The day the mincemeat melted

This morning I decided to make pancakes. I turned on the oven to warm up to 275 degrees. I forgot that I had kitty-proofed some plates of Christmas goodies by putting them in the oven. The oven beeped that it was ready, I heard a "clunk," and I smelled burning plastic. Here's what I peeled off the oven grate with a spatula:

Fortunately, most of my Christmas treats weren't in the oven. Those in cat-proof tins were sitting here on the kitchen table:

But really, it's been a good Christmas. Here are the slipper socks that Santa put in my stocking. Britomart likes them, too-- or at least she liked being in the picture:

And now on to the next holiday: Happy New Year about 14 hours early!

Reader participation time!

This is actually lifted from a friend's Facebook page-- and I posted it on my Facebook page, too-- but it's kind of fun to do. Feel free to play if you want; just comment that you want to play. If you choose to comment and play, here's what I'll do:

1. I'll respond with something random about you.
2. I'll tell you which song or movie you remind me of.
3. I'll pick the flavor of ice cream that best suits you.
4. I'll say something that only makes sense to you and me. (If possible; if not, I'll say something that only makes sense to me. Won't that be fun?)
5. I'll tell you my first memory of you.
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I'll ask you something I've always wondered about you.
8. I'll tell you my favorite thing about you.
9. I'll tell you my least favorite thing about you-- in a very diplomatic, charitable way, of course.
10. If you play, you must post this entry on YOUR blog so more people can play.

I know, I'm not big on chain stuff passed along (reminds me of passing along a stomach flu virus), but I think this one's fun.

Energy building or energy draining?

A colleague reminded me of an exercise that's intended to teach students how to balance their lives. Here's how it works: You make a schedule of your day and categorize each activity based on whether it builds energy, drains energy, or is a complete waste of time. The goal is to have more energy building activities than energy draining ones (duh!). Let's see how I did today:

Slept in an hour later than normal-- should have been energy building, but I missed my normal morning run, which definitely builds energy AND made me feel guilty for staying in bed like a slug-- so that's an energy drain
Read scriptures-- energy building
Wrote a conference proposal draft and sent it off to colleagues-- energy draining, although ultimately the project is energy building-- it would be building if I weren't already so tired
Went to lunch with several colleagues-- energy building conversation
Waited an hour for our lunch to arrive-- energy draining
Finished conference proposal-- energy building
Went to Michael's to find materials to make ornaments for Thursday night's ornament exchange, which entailed driving in the rain as it got dark-- energy draining
Ate dinner-- energy building
Paid bills-- energy building- I know, weird, but I always finish paying bills and think, "Yes! Made it this month!"
Family home evening-- energy building

So how'd I do? I think maybe I broke even. Hmm. Gotta work on this.

It's beginning to look like Christmas

Here's my Christmas tree, complete with bubble lights. (I need more . . .)

Here are the Christmas carolers my dad made decades okay. There used to be four, but one got lost/blown away two years ago (sob!).

I have no outside outlights, and I'm scared of getting up on a ladder anyhow, so my compromise is to hang lights on the insides of my windows. I didn't notice some had fallen down until after I took this picture-- oops. It also just occurred to me that I should have turned on my outside lights, too (on either side of the door).

I'm not sure what my decorations would rate on Steve Fletcher's rating scale, but I tried. . . If I had outside outlets, I'd love to have one or two of those deer strung with lights. Kaysville Utah's city hall has a lit up moose-- I'd like that even better. Tonight, if I were in Iowa, I'd be driving around looking at all the luminaries in Coralville. Instead, I'll drive around and look at lights in South Park, the area where all the historical homes are. Christmas lights are the best!

Happy Birthday, Grandma May!!

Today, assuming Grandma May were still alive, would be her 100th birthday. She died in 2004, so she came pretty close to reaching that centenarian mark. Ten years ago, for Grandma's 90th birthday, the entire May clan put together a scrapbook where every family member got a page to write Grandma things they loved about her. Grandma won't be reading this blog (I'm sure she's got way more important things to do on the other side of the veil), but I want to celebrate Grandma's birthday by listing some things I love about her:

Grandma's noodle candy-- it's the last Christmas she ever gave me, and she made it despite really poor vision due to macular degeneration.
She used the word "scads" all the time-- as in "I have scads of laundry to do today."
Her visits to our house, driving from Ojai to San Jose in her green Dodge Dart-- when I saw that car as I came home from school, I'd run for the house because I knew she was there.
Staying feisty and energetic well into her early 90's-- guess who toured Europe when she was 80? Do I have those genes?
Her love of music.
Her height-- or lack thereof. I think there are hobbit genes in my family . . .
Her rock solid testimony of the Gospel.
Ice cream pie and lemonade made from lemons grown in her yard.
Her insistence that I drink pulpy orange juice even when I complained as a small child-- she saw past my stupidity when I couldn't.
The hours of sewing she put in to make clothes for me and my sister.
Her independence and how she put her life back together and reinvented herself after Grandpa May died suddenly.
Her tolerance of the cats in our house, even though she always got bitten by fleas during every visit (we tried to control them, honest).
Her sense of humor and her laugh.

I love you, Grandma! Can I be like you when I grow up?

Mommy, why did Sheila just fall off the organ bench?

I just know a friend's four-year-old is going to ask that one of these Sundays. You just wait; it'll happen. It almost happened last Sunday.

See, I'm too short for the organ; at least to play the pedals, which are a crucial part of an organ sounding like an organ as opposed to, say, a slightly mellower piano without the damper pedal. I have no idea how Grandma May, who was under five feet tall, played the organ all those years. Grandma, when I get on the other side of the veil I'm going to ask you.

Anyhow, back to the story. The few times I had to play the organ in Iowa City Second Ward, it was one of those fancy new organs that has a bass coupler, which is a nifty little lever you push that makes it SOUND like you're playing the pedals when you're really just using the keyboard. Pretty nice for short-legged pianists who get drafted into playing the organ because nobody else will admit that they play (or just plain DOESN'T play).

Funny tangent: I was asked a few years back to accompany a choir number for Easter. The number had an organ accompaniment, so I gamely agreed to play the organ. When I sat at the organ, I realized that I couldn't reach the pedals AND see over the music stand to watch the conductor. I sort of braced one leg against the bench and craned my neck, waiting for the director's opening cue. He turned to me, burst out laughing, and said, "Sheila, would you like to switch to the piano?"

So the organ in the Morgantown chapel does NOT have a bass coupler. It also has several non-working pedals. Like the B flat that's in every single hymn that has any flats at all, which is most of the hymn book. My solution: play the B flat that's an octave higher. Not a big difference in sound.

Big difference in terms of Sheila's balance, though. Keep in mind that the B flat I have to reach now is way up near the right hand side of the pedals while every other pedal I need is way at the left hand side. Also keep in mind that Sheila's already short legs have a hard time staying balanced without at least sometimes staying stationary, which is impossible when you have to move all over the pedals. Well, and I was wearing a kind of slick skirt Sunday (who knew a kilt could be slippery?).

Result? I almost slid off the organ bench several times during Sacrament Meeting. I was so relieved to NOT have fallen off the bench after four verses of the closing hymn (I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day) that I took my hands off the keyboard, thinking I was done. Nope, there's a fifth verse. I think the chorister thought I was giving a dramatic pause for effect, so maybe I got playing again in time that nobody noticed.

If you're TALL and play the organ, can you please move to Morgantown? Soon?

