Every family has their clown. In the Court Zierk family, that clown is Mylee. Here is a photo they snapped at a Mexican restaurant recently…..

Isn’t she too young to watch the Friday the 13^th movies?

Sillee Mylee.

Have a good weekend.

Wealth and power doesn’t stop us from getting old.

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, ‘A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid! – Robert Browning

Every once in a while I will happen to glance at myself in the mirror as I’m washing my face at night and a woman with graying hair and wrinkles around the mouth, eyes, and neck will look back at me. Egad! When did that happen?

I have written before about how surprising it is to find ourselves growing old. Except for the fact that I struggle to open jars because of my arthritis and I can’t read a thing without my reading glasses and I sometimes have trouble remembering where I put the car keys (but thankfully still know what car keys are for), I hardly notice myself getting older.

I clearly remember when this phenomenon became perfectly clear to me. I was in Nebraska at one of my high school class reunions, maybe the 30^th. I was shopping with my very best friend (and very best friends can be brutally honest). “Look at that woman,” she said to me, pointing at the sales clerk. “How old do you think she is?”

“I don’t know, maybe 60?” I replied.

“She is our age,” was my BFF’s startling response.

“Nuh uh,” I firmly said. “She’s old.”

“I know,” said my friend. “So are we.”

When grace is joined with wrinkles, it is adorable. There is an unspeakable dawn in happy old age. – Victor Hugo

I recently read an article in the AARP magazine that comes to our house whether we want it to or not.

And I’m going to go off on a tangent here, so bear with me. My husband is 11 years older than I. I turned 39 in 1992, the year we got married. Bill turned 50 and became a member of AARP. I clearly remember when he handed me my AARP card. “What in blazes is this?” I remember saying. “I am not old enough to be a member of AARP.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, “by virtue of the fact that you are my wife and I am a member of AARP, you are automatically a member too.”

That was wrong on so many levels.

OK, I’m back from my tangent, but still bitter as you can see, despite being quite eligible for AARP membership without being anyone’s wife at this point.

But back to the AARP Magazine. The article, cleverly titled You’re Old, I’m Not, was about the fact that we don’t think of ourselves as growing old. In fact, according to the article, the older we get, the age at which we would describe someone as “old” goes up. That’s not too surprising. For example, people in their 40s said 63; people in their 50s said 68; people in their 60s said 73; and people in their 70s said 75. People any older than that were too busy playing with their abacuses to be bothered.

Old age isn’t so bad when you consider the alternative. – Practically everyone over the age of 60

I really don’t mind aging as long as I remain healthy enough to keep up with my grandkids. And grandkids help keep you healthy – and, of course, humble. They are not a bit reluctant to tell you that you are old. That’s okay. One day they too will be 60.

If I ever forget that I am aging, I am quickly reminded when I go to a restaurant and the server calls me Honey. Or Sweetie. Or, as a recent restaurant, Doll. Doll? That particular offensive salutation came from a male server at one of the restaurants at Sky Harbor Airport here in Phoenix. He called me Doll more than once. After dismissing my initial notion to smack him, I seriously considered adding only a dollar tip to my credit card receipt and letting him know it would have been significantly more had he just not called me DOLL! Doll?

I’m happy (and lucky) to have a really good life, a fun and loving husband, great family and friends, and the ability to live in Arizona in the winter and Colorado in the summer. What’s more, I wouldn’t want to go back and live my 20- or 30- or even 40-something period over again. In fact, I’m just where I want to be.

And the above photo really has little to do with this blog post. I simply loved the photo. Talk about growing old together! And I’ll bet he didn’t hand Her Highness a premature AARP card.

The Phoenix metropolitan area does like them some festivals.

Here are just a few: Indian Festival in Cave Creek, Heritage Days in Apache Junction, Festival of the New Oil in Queen Creek (an olive oil festival), Food Truck Festival in Scottsdale, Folk Fest in Gilbert, Lost Dutchman Days in Apache Junction, Ostrich Festival in Chandler, Aloha Fest in Tempe, Wisconsin Fest in Fountain Hills, Chihuahua Races in Chandler, and Japan Festival in Phoenix. Whew. I have attended a total of none of these undoubtedly fun events. But I did attend a dog show. Remember?

I think the weather contributes to the plethora of festivals. The communities have to squeeze a bunch of fun into about five months when it is reasonable to be outdoors. Mostly the festivals run from January to April or May.

Saturday Bill and I joined Bec and her family at the Great American BBQ and Beer Festival in Chandler. Saturday was our third shot at attending this particular festival. The past two years have been less than stellar festival visits for a variety of reasons (not the least of which was falling ill to stomach flu while at the event – barbecue and barf are not a good combination).

