Category Archives: Whimsies

Saturday Smile: Splash

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The coolish winter has morphed into a pretty warmish spring in the Valley of the Sun. The days are now reaching 90 degrees or more, and at 8 o’clock at night, it’s still in the 80s. It does cool down sometime around 4 o’clock in the morning to the mid-60s, but still, the days are hot.

Since Jen has been visiting, her grands have spent time over at the house. Last spring, Jen dug deep into her pocket and bought a swimming pool. Not a big fancy one, mind you. Instead, she spent maybe 8 or 9 dollars and bought one of those little plastic blow-up pools. It was the best money she ever spent because her grandkids love that pool. I can relate, because almost to the very last ones, my grandkids also love when I blow up a plastic pool in our backyard in the summer. Still, my pool is rather large; this pool is maybe three or four feet across.

Thursday we blew up the pool, and they spent the afternoon doing this, about a million times…….

They couldn’t possibly had more fun even if the water had been 6 feet deep. Giggles galore. Simple pleasures.

Have a great weekend.

Thursday Thoughts

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Erin go Bragh
I am preparing corned beef and cabbage this evening rather than tomorrow for several reasons. The first is that I’m not Irish, so I can make my corned beef whenever I darn well please; second, it works better for some of the people who will be seated at my table; third, St. Patrick’s Day is on Friday when Catholics abstain from meat, so Jen and I elected to make the meal on Thursday. Of course, the Phoenix archdiocese announced last Sunday that the no-meat restriction was being lifted for St. Patrick’s Day. I find that funny, but I won’t argue because we don’t have to try to fight the Catholic masses in our effort to find good fish-and-chips, at least for one Friday in Lent.

Fish Fry

Culvers fish-and-chips

And just what do I mean by that last statement? Culver’s offers really, really good fried fish in the form of sandwiches and fish-and-chips. They proclaim – via television commercials – to fly the cod in fresh and bread it themselves right in the store. I have no reason to doubt that Culver employees’ mornings are spent breading fish. All I will tell you is that I believe that every single Catholic in the East Valley over the age of 55 was at our nearby Culver’s last Friday evening. Bill and I arrived early — around 4:30 — and the line to order was out the door. I sent Bill on a futile search for a table while I stood in line. He came back about the time I was getting ready to order and proclaimed not a table to be had. So I ordered our food to go, sad that it would only be marginally warm by time we rolled into our garage, but what’s a Catholic to do? As we were waiting for our food, a table right near where I was standing opened up, and I shot myself like a cannonball into the seat. (The 98-year-old woman that I knocked out of the way got up from the floor almost entirely by herself.) I told Bill that because our order was to-go, he would need to wait for our number to be called. Now here’s where my proclivity for exaggeration is coming to bite me, because you won’t believe what I’m telling you. Bill waited a full 30 minutes to get our order. While he waited up front, senior citizens continued to troll around the store like sharks looking for dinner. The most wonderful thing about this story is that once Bill came to our table with the food (which was piping hot!), he wasn’t a bit crabby. He had spent the entire time chatting it up with another NASCAR fan, and they discussed the upcoming race. My husband has a patient temperament in many ways.

Customer Serviceless
I’m not anti-Walmart; I’m really not. Their prices are lower than other supermarkets and that alone makes me go there once in a while for one thing or another. Yesterday Bill needed some kind of gardening item, and since I needed a few things for tonight’s meal, I decided I might as well pick them up while he did his shopping. One of the things I needed was horseradish, and I find that to be one of the items I have trouble finding in stores, particularly the kind that needs to be refrigerated. So, there was a young man stocking shelves, and I politely asked him where I could find horseradish. He gave me such a blank stare — and for so long — that I wondered if I had inadvertently spoken in German.  That seemed unlikely, however, since I don’t speak German. He sent me on a wild goose chase because he, of course, not only didn’t know where the horseradish was, but didn’t have the slightest idea WHAT it was. Good thing I didn’t ask him for braunschweiger.

Sprechen Sie Deutsch?
And my last comment about not speaking German reminds me of something that happened when Bill and I were on our big European Adventure back in 2008. We were in Germany having lunch, and I needed to use a bathroom. I had taken four years of high school German, but I can’t say I ever really learned the language. Nevertheless, I decided to try speaking German to the food server. “Wo is das badezimmer?” I asked the startled woman. She looked at me with puzzlement, so I repeated my question. Finally, she said to me in PERFECT ENGLISH, “Are you looking for the toilette? It’s right back there.” Now then, a few weeks ago, Bill and Bec and I went to a German restaurant here in Mesa, and while waiting for a table, we sat at the bar. Seated next to me was a very nice woman who was from Germany but lives now in AZ. We got to talking, and I related my story to her. She laughed, and explained that what I had actually asked the woman was, “Where is a place to take a bath?” Ah ha. That explains the German waitress’s puzzlement.