Alice speaks her mind

Okay, so Britomart already wrote HER blog entry. Now it's my turn. My name's Alice, and I'm the bigger, softer, nicer of the two of us. I get picked on by Brit all the time; notice on the picture at the bottom of the blog that in the picture on the papa san chair, Brit's got the prime spot in the center while I'm stuck on the outside edge. She thinks she's alpha cat or something, and she weighs half what I do. Oh, but I digress . . .

I wanted to blog about a new toy I've discovered in the kitchen: the corner cupboard above the counter, next to the sink. A couple of weeks ago Brit and I figured out that we could pull it open. There's not much we can paw at in there besides dishes, so for a while we just left the door open so Mom could see how smart we are. Also to show that she doesn't have control over our access to cupboards.

Mom doesn't like us to open the cupboard, so we waited until she was in bed and couldn't hear us. That worked fine until we discovered a toy within the toy: a cloth bag that holds lots of plastic grocery bags inside. It has an opening at the bottom that's just paw-sized, begging for exploration. So I complied. I hooked my paw in and pulled out a plastic bag. I didn't mean to REALLY pull it out, but I often forget to retract my claws and it got stuck. I was all for leaving it on the counter so Mom wouldn't know which of us did it.

But no, Brit wanted to play with the bag and bat it around the living room floor. Those hardwood floors are fun to skid across. Too bad she made a lot of noise and woke Mom up. Uh oh. I cleared out and ran up the stairs to pretend I was asleep while Brit got in trouble. Revenge is sweet. Bad news, though. Mom put the new toy out of reach, up on the top shelf of the cupboard.

Hmm, I wonder how good my climbing skills are?

Technokitty

Hi. My name's Britomart, and while Mom's taking a Sunday nap, I decided it's time for me to write on the blog. This computer keyboard's a cinch to use; I just walk on the keys in the right order. I just pretend to walk randomly when Mom's awake so she doesn't know of my cyberspace capabilities. As long as I don't order anything with her credit card-- and as long as YOU don't say anything-- the secret will be safe.

So anyway, Mom's been reading this book called The Devious Book for Cats lately. I think it was supposed to be a Christmas present for me and my sister, but maybe she's reading it first. I've been sneaking peeks at it when she's at work, and it's all about how cats need to live exciting lives and let their true personalities be seen, so I'm going to write about yesterday from MY view (you get Mom's view way too often; how boring and one-sided).

7 AM- Mom's alarm rang. I hate that thing; just when I've finally found a comfortable position partially on Mom's pillow and partially across her head, it rings and she moves. I know she's going to ignore it for a few more minutes (sometimes she falls completely back to sleep), so why even set it? This time Mom got up pretty much right away. At least when she gets up she turns up the heat so that warm air blows out of the fun holes in the floor (see photo above). If she'd keep the heat turned up enough all night, I'd sleep on the hole in the dining room floor and she wouldn't have to worry about whether or not she can breathe when I sleep on her head.

7:15- Scripture reading time. Sometimes when I run to the hole in the floor to get some warmth, my sister Alice jumps up and takes prime lap spot away. Usually I just hiss at her to move, but today I felt generous and let her sit on Mom's lap the entire time. I do my scripture reading at night while Mom's sleeping; Alice prefers to read along with Mom in the mornings.

8 AM- Mom got dressed in a bunch of layers and said something about going outside to run on the Rail Trail. Today?!? Who wants to go out in the cold? People are silly. Alice and I curled up together on the bed to wait for her to get back. Sometimes Mom feeds us when she gets done running; maybe the endorphins make her feel extra generous.

9:30 AM- Mom must not have gotten lots of endorphins this run, because she didn't feed us after coming back. She said something about it's a Saturday and we can be fed in the evening like regular. Rats. Anyhow, she went in the backyard to play with leaves. She was out there a long time. How come I don't get to go outside and play with the leaves? She put them in big plastic bags and hauled them to the other side of the house; maybe she wants to play with them later. Again, though, it's kind of cold to be playing outside. Why didn't she just stay indoors so I could nap on her? I went back to the heater vent (see above photo).

11:30 AM- Yes! Mom took my favorite sweater out of the closet and put it on the bed! It's like a big comfy afghan and I like to knead my paws on it and purr. Mom put it on before I could do jump on it, though, and then went out in her new winter coat (note to self: must investigate new coat further). She said something about Christmas shopping. It was starting to snow, so I went back to the heater vent.

2 PM- Mom came home and did some reading. Lap time- score! I was pretty comfy; and then I realized the coat was unattended, stretched across the quilt rack in the dining room. All I had to do was pull it down with one paw and I could sit on it. Ahhh . . . down. Nice! Too bad Mom made me get off it after a few minutes.

3:30 PM- Very hungry. Time to pester Mom. I generally take turns with Alice on this. She hops up and yowls in Mom's face, then runs to the food bowl. Then a few minutes later I do the same thing. It hasn't worked yet, but we're campaigning for meal time to be moved up two hours. I checked to see if there was anything interesting in the kitchen garbage can under the sink, but Mom remembered to attach the child lock on the cupboard handles. Bummer.

5 PM- Meal time! Hurray! Best five minutes of the day. Too bad I have to share food with Alice. She takes too long to eat and gets her face in the way.

6 PM- Hmm, Mom made some food for herself that smelled good. I wanted to hop up and investigate, but she was still a little tense about my jumping in the middle of the dining room table a few days ago and licking out a bowl of Thanksgiving leftovers. What's the big deal? I waited politely for her to finish and everything. All those good remnants were going to get washed down the sink!

7 PM- Mom, Alice, and I read some Christmas scriptures while she burned a Christmas advent candle. I wish Mom would let me light the candle. Oh wait; I don't have opposable thumbs. Problem.

8 PM- Mom talked on the phone with a friend. I got some more quality lap time. She doesn't know that I nibbled a bit of the Christmas tree as well. . .

11 PM- Mom went to bed. She turned the heat down again, so I couldn't get air to come up through the heating vent. Had to sleep on her head again. I wanted to burrow under the covers, but she doesn't always like that. Maybe someday I'll figure out how to turn on the heat myself.

Sunday afternoon: Who needs a heater? The sun's out! See you later- I'm going sunbathing.

Toilet installation

Here's my toilet installation crew (Michael, Sam, and Dan West):

They came as moral support for their mom, who was moral support for me.

Here's the final installation product:

And here's the old toilet, ready for garbage pick-up. Bye bye!

(This was in January, so we kind of sledded the toilet down the hill.)

So am I ready to open a contracting business . . .?

NOTE: This was last January and I have yet to replace the other bathroom toilet.

Nope, no basement

I just tried to download a snazzy picture of the Alamo to start off this entry, but for some unknown reason it wouldn't work (hmm, couldn't be user error . . .). So just imagine the Alamo. Or, to quote Rod Serling, "Picture if you will."

Picture, if you will, an old Mexican mission in San Antonio, Texas. Said mission was the site of a horrific battle. Said mission was a lot bigger than what's presently there.

Okay, this entry really isn't about the Alamo, other than to say I went there last week. I stayed in a hotel right behind it while I was at a conference. Since it was right there, one day I sprung the $5 for the audio tour. Not a happy story behind the Alamo, but I learned a lot. A few quick facts:

The curvy roof deal that everyone recognizes was added many years later. When the Alamo was attacked, there was no roof over it.

All that's left is some gardens and the sanctuary dealie where everyone finally made their last stand. The original site was something like 3 acres in size, with only 200 men to defend what needed 500 men to defend properly.

There are "Alamo crackers" in the gift shop.

