This week, we made another step towards knowing what our future holds. We learned that we will sign the necessary paperwork for our new home on September 19. We will be given keys — making it our own apartment to go into and out of at will — on September 21. Our packers will come pack up the house on September 26. Our movers will come move us on September 27. We (along with our packers) will unpack and set up our new house on September 28.

Being able to finally put these dates in my calendar makes me smile.,

Have a great weeken.

Think Green
This past Friday, while in Columbus, I had dinner with a few of my cousins at my favorite Columbus restaurant, the Husker House. HH was the restaurant at which my family celebrated all of it’s special occasions. Furthermore, my mother and father had dinner there nearly every Thursday and Saturday evening. It was a tradition. So, in honor of my parents, when we dine there, we always have a martini. And we finish our meal with a grasshopper in honor of my grandmother, who rarely drank, but if she did, it was a grasshopper after-dinner drink (and it didn’t matter to her if it was after dinner, before dinner, or during dinner). Cheers Grammie!…..

It’s Magic
In Tuesday’s blog post, I included a photo of the people who attended our reunion. Unfortunately, there were two people who were unable to be in the photo, though they attended the reunion. If you look in this picture, however, in the second row from the back, on the left side, you will see a man and a woman who were not in the photo I posted Tuesday. One of our classmates is a professional photographer. He must also be a very high-tech person (which perhaps goes hand-in-hand with photography today) because he was able to add those two to the existing photo. It’s like magic. I don’t understand how he did it, but I’m sure glad to have the included…..

Ah-Choo
When I woke up Monday morning, I didn’t feel very good. For one thing, I was very tired. But I felt congested and headachy and just a tad under the weather. Oh-oh, I thought to myself. Wouldn’t it stink if I had COVID, and gave all of my friends from this past weekend the virus. I’m happy to say that I tested myself and it came back negative for COVID. And after a couple of good nights of sleep, I’m feeling much better. I think we sort of forget that we can get other kinds of viruses besides COVID.

Locked In
Tuesday afternoon, my phone rings and it’s Court. He never calls, so I knew someone was dead. That’s how I roll. No one was dead, but he did sound a bit discouraged when he said, “Mom, we have a bit of a situation.” It turns out that the construction that is going on all around the apartment where they are temporarily residing expanded to the point that it was blocking their parking garage completely. This wouldn’t have been too much of a problem, except for the fact that they have three kids in three different schools. They needed a chauffeur and I had a car that wasn’t blocked in. I was happy to be the Lyft driver for the kids, because I never miss a chance to spend even a a short time with them.

Ciao.

My sister Bec tried connecting with me by FaceTime yesterday a couple of times. The first time I was at physical therapy. The second time, Bill and I were driving to Parker, Colorado, and I’m no good at the telephone and driving on the Interstate.

When we got to where we were going, I texted her: Bill and I are busy trying to get rid of saddles. She promptly replied — tongue firmly in cheek — I wish I had a dollar for every time I said that.

It was, however, the truth. Of all the things we have to get rid of, two saddles rank right near the top in the hard-to-find-a-home-for department. I’m pretty sure even Goodwill would have second thoughts about taking a saddle or two.

Bill is a member of a men’s horseback riding group called the Roundup Riders of the Rockies. Each year, these men haul horses up into one mountain range or another and ride for a week. This isn’t camp-on-the-ground type riding. They have a caravan that travels with them and sets up the tents so that when they round the bend, the tents are awaiting them. They belly up to the bar and enjoy a cocktail hour before they sit down and enjoy a delicious catered meal.

Bill no longer rides. Unlike many of the men who are members and who own ranches or ride often, Bill rode once a year. When he was younger, he could stand the sore buttocks. However, as he got older, so did creaking as he get out of his cot. So he pays his membership dues and let’s others do the riding.

As a result of his years of riding, we have two saddles in our garage. One was his everyday saddle. The other, however, is a silver-studded parade saddle that he used when they would ride down Main Street of one town or another amidst marching bands. It is lovely, but I have no idea what to do with it. Bill looked up silver saddles on the internet. The prices ranged from $400 to $45,000. I’m certain the saddle isn’t worth the latter. If it is, then I’m very sorry it’s been living in our attic. But it was a gift from another rider so I can’t imagine it is worth thousands. Still…..