Third time was a charm for us. The weather was perfect. We got there early enough to be somewhat ahead of the crowds. Tickets were free thanks to the generosity of my nephew Erik.

There were no ostriches, Chihuahuas, hula dancers or plastic cheese hats on anyone’s head. Simply very yummy food, lively country music, and lots of beer. What’s not to love?

We weren’t there very long when a man walked by carrying a plate piled high with drippy yummy goodness; such goodness in fact that I had to stop him in his tracks and ask WHAT IS THAT? and more importantly WHERE DID YOU GET IT? He pointed me in the right direction and I ordered up some Spicy Barbecued Nachos.

These were not nachos in the strictest sense of the word – for one thing, no tortilla chips. The foundation consisted of delicious homemade potato chips (you could watch them cut the potatoes and drop them in the hot oil; it doesn’t get any fresher than that). Once the hot chips were put onto the plate, they were covered with melted cheese, onions, jalapenos, pulled pork, barbecue sauce, and (to present the illusion of healthiness) finished off with a sprinkling of fresh cilantro. A-YUM!

Here’s a close-up…

Here’s a little-known fact about Bill McLain. It’s not a festival unless he has a turkey leg in his hand. Festivals bring out the Fred Flintstone in him. And here’s a little-known fact about me. It’s not a festival unless I can dip an ear of corn into butter and sprinkle it with salt and cayenne pepper. So we were very happy.

I chose ribs over a turkey leg, and I always will. Turkey legs are a bit too Henry VIII for me. Bec and I split up and got our ribs from two different joints. Consumer testing, donchaknow. She won. Tom’s over Sally’s for any Arizonans reading this blog. 

Our food bill:

BBQ Nachos, $10

Ear of Corn, $4 x 2 = $8

Turkey Leg, $12 (whaaaaaat?)

5 rib bones, $10

Beer, $5 x 2 = $10

Glass of iced tea, $4

Fun of eating delicious BBQ in perfect weather with great people watching, priceless

So, while we could have eaten cheaper off the dollar menu at McDonalds, it certainly wouldn’t have been more delicious or more fun. And I have yet to see any notice for the “It’s Almost (But Not Quite) Beef” Festival. But I will keep my ears open.

Our grandsons Joseph and Micah enjoy their sugar-on-snow, a tasty Vermont treat.

There are very many good things about living in the United States of America. One of the good things is that because of its sheer size and the diversity of the population, there are all sorts of interesting local customs. It’s one of the things that I like best about travel – learning about fun and unique customs that you would never see in your home town.

I remember thinking about the size and diversity of the USA when we traveled in Europe. People are always talking about how cool it is that they drive small, gas-efficient cars in Europe. WELL OF COURSE THEY DO. Driving through France is like driving through Colorado. Well, maybe Texas. But I’m trying to make a point here. Try driving from Arizona to New Jersey in a car the size of a washing machine. No fun.

Anyway, I’m getting off on a tangent, because I really want to focus on the local customs. And in particular, the local customs in Vermont.

Our daughter Heather and her family live in Montpelier, Vermont. As we have been enjoying our lovely warm weather here in Arizona, they have been experiencing a typical New England winter – in some ways maybe not even as bitter as some, at least in Montpelier. We never fail to point out our lovely weather when we talk to them. If we are using Facetime, Bill will very often show them our sunshine and flowers. They are not amused. Particularly last week when they were hunkered down for an expected 22 inches of snow.

Lauren grew up in Vermont. She and Heather connected up in New York City, lived there for a bit, but decided the small town life was what they wanted once they began their family. While Heather was born and grew up in Denver, she is a small town girl at heart. So Montpelier is perfect for both of them.

Montpelier is an amazing community. There are only about 7,700 folks living there, despite the fact that it is the state’s capital. It is not unheard of to go for a walk and go from one end of town to the other. And it is a typical New England town. There are red, white, and blue buntings on the front porches, under which sit the home’s inhabitants reading a book. They will stop and wave to you whether they know you or not. If it wasn’t for the 22 inches of snow and the fact that I can’t get cell service, I would live there. Well, probably not, but it is a pretty town.

Vermont, as you likely know, is about all things maple. Now I am not particularly a fan of the maple flavor, unless it’s syrup on my pancakes (and then it’s really about the butter). But I will tell you that when we visited them last summer and I tasted my first
maple creemee, well my life changed forever. That, with a side of an apple donut, is heaven on earth. Despite my alleged ambivalence to maple, I ate me my share of maple creemees. I want one now.

When we were talking to them last week, our 4-year-old grandson Joseph mentioned they had eaten sugar-on-snow the weekend before. I assumed that was what Addie calls “Snow-Made Ice Cream” and mentioned that to Joseph.

Oh no, I was told. Sugar-on-snow has nothing to do with ice cream.