I liked San Antonio. Not sure why the Riverwalk was created, but it has some good restaurants. Best of all, it doesn't snow in San Antonio, or at least not while I was there, so I got five days away from cold and snow. Note: it's snowing outside at the moment. I have a hunch it's going to be a loooonng winter . . .

Six Sillies about Sheila

Jenn Fletcher tagged me to write six quirks about myself, and I had to try to be alliterative (is being an English teacher a quirk . . .?) I couldn't quite duplicate the "si" sound and still have my real name. Rats! Maybe "Six Sillies about Sheila that sound sibillant?" Nah.

Okay, enough stalling. Here I go:

1. I have little to no spatial intelligence when it comes to maps. I can, however, look at a jigsaw puzzle, pick up a piece, and fit it immediately into its appropriate spot without trying it lots of places first.

2. I would eat guacamole and pico de gallo for every single meal if I could figure out a way to get some calcium in me as well-- and if I lived where there's good Mexican food. Jenn, I identify with your single food quirk (okay, mine's double),

3. I have been known to sleep walk. I have practiced a lesson for Mardi Gras (in French) in my sleep, given apartment tours to amused roommates, and moved household items to odd spots where I can't find them later when I'm awake.

4. This one's related: I can sleep through earthquakes and tornados. Well, maybe not one that hit my house directly, but I slept through a tornado siren when I was right next to an open window and the cat had freaked out and ricocheted off my feet with her claws because of the noise. Yup, talent. Or maybe narcolepsy.

5. I harbor a secret dream of attending culinary school. I'd settle for marrying a chef who's into organic gardening. Or maybe I'll just learn to make some sushi.

6. I think the world would be a better place if pajama pants were considered professional wear.

There! Now I need to tag six more people. Okay, I tag . . . Meghan O'Neil, Emily Cairns, Jen West (are you reading this blog at all, Jen?), Olive Kite, Heather Wood, and Mary Brough.

Don't Trust Me with a Paint Pen

Yesterday afternoon I was all set to write a post about the paint pen explosion during Super Saturday while I was trying to make an advent candle. I even took a picture of the nice candle that was the model so I could contrast it with what I made (and, by the way, am too embarrassed to give away).

But you know what? I want to write about the Mountaineer Week fiddle contest I went to last night instead. I'm not a fiddler and have no idea how to tell what makes a champion fiddler. I just like the music. More than that, though, I like how fiddling-- at least in West Virginia-- seems to be more about preserving family traditions than music. I took piano lessons and learned Mozart and Beethoven from published books. These fiddlers get together with other fiddlers and learn tunes that have probably never been written down. I sat next to the wife of one of the fiddle contest competitors and asked her how people learn the music. She said they just listen and play along until they get it. Kind of a musical storytelling oral tradition. Very cool.

I'm posting a You Tube link to Elmer Rich, who took second place last night. He took first in the senior division, though, and usually takes first every year for the whole thing. Don't get me wrong; the twenty-something guy who won was very good, but he didn't have the history Elmer has. I have no idea how old Elmer is, but when he got up to tell about the heritage tune he was going to play (which means that he learned the tune from another West Virginia fiddler), he said, "Well, I learned this tune from my uncle. We played it for Eleanor Roosevelt in 1936." The crowd almost audibly gasped. This man has some serious fiddle history. I kind of felt like I listened to history last night. I did some quick math and realized he PLAYED the fiddle a year before my dad was even born. So even if he was ten at that point, that would make him at least 82 years old.

Here's what I think is the link: www.youtube.com/watch?v=57tRYDnGSAQ. If it doesn't work, do a You Tube search under Harry's High Note- Elmer Rich, fiddle. He's really fun to listen to you, and you can get some West Virginia history, too.

Read This Book!!

Okay, so this isn't a book review site-- but I started a book the other day that's SO, SO GOOD!! It's called The Zinnia Tales, published by Mountain Girl Press, and it's a collection of short stories by Appalachian women about Appalachian women. I'm a big fan of memoir types of writing, and these stories, even though they're fictional, read like creative nonfiction memoirs. Some are funny, some are poignant (I'd never thought about how women and children are affected by coal mine disasters in quite the way two stories depict them), and all of them celebrate strong women and sisterly bonds. We're reading it for book group, although I'm not sure how many women are actually planning on coming. Do yourself a favor and reward yourself with this very satisfying book!

And by the way, I'm probably the only person in Morgantown staying home and reading a book instead of watching the Cincinnati vs. WVU game that decides if WVU goes to the Orange Bowl. Yeah, I'm a geek. But I'm warm inside my house and all those Mountaineer fans are FREEZING!

I can't put my arms down!

Remember that line from the movie "A Christmas Story"? Ralphie's little brother in the big poofy snowsuit? I'm not wearing a snowsuit, but after two hours of painting up above my head this afternoon, I'm feeling just like him.

Some background: When I moved into my house, I noticed great big bees hovering around the balcony off my bedroom. I'm used to bees going away, so I wasn't bothered. But these bees didn't go away. Why? Because they lived in the wood in my balcony. They're carpenter bees, which for some reason like to burrow into wood instead of making regular beehives in a tree somewhere.

I called the Orkin guy. He sprayed, but he also told me that carpenter bees are really hard to get rid of because while eventually all the bees fly away, they're genetically programmed to remember where they started out. Kind of like the swallows in San Juan Capistrano: they come back to the same nest. So if you don't kill them ALL, they come back the next spring. I was hoping the Orkin guy was thorough.

Nope. The next spring, not as many bees, but still a few. The Orkin guy came and sprayed again. The only way to REALLY get rid of carpenter bees-- and even this isn't guaranteed-- is to paint the wood after they're all gone for the winter. They don't like painted wood. Maybe it tastes bad. Maybe it gunks up their mouths as they burrow into the wood. I dunno. I figured a couple of hours of painting and the cost of a gallon of paint is worth a try, especially compared to the cost of the Orkin guy coming in the spring.

Quick reminder: BALCONY. I'm short. Not that the balcony is all that tall, but I had to stand on a stepstool and paint over my head for two hours. I don't think arms are supposed to be in that position for long. I'll let you know in May if the muscle sacrifice worked.

And just for the record, I did vote this morning . . .

How can I compete?

The picture on the left is of the oh-so-scary Flatwoods monster. He's in my front window, and he lights up at night. What-- you don't know the story of the Flatwoods monster? Oh, okay, I'll tell you.

Flatwoods is the geographic center of West Virginia. It's where everyone comes for state meetings so that nobody can complain that they're driving further than anyone else. Along about 1952 or 1953 (I forget the actual year), a mom and her kids were wandering around in some woods near Flatwoods when they saw something streak across the sky and heard a crash as it landed. They went to investigate. That's when the Flatwoods monster appeared: 12 feet tall, glowing, with a head shaped like the ace of spades. My version was designed based on the witnesses' description and a re-created sketch. Yup, pretty scary. So I put my monster out for Halloween. The rest of the year it sits on my bookshelf in the living room.

The picture on the right is what the neighbors right across the street have done for THEIR Halloween display. How can my Flatwoods monster look even remotely scary compared to body parts hanging out of a nuclear drum and a beheaded mannequin right next to it looking for its head that's rolled off? Sigh . . . I just don't have a gruesome enough mind, I guess.

But whose house would you feel safe sending your kids trick or treating to?

