Category Archives: Whimsies

Gratitude

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So for the past couple of days, I have been whining endlessly about being in the hospital. Let me just assure you that if you are sick of hearing about it, imagine my family’s increasing lack of patience when I once again start talking about poop. It has become the most overused emoji in our entire family.

Yesterday morning I woke up and couldn’t help but notice that I felt, well, pretty darn good. I’d slept reasonably well, my tummy didn’t hurt, I’d regained my taste for coffee (something I thought I’d lost, which was disturbing), and I had a bit of spring in my step. Hmmm, I thought to myself. Maybe the point of being sick – if there is a point, that is — is to learn to appreciate not being sick.

When something happens that shakes your world, you suddenly come face to face with the fact that you (or at least I) take my good life for granted. Because most days, my world isn’t being shaken. And I forget to be grateful for that.

I also began thinking about the fact that decisions we make throughout our lives really do come back to haunt us eventually. Take me, for example. Like us all, from the time I was little, I was taught to enjoy fresh fruit and vegetables, eat lots of fiber, drink plenty of water, get oodles of exercise. And I really – in some part of my brain – believe this to be true.

But even though I know this to be true, I don’t really do as I am told. I probably only eat half the fiber each day that I should. My sisters and my son Court simply don’t understand how I live on as little water as I drink. I will go an entire day and realize that the only liquid I have drunk was my three cups of coffee in the morning. I’m not talking about not drinking enough water; I’m talking not drinking enough ANYTHING.

And so it should come as no surprise that I developed diverticulitis, which led to a perforated colon, which led to surgery, which led (and continues to lead) to occasional bouts of illness. Maybe I couldn’t have changed a thing, but I could have tried.

But even more important, I could – and should – be grateful for every day I have that I’m able to get up in the morning and read the news and talk to my husband, and Facetime with my grandkids (or, better yet, spend ACTUAL time with them). Instead of being impatient about long lines in the grocery store, I should be grateful I can afford to eat what I like and not have to worry about every penny. I should make sure to tell all the people who love me and who have prayed for me and sent good thoughts my way that I love them back and pray for them as well.

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m happy to be back in the mix and raring to go!

 

Gut it Out

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Well, that’s 5,400 minutes I’ll never get back…..

Last Wednesday afternoon, I told Bill I knew in my heart of hearts (well, really my gut of guts) that I needed to go to the Emergency Room. Heck, it had been nearly four months since my last visit. Plus, I had a houseful of company — my sister from Arizona and our family from Vermont, including grandsons I only get to see a few times a year. What perfect timing and a simply fabulous idea.

But I knew something was amiss and I was right. Unlike last time I was in the hospital in April, however, after which I wrote a generally amusing blog post about my hospital experience, there was virtually nothing funny about my most recent stay.

I’ll tell my readers right now that there is every possibility that this will happen again. And again. It seems my bowel resection in 2011 didn’t say goodbye to me when the doctors stitched me back together and I went out the Mesa hospital door. The scar tissue is omnipresent, and may occasionally rear its ugly head.

What this means in practical terms is occasional bowel obstructions. Last time it was the small bowel. This time it was the large bowel. I don’t like to discriminate.

It actually all began a week or so earlier when I began having muscle spasms in my neck, likely a result of the arthritis that presents there. I haven’t had a serious bout of arthritis in that particular spot in literally years. But wait! My sister is headed my way! Now is the time.

I think I have a pretty high threshold for pain, but I found the muscle pain to be nearly unbearable. Nothing helped. Not heat; not cold; not massage; not gin and tonics. Nothing. I tried to make an appointment with my primary care physician, who could get me in sometime around Addie’s graduation. From college.

Please, please, please, can you just prescribe me a pain medication? I promise I’m not going to go downtown and sell it in the nightclubs. I couldn’t even get into the nightclubs as I don’t own proper attire.

No can do. Not their fault, but being a controlled substance and all, I had to see a physician. So I did. A very nice fellow at the neighborhood urgent care who cheerfully prescribed Vicodin and sent me on my way.

