You almost can’t turn on the radio or television, or open a magazine at the hair salon without seeing or reading something about singer Taylor Swift. Her recent album, in which she makes the move from country to pop, has really brought her in the public’s eye. A number of years ago, some unique circumstances brought Ms. Swift to my sister Bec’s small Catholic high school in Alexandria, VA, to perform a concert for the student body. Here is the story…..

By Rebecca Borman

One day this week I turned on a morning talk show, and they were talking about Taylor Swift, who had performed on the show the day before and would be doing so again later in the week.  That afternoon, I was listening to the radio in my car, and Swift’s new song, “Shake It Off” played.  When the song ended, the station went to commercial, so I switched stations, and there was “Shake It Off” again.  I never hear Taylor Swift’s music or read anything about her without being taken back to the spring of 2009, to the day when Taylor Swift gave a private concert in the high school where I taught.

Early in 2009, Swift, a rising young singer, and Verizon wireless teamed up to create a texting contest—whichever school sent the most texts to a particular phone number would win a private Taylor Swift concert.  Presumably, the rising star agreed (I’m pretty sure the idea came from Verizon) in order to promote her new album, Fearless.  And little Bishop Ireton High School, student population 800, won that contest!  But, see, in the meantime, Taylor Swift was no longer a rising star; she had made it big!  Her songs were all over the radio, she was on the internet and talk shows, and she was on the short list for the CMA Entertainer of the Year Award, which, by the way, she won that November.  And, yet, there she was one May afternoon, to do the concert she had promised the school who won that contest.

It’s a great story, and one I’ll dine on for the rest of my life.  Because Taylor Swift gave that concert…and so much more.  You might expect that, having achieved success and not in need of whatever publicity she would get from a show in Alexandria, Virginia, she would dog it a bit.  Didn’t happen.  Instead, she came into the school hours before the show and met administrators, teachers, and lots and lots of students.  She took pictures with all the student government kids and was delighted when the boy who generated the contest in school introduced himself.  In fact, she gave him a big hug!  He’ll never forget that.

And then she gave a performance that lacked nothing in energy or quality.  She could have been performing for the President or a concert venue of 20,000 people.   She talked to our students, noting that only a year earlier, she had been a high school senior.  She thanked the school for hosting her show.  And she told a story I’ll never forget:

One Monday morning she was in the girls’ bathroom and watched a fellow student who was sobbing to her friends because she had had sex with her boyfriend that weekend.  She was regretting it bitterly, sad that she had bowed to pressure, disappointed in herself.  And this is what Swift said to our students:  “I decided then and there, I never wanted to be that girl.  I never wanted to give in to the pressure to do something that I knew was wrong for me.”  Now, teachers and parents can talk ‘til they’re blue in the face, but this was super-star Taylor Swift, empowering our students, especially our girls, to respect themselves and their values.

So, when I hear her on the radio or see her all over the magazines, the internet, talk shows, etc., I smile big!  This is one woman who, it seems, gets it.  She is a role model, not because she’s been told she needs to be but because it’s who she is.

You go, girl!

Nana’s Notes: Here is a link to a Youtube video of the concert, including her interactions with students before the concert. She is sooooo young.

Last week, Bill sadly showed me that one of his favorite shirts had a hole in it – tiny, but noticeable. Apparently some cigar ash had been dropped the last time he wore it. I’m happy to report that he hadn’t gone up in flames, but the hole appeared nonetheless.

The only realistic option was to toss the shirt. But the hole was really tiny, and what the heck? I would try my hand at darning.

Do post-Baby-Boomers even know what darning is?

I don’t sew. I have never sewed. I never want to sew.  Over the course of Bill’s and my 22 years of marriage, he has frequently offered to buy me a sewing machine. I have always vehemently declined. Because, well, see above. I don’t sew.

Just as an aside, I must admit I have sewed a few things in my life. I believe we made things like aprons and tea towels in what was called Home Economics back in 1970. (Now it’s called Life Skills or something meaningless like that.) I also recall that we had a big final project – sewing a piece of clothing. Something substantial like a dress or a suit. I elected to make a pant suit.

Boy oh boy. If I had a picture of that suit now, I think I would have to take it out deep in the woods and bury it (along with my third grade picture as long as I’m burying things). As I recall, for inexplicable reasons, I chose to make the suit out of a heavy, extremely, well, let’s say vibrant red and black WOOL plaid. Big plaid. Massive.