The trip to Parker was a waste of time. The proprietor of the saddle consignment store looked at the everyday saddle and said no thanks. And she wouldn’t even bother looking at the parade saddle because she already has one for sale and it isn’t — selling, that is.

We drove straight over to a friend of Bill’s who owns a nonprofit that uses horses to teach disabled kids how to ride. They, unlike the saddle store, were happy to take the everyday saddle.

That, of course, leaves us with a beautiful silver-studded saddle that we can’t possibly move to Wind Crest.

Anyone have an extra $45,000 lying around? Yee-Haw.

MAKE NEW FRIENDS, BUT KEEP THE OLD;
THOSE ARE SILVER, THESE ARE GOLD.
NEW-MADE FRIENDSHIPS, LIKE NEW WINE,
AGE WILL MELLOW AND REFINE.
FRIENDSHIPS THAT HAVE STOOD THE TEST
TIME AND CHANGE ARE SURELY BEST;
BROW MAY WRINKLE, HAIR GROW GRAY,
FRIENDSHIP NEVER KNOWS DECAY.
FOR ‘MID OLD FRIENDS TRIED AND TRUE,
ONCE MORE WE OUR YOUTH RENEW.
BUT OLD FRIENDS, ALAS MAY DIE,
NEW FRIENDS MUST THEIR PLACE SUPPLY.
CHERISH FRIENDSHIP IN YOUR BREAST
NEW IS GOOD, BUT OLD IS BEST;
MAKE NEW FRIENDS, BUT KEEP THE OLD;
THOSE ARE SILVER, THESE ARE GOLD.

Joseph Parry

Last week I was walking across the stage in the gymnasium of my high school accepting my diploma, along with the 79 others who were in my graduating class. This weekend, some of those same people were celebrating the 50-year anniversary of that event.

Or at least, that’s how it feels. As the song goes, the days go slow and years go fast.

Bill and I drove back to the town of my birth and formative years, Columbus, Nebraska, this past weekend. For many years, I referred to Columbus as my home town. Finally, I realized that I had lived in Denver, Colorado, for many more years than I ever lived in Columbus. Still, to coin a phrase, you can take the girl out of the small town but you can’t take the small town out of the girl.

Forty-one of us attended the 50th reunion. That is a very good percentage, especially given that 10 people out of my class have passed away over the years. That appears to be better attendance than most. As we passed the microphone around at the banquet, one of my classmates told us that the Class of 1972 is envied by other classes for our strong sense of comradery and, well frankly, love for one another. He was the smartest one in our class, so I’m sure he was telling the truth.

At our 10-year reunion, everyone was talking about their youngsters and their careers. At the 30-year reunion, everyone was talking about their grown-up kids. At this reunion, focus was on figuring out how to live a life without any of these things. Winding down, so to speak. Oh, and a lot of talk about grandkids. There were even one or two people who had great grandkids.

I would say that the majority of my classmates still live in Nebraska. Many live in Lincoln or Omaha. Several have moved to smaller communities — many on lakes — where they can enjoy a peaceful life. Some moved to Colorado. The furthest anyone traveled was from California. No matter where any of us ended up, I don’t think it would take long for a stranger talking to us to suspect we grew up in the midwest.

That’s because midwestern people ROCK. I’m partial to Nebraska, of course. However, I’m sure the same could be said about people who grew up in Iowa or Kansas or any other midwestern state. We’re honest. We’re friendly. We work hard. We love our country. We are respectful of others.

We love football. It was fun to see that despite the number of years it has been since the University of Nebraska has had a decent football team, there are still Big Red flags flying. People drive red cars. The streets empty out when Nebraska is playing on the television. It so happened that the first game of the Nebraska football season was being played in Dublin, Ireland, on Saturday. (I don’t know why. I don’t care why.) Everyone watched the game. Everyone mourned the team’s first loss, hoping that wasn’t indicative of the season. It probably is.

