Sweethearts Day
Nana’s Whimsies wants to take this opportunity to wish everybody a wonderful Valentine’s Day. This is the extent that I went to with my celebrating, thanks to the handiwork of my sister-in-law Sami…..

Having a Good Time
If you are a faithful reader, you know that I have been struggling with pain behind my knee since December. You know because I have been whining nonstop about it. I have had numerous doctors’ visits. One doctor told me it was a Baker’s cyst; another said a meniscus tear; still another said it was neither of those, but didn’t really offer any alternative diagnoses and suggested using ibuprofen faithfully for a week. I went back earlier this week, because the knee still hurts. So they are sending me for a diagnostic MRI which will answer the looming question: What the hell is the matter with my knee? I am scheduled on Tuesday around noon. Say a prayer for me. In my own inimitable style, I am expecting the worst!

The Coyote’s After You
Every morning about the same time, a roadrunner runs past the two windows on the fence down the side of our house. It then makes a right turn, and runs down fence in the back of our yard. He rarely misses a morning. The bird always makes me laugh. My not-so-stellar photographic proof…..

I was telling my brother the story about my roadrunner’s visit, and he told me about a friend of his who grew up elsewhere but moved to this area a while back. Apparently he was somewhere with someone, and that someone said, “Look! There’s a roadrunner behind you.” The man turned around to see the roadrunner. He admitted to my brother that he full-out expected to see a six-foot purple bird instead of the two-foot bird that stood there. Because CARTOON! Perhaps he was also looking for Wile E. Coyote…..

Oh, So Cute
Facebook users know that many mornings when you open up your Facebook page, you are greeted with a photo from one year ago that very day, or two years ago, or three or four or five. The other day I was greeted with a photo of Kaiya and Mylee from seven years ago at my house playing with (shock) Play Doh. My shock was seeing how little they were…..

Kiss and hug on your kids and grandkids when they’re young, because they grow up before you know it!

Du, Du Liegst Mir im Herzen
Bill and I invited Bec to dine with us at the German restaurant, and she was happy to join us. We had delicious food, as usual (Bec and Bill each had Jager Schniztel while I went with bratwurst). And, as usual, the accordian player provided background music. It never fails to make us nostalgic, recalling both Gramps and Dad playing the accordion when they would wake up from their afternoon naps. Du, du liegst mir im herzen, indeed.

Ciao.

Childhood living is easy to do.
The things you wanted I bought them for you.
Graceless lady you know who I am.
You know I can’t let you slide through my hands.
Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.
Wild, wild horses couldn’t drag me away. – Rolling Stones

Our grandson Cole perfectly depicts the way I felt yesterday afternoon…..

Nobody can express themselves quite like a 4-year-old, am I wrong? He was mad about getting his hair cut. As for my pouty mood, I was mad because once again, Bill and I were unable to spot a single wild horse. I would post a photo of the way I looked yesterday afternoon, but it wouldn’t be nearly as comical.

There are wild horses that gallop free as the wind in an area of the Tonto National Forest some 20 miles north of the front door of our AZ home. People flock to see these beautiful wild creatures. Purportedly, this year — because of the cool and wet winter we are experiencing in the Sonoran Desert area — these horses are plentiful, well-fed, and easy to spot from the side of the road.

Unless you’re Bill and me. Because despite the fact that most people who travel to see the horses are nearly tripping on them as they gallop by while the visitors stand on the side of the road, we only hear crickets chirping. Seriously. No horses. Only smiling picnickers as they toss their empty paper plates into the trash, reminiscing cheerfully about the herd of horses that galloped by a mere 25 minutes ago.

I wouldn’t be so dismayed except for the fact that it isn’t the first time Bill and I have tried to see the wild horses. About a year ago, Bill and I set out to find the horses that everyone-but we see. This is as close as we got that time…..

Yesterday we didn’t even get that close. We never even saw the horse poop!

We have friends who see the horses every time they drive up north on a horse-finding expedition. They send me photos…..

It’s true. A stallion, a mare, and two colts. I kid you not. Yesterday these four rascals must have gone to Grandma Wild Horse’s house because they were nowhere to be found on a lovely AZ winter’s day by we two horse-seekers.

Oh, and this one…..

“Well, hi there Guys!” they appear to be saying. “Would you like to get a bit closer so that you can rub our snouts and maybe feed us apples?”

Alas, we failed this day, but I’m not giving up. Bill and I will lick our wounds and then try once again. Maybe this time we will bring along a few critical essentials. Like our lucky horses-spotting friends.

For this past Christmas, Allen and Emma gave Bill and me a wonderful gift of two tickets to see The Jersey Boys at the Phoenix Theater Company in downtown Phoenix. The gift was wonderful for a couple of reasons: First, neither Bill nor I had ever seen the play. (Yes, we are those last two people who hadn’t attended a single showing of this wonderful musical gem.) Second, it motivated us to pull up our big girl and boy panties and shorts and venture out of our safe surroundings into downtown Phoenix, a mecca of fun that we have barely dipped a toe into (God bless mixed metaphors!).

