Visitors I should have more thoughts than I do, but my top of mind thought is that my sister Bec arrived here in Denver this afternoon. I picked her up from the airport around 2:30. We spent the remainder of our waking hours yakking about life. Since we talk three or four times a week via FaceTime, one would think we wouldn’t have anything to say to one another. And yet, we find plenty to talk about. It’s good to have her here. She will be here until Sunday, and then she will head north to Fort Collins to spend time with our sister Jen.
That’s a Lot of Donuts Basha’s Grocery Store — where my brother works — is celebrating its 90th anniversary. To commemorate this landmark anniversary, they decided to break the Guinness world record for the most donuts used to create a motif. A total of 14,400 donuts were filled, iced, and appropriately placed to create Basha’s logo…..
The colors of the logo are made from 14,400 donuts iced appropriately.
My brother Dave was instrumental in coordinating this effort. He had help, however, his eldest grandchild, Grace, showed promptly at 3:30 a.m. (what teenager gets up that early, even for her grandfather?) to help ice all of those donuts…..
Grace is the pretty young woman in the front.
The effort was a success, and Basha’s is now officially in the Guinness Word Book of Records.
And that’s a wrap. Not many thoughts this Thursday!
We went from beautiful weather in the mid-80s to hot, just like that. I can’t complain (though I do) about the heat, because my sister Bec arrives this afternoon from AZ. She comes to Colorado for the cooler weather. Mid-90s seem cool when you’re coming from 115 degrees. It’s all relative, people.
Because I knew it was going to be hot, I picked up Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole yesterday morning, when it was still quite cool, for a geocaching adventure. It’s been so long since any of us have geocached that I had to remind Cole what geocaching meant. Their house is undergoing major repairs from a toilet overflow that went unchecked until too late. They currently reside in an apartment, where they will probably live for a shocking number of months. We need plumbers!
Anyway, when I looked on my geocache app, I discovered that there were three geocaches near their apartment complex. We set off in our car to drive and park near the location. Mylee was the first to manage the navigation. (When Addie is the first female president, Mylee will be her VP.)
The first geocache was a pretty easy find. Though camo’d, it was hanging from a tree, and Mylee spotted it almost immediately. One for one.
I located another geocache location not too far from the first one. We were hunting in a pretty busy business area, so though the cache wasn’t far, we decided it was safer to drive. Cole was the second navigator. He got us to the very spot, but it appeared to me that we needed to be on the other side of a stone wall. There was no easy opening, so we trudged about a half block until we could go around the wall. The temperature was rising steadily.
It didn’t take us very long to realize that we had, in fact, made a bad decision. The geocache was definitely on the side of the wall where we had started. The kids hopped over the fence and jumped the two feet to the grass below. They turned and looked at me. As you might imagine, there was no leaping over the fence for this nana. I did, however, manage to get myself to the other side, though it wasn’t pretty. I assessed the two-foot drop and determined it was a go.
I made it, alright. Unfortunately, I landed on my buttocks (as Forest Gump would say), and proceeded to roll down the small hill. Yes, literally roll. The grass was slippery, donchaknow.
After determining that their nana wasn’t broken, the three tried very hard not to laugh. Kaiya held my hand the rest of the way.
This particular geocache was difficult. We looked and looked and looked. We were just about to give up, when Cole shouted, “I see something that looks weird.” Tucked inside the Stone Wall From Hell was a plastic jack-o-lantern containing the geocache log! Cole’s Big Find. Two for two.
We drove to a third location, but try as we might, we were completely unable to find that third geocache. Kaiya and I went home as losers, geocachewise, that is.
By this time, the temperature had hit 92, and we were tired an hungry. We went to the nearby Park Meadows Mall and dined at the Food Court.
I’m enjoying every minute of summer with the kids before school starts. I mentioned to the kids that it wouldn’t be long before school began, and Cole firmly told me that school was a long time away. Time goes by fast when you’re a nana.
