I don’t do this very often, but I guess all of the celebrating took its toll. At about 8:15 p.m. last night, I realized I hadn’t written a blog post for today. Keep in mind that I awaken before the birds, so by 8:15, I am down for the count. I don’t have a single creative brain cell left at that point. So this blog post originally ran on September 25, 2018. Please enjoy it again, and I will see you again tomorrow.

I was somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 years old when I could no longer ignore the advertisements for Art Instruction Schools in whatever magazines I perused. I knew in my heart-of-hearts that I had the chops to be accepted to that school and become a great artist. What’s more, I was certain I could get the scholarship that they dangled in front of my face.

So I did as the advertisement instructed. I drew Tippy the Turtle…..

Remember Tippy? I’m sure you do. Art Instruction Schools advertisements were ubiquitous. They were in children’s magazines and in any adult magazine that a child might pick up with curiousity. Maybe not Playboy, but certainly McCalls or Good Housekeeping. I think there were other options to draw, but Tippy spoke to me.

I got out a piece of paper and a pencil, and I carefully copied Tippy. I filled out the necessary paperwork, folded it up, found an envelope and a stamp, and put my drawing in the mail.

Perhaps you will recall the scene in A Christmas Story where Ralphie watches the mail every day for his Orphan Annie secret decoder ring. Well, that was me. Every day I would sort through the mail, eagerly awaiting word on whether or not I had been accepted to this art school.

At long last, the eagerly-awaited correspondence arrived. Lo, and behold, I HAD BEEN ACCEPTED! It was disappointing to learn that I hadn’t received a scholarship, but it didn’t matter that much. Once Mom and Dad learned of the talent that their second-born child possessed, cost of the program wouldn’t matter. After all, Art Instruction Schools promised that there were jobs galore for those gifted few who qualified for their education.

Unfortunately, Mom didn’t quite see it the same way as me. And not being of the School of Gentle Childrearing that now exists for our grandkids, Mom said something like, “Don’t be ridiculous, Kris. Art Instruction School is nothing but a racket. Anyone who applies gets into their school and they charge a fortune for the art classes. And YOU DON’T HAVE TALENT.”

There went my art career. Not to mention my self esteem. Parents didn’t really worry about self esteem in those days. But dang it anyway.

The other evening, I was watching Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole for a few hours at their house. Cole came up to me, pencil and paper in hand, and asked, “Nana, can you draw me a horse?” My Art Instruction School acceptance immediately popped back in my head. I had another chance to display my artistic ability.

“I would be happy to, Cole,” I told him, Googling how to draw a horse even as I spoke. Here’s what came up…..

I can do this, I thought. I know I can. Here is what I drew…..

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I drew, but it certainly wasn’t a horse. Look at the back left leg. What the hell is that? Look at all the legs, for that matter.

About this time, Mylee wandered into the room, and asked me what I was doing. I explained that I was drawing a horse for Cole. She peeked over my shoulder at my drawing. She was quiet as she studied the drawing. Here was her assessment, word-for-word: “It’s actually not too bad, Nana. But the head is a bit…..awkward.”

That was certainly nicer than what my mother would have said.

I’m back in the saddle again,
Out where a friend is a friend.
Where the longhorn cattle feed
On the lowly jimsonweed.
Back in the saddle again.

Ridin’ the range once more.
Totin’ my old .44.
Where you sleep out every night
And the only law is right.
Back in the saddle again. – Gene Autry

After a drive through the Navaho Nation, trying like the devil to hold our breath, we made it home to Denver Saturday afternoon. Every time we drive from one home to the other, I always think we won’t bring much. We have made a concerted effort to duplicate things to avoid lots of hauling back and forth. Alas, it never works out that way. For one thing, when we drive to AZ in November, we are bringing all of our summer clothes. We won’t need them anymore in Colorado, and then they are there awaiting us when we arrive Christmas Day. Conversely, when we drive back to Denver, we are bringing all of those same summer clothes with us. Plus any we added and we’ve always added some.

Bill has work-related stuff to haul. I have hobby-related stuff to haul. This year I also brought back lots and lots of canned goods that I had purchased and didn’t use. During those first days of the quarantine — you know, the days of ehe Purell and Toilet Paper crisis– one never knew what would be on the grocery shelves. So if I saw something that hadn’t been there for a while, I would grab one, not remembering if I had some at home. Because of this, I ended up with four cans of diced tomatoes, three boxes of chicken broth, one box of beef broth, and four cans of cream of mushroom soup. All of these items — and more — rode with us in the back of the car.

We unpacked the car first thing. And then we began settling in. Changing clocks. Turning on the water. Opening windows to let out the smell of must. Getting the ice maker going. Putting away all of the perishables. Calling Dish Network to change the location of our satellite service because we have what’s called a Snowbird Account.