I’m not going to go on and on about this (though reading back, it appears I already have), but one thing lead to another and I began experiencing one of Vicodin’s most renown side effects (which the friendly doctor never mentioned) – constipation.

After seven days of not, well, you know, I was bloated, had regular and severe cramps, and knew something was wrong. It was. I would go into detail, but then I’d just been like one of those people in the lobbies of retirement homes that sit and compare ailments. I’m actually afraid I already am.

What I will tell you, however, is that a few days after my April hospital visit, Bill and I went to Disneyland. This time I can barely get out of my chair. Ladies and gentlemen, this one kicked my butt.

Finally, after indescribable indignities, painful procedures, and more forms of laxatives than you would ever imagine are made (including one that was shot directly into my stomach), the blockage finally made its way past the narrow part where the scar tissue eagerly awaits, and I was able to go home.

And the good news? My muscle spasms in my neck have stopped!

I will leave you with a couple of upbeat notes.

300px-Betty_White_Sue_Ann_Nivens_1973Friday afternoon, I felt my absolute worst. I had been given a medication that bloated my stomach to the point that I could have floated right next to Snoopy in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. I was in excruciating pain, and was just this side of a Dilaudid coma. I felt horrible. It was right then that the hospital nutritionist reckoned she should stop by to give me a pep talk on proper eating. She was lovely, reminding me of Sue Ann Niven of The Mary Tyler Moore Show fame. My obvious physical discomfort didn’t dissuade her. She continued to speak cheerfully about fiber and fresh fruits and vegetables and making sure you blah blah blah even as the attendants were lifting me onto the gurney to take me to my next procedure. I promise you this is a true story.

The second upbeat note is that on Saturday, I was able to see every single one of my grandkids. All nine of them. Not at the same time. Still, even in my state of duress, that made me happy.

Here are a few examples of why……

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Maggie and Joseph on a camping trip. Photo taken by Dave.

Joseph and Alastair on the same camping trip.

Joseph and Alastair on the same camping trip.

Kaiya and Mylee at recent Renaissance Festival.

Kaiya and Mylee at recent Renaissance Festival.

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Micah going vroooooom.

Aren’t they they cutest things ever? And these photos are just a sampling!

I Can Practically Taste It

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My body — specifically, my belly — once again turned around and kicked me in the face. I spent the past four days in the hospital. More about that later. But I will tell you this much. As usual, I was NPO (which is some sort of fancy Latin for you can’t eat or drink a single, solitary thing). For four days I thought about my mom’s Cream of Broccoli Soup. So I thought this reprint of a former blog post (from October 6, 2014) might be in order. I only wish my mom was here to make it for me!

recipe boxThe other day I decided I needed to either use or toss some fresh broccoli that was in my refrigerator taking up a lot of space. (The reason it was taking up a lot of space was because I had spent way too much to buy the already-cut-up kind of broccoli in big plastic containers because for whatever reason, cutting up broccoli or cauliflower is as yucky a job as peeling potatoes or emptying the dishwasher.)

Fall is in the air, so it’s beginning to be soup season. I decided a pot of Cream of Broccoli soup was the answer!

I did as I usually do, firing up my IPad and Googling “Cream of Broccoli Soup.” Of course, many links to soup recipes magically appeared.  But suddenly it occurred to me that Mom had frequently made a delicious Cream of Broccoli soup when she was preparing soups for the coffee shop they inadvertently owned in Leadville. (I say inadvertently because the only reason they owned the coffee shop was that it was attached to the Leadville bakery they bought, and so they suddenly became restaurateurs as well as bakers. It never was anything they were too happy about, I can assure you.)

Anyhoo, I began going through her recipe box. That is not an easy task, my friends. It is literally stuffed with handwritten recipes and newspaper clippings of all sizes. After all of these years, the recipes are no longer in any kind of order. It took me some time, but as I literally got to the last few cards, there it was.