Not only was it ill-made as I had not one teeny-tiny bit of talent, but it was hideous. I never wore it, and I’m fairly certain my mother tossed it out into the garbage at her earliest opportunity.

Anyway, as I threaded my needle and proceeded to attempt to repair the tiny hole, I had a flashback that I’ll bet many of my Baby Boomer readers will remember.

Back in the 1960s, when you got a hole in your sock, you didn’t just throw the sock away. You gave it to Mom to darn. She would slip the sock over an old burned-out light bulb that she had saved for the express purpose of being a darning tool, and proceed to repair the hole. You used the repaired sock, but it was never quite as comfortable because you had that whole bunched up section. You didn’t complain, however.

The same, by the way, was true of holes in the knees of your pants. Mom didn’t toss the pants; she stuck a patch over the knee and you wore them until the patch wore out. Bill has a vivid memory of a school photo in which he has ironed-on patches on the knees of his pants – like a hillbilly, he says.

Our parents lived through the Depression, my friends.

As I was thinking about the darning light bulb, I also recalled Mom ironing and ironing and ironing (something she didn’t do nearly as much of in her later years, and something I almost NEVER do). What I remember, however, is that she had an old glass pop bottle onto which she had screwed some sort of sprinkling head. She would shake water onto the shirts or pants that she was ironing, and swoop the iron over the item. I can remember the smell to this day.

At some point she abandoned the practice of ironing what she called bed clothes – the sheets for the beds.  I have never ironed sheets in my life. But I will tell you a dark and dirty secret. If my name was Mrs. Astor and I was independently wealthy, I would have my hired help (whom I would pay generously) iron my sheets. I love the feel of ironed sheets.

Bill’s mom had a rotary iron mangle through which she could pass clothing and bed sheets with ease. That didn’t make the cut when she moved into her retirement apartment.

We live in a toss-away society now, so all of these notions sound like they are from outer space, but I remember them well.

By the way, the darning project was just somewhat less than successful. If he walks with a hand on his stomach, he might get away with it.

I cast my first vote in the presidential election of 1972. I was 18. I have voted in every election ever since.

Seriously. Every election. President. Congressperson. Senator. State Legislator. Mayor. School Board. Dog Catcher. Well, not dog catcher.

I have voted absentee. I have cast ballots in curtain-covered election booths. I’ve mailed in my ballot.

I’ve worked on campaigns. I’ve handed out literature. I’ve voted in primaries.  I’ve posted yard signs. I’ve been a representative at our state convention.

I believe in the election process. Always have. Always will.

But I am thoroughly and entirely sick of this year’s election. Well, not really the election; the campaign ads. All of them. Republican. Democrat. It doesn’t matter. They are all the same. Annoying.

The “bad guy” in the ad looks devious, sickly, evil, demonic and red-eyed. The “good guy” is handsome/beautiful, smiling, patriotic, and accompanied by music seemingly provided by angels.

Sick of them all. My only blessing is that we were able to leave Colorado a week-and-a-half ago so that we are at least hearing NEW terrible campaign ads here in Arizona.

In Colorado, there is apparently only one issue – whether or not a candidate is or isn’t supportive of abortion. I couldn’t possibly find that more annoying or more offensive in this time when there are also so many OTHER really important issues. Please give women some credit. (That annoys me as much as the IPhone commercial where the women scream until they break all of the glass in the room. I don’t think women scream when they get excited. But that’s a post for another day…..)

Every once in a while, my sister Jen will send me a text in which she states, “Just in case you’ve forgotten, (fill in the blank) is still too extreme for Colorado.”

Believe me, it is seared in my memory. Sick of them.

The ads started really early this year. I think earlier than usual. Bec visited us in July, and I remember talking with her about the ads. Seriously. July. No wonder I’m sick of them.

I imagine lots of research has been conducted on the importance of campaign ads, and I assume they do some good because certainly a lot of money is spent on them. It’s a shame that some of our often-uneducated population uses these ads to make their voting decisions. Not just sad; scary.

