Category Archives: Whimsies

Around the Globe in a Day

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rosesSo, I woke up yesterday morning channeling my mother.

“Rein,” she would have said. “Let’s go for a drive today.”

“Bill,” I said. “Let’s go for a drive today.”

And just as Reinie would have said, “Sure,” so, too, did Bill. After all, the sky was blue and the weather was perfect for a lovely day trip. And with no kitchen to build and no hospitals to be admitted to, why not go for a drive?

Globe, Arizona, is about an hour straight east of our house in Mesa, both as the crow flies and via Highway 60. Since we neither are crows nor do we fly, we chose to drive. Superstition Freeway narrows a bit just east of Gold Canyon to a divided highway, and then narrows even more to a two lane highway that winds through the Superstition Mountains and Tonto National Forest and finally into Globe.  The desert is in bloom and the drive was spectacular.

I would like to tell you that Globe was as pretty as the little villages we visited in our travels throughout western Europe, but it simply wasn’t. And yet, we saw some really pretty things in the small copper mining town, met some friendly folks, ate some good Mexican food, and since the population seems to be largely Hispanic, the atmosphere felt somewhat international.

No question the best way to find good restaurants is to ask a local resident who has no vested interest for a recommendation. We stopped into a store called Good Junk. We saw very little good junk and a lot of just plain junk. Still, Bill pointed out an appliance that looked a bit like an old 1950s refrigerator with a hole at the top.

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This isn’t the one we saw which was mint green. It is nearly identical, however. Looks like a torture chamber, doesn’t it?

 

“Do you know what this is?” he asked me.

I didn’t.

“It’s an old steam cabinet,” he said. “You sit inside and your head comes out the hole at the top. You press the button and it fills with steam.”

Sweet heavens. I’ll pass.

The Good Junk proprietor recommended La Luz Del Dia, warning us that it was nothing fancy.

“It’s just a little place with a few booths and a counter, and you watch the restaurant cooksladies gossip and cook your food,” he said.

And it was just as he described. The menu was small, the prices were reasonable and the food was tasty. Our waitress, who seemed to also serve as cook and cashier, was friendly, but led me to believe that La Luz Del Dia perhaps didn’t offer a dental plan. Oh well. Teeth are overrated. And the food was good.

bakery signAs we paid our bill, she told us her 80-year-old father is a baker and he was responsible for the apple turnover that we enjoyed as well as the cookies we took with us as a treat for later.

We made our way up the hill to Holy Angels Catholic Church. The doors appeared to be locked, but we were greeted by an old man who happily led us into the church. The church was old and very pretty. Bill commented immediately on the beautiful stained glass windows that adorned the walls of the church – four on each side and one in front and one in back. The man told us this wonderful story….

A number of years ago, the windows, which records indicated had come church altarfrom Germany, were getting old and had been damaged by naughty boys who had used BB guns to do their dastardly deeds. The man began calling places that repaired stained glass but couldn’t find anyone willing to work on these particular windows. He finally called a place in St. Louis, explained about the windows, and a man said he would like to come out to look at them. He did, and after careful inspection, he said, “Yes, I certainly can repair these windows because they were made by either my father or my grandfather’s own hands.” There was some sort of signature on the windows that he recognized.

The cypress trees are on the left, and you can see several in the distance.

The cypress trees are on the left, and you can see several in the distance.

We continued our trek around the town. A couple of things stood out. First, the gardens were ablaze with colorful roses. This would have been a surprise to me if my sister Bec hadn’t recently told me that Arizona grows hundreds of thousands of roses for commercial use. Second, there was a plethora of something we haven’t seen since we left Tuscany – cypress trees. I have attempted to find out if these trees are indigenous to Arizona. What I learned is that the Arizona Cypress Tree is indigenous, but not the cypress we saw yesterday all over the town of Globe. Don’t know what to say about that, but they sure were pretty. It took me back to Italy.

After spending four days in the hospital without even a window from which to see the sun, our day trip through the Arizona desert and our time in small-town America was just what I needed.

Guest Post: Idle Hands are the Devil’s Workshop

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Bill is enjoying the fruits of his labor.

Bill is enjoying the fruits of his labor.