Broccoli Soup.

I looked at the recipe, written in her oh-so-familiar handwriting, and found it to be not all that different than the other recipes I had looked at that morning on my IPad. The main difference is that she used chicken bouillon cubes and water instead of chicken broth. I don’t think that was

Mylee is tearing up the cheese for the soup.

particularly uncommon back in the days when she was making her daily soup.

She listed the ingredients, and then wrote out the instructions. After detailing how to put the ingredients together to make the soup, she wrote, “I like to add 2 or 3 slices American cheese.”

Suddenly and unexpectedly, I began to cry. Serious crying, with tears rolling down my cheeks.

I probably think about my mother almost every day, mostly in passing. I will be doing my sheets and will think about how she changed bed linens every Wednesday. Or I might be getting ready for bed and I will think about how she took a bath every night and got in her pajamas before sitting down to watch TV with Dad.

But those thoughts never make me cry.

So I’m not sure why the recipe brought me to tears. Something about her adding that note about what she liked to do to enhance that recipe was simply so poignant.  It was like she was talking to me.

mylee eating soupAfter I had my cry, I started thinking about how glad I was to have many of her recipes in her handwriting. It made me begin to wonder if there was something I could do for my son that would be as meaningful. I’m not sure handwritten recipes would be the thing, but I’ll bet there is something. I’m going to have to ask him.

And for the record, Mom would never have purchased prepackaged and precut broccoli. But she wouldn’t judge me for doing so. And, in fact, I suspect she likely used frozen chopped broccoli, which worked just fine.

Also, despite the fact that it will take a trip to the grocery store, I plan on adding 2 or 3 slices of American cheese to my Broccoli Soup (that’s what she called it as opposed to Cream of Broccoli Soup.) If it was good enough for Mom, it’s good enough for me! The best part of it all was that Mylee helped me make the soup!

Do you use recipe cards? Do you use any of your mom’s recipes? Do you think I’m a big baby for crying?

Broccoli Soup

Ingredients
4 c. chopped fresh broccoli
½ c. chopped onion
3 c. water
2 T. instant chicken bouillon or 6 bouillon cubes
1/t. leaf thyme
1/8 t. garlic powder
¼ c. butter or margarine
¼ c. flour
1/8 t. pepper
2 c. half and half or milk

Process
Cook broccoli, onion, water, bouillon, thyme, and garlic powder. In blender or food processor – 1/3 at a time – blend until smooth. Melt margarine over moderate heat. Add flour and pepper. Cook a few minutes, stirring. Add cream. Cook over moderate heat, stirring, until thickened. Add broccoli mixture. Heat but don’t boil. I like to add 2 or 3 slices American cheese.

Nana’s Notes: Forgive me Mom, but I made a couple of changes. I cooked the onion in vegetable oil until softened, then added a clove of garlic, minced, and cooked that for a minute or so. I didn’t add the garlic powder. Instead of the chicken bouillon and water, I used 3 c. of chicken broth. Also, I used butter instead of margarine. But, of course, I added the slices of American cheese.

 

Reluctant Traveler: What I Learned in Africa

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My sister Bec concludes her wonderful tales of her time in Africa.

bec-closeup-twoBy Rebecca Borman

Without doubt, going to Africa was one of the most educational experiences of my life.  Here are some things that I learned….

* A little Swahili:
Jambo=hello; jambo-jambo=enthusiastic response to hello
Hakuna matada=no worries
Pole-pole=slow, but is often used to say “slow down” or “take it easy” (I heard that a lot.)
Asante=thank you; asante sana=thank you very much (I said both a lot.)
Karibu=welcome or you’re welcome
Sawa-sawa=okay, as in Sawa-sawa?  (Is it okay for me to do this?) Sawa-sawa (Yes, it is.)

* That they really do say “hakuna matada”—often.