Ciao.

Bargains

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The town in which I spent my youth had a sidewalk sale every year. I guess I should really call it the Sidewalk Sale (with caps), as it was not just a sale, but quite a special event. All of the downtown stores would pull outside their racks of clothes and shoes, or their jewelry cases, or shelves filled with notions or hardware or inexpensive jewelry with markdown prices. That day, the town would fill up with shoppers, both folks from in town and others from nearby farms throughout Platte County and beyond, all looking for bargains.

In our case, we pulled out enormous cases filled with baked goods, but primarily glazed doughnuts. My dad made delicious glazed yeast doughnuts. One of my cousins recently described my dad’s doughnuts as being so light they practically floated. And on the day of the sidewalk sale, we sold our glazed doughnuts, which normally cost 65 cents a dozen for half price.  So you can imagine just how many dozens and dozens and dozens of doughnuts we sold on the day of the Sidewalk Sale. Those doughnuts were not manufactured by any kind of automated system as they are at Krispie Kreme. My dad would cut each doughnut by hand. I remember that with one movement, my dad would cut the doughnut, and throw it up over his thumb, thereby knocking out the doughnut hole, until he couldn’t fit any more on his thumb. I can still hear the thump, thump, thump as he cut each doughnut, one at a time. Once his thumb was full, he would lay them out on the screen to put into the proof box to rise. He could fill a screen full of doughnuts faster than Krispie Kreme ever imagined.

So on the day of the Sidewalk Sale, he and another baker were in the back cutting, proofing, frying, and glazing doughnuts nonstop. At regular intervals, my mom would come out with a new tray of freshly fried and glazed doughnuts, and place them in the showcase. I remember two specific things about working on Sidewalk Sale Day. First, it was a never-ending battle to keep flies out of the showcase. It was Nebraska in the summertime, people. One of the bakery clerks (often Bec or me) was constantly pounding on the outside of the case while another (often Bec or me) was making sure that the annoying insect flew away. No sooner would one be gone than another would sneak in. It was a never-ending battle, but we were quite successful, if relentless.

And the second thing I remember is that, one-after-another, people would ask, “Are those doughnuts fresh?” Are they fresh? Are they fresh? Seriously? Because we can hardly even pick them up to put in a box because they are so dang hot. To the moon, Alice…..

People love a bargain, don’t they? That’s why places like Goodwill and T.J. Maxx stay in existence. I like a bargain as much as the next guy.

My niece Maggie recently told me about a bargain of which I was unaware. It seems Jimmy John’s sells yesterday’s bread for half a buck a loaf. I’m talking those big loaves of bread that are something like 15 or 16 inches long. Maggie uses them when she makes her delicious Cuban sandwiches. The other day, when she included Bill and me in a dinner of Cuban sandwiches, I offered to pick up the bread from Jimmy John’s.  Sure enough, a pyramid of French bread loaves sat on the JJ’s counter, selling for 45 cent each. I purchased 4 loaves. The young woman waiting on me who, up until that point, had been speaking in a normal voice, suddenly said something to me in what the Romans would call sotto voce. She had a surreptitious look about her and I suddenly felt like I was part of a detective movie. “Pardon me?” I said. “Could you repeat that?”

In a bit louder whisper, yet still barely moving her lips, she said, “Take them from the bottom of the pile; they’re better.”

Ah ha. Nice girl. Bottom of the pile it was.

At any rate, it reminded me of the day-old bread rack at our bakery. Each night, at closing time, one of the jobs of whoever was closing the store was to bag up the leftover doughnuts and rolls, and gather up any loaves of bread that hadn’t sold that day, and place the whole kit-and-kaboodle on the day-old rack. The next day, those goodies would be sold at half price to thrifty shoppers, most of whom were farmers because they are eager for a bargain and are the early birds that get the worms.

That brought the 29 cent loaf of bread down to a whopping 14 cents. Imagine…..

Noodles

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A couple of weeks ago when our family was visiting us in AZ, we were eating at our favorite pizza restaurant here in the Valley of the Sun. As we ate, I asked a variation of the age-old question: If you were eating your very last meal, what would you have?