By Bill McLain

Every year when we get to our house in Mesa, like any homeowner, I find things that need attention. This year I repainted a wall in a bathroom, repaired woodpecker holes in the exterior stucco walls, sealed off the openings under our roof tiles where birds had been nesting, cleaned the detritus from rocks under the tree in the front yard, and did other cleaning jobs around the house. Most of these things needed to be done; others I did just to keep busy. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” (Proverbs 16: 27-29) and so on.

Some time ago Kris mentioned that she would like an outdoor kitchen in Arizona. Well, I was looking for something to keep me busy, so I decided to build her one. Having only a vague idea what it should look like, and without any plans, I dove in. Attached are photos of the initial construction of a patio extension and base for the kitchen through actually using the final product. It took a little longer than I anticipated, as my projects usually do, but with a few (well, more than a few) bruises, nicks and cuts, a lot of visits to Lowes and Home Depot (they each gave me my own vest and name tag), and a few online orders (but no vests), I am happy with the result, and I think that Kris and Jen are too.

First I added on to the patio to provide a base for the kitchen.

First I added on to the patio to provide a base for the kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I used our existing gas grill.

I used our existing gas grill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The old grill's base was removed in preparation for its installation in its new home.

The old grill’s base was removed in preparation for its installation in its new home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My next step was to create the frame.

My next step was to build the frame.

 

 

 

 

 

 

After it was completely framed, I was ready to add to concrete board.

After it was completely framed, I was ready to add concrete board.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of the last things I did was to add our lights. Almost finished!

One of the last things I did was to add lights. Almost finished!

 

 

 

 

 

 

I particularly enjoyed the tile work and think it adds a lot to the beauty of the kitchen.

I particularly enjoyed the tile work and think it adds a lot to the beauty of the kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kris prepares one of our first meals outdoors.

Kris prepares one of our first meals outdoors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here I am enjoying an adult beverage at the bar of our spectacular outdoor kitchen!

Here Kris is enjoying an adult beverage at the bar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nana’s Notes: Bill started the project sometime late February, responding to my rumblings of how much I like the looks of an outdoor kitchen, and how I think they make a lot of sense in Arizona, especially when it starts getting hot in late spring. I had no idea how much work would be involved. You would think after nearly 23 years of marriage, I would know that Bill McLain does nothing second-best. He seriously spent the next seven weeks building the kitchen. He would get up early in the morning and the first thing he would do would be to walk outside with his cup of coffee and, well, I don’t really know. Check to see if it was still there, I guess. Once it got late enough that he could make noise (say, 7:30), work began. He would take water and bathroom breaks, stop for lunch, and then I would see him again about dinnertime. When he wasn’t working, he was on his Ipad researching and buying. When he wasn’t doing any of those things, he was at Home Depot or Lowes, or just THINKING about it all.

The result, as you can see, is amazing. We premiered our kitchen on the Saturday before Easter with family. The food, including the ham, was all cooked on the grill. We had a crockpot plugged in outside for appetizers. We sat at the bar that he made while dinner was being prepared right before our eyes. 

I’m, of course, thrilled with the result, but also happy to have my husband back. 

Here’s to Bill and his magnificent kitchen!

 

A Funny Thing Happened…..

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Early last week, Bill and I were happily making plans for our Disneyland trip that was supposed to begin, uh, yesterday. But, a funny thing happened on the way to the happiest place on earth.

In the midst of the planning, I took a detour to the not happiest place on earth — the hospital. Four years ago I had surgery. I will tell you it was a colon resection because that is pertinent to my story. Don’t think about it too much.

Last Monday night I began having abdominal pain and vomiting. After not being any better by Tuesday evening, I determined it wasn’t stomach flu, and had Bill drive me to urgent care to see what could possibly be the problem.

Well, this led to that which led to the other, and before you know it, I was in the hospital with an NG tube sticking out of my nose because I had a partial bowel obstruction caused by scar tissue from the previous colon surgery. Having an NG tube jammed through your nose, down your throat and into your stomach is the polar opposite of the happiest place on earth.

But, I survived, and got home yesterday.

Here are some random thoughts and experiences that I had while having way too much time on my hands, nothing else to think about but the NG tube sticking out of my nose, and under the influence of Dilaudid for four days.