Speaking of Halloween decorations, you might also want to visit the blog of my Relief Society president's husband: www.insidetoddsbrain.blogspot.com. His first October entry shows what they've done for Halloween. I'm hanging out there for Halloween. It's quite the show!

antibiotics all gone

This morning I took my last amoxicyllin (however you spell that) horse pill! Yay!! For those of you who haven't been hit by the weird flu strain that wants to settle in your chest and the bottom of your lungs, count yourselves lucky. I'm still not entirely sure that's what I had, but I got scared enough after almost a week of having fevers off and on and then getting winded going up two flights of stairs that I actually went to the doctor. The doctor actually ordered a chest x-ray, which made me feel consumptive or something. (But I passed my TB screening in August with flying colors . . .) "There's one little spot in your lower left lung. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, but here's a prescription for an inhaler and antibiotics."

That spot had better be gone after ten days of swallowing horse pills twice a day!

But if I relapse and end up with lung cancer from, oh, I don't know, second-hand smoke damage from my mission, can I have pansies on my grave?

It's Fall!!

I took this shot from an upstairs bedroom window. It wasn't quite in it's full blazing glory until a day or two later, but you get the idea here. I don't think I'll ever be able to live anywhere again that doesn't have fall colors. I've spent most of October driving through amazing panoramas of orange and red trees.

Too bad the leaves fall off. This tree, in my front yard, is now completely barren. I got the leaves raked up the other day and couldn't bend for a day or two afterwards. (No, I'm not getting old . . .) One tree done, five or six more trees in the backyard.

Why can't the color just stay through November? I know, I know, opposition in all things. I find the post-color season very anticlimactic, though. Good thing Christmas lights will go up in another month.

a lesson in balance

I'll start with my Wednesday schedule from this past week:

11:30-1:30- Lunch meeting with other professors and a few local teachers, two of whom had just told one of my student teachers days earlier that he couldn't teach in their building-- and he hadn't even taught a class yet.

1:30-4- Try to make sense of my chaotic office papers and get working on an article due Monday the 27th.

4-7- Methods class. During the last ten minutes, while I was trying to wrap class up a bit early because we had a guest speaker coming to a 7 PM Student Education Association meeting, one of my students confided that she worried about being able to balance the demands of teaching with having a real life and family. Crucial discussion that we started, but had to postpone for next week because we were out of time.

7-8:30- Student Education Association meeting with guest speaker from George Mason University. Fabulous presentation, but I hadn't eaten since the lunch meeting.

8:30-10- Girls' Night Out at Cheddar's. I finally eat dinner (tortilla soup).

Ironic that my student's comment in class came on such a crazy day. I've been thinking about it all week. How do you maintain a balanced life in this teaching world many of us have chosen? Before Thanksgiving, the following are due:

article for National Writing Project professional writing retreat anthology

faculty workload report (all done except for copying- whew!)

article for English Journal (currently in draft form)

revision of JAAL article

NCTE presentation

Needless to say, October's looking a little crazy, and I'm wondering if I'm a big hypocrite to my students who want to believe they can have a life outside of living in their classrooms, sleeping on a pull-down bed.

Good thing I had a fun weekend planned to re-establish equilibrium . . . It included a new women faculty "slumber party" at a colleague's cabin in Canaan Valley. On the way to the cabin, we passed the "smallest church in 48 states"-- we HAD to stop for a picture. The pews have room for twelve people. Twelve skinny people. I even bought two postcards. Then on to the booming metropolis of Davis, West Virginia for pizza at a place with the grumpiest waiter I've ever met. The food was great, though. We stayed up late talking and eating at the cabin, then got up early the next day for . . .

A trip to FallingWater, a house Frank Lloyd Wright designed for a really wealthy couple and their son. It's a weekend house, built literally right over a waterfall. It was built in the 1930's for the whopping sum of $155,000. I know that was huge for the Depression, but I kept thinking, "Hmm, my house cost $135,000. Where can I find an architect . . .?" The coolest thing about FallingWater is the sound of the waterfall. It was rainy today, so that added to the effect. So restful. Windows that can open out into gorgeous views without any house frame getting in the way, cantilevered decks for sunbathing (literally balanced over the waterfall), cool built-in closets and shelves. Yeah, I could live here. Well, the tubs are set a bit low into the ground. Okay, minor flaw.

On the way home, a stop in Uniontown to buy a new winter coat. I bought my present winter coat my first year of teaching. Hmm, that would have been in, oh, 1994. The friend who was with me said that if I plan on this new coat lasting that long, the cost of wearing it will be a HUGE bargain. What was it Olive wrote in her blog about a cost per wearing ratio . . .? I think this coat will cost me maybe $.20 per wearing. Or less.

Have I touched any school tasks today? Nope. Will I before Monday? Nope. Do I feel bad about that? Nope. Maybe I'm starting to figure out this balance thing after all.

an apple a day

Apples are healthy, right? I'm not so sure about picking apples-- that involves ladders, which increases the possibility of me falling. Take a close look at the ladder I'm on and you'll realize this is very much a posed picture. It scared me to get on step three because the only thing that was keeping me from falling was if the ladder was balanced properly against the tree trunk. So here's how things REALLY worked:

My friend Jo Ann, whose trees these are, and who's several inches taller than me, got on the ladder and picked two full buckets of apples. I stood on the ground and grabbed branches to yank the apples over to where I could reach them. Result: lots of twigs and leaves in my hair and half a bucket of apples picked in the time Jo Ann picked two buckets. But the apples are yummy (winesaps), and it was a great fall day to pick.

One more thing: I'm not as big as it looks like in the picture. The jacket really does make me look fat . . .

A Happy Discovery

I have to preface this blog entry by saying that those readers who are unfamiliar with Iowa City and its surrounding area probably won't appreciate the magnitude of this discovery. But for those of you who have moved to other parts of the country, you know what I'm talking about.

Let me back way up, to my first year in Iowa City. I was at a friend's house and opened a cupboard to find it packed with little plastic spice containers. My question: "What ARE these? Why don't you have spice containers from the regular grocery store?" Her response: "Don't you know yet about Stringtown? I'll have to take you there."

Stringtown Grocery: inexpensive spice and bulk foods mecca, located 15 miles away in Kalona, Iowa. I don't think I ever spent more than $3 for any spice I bought, no matter how exotic. When I knew I'd be leaving Iowa, I did a Stringtown run and splurged on all the spices I could. I restocked my entire spice supply for $25 (and that's a lot of spices, trust me).

As my spice supply dwindled, I started looking for an equivalent bulk store. I mean, come on: Stringtown is Amish-run and I live six miles south of the Pennsylvania border. There had to be an Amish store somewhere, right? I looked. I asked friends who were also looking. No luck.

Until this past Friday. I went with a couple of friends to the Springs Arts and Crafts Festival, located in Springs, Pennsyvlania, about 35 minutes' drive away. We ate homemade bread with apple butter, sausage sandwiches, freshly roasted peanuts, homemade fudge. We were happy. Two quick errands to run on the way home. I had already had a good day. First stop: Springs Grocery. I walked in and knew I'd found my mid-Atlantic Stringtown. Talk about making my entire week! Who would have thought a $1.34 plastic container of curry powder could be such a mood enhancer?

Life is good.

Crazy Bell Schedules

This morning I made the 15 mile trek to the high school I work with as part of my liaison responsibilities through the university. I was supposed to meet with the principal and a couple of teachers 4th period. When I arrived, I learned that because of unexpected testing, the schedule had been altered and students were just finishing 1st period (at 10:05 AM). Classes were only 30 minutes long, so I borrowed a teacher's laptop to do some writing while I waited until lunchtime and our rescheduled meeting.

Note: trigonometry is a foreign language-- just thought I'd throw that out there

During 3rd period, the principal came on the intercom:

"Students, please remember to go to your 5th period class after 3rd period. Or go to lunch, whichever normally comes first. Then go to your 4th period class, followed by your 6th period class. And because you've been so cooperative during the testing scheduling, we will extend lunch by 15 minutes."