Yesterday afternoon, Bill and I made a last-minute decision to go see the movie Elvis. Three hours later (including previews and other miscellaneous advertisements, we agreed the movie was a depressing waste of precious three hours of our time. The only redeeming thing was that it took us away from cleaning out stuff. So I am posting a blog from July 2019 about a movie to which I took Mylee and Cole, and his subsequent confusion. Reading it made me laugh once again.
I, along with scores and scores of others, eagerly anticipated the new version of The Lion King. I am a big fan of the original version and was eager to see how seemingly real animals could play the parts of some of my favorite movie characters.
And then I recently read a review of that movie from some high falutin’ publication or other that panned the film. No heart, it said. Ignore the new film and watch the original. Dang. And I was so looking forward to it. Could it really be bad enough to ignore it altogether?
Then I began getting feedback from people who I really know and like and trust, unlike whatever high falutin’ media outlet it was. These trusted reviewers included some of my grandkids who went and saw the movie with The Other Grandmother. They all said how much they enjoyed the newest version of The Lion King.
In no time, I was back in the I-Want-to-See-The-Lion-King-Movie-Camp.
Kaiya had already told me with in a solid pre-teen voice that she had no interest in seeing the movie. Cole and Mylee were ready and eager to go. The three of us went yesterday afternoon.
I left with totally positive feelings about the movie, and absolute amazement at the animation. It was animation, wasn’t it? Even Disney can’t get wild animals to talk, right?
But here’s the thing: Should whatever high falutin’ publication it was that panned the movie ask 5-year-old Cole for his opinion, he would admit he is pretty much with them one hundred percent. He prefers the kind of animation where birdies fly around and land on the heads of talking giraffes or lions. First of all, after sitting through the first 12 previews, he said sotto voce, “When is Lion King starting?” We all want to know, Little One, as we sat back for the remaining 12 previews.
His biggest issue, however, was that he simply couldn’t tell the lions apart. In traditional animation, the characters all have different expressions, or maybe one is wearing a bow tie and another a cowboy hat. In keeping with the realistic nature of the film, the lions mostly look the same. During a fight between Scar and Mufasa, he kept shouting out (sotto voce was a thing of the past), “Which one is Scar, Nana?”
And the transformation from lion cub Simba to grown-up lion Simba also threw him for a loop. “Is Mufasa alive again?” he kept asking.
And the ending (at which time I had tears rolling down my cheeks), when the baboon held up Simba and Nala’s new cub, he had about had it. “Nana,” he said in total exasperation. “Why is Simba little again?”
I assure you that the movie is well worth seeing. I enjoyed it very much. I must admit, however, that since Cole needed a bathroom break during the critical scene with the stampeding herd, I had to play a bit of catch-up with Mylee (who, by the way, followed the plot and characters with no problem at all, and even shed a few tears).
Cole, I’m sorry the animals were so confusing to you. All I can say is HAKUNA MATATA…..
I’ve been think a lot about neighbors recently. I imagine that’s because when we move to our new home, we will lose our current neighbors and have to get to know new neighbors.
The neighbors on either side of our house and directly across the street were all here when we moved into this house 30 years ago. Our neighbors to the north have three grown children who live someplace other than Colorado, and have since we moved in. Our neighbors to the south have no children, and were original owners of the home in which they live. Our neighbors across the street have two sons, both of whom were around Court’s age when we moved in.
I remember that our neighbor to the south brought over a plate of brownies the first week we moved in. I didn’t talk to her again for 10 years. The husband of the couple who lived in the house north of us was diagnosed with Parkinson’s not long after we moved in. As such, I didn’t talk to her for years, until he passed away. I can understand now that she was too busy caring for her husband to be too neighborly. We got to know the neighbors across the street best because of the ages of our kids. Kids bring neighbors together, don’t they? Still, we were never close friends.
Interestingly, our gospel reading this weekend was about neighbors and the Good Samaritan. The priest who said our Mass explained to us that Samaritan people were considered traitors to the Jews, and they were archenemies. “Saying Good Samaritan to the people to whom Jesus was talking was like saying “Good Terrorist” these days.” But Jesus used the Samaritan as his example of neighbor when one of his Jewish followers asked how to go to heaven.