Cast of Funny Characters
The first evening, the number of hospital employees and volunteers who came to see me was almost comical. In fact, it was comical if you factor in the Dilaudid. I had several quality assurance people who asked me the same questions about the kind of care I had been getting thus far. In the 30 minutes I had been in the hospital. Their interviews all ended with the same question….How could we have made this experience exceptional? The answer was easy. DON’T STICK A TUBE INTO MY NOSE, DOWN MY THROAT AND INTO MY STOMACH. Boom. The end.

The last volunteer I saw that first night was a woman with her therapy dog — a Boston Terrier named Rosebud. Remember, Friends, it was probably 9:30 by this time, and the NG tube had been inserted maybe an hour-and-a-half earlier. I like dogs, but I simply had no use for Rosebud that night. It wasn’t Rosebud’s fault. The woman was so clearly sure her dog would bring me joy. “Would you like Rosebud to sit in bed with you?” she asked. And perhaps jump up on you and rip out your nasal tube? “No thank you,” I managed to say through clenched teeth.

The nursing staff was very good, though I had a different nurse each day and night. Some, however were better than others. There was the one, for example, who, when I pointed out to her that my IV had not been reconnected, told me “I don’t really think you need an IV.” Hmmmm. I have no medical background, but the fact that I’m not able to take anything by mouth would make me think that perhaps they would like me on some liquids so I don’t, say, die of dehydration. “Could you maybe check on that?” I asked her. Surprisingly, I did need to be hooked up. I’ll be right back; I have to go get my medical degree.

One time when I rang the bell to be unhooked from my nasal tube pump so I could use the restroom, a night CNA came to my aid. I noticed her nametag said Heaven. “Is your name really Heaven?” I asked her. “Actually, my name is Heaven Lee. My mom read Flowers in the Attic in high school, and she got the name from that book.” I’ve never read Flowers in the Attic, so I can’t comment on if or how that name relates to that particular book, but I will say I found her name enchanting, if somewhat odd.

Young Bianca took me down to Nuclear Medicine one afternoon. On the way back she said to me as she smacked her gum, “I’ll bet it’s awful to have a bowel obstruction.” “It’s not great,” I replied. “Yeah,” she continued, “I worry about myself because I chew a lot of gum and I always swallow it so I’m afraid I’m going to have one some day.” I must admit I didn’t know how to respond to her. She was 20 and has a 24-year-old sister, a 14-year-old brother and a baby brother, 2, and a baby sister, 1. Same parents. (I can find out a lot in a short guerny ride down to Nuclear Medicine. It’s my journalism training.) And Kids, don’t swallow your gum.

Patrick, one of my night nurses, was creepy. He was very quiet and would sneak up on me. I would wake up to him with his head inside my door, watching me sleep, and he would tell me he was checking on me. I believe him, but it was weird nonetheless. I think he might have been living under my bed. If I get to fill out a quality assurance questionnaire, I’m going to suggest that Patrick needs to wear a bell.

Armonda is in housekeeping. As she oh-so-swiftly cleaned my room, she talked nonstop about her life, her kids, the hospital, and her fellow employees. She worked faster than anyone I had ever seen. She is the one who told me my room was a pressurized room, used in the past for TB patients. That explained why every afternoon a man came by and asked if he could close the door for 10 seconds or so to check the pressure. It also explained why my room was strangely down a weird corridor and you had to go through another room before getting into mine.

Saturday night I was watching the Diane Sawyer Sound of Music special and right at the moment they’re talking about Maria’s wedding, a man came in to take blood. Argh. He was dark-skinned and had what sounded to me to be a Caribbean accent. He saw what I was watching, and said he saw the movie as a small boy. “The songs are even more beautiful in French,” he said. “Where are you from?” I asked him. “France,” was his reply. I swear his accent was Caribbean. Anyway, as he drew my blood, he sang Do Re Mi to me in French! It was beautiful and I was no longer mad at him for interrupting Maria’s wedding.

Food Fantasies
When I was in the hospital four years ago, I was very ill. Despite the fact that I took nothing by mouth for several WEEKS, I never was hungry. This time, probably because I wasn’t nearly as sick, I was ravenously hungry the entire time. But I couldn’t eat until I got the go-ahead from the doctor, and then it had to be in stages. First, he said, small sips of clear liquid, and no, Ms. McLain, gin and tonics don’t count. See if I tolerate it. Next, a clear liquid dinner, including such delights as beef broth and jello. (As an aside, my jello choices were orange or strawberry. I chose orange. But I asked my granddaughter Mylee which one she would choose. She was quiet as she gave it serious thought. Finally she said, “I would choose both, and mix them together.”)

liquid diet

Beef broth, tea, orange jello and apple juice.