I learned several interesting things from that question. The first thing I learned is that if you’re going to try to ascertain the answer to that question from an 11-year-old boy, you’d better phrase the question carefully. I unfortunately worded it as such: Hey Alastair, if you were on death row and they were bringing in your last meal, what would you have ordered? Okay, okay; I admit that perhaps you shouldn’t ask a child any questions that relate to Death Row. Lesson learned. Because Alastair – who loves good food – couldn’t be pinned down to the food part and instead concentrated fully on the Death Row part. Despite my pressing him further and further, his answers continued to be along the lines of a cake with a file in it, or a piece of sausage in the shape of a key.

But the other interesting piece of information I learned, particularly once I rephrased the question to be if you were on a desert island and could only eat one thing, what would it be?, was that my daughter-in-law Jll chose lasagna.

I thought about that conversation the other night when I cooked dinner for my sister Jen – who had arrived that day for a week’s visit – and her daughter Maggie and the family. I had texted the dinner invitation to Maggie earlier in the day, and didn’t know technology could work that fast when her response of YES! came almost before I set down my phone. Such is the life of a mother of two, including a very busy 3-year-old, as she prepares for the arrival of her own mother.  I had some of my red sauce in the freezer, so making lasagna was going to be simple. Or at least as simple as making lasagna can be.

As we sat and ate our lasagna, Caesar salad, and French bread, we learned that Maggie’s husband Mark would also choose lasagna as his last meal. Funny, that. I like lasagna, but who would choose lasagna when you could choose a wonderfully dry and ice-cold Tanqueray martini, a perfectly-cooked bone-in ribeye steak with a dollop of herb and garlic butter, a crisp salad with a mixture of homemade Roquefort cheese dressing and the homemade Italian dressing made by my favorite childhood restaurant Husker House, and crème brulee with that crackly burnt-sugar topping?

As a result of Mark’s proclamation, much of our conversation at dinner that night revolved around making lasagna. I created a bit of a controversy when I admitted that while I liked lasagna, I found it a pain in the booty to make.

Maggie was astounded. She doesn’t share my sentiment. But let me be clear. The most troublesome thing for me when it comes to lasagna is the noodles. Cooking lasagna noodles is flat-out messy. Dripping water, noodles splashing back into the cooking water as you try to retrieve them, noodles sticking together. All-around messiness.

Maggie, however, uses the lasagna noodles that cook as your lasagna bakes. I’m all for convenience, but I fear that any kind of pasta that you put uncooked into a dish soaks up too much of the liquid as it cooks. So despite the ease, I continue to cook my noodles before I begin the layering process.

I will admit that I like my lasagna very much. I use a meat sauce from my favorite Italian chef, Lidia Bastianich. It involves using pork neck bones, which result in the most flavorful sauce imaginable. Of course, no matter how careful I am, a few little bones will make it into the sauce. But the best part of using neck bones is that after a couple of hours, you remove them to cool. I, however, begin nibbling on them almost immediately, always burning my fingers in the process. Lidia’s sauce also involves ground pork and ground beef, so the flavor is delightful. Don’t tell Lidia, but sometimes I substitute Italian sausage for the ground pork. The sauce cooks for a couple of hours, making the house smell like an Italian home on Sunday. It’s pure heaven.

Here is a link to Lidia’s sauce, though it doesn’t come from her website. As for the lasagna, just like dressing for Colorado springtime weather, it’s all about layering.

Include as many layers as your pan will hold, and then eventually this happens…..

And maybe that is worth a last meal.

I’ll Be Your Huckleberry

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If you fellows have been hunted from one end of the country to the other as I have been, you’ll understand what a bad man’s reputation is built on. I’ve had credit for more killings than I ever dreamt of. – John Henry “Doc” Holliday

As Bill and I prepared for our two-day adventure to Tombstone, AZ, we did what any respectable-yet-uninformed tourist would do; we watched the movie Tombstone, Hollywood’s depiction of perhaps the most famous gunfight in the Old West. I had seen the movie before, but needed to be refreshed on the specifics of the Gunfight at the OK Corral. Even if the so-called specifics of the movie are largely exaggerated. Or downright wrong. Still, isn’t Kurt Russell’s Wyatt Earp swoon-worthy, and don’t you just want to be best friends with Doc Holliday as portrayed by Val Kilmer?