We all have changed. It’s inevitable. But it was uncanny how I could still recognize people despite our aging. Sometimes it would take a minute. When I figured it out, I would think, “Well, OF COURSE, that’s blah blah blah. He looks just the same, except with wrinkles.”

Nana is taking a long weekend vacation. Her whimsies will begin again on Tuesday.

Have a great weekend.

Monday afternoon, we met with the woman whose job it will be to pack up our things, take them to our apartment at Wind Crest, unpack our things, and put them back exactly as we had them previously. Or, at least as exact as she and her staff will be able to be, given that the rooms and drawers and cupboards are different. She promised me that when she sets up my china hutch in our new home, it will look exactly as it did at our old home. I know that’s not true, because she mentioned she will dust the shelves before she puts the items back into the hutch, and I haven’t dusted my hutch’s shelves since George W. Bush was declaring victory in Iraq. I wonder if she would come back in six months and do it again.

I don’t know what kind of person you have to be to do her job. Are you punishing yourself for some earlier grave iniquity? But perhaps all homeowners aren’t hoarders like me. Maybe our move will be the one that brings her into early retirement. Or suicide.

Yesterday morning, I took a deep breath, and went full-force into our master bathroom. We have been lucky to have a lot of drawers in our bathroom. I apparently made it my goal to fill them all up with needless items.

I found two bottles of rubbing alcohol, seven containers of floss, and enough unopened toothbrushes to service a small village in Myanmar. The number of dried-up containers of hand cream is inexplicable, even to me, who should be able to account for each one. And there were so many spools of thread that one would think I sew. Nope, not even buttons.

I use Clinique facial products. For many years, I would only buy the products when they offered their free gifts with a purchase. Their free gifts usually included some facial cream, a travel container of mascara, a lipstick, and an item or two that they want you to try so that you spend even MORE money than you usually spend. The items came in a little cosmetic bag, usually accompanied by a smaller cosmetic bag.

As dumb as it was, I collected this makeup and these bags over the years. When I worked hard for my money, I would sometimes wear lipstick. But it was rare to put color on my lips. Since I retired, I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve worn lipstick. The truth is, I don’t bother with any makeup very often except if I’m going to church or dressing up for some other reason. I’ve never thought makeup made much difference on me. And now, since I have almost no eyebrows and a rapidly diminishing number of eyelashes, there really is no point. In fact, recently I was with my granddaughter Kaiya and my face got wet. My mascara ran. Kaiya said, “Why is there black under your eyes?” I explained that it was my eye makeup. “YOU WEAR MAKEUP?” she asked. Yes, her question was in all caps.

Enough said.

One of the bags that I threw away contained 27 tubes of lipstick, all free, all collected over the years. Some had never been used. Aw hell. Most had never been used.

I got four drawers and three cupboards down to a couple of drawers. I call that a win.

Yesterday got away from me because, well, because. Enjoy this post from August 2019, when the notion of a pandemic was just a gleam in Dr. Fauci’s eyes.

I got a haircut yesterday. I was a bit early, so I sat down in the waiting area where I had plenty of time to read a magazine article that convinced me that Meghan and Kate are not mad at each other after all. It’s a great relief to know the two princesses are friends. (Although in one of the photos, Meghan’s back is to Kate, and I could swear Kate is whispering Meghan’s butt looks big in that dress to William. Might be my imagination.)

Anyhoo, my hair stylist finally came to lead me to her chair. As I followed her, I had two thoughts. Thought One: Why do all hair stylists wear black clothing? It seems to be the choice of hair salons around the world. Having people who cut hair for a living wear black seems as ironic to me as having bakers wear white. Sometimes when I meet my brother-the-baker for a cup of coffee, he has so much jelly on his bakers’ whites that it looks like he killed a steer instead of filled a few trays of bismarks. And Thought Two: Her bright orange shoes looked really cute as a contrast to her black smock and pants.

So I said to her, “I love your shoes. They are really cute as a contrast to your black smock and pants.”