Here’s what I learned: in spring, when the days start getting warm but the nights are still cold, maple farmers begin tapping their trees as the sap begins to run. Vermonters – always looking for a way to celebrate maple – begin holding or attending sugar-on-snow parties or events. At these parties, the sap is brought to a boil. It is then poured
onto clean snow that has been collected for the express purpose of having the sap poured onto it. As the sap cools, it can be lifted onto a stick or fork and eaten. As it continues to cool, it hardens more and more. According to Lauren, the tradition is to serve the sugar-on-snow along with donuts (presumably the delicious apple donuts) and a dill pickle. The pickle is supposed to cut the sweetness of the maple taffy. I’m not sure what the purpose of the donut is except how can you go wrong serving a donut with anything?

I love that Joseph and his brother Micah are growing up learning their small-town traditions.

Sometimes what happens in life is inexplicable.

This weekend I learned something heartbreaking about someone with whom I once was close. He has been diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS, more commonly referred to as Lou Gehrig’s disease). The news makes me very sad.

He is a good man, a good father, a good husband, and a good friend — further proof that good people are not exempt from bad things. That doesn’t seem fair, but it’s the way it is. I haven’t spoken to him (save a few words at my son’s wedding) for almost 30 years, but I pray that God’s arms will be wrapped around him and his family over the next few years.

News like this never fails to remind me of what is important in life. Unfortunately, I think I could be reminded every morning and then forget every day before the sun goes down. WE ONLY HAVE A LIMITED TIME ON EARTH. We must never, ever take this time for granted.

And yet we do. Or at least I do. I’ll bet a day doesn’t go by that I don’t say something mean about someone or complain about someone’s actions, or maybe don’t call someone who would like to hear my voice or point out how something inconvenienced me. And I profess to be a good person. Ha.

I’m happy to say that I don’t think there is anyone with whom I am estranged but there are certainly people with whom I don’t work very hard at relationship. I take them for granted.

Having spent a month in the hospital a few years ago with a condition which could have had dire results, you would think forgiveness and living life to its fullest and building relationships would be top of mind. I think it was for a while, but then it was too easy to fall back into my old patterns.

I think I’m going to write my friend’s name on my bathroom mirror to remind me to not let a day go by without remembering what is important. I’m going to tell my friends and family I love them often, and I’m going to mean it. I’m going to be like Jesus was in yesterday’s Gospel when he dismissed his concern about what others would think and talked to the Samaritan woman at the well. I’m going to say “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” and “How can I help you?” and “I love you” again and again.

And most important, I’m going to remind myself that only God knows when my life will end, and I’m going to make the most of it – not by my activities but by my positive actions and by my words.

There are times in all of our lives that we just don’t understand why something is happening to someone we care about. There, frankly, are no answers. But it just seems important to me to have something positive come out of all of this if at all possible. If one person reads this post and then reaches out to someone, perhaps someone from whom they have been estranged, my goal will be met. And maybe I will be that someone.

Bill is entirely comfortable being 71 years old. He likes – in fact relishes – being the patriarchal figure at our family’s gatherings. At one such gathering not too long ago, my nephew Christopher’s 6-year-old son Noah, in that absolutely nonjudgmental way kids have, asked Bill, “Are you old?”

“Yes, I guess I am,” he told Noah.

He has a most self-deprecating sense of humor. He can take a joke and often pokes fun at himself. It’s one of my favorite things about him.

Bill and I like going to the movies, but we rarely go. I’m not sure why. Yesterday morning, however, I got the idea that it might be fun to go to a movie, and he agreed. We looked at what was showing and selected Monuments Men.

Our movie date made me smile for two reasons. First, I asked Bill when the last time was that he had gone to a movie. Seriously, without even missing one single beat, and deadpan as a funeral director, he replied, “I believe it was The Jazz Singer. We were glad to finally get talkies.”

My second smile came after I told him I wanted to visit the ladies’ room before the movie started, and asked him if he would get the soda and popcorn. People who have gone to movies with me know that despite the fact that I consider myself to be a fairly generous person, I do not like to share popcorn. Generous Kris goes away and Selfish Kris steps in to take her place. But yesterday I told him I would be willing to share popcorn, and headed to the restroom.

When I came out, here is what he had purchased:

I measured the cup when we got home. It held 48 ounces of Diet Coke. I literally had to hold it with both hands in order to take a drink. And thank goodness it was Diet Coke because that offset the 25 lb. bag of popcorn.

The other thing that I saw this week (I know — that’s two smiles) was this adorable You Tube video of Jimmy Fallon with Billy Joel. I enjoy listening to the song, but mostly I enjoy watching just how much fun they are having. Jimmy Fallon is adorable.

Monuments Men was a very good movie, by the way.

Have a good weekend.