Jesus, not to be fooled, turned the question back to the man by asking him what he thought. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and, love your neighbor as yourself.
But, the man went on, “Who is my neighbor?”
While that might seem like a trick question, it really isn’t. Our neighbors are everybody else. If we love everybody — and are generous and kind to everybody — we are a long way towards getting to heaven.
Apparently believing that repetition is the best way of learning, our priest repeated at least six or seven times — at the beginning of Mass, during the homily, and at the end of Mass — We aren’t kind to someone because they’re Catholic, we’re kind to others because WE’RE Catholic.
You can substitute other words for the word Catholic: Christian, Jewish, a good person. The point is that we are rewarded for being good because it’s the right thing to do.
Perhaps if I had kept this more front of mind during my 30 years in this house, I would be closer friends with my next-door neighbors. A good lesson to take to my next dwelling.
The last few nights, after Bill and I have finished eating and completed our chores, we have moved out to our back yard to enjoy the weather and our beautiful view from our porch. We will certainly miss our lovely yard, there is no question about it. But we are excited — if somewhat overwhelmed — by our upcoming change. Still, it made me smile to spend time in the cooler evenings with an after dinner drink, and the citronella candle burning. As for Bill, he enjoyed smoking a cigar. Life is good.
I have always loved reading novels about how the rich lived during the Gilded Age of the late 1800s, with their big mansions on Fifth Avenue in NYC and their so-called “cottages” in Newport, RI. The Lost Summers of Newport paints a picture with words of the world of the rich, and there are no better “word painters” than Beatriz Williams, Karen White, and Lauren Willig.
The three have authored several novels, each tackling a chapter. I have enjoyed some more than others. The Lost Summers of Newport is almost certainly my favorite. The stories of the three women are interesting, though all very different.
It’s 2019, and Andie Figuero, a struggling single mother, has agreed to produce a reality television program called Mansion Makeover. The program features mansions in need of repairs, and it seems like a fit for Andie, who has her degree in historic preservation. However, things become complicated when her bosses want her to concentrate on the rumors of the families who lived there instead of the work being done on the house.
It’s 1957, and Lucia “Lucky” Sprague is stuck in an unhappy marriage with an alcoholic husband. She would like nothing better than to run away with the man she loves, Teddy, and her little girl, Joanie. But results of some of her actions and secrets she learns too late seemingly prevent her from finding true happiness.
It’s 1899, and Ellen Daniels is hired by John Sprague to teach his sister to sing. His goal is to get her married off to a wealthy Italian prince in order to save his home. He will stop at nothing to ensure the match takes place, and he holds Ellen fully responsible in making that happen. She has little choice, however, because she is running from her own demons. Sprague’s sister Maybelle, as quiet and demure as can be, has no interest in the prince, but wants to find love elsewhere.
The secrets that connect the women are revealed to us as the story moves along. I was so interested in the secrets myself that I could scarcely put the book down.
4th of July We once again enjoyed our 4th of July celebration at my sister Jen’s house. Her daughter Maggie and her family almost always visit over the Independence Day holiday, and this year was no exception. It’s Jen’s tradition to serve Chik-Fil-A nuggets (hey! tradition is tradition). Along with the nuggets, she made bratwurst, potato salad, and baked beans, and all were delicious. They all went out after dark to watch the fireworks at the country club. Bill and I begged off — as usual — and returned to our hotel to get comfortable. We stumbled upon an ABC special from New York City, with a couple of performances from Nashville. The event culminated in a 25-minute choreographed fireworks show that was spectacular. Sure, it’s on television. But the music was wonderful and the fireworks were amazing. Happy birthday America.