Upon entering the town of Tombstone, I realized that the most important piece of misinformation was that the gunfight didn’t actually take place at the OK Corral. Instead, the event for which Tombstone is most remembered took place a block or so away on Fremont Street, in front of a photography studio. Apparently Hollywood just couldn’t get its arms around the Gunfight at C.S. Fly’s Photographic Studio on Fremont Street. Just doesn’t have the same ring.

Call me a dork, but ever since we bought our house in AZ, I have wanted to visit Tombstone. The real wild, wild west. I may be unsophisticated, but I was certainly not misinformed. Entering Tombstone, AZ, is like going back in time. Amidst the folks like us who were clearly tourists, you see, well, cowboys and cowgirls. Undoubtedly, some are for show. After all, while a silver strike is what put Tombstone on the map back in 1877, the gunfight is what keeps it there. But most of the nontourists aren’t folks who are wearing costumes. The duds they’re wearing (and see? one quick trip to Tombstone and I start using words like duds) are not shiny and fancy. They’re wearing dirty jeans, scuffed boots and dusty hats. The mustaches are real and they say howdy and really mean it.

 

The drive between Mesa and Tombstone was pretty, especially past Tucson. The farther south you go, the more pecan trees you see, both in groves and wild along the side of the road.

The vistas were spectacular.

We walked along Allen Street, imagining what it would have been like back in the 1880s, when gambling and prostitution were legal, real men and women drank whiskey instead of water, and the bad guys were called The Cowboys and wore red sashes.

Allen Street, looking not that much different in 2017 than it did in 1881, except for the camera-bearing tourists.

Since that walk didn’t take long, we spent the remainder of the afternoon in Big Nose Kate’s Saloon, wondering why Doc Holliday’s girlfriend didn’t mind being called Big Nose Kate and drinking one or two beers. At some point, the pull of the Old West overcame your favorite Nana, and I ordered something I literally hadn’t had since 1975 – a shot of tequila. I recalled that one of my friends used to occasionally drink a shot of tequila that contained a splash of Tabasco, and it seemed as though any time you are drinking in anything called a saloon, that was the appropriate accompaniment to a Corona. I ordered the drink, and – call it muscle memory – instantly remembered the salt and the lime. Yee-haw. It’s called a Prairie Fire, and remember it next time you’re in Tombstone.

We did find time in the next day or so to see a reenactment of the gunfight and tour the town via a trolley car driven by an old-timer who could answer any question that might arise about Tombstone, including verifying that Doc Holliday was not nearly as charming as Vil Kilmer’s portrayal. Nor is there any proof that he actually ever said he was anyone’s huckleberry. Still, I will be his huckleberry any day of the week.

A stained window such as this is a common sight in Tombstone restaurants…

As for the old-west dentist using the term “daisy,” the Tombstone newspaper that covered the actual gunfight reported that during the shootout between lawmen Wyatt, Virgil, and Morgan Earp and Doc Holliday; and Cowboys Billy Claiborne, Ike and Billy Clanton, and Tom and Frank McLaury, Frank McLaury said, “I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch,” at which time Doc Holliday is reported to have replied, “Blaze away; you’re a daisy if you have.”

I can’t say whether the Tombstone Epitaph was reporting real or fake news. What I can say, however, is that we had a lot of fun in Tombstone, AZ.

This post linked to Grand Social

Thursday Thoughts: Heading to Nogales

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Despite all the talk of border fences, drug cartels,  and gang warfare, Bill and I decided our adventure to Tombstone, AZ, (about which I will write next week) warranted a stop in Old Mexico — a mere hour’s drive away — to check out, well, drugs.

Oh, don’t look at me like that. We weren’t interested in heroin or cocaine. But we had heard how easy and inexpensive  — and how perfectly legal — it was to get prescriptions from the Mexican border towns. We thought we would check out the cost of some of our various and sundry medications. Money doesn’t grow on trees you know.

I won’t lie. I was substantially uneasy as we made the absolutely beautiful drive down to Nogales, AZ, where we planned on parking our car and walking across the border into Nogales, Mexico. We had talked to people who did exactly that on a routine basis, and were told it couldn’t be simpler.

We found a parking lot in Nogales, AZ, and began the very short walk across the much- talked-about border, through the opening in the enormous metal border wall. We were accompanied not by villains and thugs, but by other senior citizens on the same mission as we. It was quite amusing, actually.