Then a meal featuring solid food. At some point, I was speaking to the head nurse about how soon he thought I could be discharged. “Well, you need to get through the sips, the liquid dinner, the creamy dinner, and the solid dinner.” Whaaaaaaat? This is the first I’d heard about the creamy dinner stage.

Creamy dinner featuring Cream of Mushroom soup, applesauce, milk, and iced tea.

Creamy dinner featuring Cream of Mushroom soup, applesauce, milk, and iced tea.

Unhappily, the creamy dinner stage did, indeed, appear Saturday evening. I was none too happy about that, but it got worse. The young food service girl brought my breakfast Sunday morning and I’ll be darned if I wasn’t again staring Cream of Mushroom soup right smack in the face. A creamy soup meal. I literally started pounding on my bed and yelling that I WAS REQUIRED TO CONSUME AND TOLERATE SOLID FOOD BEFORE I COULD BE DISCHARGED AND I’D ALREADY HAD MY CREAMY FOOD MEAL. I WANT MY SOLID FOOD. I then took a time out to apologize to the surprised girl, explaining to her that I understood it wasn’t her fault and thanked her for her patience. However, I confess I went back to my agitated ranting. It wasn’t my finest moment. Luckily my nurse appeared on the scene and got me a solid food breakfast.

Soggy toast, powdered eggs with no salt, and oatmeal. The oatmeal, sweetened with fake sugar, was the only thing I could stand to eat given how much it hurt to swallow. I will only endure painful swallowing if the taste is worth it!

Soggy toast, powdered eggs with no salt, and oatmeal. The oatmeal, sweetened with fake sugar, was the only thing I could stand to eat given how much it hurt to swallow. I will only endure painful swallowing if the taste is worth it!

I tolerated them all fine, and, in fact, ate lunch yesterday in the cafeteria with Bill. But when I got back to my room, in walked the food delivery person with another CREAMY FOOD MEAL. Lordy.

Final Random Thoughts
It was apparently impossible for me, as I did my innumerable walks around the floor day and night, to not look into rooms as I walked by. I assure you it wasn’t some prurient interest. I just did it without thought. As a result, I saw many very ill people very many times, and thanked God each time for my relative good health. My voyeurism frankly made me glad for my odd little pressurized room at the end of the hall where no one other than medical folks or welcomed visitors would have reason to walk. And no oxygen masks dropped down.

Two welcomed visitors -- Maggie and Lilly.

Two welcomed visitors — Maggie and Lilly.

The hospital played Brahm’s Lullaby every time a baby was born. Seven babies were born while I was there. I think. The Dilaudid and all……

And speaking of Dilaudid, I can’t believe how willingly they doled out Dilaudid throughout much of my hospitalization. In fact, I’m pretty sure I could have gotten it to the bitter end if I had been interested. I was the one who finally said, “At this point, I am taking Dilaudid because I have a sore throat and a headache. That seems like overkill.” The nurse nodded, and said, “Well, we could downgrade your medication to Morphine.” Sweet Lord. At one point I woke up from a Dilaudidland nap and noticed Teddy Roosevelt’s face in the wood grain of the closet at which I looked. Bye-bye, Dilaudid.

While in the hospital, unrelated to my belly, they discovered I had a urinary tract infection, my kidneys were slightly enlarged, my potassium was low, and my chest had very slight crackling. It makes me wonder what I walk through life with every day.

I’m grateful for my returned health, my family and friends, and the prayers and good wishes I know were sent my way throughout this past week.

Today, I’m back to making Disneyland plans.

Temporary Detour

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Nana’s Whimsies will be unavailable for the next few days as I am temporarily out of pocket. I am taking a decidedly NOT whimsical detour and am in the hospital. Not life threatening I’m happy to say.

Nana will return soon.