First Ladies Jen has turned me onto an amazing program on Showtime called First Ladies. The stories are based in fact, if somewhat fictionalized. The three first ladies featured in what I hope will be a series are Eleanor Roosevelt, Betty Ford, and Michelle Obama. The actors portraying these women are amazing. I am particularly drawn to the story of Betty Ford, some of which I was unfamiliar. I didn’t realize she had been married previously. I think I knew, but had forgotten, that she had been a professional dancer. I remember very clearly when she announced that she had breast cancer, and encouraged women to get mammograms. Nowadays, mammograms are a normal part of a woman’s health care, but that wasn’t true back then. The fact that she made her breast cancer public was controversial, but resulted in a six-fold increase in the number of women who got tested. That, along with her public admission of addiction and her creation of the Betty Ford Clinic make her one of my favorite first ladies. Laura Bush is right up there with Mrs. Ford.
Drop Your Drawers One of the items I somehow inherited from my parents was a dresser that had belonged to my dad when he was a boy. It’s still in good shape except for the top being warped from water spilling and being left to do damage at some point. It simply can’t make the cut when we move, but never fear; my brother Dave says he’ll gladly take it. How we get it to AZ is a mystery, but mysteries are made to be solved.
More Visits And speaking of our move, we have plans to visit a few more apartments at Wind Crest next week. This time I think both Bec and Jen will be able to go along with us. Bec will be visiting for a couple of weeks starting July 15. It will be nice to get their input. Frankly, my head is swimming!
Feels good, about time Blue skies ahead and B.S. behind. Got the wind in my hair I got nowhere to go so I’m already there. And maybe Moab, maybe the Rockies Maybe the Great Salt Plains or the hills of Kentucky. Maybe north or maybe south. I don’t care as long as it’s now.
So long, four wheels turning Got a tank full of gas down the road I’m burning. Can’t say I would and I can’t say I wouldn’t. If I don’t come back, don’t come lookin’.
Jackson Dean
When I was 19 years old, and a sophomore at the University of Nebraska, I decided there was no way I was going to come back for my junior year. Unlike many people I know, I never liked school. I had friends who went to graduate school simply because they enjoyed attending classes and reading textbooks. Oh, and maybe they didn’t want to face the real world.
Not me. I was ready to quit after my second year. I tried to talk one of my friends — who wasn’t attending school at the time — if she would be willing to go on an adventure. Let’s pick a place — somewhere in the United States but far from Nebraska, I suggested. We can get jobs as waitresses (that’s what they called servers in those days), and just experiencelife in a new place and figure out what we want to be when we grow up.
I nearly had her convinced to go, but she chickened out at the last minute. I didn’t blame her. It was one of my most daring ideas. As for me, I was too scared to go it alone. I did, in fact, quit school after my sophomore year, but aside from moving to Colorado with my parents, I didn’t do anything nearly as daring as my idea of heading out with nary a plan.
I heard the song Don’t Come Lookin’ by country singer Jackson Dean the other day on the radio for the first time. I listened intently, and remembered how I felt those many years ago when I was 19 years old and ready to leap into the Great Unknown. I got nowhere to go so I’m already there.
I began daydreaming about being 19 again with no responsibilities beyond taking care of myself. I wondered what it would be like to get into a car with a full tank of gas and a pocketful of cash with more savings in the bank and begin driving. No map. No ideas of where I wanted to go. Just getting on I-80 or I-70 and heading, say, east. Maybe turning south in St. Louis. Stop in little towns and sleeping in family-owned motels. Driving until I fall in love with a town, maybe in Tennessee, and finding a job and an apartment. Calling it home for a while.
Honestly, that idea is so foreign to my personality that likes to know just what is planned for tomorrow. Still, there was a time in my life when I would have done something like that. Or at least I like to think that I would have. Since I didn’t, I’ll never know.
You all know by now that Bill and I are preparing to move into smaller digs. Nearly every day, we tackle some room — or at least some closet — and dig through the contents, pulling out the many, many things we will take to Goodwill, and lay aside the few things we will actually need when we move.
It’s very hard to make these decisions. We recently cleaned out a closet in Bill’s office in which he kept paper products. All of these paper products were in good shape. However, given that we are both retired, and given that storage space will be at a premium, we had to throw out/recycle boxes and boxes of partially used paper products like labels and postcards and transparencies (do people even use transparencies any longer?). Plain printing paper we set aside to donate to an elementary school or a day care center.