In about a minute, Bill told me we were in Mexico. No one had said a word to us, so I was taken by surprise. I don’t know what I was expecting, really. A strip search? A shake down? A mariachi band? What we got instead was an immediate barrage of Mexican businessmen and women inviting us to buy buy buy drugs from their pharmacy. We stopped at literally the first pharmacy in Mexico, learned that they didn’t carry the only one of Bill’s medications that is expensive, and our shopping was complete.

 

Oh, being in Mexico and all, we did walk through some of the shops selling cigars that may or may not have been Cuban, tried on “Ray Ban” sunglasses that fit crookedly on our noses, and watched the hustle bustle of the busy city. And then we headed to cross the border back into the United States, uncertain of what to expect.

At some point I realized that I had forgotten to take my morning pills which I had stuck in my pocket. I was ridiculously convinced I would end up in a Mexican prison for trying to sneak in a glucosamine and calcium tablet, and a probiotic. I wasn’t.

In fact, though it’s true that we at least had to show a border guard our passports (which we didn’t have to do going into Mexico), he barely looked at them and seemed more interested in what he was going to eat for lunch. While there might be a demographic that incites interest in border guards, apparently this isn’t it….

Bill and I spent a nice afternoon at Big Nose Kate’s Saloon in Tombstone, AZ.

And that’s my Thursday thought for today. Adios.

This post linked to Grand Social.

Mom, Did You….Part 2

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I am continuing contemplating things I wish I would have asked my mother. The moral of this (and yesterday’s) blog is: CHILDREN, ASK YOUR PARENTS QUESTIONS NOW.

What was your worst fail at cooking?

My mother was a splendid cook. She told us many times that when she met my dad, she couldn’t cook at all. She hadn’t had the opportunity to live alone at that point (at least I don’t think so, but, of course, I never asked), so perhaps she had never cooked. She said that she learned to cook primarily from Grammie (my dad’s mother), who must have taught her well. Nevertheless, I’m sure that somewhere along the line (likely early in their marriage) there was a food fail. It happens to all of us. Mine was early in my first marriage when then-husband David and I invited my brother David and his wife to dinner. I can’t remember what I made, but what I do remember is that it involved rice. You know, RICE, that grain that you put in boiling water, let it cook for 20 minutes, and then fluff it up and serve. Except mine turned into wallpaper paste. I don’t know where I went wrong. Cooked too long? Too little water? Too much water? Doesn’t matter. My brother has only recently stopped poking fun at me for a meal I made 40 years ago. But my story isn’t as bad as that of an acquaintance from my days when I worked hard for a living. She was an older woman who was raised in an Irish Catholic household, and married an Italian. She once told me the first time she made her Italian husband spaghetti, she cooked the pasta and poured Campbell’s Tomato Soup over it, set it down in front of her husband and called it spaghetti with red sauce. I wonder what Mom would consider her worst meal.

Was Dad romantic?

Now this is a question I would ask my siblings to weigh in on. I can’t decide. I don’t think I ever saw my dad bring her flowers or do anything typically romantic. I don’t remember him calling her anything but Marg. Still, even up until she died, they would hold hands. Perhaps the bigger question is would she even have wanted him to be romantic. Hmmmmm.

Did you like Dean Martin?

Now this question is to address a disagreement that my sister Jen and I have had for years. She believes Mom loathed Dean Martin. I believe Mom liked Dean Martin. When we were young, Mom always had her radio turned on to K-F-A-B……in O-Ma-Ha! Trust me, the jingle is in my mind. Anyway, I remember her happily listening to songs such as Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime, and You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebody Loves You. Further, I know she and Dad watched the Dean Martin variety show, and while she did get somewhat disgusted at his apparent drunkenness on stage, I still believe she liked him. So, Jen: Mom knows and God knows.

In yesterday’s blog, I mentioned that there are probably questions I would like to ask her that she would never in a million years answer, both out of a sense of privacy and a sense of embarrassment. I once asked her if there was a reason that we children were so far apart in age, i.e., miscarriage and/or birth control. O. M. G. She never answered the question, and likely never quite forgave me for asking. She probably still held a bit of a grudge from the whole poster-paper-causing-accident thingy, about which I spoke yesterday.

Nevertheless, here are a couple of questions that she probably wouldn’t answer….

If your fourth hadn’t been a boy, would you have tried again?

Mom would have considered that to be none of my business, which, of course, is absolutely true. It so happens that Mom and Dad had three daughters before they had a son. They loved all of their children, but there’s nothing like a son to a dad. But something tells me that even had David been a girl, he would have been the last child. I think four kids were enough for Mom and Dad.