It’s Too Late to Go Through My Garbage

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We are a family of music lovers. I have mentioned that my mother and father met because my dad played clarinet and saxophone in my mom’s brother’s band. We always had music playing in my house. From the days when I was very little, I have memories of music coming from a crackly radio that sat on my mom’s kitchen counter from which she listened to KFAB radio, humming along to the tunes of Dean Martin and Doris Day.

KFAB, by the way, now apparently an all-talk AM station, was where Johnny Carson began his career. He worked there while attending the University of Nebraska (where he was a member of my father’s fraternity). This, I’m afraid, is a factoid not a bit pertinent to what I’m about to tell you.

Back 1960s, there was a record player in our basement. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it’s where Bec and Jen and I, throughout our formative years, listened to music. Dave was too little; he was still playing with Matchbox cars.  We mostly listened to singles – we called them 45s. I’m sure there are those among you who know why they were called 45s, but I only know that I would save up my money to buy all of the top 40 hits. I would stack them up on the turntable, and one by one, they would drop down and an arm with a needle on it would automatically move over to play such hits as Red Rubber Ball or I’m a Believer or Happy Together. We would sing and dance to the music. Jen would tell you that is the period of time during which she hoped to be a professional singer when she grew up until Bec pointed out to her that she didn’t actually have that great a singing voice.

Here’s a true fact. If I listen to a 60s radio station, not only can I sing along with the music (remembering EVERY SINGLE WORD), but sometimes I can actually remember the color of the label on the 45. Especially if it was Capital Records.

albumsMy sisters and I were reminiscing about vinyl records the other day because we were at Barnes and Noble and I came across a display of vinyl records. Now probably you all knew that vinyl (and that’s apparently what it is being called as opposed to “albums”) was making a comeback, but it was news to me. I stood there in absolute amazement, and finally took out my phone to take a picture. A B & N employee, seemingly around my age, walked up to me and said, “You are taking a photo because you can’t believe you’re seeing albums. Am I right?”

I assured her she was dead on. And in addition to my amazement at the reappearance of albums, I was astonished to see the price. The Beatles White Album….guess how much? A mere $35.99. I remember when I would save up my money to purchase the newest Beatles album for $4.99 or thereabouts.

“What do they play the, ahem, vinyl on?” I asked the B & N employee. She pointed to a small box that held a turntable.

I must tell you at this point that the record player we listened to in the basement wasn’t very big . However, my dad had a stereo console upstairs that was a major piece of furniture. His pride and joy.

I didn’t open the box, but it certainly didn’t even come close to my dad’s stereo.  But his had built-in speakers.

From the time that music began to be digitally produced, the arguments commenced. Which produces better sound – analog or digital? Apparently sound is – by definition – analog, so it would seem like the music coming from albums would be richer. Still, I remember how absolutely IMPRESSED I was at the clean sound coming from CDs. No crackle from worn records.

Over the years, I owned numerous albums – and when CDs came into my life, the albums went into the garbage. Who knew that 35 years later we would be once again looking at vinyl records? At $35 a pop.

And, by the way, I know that anyone under the age of 20 doesn’t even know what I’m talking about when I say CD. I simply can’t keep up. But as Bec says, at least she can buy singles again on Itunes!

P.S. Ever since I typed the words “Red Rubber Ball” I cannot get that song out of my head. You’re welcome Baby Boomers…..

Can You Eat Too Much Fiber?

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Delicious pizza despite the ensuing issues.

Delicious pizza despite the ensuing issues.

The other night Bill and Jen and I decided to go out for pizza. By time we got to our favorite pizza place in the East Valley, it was past 6, so there was a long wait – about an hour and 15 minutes.  We patiently waited, and finally were seated at a table.

We ordered our standard pizza – a large thin-crust with sausage and capicola. As I have mentioned countless times, Bill LOVES pizza. He would tell you that his favorite pizza – the one against which all pizzas are measured – is from Fox’s Restaurant and Pub, several of which are located on the south side of Chicago. The pizza is thin-crusted, the sausage is delicious, and best of all, it is cut it in little squares .

As an aside, I recently learned that the reason the pizzas on the south side of Chicago are cut in squares is that the steel workers would have to grab a quick lunch at noon, and so they would come into their favorite pizzeria and the small squares on the pizzas sitting on the bar were easy to grab and eat. No mess.