Thank you, she replied. I got them at Goodwill.

I suck at Goodwill shopping. When I go into a Goodwill store, it is mostly to look for puzzles. But I will always stop to look at the clothing. All I ever find are blouses with discolored lace and and pants with frayed hems. And I’m usually pretty sure I donated them the week before. I really, truly rarely have any luck finding clothing at thrift stores. The primary reason for my lack of success is that any superior Goodwill shopper has lots of patience. I have a total lack of patience.

I’m not anti-thrift stores. I donate lots of stuff, and hope like heck that people will get Use-Part-II out of them. Thrift stores keep things out of landfills and help people save money. Both are good things.

I have a friend who is a remarkable thrift store shopper. I’m not sure if she still does, but I know that from the time she began shopping for herself, she shopped at thrift stores. And she always looks totally put together and never even remotely resembled the bag lady that I would look like if I bought my clothing at Goodwill. Not only that, but as her daughter grew up, she dressed her almost exclusively in clothing bought at thrift stores. She wore name brand clothing and looked just like every other teenager in the United States.

I only have one success story having to do with clothing from a thrift store. As I perused the pants, I came across a pair of really cute designer-brand pants in my size.

I tentatively took them to the dressing room (my apologies to thrift store shoppers everywhere, but the dressing rooms are scary) and tried them on. The pants were a perfect fit, not even requiring any hemming. The best part of all is that the pants were only $6 and STILL HAD THE TAGS ATTACHED. Goooooooooooooooooal!

I will continue to donate to Goodwill, and will continue to optimistically look at the clothing when I pay my puzzle-searching visits. I will probably NOT, however, consider buying shoes despite my hair stylist’s apparent success. Perhaps that decision is based on the look and smell of my own shoes, which I send to the landfill.

Court and Cole stopped by yesterday afternoon. Well, “stopped by” isn’t exactly accurate. Court learned that we had been without hot water for two full days, and took pity on us. I’d like to think that it wasn’t just that we were going out for a birthday dinner yesterday evening and he didn’t want to sit next to two people who hadn’t showered in two days. So he came over to light the pilot light that I suspected had gone out for some reason connected to the big power outage experienced in our neighborhood Thursday morning. I don’t know if those two things can actually be related, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

While Court was downstairs working on the water heater, Cole was upstairs with me, playing a game on his iPad. Without looking up, he asked, “Nana, can you name the elements?”

Lordy, Boy. I can tell you the proper time to use there, they’re, and their. As for the names of the elements, nosireebob. Third grade was a long time ago.

I tried. I started saying, “Iron? Oxygen? Sodium? Hydrogen?

He lifted his eyes from his iPad with that look on his face. You know, that look that says, “I can’t believe you and your ilk run this world. No wonder we’re in such a mess.”

“Nana, that’s the periodical table,” he sighed. “I’m talking about the elements.”

While he’s scolding me for my ignorance, I’m busily googling the word elements, all the while speculating that I was pretty sure I had never heard of the periodic table until 10th grade chemistry.

“Water, air, fire, and earth!” I shouted happily.

“You forgot aether,” he said, sadly.

I thought he was perhaps making that last one up, but I googled it and learned that aether is everything beyond earth, and was later added as an element. We didn’t know about outer space when I was in third grade. We were too busy worrying about the dinosaurs.

“Dad knows what the elements are,” Cole said.

“Your dad is way smarter than me,” I responded.

That got his attention.

“Were you ever smarter than he was?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said. “When he 2 years old, I was definitely smarter than he was.”

By that time, Court had come upstairs.

“Daddy, can you name the elements?” Cole asked.

Of course, smart-aleck daddy named the correct elements. I apparently raised a show-off.

“You forgot one,” Cole added. “You forgot love.”

Now, I must tell you that no matter what Cole says, I don’t believe that love is one of the elements. I say that quite confidently, even though at this point I’m still not sure what an element is.

Having said that, I enjoy the way the child’s mind works, and if I ruled the world, I would say that love is the most important element of all.