During the lunch meeting, the principal's walkie talkie kept getting messages: "Which period are we in now? Should I be ringing the bell? What about the boy who took both lunches?"

Time for a spoof! Here's my new and improved version of the principal's original announcement:

"Students, thank you for coming to school fourteen minutes and twenty two seconds earlier than normal today. We'll be sure to use that extra instructional time wisely. Today is backwards schedule day, combined with mix up the content areas day. Please report to your fourth period class first. That makes it first period subprime a. Twenty minutes into first period subprime a, please report to period seven, which will become first period subprime b. The last five minutes of first period subprime b, report back to your original first period. Next will be lunch, interrupted after fifteen minutes by a bell signaling your report to third period (second period subprime a). Another bell will signal that your food is sufficiently digested to report to physical education. We're kicking off our new Exercise Across the Curriculum (EAC) program. Please report to the gym for our EAC 'thuse (formerly known as a pep rally), led by the science department. They used the second half of lunch (second period subprime b) to create a "Physics and physical activity can be phun" cheer which they will share with the student body. After the 'thuse, report to the last remnants of your regular second period class. We're not sure what time it will be at that point, so the rest of the day will be divided into equal time blocks and you will go to seventh period, then third period, then sixth period, and finally fifth period (isn't that alliteration nice?). Thank you, and have a great day."

Hmm- makes about as much sense as the bell schedules I've seen . . .

Tea for Shelley

See this pretty table? Yesterday I got to sit at it for a real live tea party. Okay, I drank lemonade rather than tea-- and yes, I was the only person present who didn't drink tea. But I drank that lemonade in a pretty Depression-era glass teacup, thank you very much.

So why was I at a tea party? Not usually what I do on a Saturday afternoon (half an hour before the party I was hurrying to mow my lawn before it started raining). This one was special. It was a "Tea for Shelley" fundraising tea party. The tea parties were started in the memory of a woman named Shelley Marshall who died in the September 11th attacks. Her husband wanted to do something to help his very young children remember their mother, something that would also benefit the community. Apparently Shelley loved tea parties, as well as art and music and poetry. The tea parties raise money for community arts events, especially poetry readings. I couldn't pass up the opportunity. Pretty hats, cute little quiches and cucumber sandwiches, and an hour of calm, happy conversation, plus a very cute little decorated cookie as a party favor. Now why don't I live in England where I could do this more often? Hmm. . .

Hey, Buckwheat!

It wouldn't be the end of September in West Virginia without the Preston County Buckwheat Festival. Queen Ceres didn't want to cooperate and look at the camera, but there she is (I didn't get a picture of King Buckwheat-- he had a separate float). This festival lasts four days, with each day having a different theme. Today was children's day, and all the kids in Preston County schools got a day off. That meant lots of marching bands, lots of trucks loaded with soccer teams and football players, lots of little gymnasts doing handsprings down the street (which had to hurt the skin). The WVU Mountaineer made an appearance (see photo), but not the WVU marching band. Rats- they have a great drum line.

This is a pretty fun small town event. Lots of carnival midway rides, funnel cakes, corn dogs, kettle corn, and farm animals. Too bad they haven't got the whole Iowa State Fair food on a stick thing going on. Corn dogs were all I could find on a stick. A couple of sheep tried to eat the tie on my sweater, and I saw a really big Texas longhorn in the cattle barn, so while it wasn't the Iowa State Fair, I at least got the fair vibe.

My one regret: no buckwheat honey this year. The honey vendor said the bees didn't do very well. Stupid colony decline disease! Buckwheat honey is really good stuff. I also didn't get a buckwheat pancake and sausage dinner this year. They're yummy, but I didn't want to wait in line for an hour. I'll just make my own buckwheat pancakes at home. So there.

Cooking time with Sheila

Last night I tried a new recipe and my first thought (after Yum!) was, "Hey, I know at least two of my blog readers who would like this." I could have e-mailed you individually, but I thought other members of the blogosphere (isn't that a great word?) might like it, too. Jen: I'm not sure if you can do the milk, but based on your Swiss cheese binge a few weeks ago, I'm thinking you probably can.

Chard and feta pie
from Simply Organic by Jesse Ziff Cool

2 cups shredded potatoes (don't peel them, just shred them after washing)
2 green onions, sliced
3/4 tsp. salt
6 eggs
1/4 c. flour
1/4 tsp. black pepper
2 T olive oil
1 red onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 bunches green or red chard or spinach, coarsely chopped-- eyeball this-- it's the bulk of your filling, so you'll want a lot
1 1/2 c. crumbled feta cheese, about 8 ounces-- I almost ran out with one package, so splurge and buy two so you can eat the extra on salads later
1 c. milk
2 T oregano (fresh) or 2 tsp dried
1/2 c. bread crumbs

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Lightly grease a 9-inch deep dish pie plate-- let me emphasize DEEP here.

Put the potatoes and green onions in a colander and sprinkle with 1/2 tsp. of salt. Drain for five minutes, gently squeezing out excess liquid.

Transfer to a medium bowl and add one of the eggs, the flour, and the pepper. Stir until blended. Press into the pie plate to form a crust. Brush with 1 T of the oil. Bake for 30 minutes, or until the crust is browned.

Heat the remaining oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the red onion and cook for four minutes or until soft. Add the garlic and chard/spinach and cook, stirring often, for 3 minutes or until the chard/spinach has wilted. Remove from heat, drain off excess liquid, and cool slightly.

In a large bowl, combine the remaining five eggs, one cup of the feta, the milk, oregano, the rest of the salt, and the chard mixture. Pour into the baked crust. Sprinkle the top with bread crumbs and the remaining 1/2 c. of cheese.

Reduce the heat to 350 degrees and bake for 35 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Let stand for 15 minutes before cutting. This could spill over, so put the pie on a cookie sheet before putting it in the oven.

I really like this-- it's kind of a quiche with a hashbrown crust. Very yummy! Serves 8.

Storm's a'comin

Today when I was driving home from stake conference (a 45 minute drive), the sky was blue and it was hot and humid outside. It's now 7:41 PM. The sky is covered in dark clouds and the wind is starting to whip through trees. I heard the windows shake a few minutes ago from the wind. I wonder if I'll have power by the time I go to bed.

I think Ike's remnants are headed east. Better turn off the computer.

this year's bad poetry contest

A little background: Several years ago, when I was teaching creative writing at Carbon High School, I had a bad poetry reading with my students. It's become sort of a fixture in my teaching now because a) it's fun and b) it takes a lot of the fear and mystique out of poetry so people can just enjoy it. So last night in my methods course we wrote bad poems. I thought mine needed its own blog entry.

Just before we all settled in to write, someone quoted a line from "Ten Things I Hate about You." Then someone else made a Heath Ledger comment, which got me thinking Batman. So here's the poem, which is a bad jumprope song:

Jumping Rope on a Stormy Evening

Batman, Superman, Spiderman, the Blob
Which of these heroes broke the doorknob?
I don't know exactly but I just might have a clue,
How many crackers can you chew?
One, three, ten, twelve
Into the garden I will delve.
Five, nine, eight, two
Twenty more jumps and I'll be through.
Unless I trip. Which I just did. Ouch.

Now it's YOUR turn! Write a bad poem and stick it in the comment field!

Hurricane? What Hurricane?