Anyhoo, as a nod to good health, we also ordered a Caesar salad to split among us. We were famished because of the long wait. The salad came, and Jen served it up amongst us, leaving some on the original plate. We all ate the salad with great relish.

Bill finished first and took a bit more. When my plate was empty, I began nibbling off the original plate. At one point, I went to grab what looked to me in the dim light like a piece of lettuce from the white end of the Romaine lettuce. Bill grabbed my hand and said, “Don’t eat that. It’s a tissue.”

“Excuse me?” I said. “What did you say?”

“That’s a Kleenex in the salad,” he said.

“ARE YOU BEING SERIOUS?” I asked (and you can tell I was animated from the capital letters).

“Yes Kris,” he said. “I’m afraid I am. There is a Kleenex in our salad.”

There aren’t enough W’s in ewwwwww to express our disgust.

We called our server over.

“There’s a tissue in our salad,” Jen told her. The server was justifiably surprised.

“Well, that’s not good,” she said, and grabbed the salad bowl. “I’ll be right back.”

She wasn’t right back, but her manager was.  What I’m going to tell you she said to us is the absolute truth. I promise you.

“I’m very sorry about the tissue in your salad,” she said. “We checked the kitchen, and there are no tissues kept in the kitchen, so I don’t know how this could have happened. We also checked the tissue, and it appears to be clean.”

Whaaaaaaaaaaat?

“We are very sorry about this incident, and we won’t charge you for the salad,” she said.

Seriously. She agreed to not charge us for the salad IN WHICH THERE WAS A TISSUE.

Bill, Jen, and I are nice people. In fact, my whole family consists of nice people. I think every single one of our kids has worked in food service at some point or another. We know that stuff happens. So, we nodded stupidly, and she left our table.

The server brought us our pizza (which was absolutely delicious and did not have a tissue) and we ate it. But you could tell that the incident weighed on all of our minds.

I began thinking about the tissue in the salad. It seemed to me (and still does) that there should be kind of a checklist located somewhere in the kitchen of a restaurant that reads something like this….

Compensation for Food Issues

Hair in your food………..Free dessert
Food Not Prepared the Way You Asked…………Bring new meal
Drinks Dropped by Server onto Your Lap…………….Free drink
Tissue in Your Salad……….You Don’t Have to Pay For Any Single Solitary Part of Your Meal Not Now Not Ever

Doesn’t it seem like that to you?

So at the end of the meal, the server came to our table and asked, “Will this be one check or two?”

Now if you look up the word coward in the dictionary, you will see my face. I go out of my way to not cause anyone any problems. But I was on my very last nerve.

So I said, “Miss, here’s the thing. I’m 61 years old, and I’ve never even found a hair in my food. But tonight I found a Kleenex tissue in my salad. I think we don’t have any check at all. Don’t you think so?.”

The server looked like a deer in the headlights. She quickly ran away, and came back to tell us we were good to go.

Boom.

But here’s my question to you, my good Readers. What would you do in this situation? Has anything like this ever happened to you and what did you do?

Saturday Smile: ILove the IPad

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Any sufficiently advanced technology is equivalent to magic. – Arthur C. Clarke (Author)

Jen has been here visiting this past week and, not surprisingly, has spent a lot of time with her grandkids. On Thursday night, Maggie had to work and so Jen decided to spend the night at our/her house. Her grandkids stayed with their father. As she headed towards the door, 4-year-old Austin began to cry. He was inconsolable.

“She’ll be back tomorrow, Buddy,” his father told him. Between sobs, Austin replied, “But sheeeeee’s t-t-t-taking her Ipad.”

And there you have it, Folks. What being a grandparent has been reduced to…..

Austin ipad_resized

The number of games on their Ipads.

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: Don’t Know Much About History

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My blog audience knows by now that I love mysteries. At the end of the year, if I look at the list of books I have read, more than half are probably mysteries. And the ones that aren’t often will have a mystery element to them. Like who is the crazy woman in the attic in Jane Eyre?

But the other genre of books that I love is historical fiction. I love to learn about history via a fictional story. I wish, for example, that I had read the whole series of Henry VIII books by Philippa Gregory prior to our visit to England in 1993. That trip took place more than 20 years after I studied World History, and I thought “Henry VIII” was a song by Herman and the Hermits.