The performance was Tuesday, so a week ago yesterday, I began perusing dining spots for us that were near the theater. Since I don’t know downtown very well (well, not at all), I couldn’t begin to guess what kind of area it was and what sorts of eating places were offered in walking distance from the theater (since we planned to take Lyft or Uber).

I searched and searched, and what kept showing up was a restaurant called Durant’s Steakhouse, about a half mile north of the theater. It was advertised as an old-school steak house. I do love me an old-school steakhouse. It particularly touted its desserts and its martinis. Well, something for everyone, or at least something for Bill and me. So I made reservations, and only worried a teeny-tiny bit about the fact that I couldn’t find anything online that showed prices.

That evening, our Lyft driver dropped us off at the valet stand by the door, and drove off. We peeked inside and noticed it was the door to the kitchen. So we waitetd for the valet to return, and asked him how we entered the restaurant.

“Right through this door,” he said with a smile.

Sure enough, in order to get to the restaurant, you had to walk through the kitchen. Now, while that might be a bit baffling to some, I LOVED IT! There is almost nothing I like better than to see a busy restaurant kitchen at work. I love it so much, in fact, that one time when I made reservations for our board of directors to eat at a fancy restaurant in Washington, D.C., I made the choice reservation to eat at the table located right in the kitchen. I don’t know what the board members thought, but Bec (my guest) and I were happy campers of the highest order.

Anyway, Bill and I checked in and were taken to our table. The room, my friends, was large and red. Red, red, red, red. Red damask wall covering, red leather booths. Gleaming chandeliers and sparkling glasses and dishes and flatware. It was lovely to behold, if very red. So red, in fact, that it was impossible to take a photo that didn’t make Bill look, well, red…..

The waiters wore old-school black with long white aprons, and notably, all were in their late 40s or older. We asked our server how long she had worked at Durants, and she said she was one of the newer employees with a tenure of only 16 years.

Durants, according to our server, opened its doors in 1950, and it was mobsters who requested the rear entrance. They didn’t want their enemies to see them come and go. No one looked like a mobster the night we dined.

We started with a little relish plate like you should if a restaurant calls itself Old School. And we finished with a piece of chocolate cake, because how can you call it a dinner out if it doesn’t end in chocolate?

The menu was expensive, no question. The fact that entrees came with soup or salad and a potato made it less painful, and the fact that the place was so much fun, and the food was so delicious, made it a night to remember. This helped…..

And see? Even the martini looks redish.

When our eldest granddaughter Addie — who is now only a bit over a month shy of 16 (and how on earth did THAT happen?) — was 5 years old or so, I was picking her up from school to take her to her piano lesson. I picked her up every Thursday, and she always emerged with a smile on her face. But one day, I could see immediately when she walked out the door that something was amiss. The second she spotted me, she burst into tears.

I got a red light, she told me, sobbing. In her hand she clutched a red piece of paper.

I knew what that meant. Her teacher handed out “lights” at the end of the day: green if you had been good, yellow if there were problems but they had been addressed, and red, well, you know. Addie was not used to getting anything but green lights.

For the life of me, I can’t recall why she got a red light. But I quickly comforted her, telling her that we all had days that were more difficult than others and that tomorrow would be a much better day. (I, of course, was thinking: that teacher is a complete monster and Addie was undoubtedly FRAMED by a jealous 5-year-old juvenile delinquent.)

The truth is, even if Addie was guilty of some sort of 5-year-old version of naughtiness, I loved her with all my heart, as I do all of my grandkids. None is perfect, and I love them all despite any flaws. Most grandparents (and parents) feel exactly the same.

Knowing this reality, why is it then so hard to understand that God loves us — his own children — even when we turn our backs on what we KNOW is good and neglect to follow the two simple laws Jesus himself gave us: love God and love one another like we love ourselves.

It is good to remind ourselves that when it was time for Jesus to select his apostles — those men who became his closest friends and who would carry on his teaching after he left — he didn’t pick men who were important muckety-mucks in the Jewish community or who were wealthy sports figures who wore fancy Gucci running robes and expensive Michael Jordan running sandals.

Nope, he selected a frankly rag-tag group of men who were so poor that they mended their fishing nets instead of buying new nets. They were tax collectors and fishermen and I’m pretty sure John never even had a job before he met Jesus. Just sayin’.

And heaven knows they weren’t perfect. They sinned again and again. They doubted and they questioned and they didn’t even begin to understand what Jesus was telling them until long after he had died and risen.

Jesus loves those kinds of people. Instead of ignoring them, he made them fishers of men. And he preached what his Father taught: He loves us even when we aren’t perfect.

Though I still believe Addie was innocent. Look at that 5-year-old face…..

This post linked to the GRAND Social

The east side of Mesa is a world in and of itself. I pondered this notion as I drove through the streets of our adopted Arizona city to pick up Bill from the Hyundai car dealer where we dropped off our Sonata for some repair work.