This is the Washington DC temple. I went to this temple yesterday-- well, technically Friday afternoon. Yesterday was stake temple day, and it's been planned for, oh, four or five months. The temple presidency is being changed soon, so the temple president arranged a special meeting on the seventh floor of the temple in the priesthood assembly room. Three stakes were invited to the meeting, and one of those stakes was in Reading, Pennsylvania, where my friends the Purdys live. So, in late July the Purdys and I decided to use this weekend as temple day/play time.

Note that the picture above is in springtime with clear skies and beautiful dogwoods in bloom. That was in May.

The temple didn't look like this yesterday (well, the building's the same, just not the scenery). Yesterday Tropical Storm Hanna was blowing through, so it was really, really rainy. Did that stop people from coming? Nope. The parking lot was full, so we parked at the stake center next door and forged little rivers of water that extended into the street.

So here's my favorite story of the day, courtesy of the temple president. He used to be a mission president in Bolivia. When he was there, the Lima, Peru temple was built. It took three days and three nights for members to drive there, and they sold everything they had to get there. On the way, they were stopped by a tree that had blocked the road. Armed men climbed onto the bus and took everything they could, including the babies' milk. The members kept going anyhow. They prayed in gratitude when they got to the temple. President Hinckley came out and met them and promised them they would never go hungry again or lack housing due to their faithfulness.

So as I heard this story, I thought, "Hmm. I dealt with some rain. So maybe I might hydroplane a bit on the way home. Have I sacrificed like these people in Bolivia did?"

Hurricane or no hurricane, the temple is a refuge against storms. I'm so grateful I went!

How do YOU define "professional"?

Yesterday I got an e-mail with the meeting minutes from the College of Education's leadership team. One of the items dealt with staff being sure they didn't eat lunch at their desks and didn't surf the web or play computer games like Solitaire. Okay, makes sense.

So then this afternoon, I was in a meeting where a new colleague said something about NOBODY should be eating lunch at their desks. Not sure why, but probably something to do with looking professional and business-like. What-- me slurping juice from a dripping peach as it runs down my arm onto the article I'm writing doesn't look professional? What are people THINKING?!?

Here's the bigger question: Does anything in my office actually look professional? Not academics professional, but business professional. Sounds like a little ethnography opportunity. Let's do a brief survey:

My desk: A computer, yeah, that looks professional. Stacks of random papers and books for course preparation. Not exactly neat and tidy, but still related to my profession, and if my desk is chaotic enough that means I'm being uber-productive, right? Piece of partly melted glass in rock matrix that I found while on a morning run. Maybe not so productive, but part of West Virginia context. Lump of coal. Go West Virginia. Little yellow foam star from University of Iowa that I got for sitting in an advising booth one afternoon. Okay, so it got torn by a teething toddler.

The desk passes the professionalism test. Moving on.

Walls: Dick and Jane calendar, complete with stickers marking "Happy Day" (tomorrow, because I'm going to the Washington, DC temple) and "Out for a walk." Hey, I deal with reading issues, right? Four framed book covers from old teenage etiquette books, with titles like "Teenage Guide for Living" and "He-Manners." Um . . . teenage identity issues are part of my research. At least I haven't framed the cover for "This is a leaf" yet.

Walls? Borderline.

What else is in my office? Boring blue office furniture-variety chairs. Definitely business professional. Big blue rolly chair behind my desk. Okay, the CHAIR is professional, but I spend lots of time playing to see how far back I can roll it before I hit the wall or the filing cabinet. Maybe not so professional.

Space heater sitting on an overturned plastic garbage bucket. Yes, I tripped the breaker for not only my office but also the two main office printers and the fax machine the last time I had it turned on. Is it so wrong to want to be warm when the air conditioning is set too high?

Pile of student projects and posters that I might possibly, maybe, use as examples sometime in the future. I have them sort of pushed behind the filing cabinet. They're not a fire hazard.

Bookshelves: I would say the books themselves look pretty academic professional. Little random items (like a Hotwheels car) on the shelves? Maybe not so much.

Lack of a window: Does that mean I really have a glorified office cubicle? No, because I have a door.

Fortune cookie fortunes stuck to shelving above computer with vintage French advertising magnets: one fortune says I will "soon get new clothing." Ooh, do I get a suit?

Artwork from nephews and from Laura Fletcher: How can an office be professional without "Squirrels in the Night"? C'mon people, we're a college of education here!

I'm hungry. Time to eat a sandwich. At my desk, while reading a book. Hey, I have a busy schedule.

Note: No college of ed. office equipment was involved in the creation of this blog entry. I did it at home- so there.

Hayes' Daylillies

See these pretty flowers? They're all day lillies. From Hayes' Daylillies farm (hence the name, which I may have spelled wrong-- if so, sorry to any of the farm owners who happen to read this blog entry). A couple of months ago, a colleague asked if I wanted to go see this farm. I thought, "Okay, I'm not all that big into day lillies, but it'll be a fun little road trip." Now, when I think of day lillies, I think of orange or yellow flowers with skinny petals that bloom for a day and then shrivel up and look ugly on the plant stalks. I have quite a few in my back flowerbed (I didn't plant them). They're okay, but not my favorite.

As you can see from the pictures above, I've been cheated of day lilly variety. I had no idea how many varieties there are. We drove up to the farm and there were literally HUNDREDS of varieties growing. I took pictures of some of my favorites (and the purple one's in your honor, Karen). My colleague, who has bought from this farm for years, taught me some day lilly vocabulary. The darker color inside the flower, around the stamens (I think that's what those are), is called an eye. She taught me other vocab, but I forgot. I was busy looking at pretty flowers. If you see a flower you like at this farm, you dig it up, bring it to the cashier, pay for it, and take it home to plant in your garden. I might just have to come back here next summer and get some.

But if I REALLY had my druthers, I'd fill my flowerbeds with roses.

venting some spleen

There's a little part of me that says, "Bad idea! Don't post angry!" I'm ignoring that little part of me.

I really shouldn't be bitter. After all, in a two-week period I've had an article accepted for publication and signed the copyright for it, making it official. I've also had an article receive the coveted "revise and resubmit" verdict. So a rejection shouldn't be a big deal, right?

Perhaps if it hadn't been so mean-spirited. Or maybe I'm just reading it as mean-spirited. Maybe I'll see it differently in the morning. It just seems like when reviewers think the article should be revised and resubmitted, the editor would at least give it a chance. Instead, the editor basically said, "Nope, your argument for your study is stupid." Worded more eloquently, of course, but the message is the same: you don't know how to do research studies with the big dogs of literacy studies. Which is fine-- that's why I submitted my study to an English education journal, not a literacy journal.

Do only "big dogs" get to publish? How does anyone become a big dog in such a setting? I don't want to be a big dog. I just want to get tenure. Can't senior professors be nice in their treatment of assistant professors' offerings?

Return of the wind-up sushi

First, a bit of backstory: My dad underwent an esophagectomy in August 2005. I sent him a Halloween cheer-up/get-well package a couple of months later. The package included a wind-up sushi toy. I don't know why I got it; I just thought it was funny. I brought it home and my cats went crazy over it. They'd bat it down the stairs, carry it in their mouths to the kitchen to bat it some more, hide it under the couch, and generally amuse themselves to no end.

After Dad died and we were going through the house, I wanted the wind-up sushi toy. I couldn't find it anywhere. I guess some lucky estate sale customer got it as a bonus with the master bedroom dresser set.

Now fast forward to August 2008. I'm in Trolley Square Mall, doing a little post-dinner browsing at a fun toy store. They had wind-up sushi toys! I had to get one. The video clip accompanying this entry shows my cats' reaction. Let me just point out that immediately after I shut the camera off and the sushi stopped spinning, Alice smacked it-- HARD-- across the living room floor. They still like to play with it, but they want the movement to be on their terms, I guess. Sushi, anyone?