I recently took a look at the appliances that live in my kitchen. I have a four-slot toaster, a Kitchenaid Pro, a toaster oven, a citrus juicer, a waffle iron, a food processor, a blender, blah, blah, and blah. Some of these won’t make the cut.
My Kitchenaid Pro is probably my favorite appliance. I use it for lots of things, but I especially like to use it in making bread. However, it’s big. Very big. And it’s not always my friend. On two occasions, after I got my ingredients into the bowl, I pushed go and it didn’t go. Nothing. Nada. Nichts.
The second time this happened was just last week. My Gloor temper fired up and I nearly threw it in the garbage can. I didn’t, but what I DID do was get on Amazon and order my new Kitchenaid Artisan Mini that I was considering purchasing for its smaller footprint. Not only is it smaller, but it works much better for making small batches of whatever, something I’m more prone to do these days.
About an hour after I made this spontaneous purchase, I went to my Kitchenaid Pro and pressed on once again. Of course, you can predict what I am going to tell you. The machine began working as though it had never had a problem. I successfully completed my batch of cinnamon biscotti.
The next day, I waited patiently for my friendly Amazon delivery person to deliver my new Kitchenaid Artisan Mini. It didn’t arrive until late that evening, so I left it in the kitchen to open the next morning.
When I pulled it out of its box, it was so small and adorable that I literally said out loud, “Awwwww.” The accessories are also so very tiny and cute. It’s kind of like a Barbie mixer on steroids…..
Never fear. I have a plan. I will bring both mixers with me to my new home. I will store Big Mama in our storage bin and put Little Bitty on the counter because I will use that one most often.
I was explaining this to my sister Bec the other day. I meekly admitted that in addition to those two mixers, there is a Kitchenaid Classic that is currently living in my basement. It works fine, but the mechanism to holds the bowl up is broken. It was going to be expensive and a pain to fix, so I decided to purchase the Kitchenaid Pro.
“I’m the only person I know who owns three Kitchenaid mixers — a Dad, a Mom, and a Baby.”
“Kris,” she said in a big sister tone of voice. “You own four. Don’t forget your Kitchenaid in AZ.”
Oh yeah. Pepto Bismol pink. How could I forget her?
O beautiful for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties Above the fruited plain! America! America! God shed His grace on thee, And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea!
O beautiful for pilgrim feet Whose stern impassioned stress, A thoroughfare for freedom beat Across the wilderness! America! America! God mend thine every flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty in law!
O beautiful for heroes proved In liberating strife, Who more than self their country love And mercy more than life! America! America! May God thy gold refine Till all success be nobleness, And every gain divine!
O beautiful for patriot dream That sees beyond the years, Thine alabaster cities gleam Undimmed by human tears! America! America! God shed His grace on thee, And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea!
Oh beautiful for halcyon skies For amber waves of grain For purple mountain majesties Above the enameled plain! America! America! God shed His grace on thee, Till souls wax fair as earth and air And music-hearted sea!
O beautiful for pilgrim feet Whose stern impassioned stress, A thoroughfare for freedom beat Across the wilderness! America! America! God shed His grace on thee, Till paths be wrought through wilds of thought By pilgrims foot and knee!
Oh beautiful for glory-tale Of liberating strife, When once and twice for man’s avail Men lavished precious life! America! America! God shed His grace on thee, Till selfish gain no longer strain The banner of the free!
O beautiful for patriot dream That sees beyond the years, Thine alabaster cities gleam Undimmed by human tears! America! America! God shed His grace on thee, Till nobler men keep once again Thy whiter jubilee!
Inspired by a trip to Pikes Peak in 1893, Katherine Lee Bates wrote the poem America the Beautiful. Her poem first appeared in print on July 4, 1895, in The Congregationalist, a weekly journal. Ms. Bates revised the lyrics in 1904 and again in 1913.
Nana's Whimsies 