But, my friends, Election Day is tomorrow, and I hope and pray that those elected are honest, hard-working, and willing to stand up and let their conscience (and the hopes of those who voted for them) prevail. I am proud of our election process even with its inevitable flaws. We have the best system in the world, despite the commercials.

Don’t forget to vote, if you haven’t already done so. God bless America!

We had a quiet Halloween. We had a sprinkling of trick-or-treaters, but for the most part, our Snickers and Milky Way fun bars will go into the freezer.

As a treat, I watched a couple of old horror movies yesterday. Well, tried to, anyway. I watched Vincent Price in House on Haunted Hill, a movie I well remember from my younger days. One of the television stations used to air what they called “sci fi” movies every Saturday night at 10:30. Mom used to send Jen and me to bed at 10 (we shared not only a bedroom but a bed), and told me if I could stay awake until Jen fell asleep, I could get out of bed and watch the sci fi movie. Sometimes I stayed awake; sometimes I didn’t. But House on Haunted Hill was one I remember watching and being totally terrified! My observation yesterday was that it really would have been kind of scary except that the special effects were, well, not very special.

Next, however, I tried to watch the original NIght of the Living Dead. It was a no-go, my friends. In broad daylight it scared the pants off of me.

Anyway, here is a snapshot of some Halloween goblins….

Dagny is a bride, Magnolia is a witch, Addie is a pioneer girl, and Alastair is a ninja.

Joseph is Batman, ready to fight evil…

…. with the help of his brother Micah, who is Robin.

Kaiya is a zombie bride cat (why be one when you can be them all?) and Mylee is a ninja turtle (with a tutu).

Cole is ready to fight some fires!

Have a great weekend.

Halloween – if you’re not being inundated by pumpkin frappes or pumpkin chili or cinnamon pumpkin body wash, you are being surrounded by pumpkins at a pumpkin patch.

Despite my 10 grandkids, I have never taken a single one to a pumpkin patch. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been to a pumpkin patch. We always got our pumpkin from the grocery store. A day or so before Halloween, we would carve it. Nowadays you see elaborate carvings of haunted houses or zombies. Not ours. Two triangles for the eyes, an upside down triangle for the nose, and a mouth with a few teeth. That was as creative as we ever got.

And when I say “we”, I’m talking about me growing up as well as my poor son growing up. Court also never had a clever costume since I haven’t a clever bone in my body. Nor can I even turn on a sewing machine or a glue gun. I remember one year when he was in grade school, the kids wore their costumes to school. All of the kids had very clever costumes. I remember one of the kids was a fork. It involved a cardboard and duct tape. Trust me. It was awesome.

Court, I’m sure, was Spiderman or Superman with a costume ready to go up in flames at the drop of a match and a plastic mask held into place by a flimsy piece of elastic. I’m lucky he’s not an axe murderer given his deprived childhood.

Anyhoo, back to the pumpkin patch. Yesterday I went to my first pumpkin patch, accompanying my niece Maggie and her kids, 4-year-old Austin and 9-month-old Lilly. We had ourselves some fun. Our afternoon included a hay ride, a careful and intensive process to select a pumpkin, feeding some goats (well, except that we didn’t spring for the dollar bag of carrots, so feeding meant simply sticking hay through the

Pre-first-spill, and so far, no flies.

fence; the goats weren’t impressed), a hay bale maze which Austin went through so many times that he could probably have done it with his eyes closed), and the inevitable snow cone.

Now, I must digress for a moment to discuss the snow cone. As my sister Bec pointed out the other day, has anyone really ever had a full-out positive

experience with a snow cone? It’s always a disappointment. Something happens. Too much ice. Too much syrup. Not enough syrup. It spills. It gets dropped on the ground. There’s general disappointment that you didn’t select the cotton candy instead. Yesterday’s snow cone involved not one, but two spills. That didn’t seem to deter Austin one single bit. For Austin, the deal breaker was the flies it attracted.

But the jumping castle more than made up for it. And by the end of the day, he was timed at going through the maze in a zippy 55 seconds.

Lilly just didn’t get what all the excitement was about.

Here’s what it was about, Lilly…..

Getting ready for the hay ride. Lilly looks nervous.

“You’ve got to be kidding me with the hay, kid. Where’s the carrots, you cheapskate?”

Which one shall I choose?

