Lorraine Motel, which is the site of the 1968 assassination of the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I was amazed and ashamed at how recently groups of Americans have been mistreated buy their government and fellow citizens and I recommend this stop for anyone traveling to Memphis.


We had been told one trip to Beale Street for authentic barbeque is mandatory. We obliged by spending Saturday evening in an establishment with the curious moniker of: PIG… pork with an attitude.

Pig did not disappoint.

At some point, a thin gentleman with gray hair reaching midway on his back took the stage. He had a black felt hat, sunglasses, and several guitars. Blues tunes poured forth from that point.

We don’t have blues cafes in Eagan, Minnesota. This was pretty cool. Had I carried my camera, I would have joined the guy on stage long enough for a photo so I could jokingly tell my daughters I was part of the show. Unfortunately (fortunately for the thin guy with the gray hair) my camera was back at the hotel that evening.

I saw my first robin of the year on the grounds of Graceland. Our daughter had told us we had to see Graceland for the tackiness factor alone. She was right. Unabashedly “hip” in it’s day, now from the 12 foot white ornate sofa in the living room to the green shag carpeting and dark, overly carved pieces in the jungle room, the “mansion” now has an eerily thrift store feel about it.

Elvis’ airplane, named the Lisa Marie, could have come direct from the set of a 1970 bachelor film. Beyond that, one can see from the gold plated seatbelt buckles to the gold faucets in both bathrooms, Elvis spared no expense in getting this aircraft to meet his specifications.

The staff at Graceland does an excellent job of getting large numbers of tourists through the grounds. The entire tour is organized and every employee courteous and knowledgeable.

Memphis, I have discovered, is a fascinating destination. The fact that it pays homage to the diverse likes of Jefferson Davis, The Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., blues music, barbeque, and Elvis, speaks for itself.

Coming soon..hopefully

I admit it. I have Spring Fever, and I have it bad.

Don't get the wrong impression. I'm the first to be dreaming of a white Christmas. I'm even up for an occasional January flurry.

But by February I'm so looking forward to signs of a changing season.

My first child was born in February. I remember looking out the window of my hospital room in Minneapolis. The houses in the neighborhood were gray. The snow was gray. The cars in the street all seemed to be coated with late winter gray perma-grime. The sky was even gray.

I was a new mom. Things should be beautiful everywhere! (There should be a law...right?)

When the brother-in-law toting a spring-like hyacinth showed up, you can believe that lovely purple plant went on the window ledge in short order.

Every other visitor commented on that plant. Spring was in the air in that little room.

We dressed that baby in several pink layers for the trip home. We dressed the hyacinth in several layers of paper and it came home, too.

Fast forward to 2008. (February 2008)

It's been cloudy for a few days. When the sun finally peeked though this afternoon, it was a click your heels in the air moment. (Side note to physical therapist: Don't get worried. I didn't actually do it.)

Sun! Now, no disrespect to Punxsutawmey Phil intended, I'm ready for the whole thing.

Light jackets.

Puddles.

Buds.

Robins.

Even pastel M & Ms.

Bring it all on.

caffeine

Some mornings are just like that.

Awareness comes in layers and with the last one comes the realization that sleeping in might not be a bad way to start the day.

The next thought is always a mental check of the calendar and remembering I have a breakfast date with my hubby.

So I leave the comfort of a warm quilt, grab my towel, and sprint down the hall to the shower.

And while the hot water finishes waking me, I'm mentally making the next move (coffee!)

At home, coffee is all about the electric pot, French press, or the Starbucks window. And the coffee is so good!

But we have spent some time camping over the last several years. The best time of day just has to be early, when it's all about wood fires, coffee and bacon. Can't you smell it?

We sit close to the fire, having brewed our morning pot in enamelware over an open flame. And it is so good!

So here's a little know fact. I was not a coffee drinker until I was in my 40s. As any of my friends will attest, I've made up for lost time.

Changes

So here I am, at 11:30 on a Saturday morning, drinking my coffee in my home office instead behind the counter of in the store.

What have I been doing these last few weeks?

I've been enjoying most aspects of my "vacation", including coffee and crossword puzzles with my hubby most mornings.

My craft room is starting to take shape. (Finding homes for all that STUFF is taking time.)

We've taken Grandma to several medical appoints. I've had a few of my own, too. I've started physical therapy, and I'm starting to see progress.

All those books I've been meaning to read? They have been read.

The one I've been meaning to write? I'm writing it.

What comes next?

We're riding the rails in February.

The last time I took a train trip was with the girl scouts when I was in elementary school. We got as far as Red Wing. This trip will take us to Memphis. (Yes Memphis. Yes, we will tour Graceland. Touring Graceland is a requirement if you visit Memphis, right?))

I plan to take lots of photos of our adventure and will share them with you upon our return.

When vacation, self imposed or actual is over, Grandma's babysitting service will open for business as I take on childcare for the two youngest grands three days a week.

I'm also going to help as needed with the Anderson's new business, the National Impala Association. There will be a huge event in Indianapolis later this summer, sponsered by the NIA. I'll be there. (Race You To Indy!)

I'm also working with my pastor to develop a new "love in action" ministry through my church.

If you are one of the friends I made on Marie Avenue over the years, please know I miss you and would love to hear from you. It was hard to get used to not being there each day waiting for you to drop in an visit.

But I am happy, busy, and loving this new season of my life.

Yes, there is life for me beyond the Caprice Paper Arts store, and it is good.

At the beginning

Some people call them resolutions.

I like to call them beginnings.

The new year seems like an excellent time to begin things. I have a list.

In 2008 I'd like to publish some of my work. I'd like to finally get my home studio organized. I'd like to travel with my hubby, do a few badly needed projects around the house, and learn to knit. I'd like to give my family more time. I'd like to give more attention to my ministry through my church.

With things still unsettled on Marie Avenue, I'm finding I have time on my hands to "begin" on these beginnings.

We're building storage for the studio. I expect a February finish date and I'm excited.

My new computer has found a perma-home in my office and is getting regular use.

A friend has promised to teach me knitting.

Our first trip is a little more than a month away.

I'm meeting with our pastor tomorrow to talk over some ministry ideas he has.

My family has been popping in like crazy.

2008 is getting off to a good start. My beginnings are beginning to fall into place. I pray yours are, as well.

Thanks for stopping by.