Mesa — particularly east Mesa — has so many retirees that you are caught off guard when you meet an older person who doesn’t have a Minnesota accent. Seriously, is there anyone left in Minnesota over the age of 50? (Cynically stated as only another snowbird could do in all good conscience.) While Scottsdale — also a mecca for retirees — is thick with men and women with expensive haircuts, golf course suntans, wearing tennis whites in the grocery store, and driving Bentleys, east Mesa is home to we common folk. You know, the people who grew your corn and wheat, or who fixed your automobile, or who taught Junior his new math.

As such, our abodes are more down-to-earth as well. While Jen, Bill, and I have a small single family home in a regular neighborhood where a school bus picks up the neighborhood kids each morning, I would venture to say that a large segment — perhaps the majority — of the senior population in east Mesa live in what are called Park Model neighborhoods. These are neighborhoods with small but usually nice homes — sometimes mobile homes or even RVs — that are limited to the 55 Plus demographic. The neighborhoods offer a lot of group activity options. You will often find pickle ball courts and bingo nights and monthly square dances in these types of ‘hoods. As with most things, some are nicer than others.

What got me to pondering was my driving past a somewhat sad-looking trailer park neighborhood near the car dealership that was called Apache East Estates…..

That made me smile, because I would imagine that the people who live in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, refer to their homes as estates. Without being judgmental, the two are not the same. For one thing, inexplicably, Grosse Pointe feels the need to add e’s to the end of each word, giving me the urge to call it Grossie Pointie. (That would not make the Grossie Pointie City Council happy.) The residents of Apache East Estates probably come from midwest towns that don’t end in unnecessary e’s. You don’t hear about Rede Cloude, Nebraska, for example.

I’ve also observed that the communities that aren’t Something-or-Other Estate are often Something-or-Other Resort. Just sayin’.

Euphemisms or not, I feel the need to add that the people who live in these estates and resorts have a lot of fun. And a lot of community spirit. I know this because many of the restaurants where Bill and I choose to eat often have literally tables full of neighbors who are dining together. They are generally happy to be retired, conservative in their dress (and probably their politics), wear shorts and Hawaiian shirts even if it’s 45 degrees (because they’re used to 45 below and this feels like a heat wave), and love their retirement. Rather than making me cranky (as most things do), I find myself smiling at their joyful companionship.

After we dropped off the car, we went to a little family-owned restaurant on Main Street near our house. There were only a few people (it was early, even for the 55 Plus crowd). We walked in and looked around for a hostess. A woman sitting with a male companion in a booth hollered out to us, “Take a seat anywhere. The staff is in the kitchen right now.” Clearly a regular, I thought. And I was right, because as she and her companion — probably her husband — left, she bid the waitress a chipper, “See you tomorrow!”

And then they returned to their home in Apache East Estates or Sonoran Valley Resorts, happy as a clam to be retired.

As am I.

My mother wasn’t much of a joiner. Not like Bill’s mom, who was a member of her garden club and her church bell choir and a book club and PEO. Mom worked and cooked and watched football and went to church and spent time with her family.

Because Bill’s mom enjoyed participating in community groups and clubs, she had her kids active as well. As a child, Bill took acting lessons and singing lessons and tennis lessons. He sang in his church’s children’s choir. If there was a way she could get Bill out of the house and thereby not torturing his sister, she found it.

I belonged to exactly zero clubs as a kid. It wasn’t until junior high when I was able to join CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) because if she didn’t let me, the nuns would have hunted her down. Mostly it was okay, because I, like my mother, am not much of a joiner. But man-oh-man, would I have liked being a Girl Scout.

Let me rephrase that. I would have liked JOINING the Girl Scouts. For about two meetings. Because for me, it was mostly about getting to wear the Brownie and Girl Scout uniform.

Court was a Cub Scout for a brief period of time. It didn’t really stick. After all, this is the child who told me he didn’t want to go on a hike because “I hate nature.” But he stuck it out long enough to get his Webelo badge and then happily tossed aside his blue uniform and pretty much has stuck to his dislike of nature ever since.

I am reminded about this hole in my life about this time every year, when my grandchildren who ARE Girl Scouts are selling cookies. For a time, I had three Brownies, resulting in the purchase of a hell of a lot of cookies, resulting in situations like this….

Since Maggie Faith tossed aside her brown vest, I’m now down to only two….

Kaiya and Mylee are ready to begin their 2019 course in consumerism. They start with their grandparents.

I don’t know the level of the rest of the grandparents’ commitments, but this nana is determined to order four boxes of cookies from each cookie entrepreneur. I will give Bill his choice of four, and I will choose four as well. Bill will select any cookies involving chocolate. As for me, I am all about the Savannah Smiles and the Tagalongs. I used to be a Samoa girl, but now it’s all about the peanut butter.

Girls Scouts of America now allows grandparents (and others) who live far, far away from their grandkids to place an order and have them delivered right to their door step. Sales can be completed entirely without talking to a single Girl Scout. Except I will talk to mine.

I will place my order which will allow me to confidently refuse the scads of little girls selling cookies in front of every single grocery store in the city.

“Sorry,” I sing to them. “I’ve already given my order to my two favorite Girl Scouts.”

By the way, if you’re in the cookie market, give me a buzz. I can hook you up.