In many respects, Colorado isn’t that different from Arizona. Oh, of course the weather is considerably different. And Arizona has the beautiful cacti that are characteristic of the Sonoran desert, while Colorado has the Rocky Mountains and skiing. Still, I talk about Arizona being the Wild,Wild West, but in fact it was in Colorado – on I-25 between Denver and Fort Collins – that my sister had to come to a stop because there was a herd of cattle crossing the road.

That was, of course, quite a while ago. Now traffic along that road is so busy that a herd of cattle wouldn’t even slow most people down I’m afraid. Cows flying EVERYWHERE!

But I will tell you that driving in the Phoenix metro area is one of the most difficult adjustments I must make when I first arrive. And it mostly doesn’t have thing to do with the Snowbirds. This, I promise you, will not be an elderly-bashing post, because who am I to bash?

In most of Phoenix – or at least in the East Valley with which I am most familiar – the roads are four-to-six lanes wide, divided by islands, and impeccably cared for. And I’m talking about the regular roads. I will also tell you that the freeways are also amazing. Well-lit, bright line dividers, the whole nine yards.

But back to the surface roads. Because they are so wide, multi-laned, and divided by islands, the speed limit is mostly 45 mph. Not always, but I would venture to guess that unless you’re on a neighborhood street, 98 percent of the time you’re driving 45 mph.  Even in school zones you only slow down to 35 mph!

Unless you just arrived from Denver where the speed limit is rarely 45 mph. In that case, because you are used to driving 30 or 35 mph, you find yourself putzing along until about the time you look in your rear-view mirror to see someone a quarter of an inch from your back bumper, so close that you think his car and your car should just get a room.

I can’t tell you how many times I say out loud to myself, “Kris, you’re doggin’ it. Get going!”

One of the most dangerous mistakes I must FORCE myself not to make is when I’m waiting to turn left into a parking lot or on to another street. I will see the car coming, and in Denver I would have plenty of time to make that turn. Here, well, let’s just say it could be Dale Earnhardt Junior heading my way. It goes from dot to monster truck in a heartbeat. I’ve learned to wait.

The other thing I have to get used to here in the Phoenix metro area is that since the streets are divided by islands, you can’t turn left at all streets. As a result, it is absolutely common to see what Bill and I have dubbed the Phoenix Flip, that is, U-turns to get to the street you’re looking for. I make a Phoenix Flip probably three times a day since we are victims of the island if you are trying to get to our house heading north. They are perfectly legal.

I know I’ve pledged to not Snowbird Bash in this particular post, and I will tell you that for the most part, the winter visitors drive the 45 mph speed limit. The only thing you have to watch out for is that they slow down to 1 mph to make turns, and they enter the freeway at that same 45 mph.

It is a fact that I have the same trouble when I return to Denver after spending the winter here in Arizona. By that time I have gotten used to driving at the speed of sound, and must constantly remind myself to slow down.

On a slightly different note, I mentioned we came back to a broken garbage disposal. Bill spent yesterday installing the – ahem – Waste King 8000 Legend. This particular garbage disposal, my friends, could actually grind up a car if we could fit it down the little hole. When it comes to any kind of appliance or machinery, Bill IS Tim the Tool Man Taylor.

By Bob B.

Time certainly does fly when you are having fun cruising down the highways and byways of the Great Plains of the USA. I can’t believe it has been three months since my last trucking report. Now I know how John Steinbeck felt when writer’s block paralyzed his production. Well, kind of.

Summer has been amazing, and now we are in full blown Indian Summer. The magnificence of the green sea of the prairie grass gently flowing in the summer breeze from horizon to horizon is awe inspiring. I can only imagine what the pioneers and American Indians thought of what was before them as they took weeks and months to traverse terrain that I navigate in a matter of hours. You know, American Indians were the original Snow Birds. After enduring last winter in the northern plains, who in their right mind would not go south for the winter?

Indian Summer in the Midwest has been simply beautiful. At this point the trees are still full of leaves, although the leaves have started to fall. The cottonwoods which pretty much line the banks of the Platte River the entire length of Nebraska along The Interstate tower over the cornfields and prairie in a predominant brilliant yellow gold. Interspersed among the cottonwoods are brilliant reds of oak trees, various greens of cedars and pines, and a few browns and tans from other varieties. The trees stand sentry over amber waves of grain, the khaki tan of uncut corn, and patches of green grass and hay at the corners of pivot irrigation circles of cut and uncut corn.