And, finally….

What was your biggest regret?

By asking this question, I’m not implying that I think she had regrets. I doubt she had many. But we all have some. I wonder what she would have done differently had she had a chance. Now I’ll never know.

KIDS, ASK THOSE QUESTIONS NOW.

Mom, Did You…..

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Though I lived at home until I left for college at age 18, and though I was a bona fide mama’s girl until, well, I guess I still am, there are so many things I don’t know about her. Big questions that were left unasked for several reasons.

First, I thought she would live forever (despite the fact that she was diagnosed with a fatal disease in her mid-50s). Second, I was busy with my own life. After all, when you’re in high school and college, you don’t really care about anyone’s life but your own.  After graduating from college I was oh-so-busy getting married, having a child, getting divorced, getting married again, working full time, going to graduate school. Busy, busy, busy, and no time to ask Mom questions. Third, Mom was a extremely private person and I’m not sure how many of my questions she would have been comfortable answering. I think Dad would have been a bit more forthright but – you guessed it – I didn’t ask him many questions either.

For the past couple of weeks I have been jotting down questions that I wish I had asked my mother. My siblings might know the answer to some of these questions. Jen knows maybe the most about Mom, perhaps because Mom had more time to devote to her after half her kids were gone.

Anyway, here are a few of the things I wish I had asked my mother while she was still living….

When you first met Dad, did you think he was handsome?

I’m pretty sure I know the answer to that question, because look at this……

marg_reinie-jpg

Hunk City, right? Who wouldn’t think he was handsome? However, the urban legend surrounding the meeting of my mom and dad is that he spotted her while she was working at Monkey Wards in the shoe department, and immediately began hounding her for a date. And, much like her second-eldest child (that would be me), the more he hounded, the more she was determined to not have a thing to do with him. She eventually gave in, because (must I remind you?)…..

reinie-navy

Despite her stubbornness, when she would go home at night, did she think about him and about just how gorgeous he was?

What did you think of Grammie the first time you met her?

On numerous occasions, I have mentioned the kindness, good humor, gentle nature of my paternal grandmother. She was beloved by everyone who met her. I assume that included my mother, who, I know for certain, loved Grammie dearly until the day she went to heaven. But what was it like to meet her and my stern grandfather for the first time? It’s possible she already knew them since they owned a business in Columbus, and it’s a small town. But we all know just how scary it is to meet your potential in-laws for the first time. I wonder what they thought about each other after that first meeting.

kris_grands004_opt

What did you want to be when you grew up?

I don’t know if girls thought about such things in the early part of the 20th century. Maybe they all assumed that they would be wives and mothers, and there were no other options to consider. But my mom was a very smart woman. So she was probably a very smart girl. I wonder if she ever thought, “Could I be a teacher (or a bookkeeper or a librarian or the owner of a dress store) when I grow up?”

Did you think you were pretty?

She was very pretty, indeed. Beautiful, in fact. I’m emphasizing this in large part because people say I look like her so, you know…. But we all know from personal experience (especially we of the female gender) that sometimes we simply are dissatisfied about the way we look…..

mom-photo-1-2

Did you wish your hair was blonder? Darker? Did you think you were too fat? Too skinny? Or did you look at yourself in a mirror and – with a confidence that you frankly didn’t pass on to your daughters – think, “I am really very pretty.”? Which she was.

Who taught you to drive?

This is not world-changing information, but I wonder who taught my mom to drive a car. She grew up in Cedar Rapids, NE, which had a whopping 743 residents in 1930 and has subsequently diminished to somewhere in the neighborhood of 400 residents. She was the youngest of 12 kids and by time she was driving age, most of her siblings were grown and married. Did her dad take her out in some sort of old truck and teach her to drive on the back roads of Boone County? Or did one of her older brothers or sisters teach her to drive? I wonder how old she was. As far as I can remember, she was a good driver. Well, there was that one time when she was giving teen-aged Kris a ride up to school, armed with a roll of blank newspaper which would subsequently be used to make posters for the next day’s pep rally. Go Shamrocks! Unfortunately, as she was backing up the car, the heavy paper roll came out of my hands and jammed onto her accelerator and beneath the brake, causing her to back up at somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 miles an hour only to be stopped by the electric pole into which we ran, resulting in the electricity going out all over the neighborhood. That mishap was certainly not her fault, and let’s just say I was not her favorite child that particular day.

And on that note, I’m going to stop and continue my pondering tomorrow…..