* There are still those who live the traditional Masai lifestyle.  This Masai housemeans they live in small villages many miles away from any medical facilities or shopping.  They have no mode of transportation other than walking.  One can see 2-3 men or women in the distance, walking and talking.  We often wondered where they were walking to or from.  Their homes are tinier than I could ever imagine, dark and hot.  They earn money in several ways:  they might sell some of their cattle or goats in a market, to which they would drive them on foot; and the women make crafts that they sell at these markets and to visitors in their Masai villagevillages.  They use the money to buy clean water from the government.

* There are few highways.  And the ones there are do not accommodate driving very fast because they are two lanes, used by a variety of vehicles from large and small trucks to motorcycles, mopeds and bicycles.  Passing often requires an on-coming vehicle to slow down or move over, and no one seems to mind.

* Instead of highways, there are dirt roads, sometimes tracks barely visible in the high grass.  They are rutted and sometimes muddy.  They give passengers what they call an “African massage.”  They also take passengers to see incredible wildlife.

* Our driver, Mike, was amazing…wise, experienced, and generous.  He was probably the most important factor in our positive experience in Tanzania.

mike and truck

* Tanzania has an amazing variety of landscapes.  In one 4-5 hour drive, we passed through savannahs, plains, mountains, and a rainforest .  One place we stayed had flowers that reminded us of Hawaii.  It was all stunningly beautiful.

* The skies are beautiful, especially at sunset.

Sunset behind acacia

* Climate change is affecting eastern Africa in a big way.  In the past, the great migration took place in June and July.  But, it’s getting later, because the rains, when they come, are later.  Now, the best time to see wildlife is August.  Given how much the economy depends on tourism, this is an important point of information.

* We were often only one night at a hotel, so we didn’t often have the chance to get to know the staff.  But when we did, they were intelligent and interested in learning about us and in sharing their stories.

* People in Africa work very, very hard, in a way Americans cannot imagine.  They walk miles carrying potatoes or firewood on their heads.  Or they push heavy loads of food or fuel in hand carts.  Almost no one owns or has access to a car.

* Water is a constant source of concern; many people do not have access to clean water and most are constantly worried about whether there will be enough rainfall to sustain them in the long term.

* Eastern Africa is a place worth visiting.  Seeing literally endless vistas filled my heart with peace and contentment.  Watching wild animals in their natural habitat amazed me.  Having a sundowner drink on a patio overlooking the Serengeti was priceless.  Don’t let the challenges of the trip scare you out of going.

Working Girls Reprise….

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I’ve mentioned before that my mother was the youngest of 13 children. Out of all of those kids, none remains. Earlier this past week, my Aunt Leona, the wife of my mother’s brother Elmer, passed away. She was 96 years old. She was a faithful wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and a working woman when women simply didn’t work outside the home. She was also a serious home cook. My mom always said she learned many of her cooking skills from Leona. While I know Leona is now with God, as well as back with her husband of 60 years, my Uncle Elmer, we will miss her. Her passing is the end of my mother’s family of brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law. It’s sad to see that generation coming to an end.

In tribute, I am reprinting a blog that I ran a year or so ago about my Aunt Leona….

Working Girls (Originally published October 14, 2014)

kak-leona-kris-bec-john-marylou1As I have looked into my family history, I have realized that I come from really good stock on both sides of my family. Hard working, self-sufficient, honest, kind, straight-forward, and funny as can be. There has always been a lot of laughing in my family. Still is.

And a lot of cooking.

I’ve mentioned that in my mother’s recipe box, there are recipes in her handwriting, but many recipes in other’s handwriting. Many of those recipes are from my Aunt Leona, now in her early 90s. She was, perhaps, the best cook in the entire Micek family, but don’t tell anyone else I said that. Leona was married to my mom’s brother Elmer.

I was going to talk a bit about her in my post today, and so I asked her daughter – my cousin – to fill me in a bit on her life. What she wrote was so interesting and full of love that I’m going to publish it almost verbatim. I changed or added a few things to make it clearer. Thanks Kak!