Why I hate to mow my lawn

Those readers who have received Christmas letters over the past two years have probably noticed a theme: I hate to mow my lawn. I thought I'd help you understand why. Granted, lawn mowing has NEVER been one of my favorite outdoor chores; I'd much rather be planting flowers or tomato plants. I never did like that old push mower where I had to get a running start to get at the really thick parts of the lawn (from, um, when I procrastinated mowing because I hated doing it). And hey-- how did my brother manage to never have to take the lawn mowing chore BACK after he got home from his mission? But I digress.

As you can hopefully see from the above photo, I live on a hillside. A STEEP hillside. The bank near the right-hand back corner of the photo is, I'm sure, causing rotator cuff damage each time I push the mower up it. There are no flat yards in Morgantown. Or rather, there's maybe one-- I think WVU's president might have it. Generally you can hope for some flat spots but not an entirely flat lawn. (Note: I should never have complained about mowing my lawn in Iowa City. It probably resulted in bad lawn karma now.)

When I moved here two years ago, I received two pieces of lawn mowing advice: 1) Never mow a lawn when it's wet (you'll slip and fall down the hill) and 2) Mow sideways along the hills rather than up and down. That would be great if the pitch weren't so steep that the mower tipped over. Not the case for the hills in my yard, so I mow up and down the hill. For those who have mocked me for purchasing a self-propelled mower: it is saving my life, probably literally. No way could I mow this yard without the mower being able to help pull itself up the hills.

Two lawn mower incidents, just to give a bit of perspective (and they're great stories):

Incident #1: Putting the mower away after finishing.

I was at the top of the bank in the far right corner of the picture, up at the street level (which, for more perspective, is an ENTIRE STORY higher than the bottom of my yard). I'd just finished mowing. I looked down the bank and thought, "Hey, my storage shed is right there. I'll just turn the mower off and gently let it roll down to the storage shed." That would assume that the mower rolled in the right direction and was stopped by the shed itself. You know that's not what happened. Instead, it missed the shed, rolled all the way down the yard, ran into the neighbor's fence, and tipped over. I'm amazed it started the next time I went to mow.

Incident #2: The bug in the eye.

I was at the front of my yard (not shown in picture), just about done mowing for the day. It was hot and buggy (muggy too, now that I think about it) outside. I felt a sudden sharp sting on my eyelid (closed just in time) as a biting insect smacked into it. I held onto the mower with one hand while yelling "OW!" and holding my other hand up to my eye. No bug-- so I decided to carefully park my mower and then go inside the house to see what damage had been done. I thought I was on a flat spot, but apparently I wasn't. I let go of the mower (which turned off automatically) and then watched it roll down the slope, jump the ditch, head down the street a block, jump the neighbor's ditch, and flip over entirely to land in the neighbor's yard down the hill. Definitely NOT good for the mower (but it started . . . I think I'll name my mower Timex). I then heard tires screech as an innocent passerby skidded to a halt and jumped out of his car, looking at the mower, then me. "Are you okay?" Fine. Just very embarrassed that anyone saw that.

So come visit, but don't try to mow. Maybe someday I'll have a yard service.

May family rocks!!

So after looking at friends' blogs that are all nice and updated, I got a little worried that nobody will read my blog any more because I haven't updated it. But I have a good rationale: I was gone last week for the May family reunion in Utah! Rah!

Too bad I didn't take any pictures. Yeah-- a family reunion after FOURTEEN YEARS and I forgot to take pictures. Way to go. I kind of felt old this time, because most of my cousins' kids who were little at our last reunion (do the math-- that would be in 1992) are now in college and/or married with one or two kids of their own. A few people have really changed. I actually looked at one man and asked, "Who are you?" Turns out he's my cousin Christine's husband Dennis. Oops. Like I said, it's been a long, dry spell between reunions.

Highlights:
Steve Knuckles directing the whole May clan in campfire cheers and a special May family clap
Aunt Marian's slide show of Grandpa and Grandma May's lives, with almost every person across five generations represented
All the techie cousins-- plus a brother-in-law-- figuring out how to McGyver a connection between Aunt Marian's laptop and the projector so we could see the slide show
Cheesecake with blueberry topping at a campsite meal. Not that anyone I know dumped hers on the ground as soon as she got it . . . I hate when that happens!
Being introduced to roasted Starbursts-- thanks, Kathie!
Family skits
The ear wiggling contest. Cousin Steve is amazing at this! Grandpa May would be proud.
Paddleboats and an amazing workout of my quads-- who knew?
Imitating old family photo facial expressions
The deer who watched us prepare our lunch from just outside the camp pavilion
A late night game of Hearts. Um, when was "lights out" again?
A universal question: Why don't we do this more often?

Big John yells "Fore!"

I forgot to bring my camera on today's miniature golf adventure, so I borrowed a couple of images from the course web site. When I first moved here and was driving to Clarksburg for stake conference, we passed a big metal coal miner statue that was slowly rotating. "Wait, what's that?" I asked. I figured it was some kind of coal monument. Even better-- that's Big John, and he's the star attraction of Coal Country Miniature Golf. This image doesn't do him justice. He looks smallish from the highway, but he's HUGE!! Next time I'm definitely bringing my camera. So many photo opportunities!
The whole course is themed around coal mining. When you start each hole, there's a little placard that explains whatever piece of coal equipment is featured in the hole. Drills, fans, coal cars, pieces of the supports for walls (which, I learned from reading a placard, would sometimes collapse under the weight of the mine ceiling-- how very comforting). So kind of a combination of cheap entertainment and a bit of local history. Not that I golfed very well. My final score was 58. If I'd been at par, I should have had a score of 44. I stink at putting. I did better than my friend, though- her score was 67. Granted, she got a hole in one and I never did. And we both ricocheted off mining equipment a few times. No lost golf balls, though. That makes us pros, right?
There's also a little coal museum that's dedicated to mining disasters. There have been plenty in West Virginia, mostly right in this area. Yup, something to be uh, proud of? The best part of the museum for me was the Three Stooges golf poster on the outside wall. My brother had that exact same poster in his room as a teenager. Note to Karen: you want to hop on a plane right now after that bit of info, don't you? Get over here!

Yo Adrian!

Okay, so as you can see, I still haven't figured out how to put the pictures where I want them (and in the order I want them). Let's just pretend this is a Philadelphia collage. I took a little road trip last weekend (five hours in my little VW Beetle that gets GREAT mileage- yay!) to visit friends in Schwenksville. Don't you just want to live in a place with that kind of name?



So Schwenskville is a suburb of Philadelphia. I HAD to run the art museum steps and have a Rocky moment. That's the picture with the stairs. Just FYI, the stairs aren't all that long or steep, so it was a little anti-climactic, but I had a great view of downtown Philly from the top. I also went to see the Liberty Bell, but the line to go in was really long and I was hot and tired, so instead of going to see it I took a picture of Constitution Hall and then called my friend, who had dropped me off and then looped around, to pick me up. It took her half an hour. Remind me never to live in Philadelphia.



We also went to see Journey to the Center of the Earth in 3-D. Fun movie, made even more fun with the glasses. And the hat? I found it at a vintage clothing store in a giant flea market. Supposedly it was a farmers market, but I didn't see much local produce. While we were in Philly we stopped at the Reading Farmers Market, which features in National Treasure 2 (which I haven't seen).