I have given some thought to the best historical novels I have read in the past couple of years, and I’m not ready to commit that the following are the five best historical novels I’ve ever read. But they are five really good novels from which I learned a lot about an historical event.

So, in no order…..

other bolelyn (2)Moloka’i by Alan Brennert is the story of a young Hawaiian girl who contracts leprosy and is sent to a leper colony on the island of Moloka’i. I know the plot sounds depressing, but it simply wasn’t. It was a heartwarming story about love. I learned that the island of Moloka’i actually did have a leper colony located on it, and it was where Father (Saint) Damian worked with lepers for years in the 1800s before he, himself, died of leprosy. It was wonderful to learn about this amazing man, though he certainly wasn’t the focus of the story but only a bit player. Moloka’i is one of my favorite books of all time.

other bolelyn (1)The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory was the first book I ever read by this author. The book was riveting, and got me hooked on reading all of the books about Henry’s bevy of wives and mistresses. The Other Boleyn Girl tells the story of Anne, Mary, and George Boleyn and their strange relationship through the eyes of Mary, who was Henry’s first Boleyn love and led to the infamous and unfortunate relationship with her sister Anne. Seemingly decently researched and definitely well-written.

orphan trainOrphan Train by Christina Baker Kline is an excellent story about an event in history I knew absolutely nothing about. Apparently in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, orphans from the East Coast were sent by train to the Midwest where they would be adopted by families to work on the farms or in the businesses. Orphan Train is the story of one of these orphans, now an elderly woman, who befriends a young orphan girl, tied by their backgrounds. Good writing, but mostly just an interesting story.

true sistersTrue Sisters by Sandra Dallas, is the story of four Morman women who move from their homes in Iowa City (one coming from as far away as England) across the plains and over the Rocky Mountains to Salt Lake City, on foot, pushing handcarts carrying all of their worldly goods. You can only imagine the obstacles they faced. Again, while I knew that Mormans moved from Iowa and Illinois to Salt Lake City, this particular mode of transportation was new to me. A beautiful story of friendship by one of my favorite authors (and not just because she lives in Denver!).

aviatorThe Aviator’s Wife by Melanie Benjamin is the story of Anne Morrow Lindbergh, the wife of Charles Lindbergh. Though the story is about Anne, the reader learns a lot about aviation and about the famous Charles Lindbergh (who, in my mind, was half cray-cray). The story of the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby is particularly well-told and interesting.

Oh, what the heck, for good measure…..

inventionThe Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd is the story of Sarah Grimke and her sister Angelina, feminists before anyone even remotely conceived of the word. But it is also the story of slavery as told in a secondary storyline about a fictional slave girl. The writing is beautiful and the story was amazing – both glorious and horrifying. A wonderful read.

And there you have it folks, six historical novels that should be on your bookshelf or in your electronic reader.

Random Thursday Thoughts

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It’s the Bomb

Desperately looking for something to occupy my time the other afternoon as Bill worked outdoors, I got onto Netflix to see what was available. After much perusing, I ended up with (of all things) The Karate Kid. It is a great movie. It has 1980s-Hairstyles--5been a great movie all of the 750 times that I’ve watched it over the years since 1984. As with most Generation X-ers, Court became interested in karate because of that movie, and his dad and I even enrolled him in classes for a short period of time. But what struck me most from the movie was the hair and clothing. Wow. I remember it so well. I absolutely LOVED my stonewashed jeans that fit tightly above my waist, in fact, above my belly button. And my hair, as everyone else’s who was an adult in the 1980s, was big and blown and curled away from my face, ala Farrah Fawcett. Remember leg warmers, thanks to Flashdance? We wore them even though we weren’t even close to a dance floor. And oh, those shoulder pads. Believe it or not, to this very day, the clothes of the 1980s are my favorite style.