My mother taught for six years after graduating from high school in rural schools in Greeley County, Nebraska.   In high school, she took “normal training” which was teacher prep. She then took a test from the county superintendent and was in the education business.  Mom taught until she married Dad.  

When Dad was in basic training in Arkansas, she worked at McCrory’s, a dime store, and at a printing place.  She went back to teaching at St. Bonaventure Elementary in Columbus, Nebraska, when my younger brother Tom was in third grade.  She taught for 24 more years at St. Bon’s, in Duncan District 82, and in Columbus Public Schools.  My mother got her degree the hard way, a little at a time in summer sessions and night classes at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, and Midland College in Fremont, Nebraska. 

My mother cooked from the time she was in high school.  My Grandma McGuire made great bread and noodles, but she was a slow moving woman and my mother was the oldest of seven kids.  When Dad went overseas, Mom moved in to Gramps Micek’s house and did most of the cooking there as Grandma Micek  was sick and then died.

 When we moved to our own house in Columbus, Mom cooked two meals a day EVERY day, and sometimes three.  When she went to summer school, she would leave food for me to heat for Dad at lunch.  We never went out to dinner as a family.  She and Dad went out a couple of times a year.  She also cooked for the band after dance jobs because cafes weren’t  open at one or two in the morning. 

Now that she lives in assisted living, the thing she misses is cooking for herself!

 Basically my mother raised us as Dad was mostly working at his day job and playing with his and Uncle Bob’s bands at night.  Sometimes with the band, Tom and I went along and Mom sold tickets and we sat with her.

The only disagreement I remember them having was when Dad let Tom go on the road playing dances with his rock band at age 16.  Mom thought he was too young to be driving other kids at night alone.  She was right, but Dad won.

My mother was pretty much a “working woman” before the time when that’s what women did. None of my friends’ mothers worked.  But she never missed an event!  Bless her heart!     

Dad Mom Leona Elmer

L-R, Dad, Leona, Mom, and Elmer, circa 1985.

My cousin tells such a beautiful story about her mother. I’m not sure our children can understand how unusual it was for a mother to be working outside the home in those days.

My mom also was a working mom since she and Dad had the bakery and she was always there to help out. If things had been different and if Dad had worked in a traditional job, I wonder if Mom would have been content to stay at home. She was certainly the only woman in our neighborhood with a job.

As for Leona, Mom always said she was an outstanding teacher, and I have no doubt this is true. When my brother was in 4th grade, he had Leona as a teacher. I recently asked him what kind of a teacher she was. He said, “She was very serious. And I got no special treatment because I was her Godson.” On a side note, he recalls that he wasn’t always an angel, and wonders if she didn’t know or if she just let it slide. I know the answer to that question. You didn’t pull the wool over Leona’s eyes. She knew and let it slide. So he did get special treatment because he was her Godson!

As for me, I still make her refrigerator dill pickles. They are delicious. Her brownies are amazing, and the recipe follows. I will tell you this much, when my chocoholic husband took the first bite, I saw the look in his eyes and asked him if he wanted to be alone with the brownies for a bit. Heavenly…..

Leona brownie

Before

leona brownie empty plate

After

Leona’s Brownies

Cream 1 cup sugar with 1 stick of butter
Add 4 eggs, one at a time, beating well after each

To the mix, add

1 16-oz. can Hersheys chocolate syrup
1 c. plus 1 T flour
1/2 t. salt
1 c.  chopped nuts (optional)

Mix well.

Bake 30-32 minutes at 350 in a greased 9 x 12 pan

Frosting:  Boil together, stirring constantly:

3/4 c. sugar
3 T. milk
3 T. butter

Remove from heat and add 1/2 c. chocolate chips. Stir until melted and pour over warm brownies.