A full two hours and two phone calls later, it still wasn’t changed. We have had this account for 10 years. For 10 years, all we’ve ever had to do was call Dish, and explain that we have a snowbird account and that we’re changing locations. They always understood completely, and in the 10 minutes it took them to make the change, I listened to them try to sell me something-or-other, which I always declined. But then, voila! our local stations were back in service.

This time, I simply couldn’t get to the right person. Nor could I get to anyone that I could understand. I’m not trying to be negative, but I simply didn’t know what they were saying and they simply didn’t understand what I wanted them to do. Finally, after a total of three people in three separate telephone conversations, someone did something that involved Bill crawling behind the television and pushing buttons and pulling out computer cards and lots of praying to the patron saint of technology (who happens to be St. Isidore of Seville for reasons I don’t quite understand). But it now works.

And as I write this post, Dagny is once again mowing our back yard and Bill is washing windows. So, nothing ever really changes.

Did you hear the one about the two people who drove through Navaho Nation during a pandemic?

Bill and I took off Friday morning, heading to Denver. We were completely in the dark about what to expect in the days ahead. One person told us that we wouldn’t be able to find a bathroom for love nor money. Not good when you’re a Baby Boomer with a bladder the size of a dime. We limited ourselves to one cup of coffee.

When we drive, we have a whole system that frankly varies very little. Bill starts out driving, and he takes us to Payson, about an hour-and-a-half from our house. We generally stop at McDonalds and get a breakfast sandwich and use their restrooms. No restrooms available this time, and the drive-thru line was long. No prob, because we’d already eaten breakfast.

Once I take over, we head to Holbrook where we might stop and have lunch at another fast food restaurant. My mother always said that the town of Holbrook, Arizona, looked like a town that had recently been hit by a nuclear bomb. Needless to say, she was never asked to serve on their Chamber of Commerce Board. Alas, she really is right. It is a town with very little to offer, except a Dairy Queen. A Dairy Queen at which we always make a stop to have an ice cream treat.

Because we needed a stretch break, we stopped at this very Dairy Queen, thinking perhaps we could use their bathroom. Signs on the windows indicated excitedly that their bathrooms were open. The lobby was closed, but they had a drive thru that had been added very recently. My guess is the owner knocked a hole in the wall with a sledge hammer though I can’t confirm that theory. The drive thru lane was about six feet long. And apparently DQ is the only game in town because the line awaiting the drive thru was down the street. We, however, parked on the other side of the building because I had made us sandwiches. We also saw that they indicated they had car hops.

After a wait of about 20 minutes (during which we ate our sandwiches), a very confused-looking woman appeared asking if we wanted to order anything. “Yes,” we said. “Two hot fudge malts. And a bathroom.”

She looked like a deer in the headlights. It seemed the front door was locked because the manager had left with the key. So no bathrooms. It really didn’t matter, because we weren’t in a desperate state. See above: limited coffee. I admit to being a bit concerned about the DQ employee’s safety given only one rear exit. Perhaps that’s why she looked so confused.

We left, and headed towards Gallup, which is the first town in New Mexico on I-40, and the heart of the Navaho Nation. You know, the same Navaho Nation which has been drastically hit with the coronavirus. But my dime-sized bladder was being stretched to its limit, and a visit to a ladies’ room was a must at this point. As we got off the highway, we noticed that traffic going into Gallup was backed up. However, our favorite truck stop, cleverly called Navaho Travel Station, was the other direction. We made a quick stop. The clerks were all wearing masks as were we. A thorough hand wash and plenty of disinfectant lotion made us feel pretty good. The line was still backed up as we got back on I-40.

That night, as we watched television in our hotel room in Albuquerque, we learned that the city of Gallup WAS CLOSED. As in NO ONE IN, NO ONE OUT.

Yoiks.

The rest of the trip was uneventul. We left Albuquerque the next morning, and made it to Trinidad, Colorado, before our stomachs were growling (no sandwiches that day). We drove through Wendy’s and parked to eat our sandwiches. We had entertainment as the first marijuana store in Colorado coming in from I-25 was right there. And they were doing a frisky business. In fact, there was a line out of the door. To be fair, they were carefully allowing only one person in the store at a time. Their parking lot was full of out-of-state cars there to visit the essential business of recreational marijuana. That’s okay. I need my martinis.

We made it home without any problems, and now we just return to a quarantine life with new walls.

Practically since birth, our grandson Micah has loved music. He was very young when it became clear that he has perfect rhythm. He remembers the words to songs. He likes many different kinds of music. He says he wants to “make music and live in a van” when he grows up. Believe me, it’s practically certain.

I got a text from my daughter-in-law earlier this week in which Micah is proudly displaying his 100 Days of Practice Award. That would be for piano practice, thank you very much. It looks like his pride is showing forth. It also looks like his getting his hair ready for the making music and living in a van. Or maybe there’s a quarantine. Or both. Congratulations Micah….

Have a great weekend.