Flitting Around

I’ve noticed as of late that I have the attention span of a gnat. Actually, what I sternly tell myself is that I’m like a cat that gets distracted by a beam of sunlight coming into the window and showing dust mites in the air. I start doing something, get distracted and begin something else, get distracted again and before you know it, I have three or four things half finished. Here’s an example. I was unloading the dishwasher when I remembered that I wanted to get the grandkids’ Easter cards in the mail. So I began to address the cards. But I needed to look up postage for a heavier card. I moved to my computer and looked up postage. While at my computer, I decided to see how many hits I’d gotten on my blog. Then I started thinking about blog ideas and I started looking something up on Wikipedia, which, NEVER FAILS to suck me in. Before I knew it, I was looking up totally unrelated things. After a half hour or so, I saw the cards sitting on the table. I went to get the postage stamps, and nearly tripped over the dishwasher’s open door since I hadn’t finished that project. And so it goes. I blame age. And all the hairspray I had to use to keep my hair away from my face in the 1980s.

10% is 10%

Speaking of age, cashiers have started giving me the senior discount without asking if I’m eligible. At first I wasn’t sure how I felt about their presumption of my age (though admittedly, they’re accurate). But my cheapskatyness won out over my vanity, and I have decided I will take the 10 percent discount any day of the week.

Orange Fingers

You have your people with a sweet tooth. You have your people with a cheetossalt tooth. Bill is definitely in the former group. He absolutely craves and loves anything sweet. Particularly if chocolate is involved. Beckie’s brownies are his perfect food. My secret craving? Cheetos. In fact, back in Denver, I have taken to buying a bag and giving them to Bill to hide someplace so that I can have them available for lunch but not available for snacking in the afternoon. I’m not proud of this fact. After all, CHEETOS. They make my fingers orange. I love them.

Sock it to Me

As you know, Bill and I live alone. And in both of our houses, we have a laundry room with our own washer and dryer. It’s probably 20 steps from my dryer to my bedroom in our Denver house, and about 5 steps here in Arizona. And yet….AND YET…. I can’t tell you how common it is for me to lose a sock. It’s simply inexplicable. Where could they possibly go?

That’s all folks. Gotta go chase a sunbeam.

Purgatory

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imagesI fear I often make my husband Bill the fall guy in my blog stories. Sort of like Ricky Ricardo on I Love Lucy.

Bill is no Ricky Ricardo. For one thing, he doesn’t have wavy black hair or speak with a Cuban accent, and almost never sings Babalu. He does, however, say, “Luuucy, I’m home,” when he walks in the door. But so do I. Baby Boomers understand why.

The fact of the matter is that Bill is a highly-intelligent, kind-hearted, hard-working, and funny man who has put up with me and my family for almost 23 years. Actually, more than 25 years if you count the three years we were engaged before he finally told me, “Kris, call the church and schedule our wedding. It’s time that we get married.”

Which I did.

In fact, my mother always said Bill was a genius. And he probably is, in fact. I don’t know what his IQ is, nor mine, but I’m certain if we compared scores, it would be like comparing the bowling scores of a 30-year-old professional bowler competing against a grandmother hitting the lanes for the first time after she had three or four Tequila Sunrises and smoked a pack of Marlboros. And I’m the grandmother.

Bill spends a lot of his time around the women in my family. And there are a LOT of women in our family. The X chromosome is alive and well in the Gloor clan.

Bill calls my sisters and I his sister wives. I assure you that this isn’t 1002368_620378528037371_248530720_ntrue. He does, however, spend a great deal of time around us, and is ever so patient and rarely loses his sense of humor. He goes with the flow when, for example, we all gather for dinner and the conversation turns to analysis of Dancing With the Stars or the latest book we are reading. He listens patiently until his head is ready to explode at which time he quietly says goodbye and moves to the bedroom to watch NASCAR (or secretly watch Dancing With the Stars).

In 2000, Bill and I traveled to Italy with Jen and her daughter Maggie. The three of us spent 10 days or so traveling around that beautiful country, seeing the sights of Rome, enjoying the Mediterranean as we visited the Cinque Terre, and relishing the countryside of much of Tuscany. Bill never once complained about traveling with three women.

That is, until we returned home. We went to Mass in Denver the day after we arrived back. The pastor of the church we attended was a friend of the family, having counseled us during the days that Mom was dying.

“How was your trip?” he asked us after Mass.

Maggie, Jen and I all proclaimed the joys of Italy.

But finally, Bill pitched in.

“Father,” he said, “I will tell you the truth. Traveling for two weeks with three women, sharing bathrooms, sleeping under the same roof, has been my very own Purgatory. All of my sins are atoned.”

Bill, you got some ‘splainin’ to do!