Nana’s Notes: I was unable to find any cans of Hershey’s chocolate syrup. When did they stop making them? Life will never be the same. What I could find, however, is Hershey’s chocolate syrup in a plastic bottle near the ice cream aisle. I think it’s probably the same. They claim it is 24 oz., but I measured out two cups. The brownies are unbelievably moist. A funny side note is that Leona got this recipe from her friend and school secretary. Kak said another friend of hers whose mother taught in the Nebraska school system has the same brownie recipe. It must be the official Nebraska School System Brownie!

 

They Came; They Saw; They Conquered

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Dust Devil:  a strong, well-formed, and relatively long-lived whirlwind, ranging from small (half a meter wide and a few meters tall) to large (more than 10 meters wide and more than 1000 meters tall). The primary vertical motion is upward.

joseph micah donuts vehiclesThey remind me of dust devils.

Our two Vermont grandkids arrived late Friday night, and went straight to bed. That was pretty much the last time I saw them be relatively still. Even while sleeping, they seem to be in motion.

Their parents have that familiar look – somewhere between pride and panic, with eyes mostly glazed over from a lack of sleep. All parents of young kids have that look at some point. You want to give them a hug and send them off for a week on a tropical isle to do nothing but sleep. Except they would leave you entirely responsible for the whirling dervishes they would leave behind in your care.  And they might not come back.

Six-year-old Joseph and his brother Micah – only days from joseph nutellabeing 3 – are up early, and with a vengeance. The first morning, Joseph put away pancakes –chocolate chips and smeared with Nutella please – and topped it off with some scrambled eggs. It takes a lot of pancakes to keep that 6-year-old motion machine going. Following breakfast, they checked out Nana and Papa’s backyard, rode the various and sundry scooters and other vehicles that are available, watched Papa work on the playhouse that they hope is completed or near completed by time they leave (so does Nana!), and eagerly awaited the arrival of their cousins Addie, Alastair, Dagny, and Magnolia (hereafter referred to as the cousins, which is what Joseph and Micah, as well as Kaiya and Mylee, call them.

After the arrival of the cousins, it was quite some time before I saw any of them again.

Saturday, after spending the afternoon and evening with the cousins at the swimming pool, their Aunt Jll dropped them back off at our house. Heather and Lauren were tied up all evening at Heather’s 20 year high school reunion. The dust devils washed their hands, got in their pajamas, used the potty, dropped into their beds, and fell asleep in about 10 seconds. (Well, in Micah’s case, he dropped onto the cozy little bed made out of a comforter and blanket nestled on the floor next to Joseph’s bed – there’s only so much room at the inn, and my sister Bec is visiting too – but she’s neither a whirling dervish nor a dust devil; she just sits back and watches in amazement).

Several hours later, after the household had fallen asleep, I micah vehicleheard sniffles and muffled sobs coming from that little nest on the floor. Micah, holding on to his sleeping companion – a raggedy stuffed animal named Night Night – and sucking his thumb, was sad. “I want Mommy,” he sobbed. Despite my 61 years, I curled up on the floor next to him, told him they would return, and committed to staying with him until they did. He gave me a look of slight distrust, but apparently decided he was stuck with the B Team and better make the best of it.

I, for my part, kept my commitment. After all, a) if he can’t trust his nana, whom can he trust; and b) I only see these grandboys a few times a year and must enjoy every minute. So I wrapped my arms around him and took in his little boy smell and listened as his sobs subsided and he fell back into a sound sleep.

joseph micah stuffed animalsAfter a trip to Krispie Kreme with their Papa on Sunday morning, they were off for a few days to wear out another grandma as they enjoy a few days in the mountains, along with the cousins. That gives me a few days to rest up.

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: Early Birds

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I’m an early riser, but some of my visitors are even earlier risers. Heather and Lauren and their two boys, Joseph and Micah, were settled in, watching a Tinker Bell movie, when I arose sometime before 6 o’clock a.m. They arrived last night around 10 from Vermont, so it was hoped by all (and especially the moms) that the boys would sleep in. No such luck.