Harvest is underway. Depending on where you are, you see fields being worked and truckloads of sugar beets and corn taking up my space on the road. Just yesterday afternoon at the elevator on the west side of Fremont, NE, on Highway 30 about 50 grain semis were lined up two abreast extending out on to the highway waiting to unload. In other areas mountains of yellow corn are being piled for storage and shipping. I wonder how many field acres it takes to create a mountain of corn 150 feet high by 200 yards wide by half a mile long, and how many of these mountains there are. There are quite a few of them. Boy, I just can’t wait to see them covered with snow…yeah.

In addition to the millions of bugs I have collided with, my truck this summer has assisted in the suicides of squirrels, rabbits, possums, swallows, sparrows, a sea gull, and near misses with several owls, coyotes, foxes, and a bald eagle determined not to surrender his hasenpfeffer lunch. The eagle ultimately was intimidated by the big red beast barreling down upon him. A couple days ago Bambi’s mother met her demise trying to dive beneath my trailer as I rolled on by. It was 2 a.m. as she was climbing out of the right side ditch. I saw her as she hesitated as I approached. Then she leaned forward as if she thought she could make it, but held back. I moved left into the other lane as I passed her and thought, “Thank Goodness, she stayed.” Then I felt a thump, thump at the rear of the trailer and sudden loss of brake air pressure. I immediately pulled over to the shoulder to see the damage. Two air lines had been sheared off near the trailer tires on the curb side, and what a gory mess underneath. All I could do was wait for repair help to arrive meaning, time for a nap. Who knew that the circle of life ended with a pair of truck tires? At least me and the truck were safe. Again, those prayers are working.

Time to go, but before I do I want you to consider what happens to a rubber band if you had laid it out in the sun all summer. It would dry out, become brittle, and crack losing its elastically. The same thing happens to your windshield wiper blades. Unless you want to be changing your blades some dark night when the wind is blowing, snow is falling, and it’s 18° outside, change your wiper blades now. Your life may depend on it, and mine too. Best wishes and be well.

I’m back in the saddle again
Out where a friend is a friend
Where the longhorn cattle feed
On the lowly Jimson weed
Back in the saddle again – Gene Autry

 

Bill and I arrived back at our Arizona home this past Saturday. Back in the saddle again, so to speak. I wasn’t here more than 10 minutes before I saw my first person wearing a cowboy hat and riding a horse. Right here in Mesa.

In the words of Gene Autry, whoopi-ty-aye-yay.

We will only be here for a few weeks this time, back simply to check and see that our house survived the brutal summer temperatures of the Arizona desert. This summer, it also had to survive some really severe rain and subsequent flooding.

Mostly, it seems to have come through like a champ, though there are always issues.

Our drip system got sick, our garbage disposal is leaking, the tree with which Bill continually wrestles looks like it’s ready to reach out and grab some poor, innocent trick-or-treaters with its thorny branches, and the smell of no-one-living-in-the-house-and-the-temperature-reached-heavens-only-knows-how-high prevails.

My solution to the latter? Cook. Specifically, a red sauce with lots of garlic. When it comes to a battle of odors, I’ll put my money on Team Garlic any day of the week.

When I enter my Arizona house for the first time, I tread carefully, always concerned about the possibility of critters. Thus far we haven’t ever seen a scorpion, but there’s always a first. So far, no scorpions to be found. The worst thing was a long-dead centipede, which didn’t thrill me, but did I mention long-dead?

Being thoroughly cautious (read a Big Fat Chicken), I even made Bill help me strip the bed to make sure there were no visitors lurking deep under the covers (there weren’t).

Sunday afternoon I ventured out to the grocery store to gather a few things for my red sauce. And, of course, some wine. The Snowbirds (of which, admittedly, I am one) are starting to trickle back, but no one rammed into the back of my leg with a grocery cart, so I call that a success.

I will say, however, that we passed many an RV bearing license plates from Minnesota and South Dakota and Saskatchewan and Iowa, all heading to their winter home probably just down the street from me. The locals grit their teeth at our arrival, but we help them pay our bills!

And Bill and I enjoyed our fettucine with a red meat sauce. Yum.