See what you all are missing out west? Come this direction!

Watch out Design Star!

As you can see, I still haven't mastered picture placement in my blog entries. I was trying for a "before and after" effect, but the "after" pictures got positioned first. Emily, come help me figure out how to do this properly for the next blog entry!

Anyhow, as you can see from the picture to the left (compared with the top left picture, lots has changed in my master bedroom. I didn't intend this to be my summer project, but it almost literally has been. This (to the left) is what my bedroom looked like in early May. The picture doesn't do the nasty old patio door justice because it's hidden behind the curtain sheers. You can get the green and white striped wallpaper effect, though, right?

Now the walls are stripe free! Hurray! I feel kind of like I'm at a beach resort when I walk in the room. I still stink at cutting in (hope whoever lives in this house next doesn't look too closely), but I can't wait to wake up tomorrow morning and feel bright and restful when I look at my walls rather than slightly motion sick. I'm also looking forward to not trekking out to the living room to find my dresser drawer (where it was temporarily residing during the painting). My room is back in commission!

Next project: sod removal so I can finally terrace the garden area for my back yard. Hope the humidity goes down before I start . . .

Hangin' out in the blueberry patch

I wanted to work in the word "holler" since it's such a West Virginia word, but I couldn't say I was in one since we were on flat ground the whole time. Here's the dialect lesson of the day for those readers who aren't from West Virginia: "holler"= "hollow" as in "Watch out when you come around the bend in the road in the winter because the holler gets lots more snow than the rest of town. We can't even get the truck up out to the road 'til it thaws." (Note: I was REALLY tempted to add something about coon hounds and burning a couch, but I restrained myself.)

Back to the story. Thursday afternoon, two friends and I drove somewhere out in Preston County (I wasn't driving, so I didn't pay attention to the turn-off, which probably wasn't labeled anyhow-- a lot of directions around here start with "Turn right where the coal tipple used to be ten years ago . . .") to pick blueberries. They cost $4 a pint at the farmers market. You can pick them yourself for $1.80 a pound. So, for a little over $7 and an hour in the sun talking with my friends, I came home with a gallon of blueberries. Yes!! The pictures are of my haul and the scene of the event.

By the way, can someone please explain to me how I put the pictures wherever I want in the post? Every time I bring in an image, it'll only go at the top of the post. How do I embed pictures wherever I want?

Actually, I didn't come straight home with the blueberries. My friends and I made cobbler and dinner (the cobbler was the real focus) and just had a lovely evening out on the gazebo watching Mousie the cat catch baby rabbits. Okay, she caught one. And my friend's husband stopped the cat and made her drop the poor lagomorph victim, which ran off and I'm sure is going to live a happy bunny life and share this cautionary experience with her numerous offspring. That one event, though, confirmed why my cats aren't allowed outside. They would catch rabbits and bring them in as gifts. On my bed. Or rather, on me. While I'm sleeping. No thanks. They can do that with their toys and satisfy their predatory instincts.

Anyone want blueberry something or other? I have five cups of blueberries in my freezer . . .

When the cat's away . . .

the mice will play-- in this case, when Mommy Cat (me) is out of the kitchen and food is left unattended, Alice and Brit think it's snack free-for-all time. Little known feline fact: Cats are omnivores. Serious omnivores. Forget all that carnivore stuff-- cats, or at least MY cats, eat whatever looks like it should be eaten.

So here's the scene: Last Saturday I bought goat cheese at the Farmers Market. It was a splurge, but I never can find decent cheese here, let alone goat cheese that reminds me of southern France. And hey, it's locally made (well, in Maryland-- that's kinda local)! So I bought it. I also went to the artisan bakery downtown (one bright spot in Morgantown's offerings) and bought a loaf of sourdough bread to eat with the cheese. I decided to have some for dinner tonight to go with my pasta. I put the cheese out on the counter to warm up a bit from being in the fridge. Then I left the room.

Therein lies the problem. Food items cannot be left unsupervised in my kitchen, even when the cats are sleeping upstairs. They have some kind of internal alarm that says, "Attention all felines! Unattended food on the counter! Go investigate!" It's not like the cheese was out of its wrapper. It was sealed in a plastic baggie! Sneaky, quiet kitties tore into the baggie and ate a big hunk out of the cheese while I answered e-mails, oblivious to the cheese carnage two rooms over.

I hope the cats don't throw up plastic and goat cheese later tonight. Note to Jen West, whom I have teased about her Lab puppy who eats absolutely everything: I have now received my just desserts for teasing you about Scooby eating an entire box of chocolates, including the box and candy wrappers. And the head off your daughter's Polly Pockets doll. And the covering on the soccer ball.

Other items my cats have eaten when I was otherwise occupied: raw mushrooms, cooked broccoli, cold pizza (again, torn through a plastic baggie-- but they didn't throw up, so I'm hopeful about tonight's incident), anything they can haul out of the garbage under the sink (which is why I have a child lock on it now), and the streusel topping off muffins I was taking to seminary on a Monday morning. Note to any of my former seminary students who may be reading this blog: I didn't feed you the muffins the cats sampled, I promise! At least, I don't think I did . . . that was five years ago. If I did, you didn't catch any noxious disease from cat saliva, right?

I promise my cats won't taste test food I serve you for dinner . . .

The Little Caboose that Could

Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Monongalia County, there was a half marathon. It started 13 point whatever miles up the Decker's Creek Rail Trail in the next county north. (When I say "up," I mean up-- there's a 4% grade down from Preston county to Monongalia county.) The trail was very beautiful, winding through trees, mountain ridges, and past the river/creek, so when Sheila decided to run this race, it seemed like a good idea. She'd done a full marathon, so a half marathon wouldn't be so hard, would it?

So Sheila trained. And trained. And trained some more. She even practiced running on the actual course-- something she did NOT do when she ran the Top of Utah marathon in 2005. June arrived and she thought she was ready.

Sheila forgot about the heat factor. June 1st was a little rainy and overcast. June 2nd was a little rainy. June 3-5 were still comfortable. June 6th the heatwave hit. The race started at 9 AM on June 7th. Sheila hates running in heat, but it was too late to back out now. So she started.

Look at all the runners-- all but one-- pass Sheila on the trail during the first mile. Good thing Judy promised to meet Sheila after the race (she finished an hour earlier than Sheila did). The only runner in sight after mile two was Maurice, age 70 something. He dropped out because of the heat after mile 3. Sheila thought he was very wise, but she kept going.

Three hours later, everyone else had finished. Sheila finally passed the mile 10 water stop. Sheila had been walking a lot, a combination of heat and her left hip saying, "Okay, we're done now!" But only three miles to go. She could walk it. Sheila's friends who had come to watch and cheer her on had already gone home, figuring she passed in the crowd of other runners and that they had missed her.

The EMT guys in their ATV kept rumbling up to make sure Sheila wasn't dehydrated. Sheila waved them off. "I'm fine, just slow!" How could the last few miles, the part Sheila trained most on, seem so much longer? The nice people at Southern States (selling farm equipment) had trained a sprayer shower hose over the trail for runners to cool down. A nice owner at the trailer park near the final mile had set out a hose and said, "Help yourself to water." Judy and her husband walked back up the trail to make sure Sheila was still coming. They walked back across the finish line with her.

No winner in her age group, no sirree. But guess what? There was a caboose award! Yes!! Sheila got her first prize EVER in a race, and she got it for coming in dead last. After drinking more water, eating some pizza, and a few days of not being able to move up and down stairs, Sheila decided any race over 10K is too long for her. That decision made, she will now live happily ever after.