Heather Lauren boys early birds

As a result of their visit, I had an unusual treat yesterday. I was able to see nearly all of our grandchildren in one day, if not at one time. The only one we didn’t see was Addie, who didn’t get back from camp until yesterday evening.

Admittedly, the two boys didn’t exactly interact with us, but they will today.

Have a great weekend.

Thursday Thoughts

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I Think I Heard a Noise in the Attic
I’ve been experiencing some upper back/neck pain the past couple of days. Nothing serious; probably related to my arthritis. Anyhoo, yesterday morning I was lying on my bed waiting for the Ibuprofen to kick in and staring at the ceiling. Suddenly I had a flashback memory that made me start laughing. One day, not too long after we had moved into the house, Bill was working on the attic. He had already put in a pull-down stair/ladder so that we could access the entrance easily. (Well, fairly easily since it’s in my closet which is always a mess, requiring that we shove aside multiple pairs of my shoes in order to put the stairway down.) He was in the process of putting in a floor so that we could actually walk around the attic and look for our Christmas decorations, etc. When I got home from work that evening, I went upstairs to get changed and noticed there had been extensive work done to our bedroom ceiling. “What’s going on?” I asked him. “Oh, nothing really,” he said. “I went through the ceiling of the bedroom this morning, but I repaired it.” Yesterday as I laid on the bed, I had such a clear image of his leg falling through the ceiling that I couldn’t stop giggling. Thank goodness he wasn’t hurt. Oh, Bill. His guardian angel must be every bit as tired at night as my grandkids’ angels.

A Light in the Attic
And speaking of the attic, I have to tell you that there is nothing the grandkids like better than going up into our attic to explore. And let me just tell you, my attic isn’t like something out of a wonderful suspense novel. There are no antique bureaus holding treasure maps or old letters. No secret diaries or crazy wives. Not a single ghost. It’s very small, and mostly taken up by our whole-house fan. There is room enough for our Christmas decorations and a few other bits and pieces, and not much more. But each and every grandchild thinks it is wonderfully exciting and borderline dangerous to climb that ladder to the attic. They walk around for a bit and then come back down and eagerly await the next time Nana says they can go into her attic.

They Say It’s Your Birthday

Today is a special day for 4-year-old Mylee. Oops, I mean 5-year-old Mylee. Today she celebrates her birthday. I struggle to come to grips with each grandchild growing older. Can you imagine that Addie is 12?  But for some reason, I simply can’t believe that little Mylee – my little firecracker – is now 5 years old. She will start school in August, and that simply can’t be so! Happy birthday Mylee.

Mylee Zoo 2015

And Speaking of Birthdays….
My mother-in-law had her 98th birthday yesterday. Here she is with her BFF Margaret. Happy birthday Wilma!

Wilma Margaret

Come Inside; It’s Fun Inside
After Bill finished the outdoor kitchen at our house in Arizona, he proclaimed that it was going to be a very long time before he again embarked on such a project. Well, apparently for him, a very long time means approximately three months. This time his project is a playhouse for the grandkids. A number of years ago, our daughter-in-law Jll was given a wooden playset that included a lofty sort of thing over a sandbox that is accessed via a ladder, with a slide to get back down. She asked us if we wanted to put it in our yard, and we enthusiastically agreed. It has provided literally hours of fun for the grandkids, as evidenced by this photo….

Girl Cousins

Well, the wood is getting weathered and things are starting to fall off. My plan was to leave it up for another summer or so, and then remove the entire thing. Well, Papa, of course, had a different plan. His involved building a playhouse for the kids. And so construction has begun. Just as with the outdoor kitchen, he begins work early in the morning and finishes late afternoon. I can’t believe how amazing it looks. The so-called playhouse will undoubtedly become a clubhouse in no time.

Bill playhouse

 

Summer Olympics 2020, Here We Come
Tiny little Dagny was victorious in yesterday’s dive meet and will represent Eastmoor Swim Club at State! Yay Miss Dagny Tess!

Dagny medal

Ciao!

 

 

 

Reluctant Traveler: African Luxury

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bec-closeup-two

In Part 3 of my sister’s series on her African safari, she tells us about their overnight experiences.

By Rebecca Borman

A big part of planning for our Africa trip was deciding on hotels.  Our travel agent mapped out a general travel plan and then we needed to decide where to stay on the journey.  I learned that there are different levels of hotel, and that they vary widely in cost.  They also vary widely in terms of amenities.  The first itinerary our agent sent included all top-flight luxury hotels.  The cost was daunting.  The second one she sent was substantially less expensive, but a quick search on TripAdvisor told me they were all much less highly rated.  “Isn’t there an in-between level?” I asked her.  There was, and when she sent the next itinerary, I was satisfied.  We also had the opportunity to upgrade a few for a reasonable price, and we took advantage of that.  But, despite the fact that I was comfortable with our choices and had looked at all of the properties on-line, I still wasn’t sure what they would be like, exactly.  And, in reality, all of them, while very nice, were quite different.

kirawira in situOne of the most interesting places was in Tarangire National Park.  This was our one and only treetop hotel, and we were eager to see what that was like.  The reception area was beautiful, and when we checked in we were told that every time we walked to or from our room we would need to be escorted.  When we got to our accommodation we noticed that we would have to climb stairs to reach the door.  Well, of course; it was in a treetop.  And it truly was, with a large branch growing through the room, in fact.  We had an amazing view of the savannah from our patio.  The room was large and tented, but with a door that locked rather than zipped.  When we wanted to leave the room, we used a walkie-talkie to call reception, who then sent someone to escort us.  We arrived late in the day and left early the next morning, so we didn’t have too much time to enjoy the view or the public area, but we were glad to have experienced treetop living even for a short time.

tentOur longest stay was in the Serengeti, at a hotel called Kirawira Camp.  We were there for three nights, two full days, and after moving from hotel to hotel for our first three days, we were ready to be settled for a while.  Kirawira was a great place for that.  It’s called a camp, and there was a bit of a camp feel to it.  Our room really was a tent, not in a treetop but raised above the ground.  Instead of a image (15)door and windows, we had zippers.  And yet, the bathroom had walls and modern fixtures.  The patio looked out onto the Serengeti…so awesome.  Kirawira also had a beautiful public area, open air, as all of them were.

Our last two nights in Tanzania were spent at Gibb’s Farm, about an Gibb Farmhour away from the Ngorongoro Crater.  Gibb’s Farm, which is a coffee plantation, was very different from all our other accommodations.  Each room was a cottage, and very spacious.  We had a sitting area that looked out onto a patio, two double beds, and a fireplace open to both the bedroom and the shower.  Each evening at dinner, our server asked if we would like a fire built in our room.  We said yes, and by the time we got back to the room, someone was there lighting it.  There was enough wood (from coffee plants) for us to keep it going until we went to bed.  How cozy was that?  Because we were on a coffee plantation, the views from the public area were spectacular, overlooking the coffee fields and the valley below.  We were surprised to see what looked to us like tropical flowers all around the grounds.  We felt like we were in Hawaii.

In some general ways, however, the hotels were similar.  For instance, Bec Kate eatingall of them had dining rooms that served three meals a day, because everyone who visits is on a meal plan.  There are no other food options, because these hotels are great distances from each other and from anything else.  It’s hard to describe how isolated they are and, in fact, hard to determine how distant they really are from each other, because there aren’t exactly super-highways connecting them.  But, for sure they are not near any towns or even villages; electricity is produced by generators and water is brought in.  They all offered wifi, most often only in the public areas.  And, the wifi was iffy at best.  At one place, we didn’t really have wifi the entire time, because the satellite it depended on was not working.

The hotels were definitely part of the Africa experience, and I’m glad we spent some time choosing them carefully.  And while moving around so much was tiring, I’m also happy that we were able to experience so many interesting variations in our accommodations.  I think I can say with certainty that I’ll never have anything like those views or those rooms again.