Halloween – if you’re not being inundated by pumpkin frappes or pumpkin chili or cinnamon pumpkin body wash, you are being surrounded by pumpkins at a pumpkin patch.

Despite my 10 grandkids, I have never taken a single one to a pumpkin patch. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been to a pumpkin patch. We always got our pumpkin from the grocery store. A day or so before Halloween, we would carve it. Nowadays you see elaborate carvings of haunted houses or zombies. Not ours. Two triangles for the eyes, an upside down triangle for the nose, and a mouth with a few teeth. That was as creative as we ever got.

And when I say “we”, I’m talking about me growing up as well as my poor son growing up. Court also never had a clever costume since I haven’t a clever bone in my body. Nor can I even turn on a sewing machine or a glue gun. I remember one year when he was in grade school, the kids wore their costumes to school. All of the kids had very clever costumes. I remember one of the kids was a fork. It involved a cardboard and duct tape. Trust me. It was awesome.

Court, I’m sure, was Spiderman or Superman with a costume ready to go up in flames at the drop of a match and a plastic mask held into place by a flimsy piece of elastic. I’m lucky he’s not an axe murderer given his deprived childhood.

Anyhoo, back to the pumpkin patch. Yesterday I went to my first pumpkin patch, accompanying my niece Maggie and her kids, 4-year-old Austin and 9-month-old Lilly. We had ourselves some fun. Our afternoon included a hay ride, a careful and intensive process to select a pumpkin, feeding some goats (well, except that we didn’t spring for the dollar bag of carrots, so feeding meant simply sticking hay through the

Pre-first-spill, and so far, no flies.

fence; the goats weren’t impressed), a hay bale maze which Austin went through so many times that he could probably have done it with his eyes closed), and the inevitable snow cone.

Now, I must digress for a moment to discuss the snow cone. As my sister Bec pointed out the other day, has anyone really ever had a full-out positive

experience with a snow cone? It’s always a disappointment. Something happens. Too much ice. Too much syrup. Not enough syrup. It spills. It gets dropped on the ground. There’s general disappointment that you didn’t select the cotton candy instead. Yesterday’s snow cone involved not one, but two spills. That didn’t seem to deter Austin one single bit. For Austin, the deal breaker was the flies it attracted.

But the jumping castle more than made up for it. And by the end of the day, he was timed at going through the maze in a zippy 55 seconds.

Lilly just didn’t get what all the excitement was about.

Here’s what it was about, Lilly…..

Getting ready for the hay ride. Lilly looks nervous.

“You’ve got to be kidding me with the hay, kid. Where’s the carrots, you cheapskate?”

Which one shall I choose?

In many respects, Colorado isn’t that different from Arizona. Oh, of course the weather is considerably different. And Arizona has the beautiful cacti that are characteristic of the Sonoran desert, while Colorado has the Rocky Mountains and skiing. Still, I talk about Arizona being the Wild,Wild West, but in fact it was in Colorado – on I-25 between Denver and Fort Collins – that my sister had to come to a stop because there was a herd of cattle crossing the road.

That was, of course, quite a while ago. Now traffic along that road is so busy that a herd of cattle wouldn’t even slow most people down I’m afraid. Cows flying EVERYWHERE!

But I will tell you that driving in the Phoenix metro area is one of the most difficult adjustments I must make when I first arrive. And it mostly doesn’t have thing to do with the Snowbirds. This, I promise you, will not be an elderly-bashing post, because who am I to bash?

In most of Phoenix – or at least in the East Valley with which I am most familiar – the roads are four-to-six lanes wide, divided by islands, and impeccably cared for. And I’m talking about the regular roads. I will also tell you that the freeways are also amazing. Well-lit, bright line dividers, the whole nine yards.

But back to the surface roads. Because they are so wide, multi-laned, and divided by islands, the speed limit is mostly 45 mph. Not always, but I would venture to guess that unless you’re on a neighborhood street, 98 percent of the time you’re driving 45 mph.  Even in school zones you only slow down to 35 mph!

Unless you just arrived from Denver where the speed limit is rarely 45 mph. In that case, because you are used to driving 30 or 35 mph, you find yourself putzing along until about the time you look in your rear-view mirror to see someone a quarter of an inch from your back bumper, so close that you think his car and your car should just get a room.

I can’t tell you how many times I say out loud to myself, “Kris, you’re doggin’ it. Get going!”

One of the most dangerous mistakes I must FORCE myself not to make is when I’m waiting to turn left into a parking lot or on to another street. I will see the car coming, and in Denver I would have plenty of time to make that turn. Here, well, let’s just say it could be Dale Earnhardt Junior heading my way. It goes from dot to monster truck in a heartbeat. I’ve learned to wait.

The other thing I have to get used to here in the Phoenix metro area is that since the streets are divided by islands, you can’t turn left at all streets. As a result, it is absolutely common to see what Bill and I have dubbed the Phoenix Flip, that is, U-turns to get to the street you’re looking for. I make a Phoenix Flip probably three times a day since we are victims of the island if you are trying to get to our house heading north. They are perfectly legal.

I know I’ve pledged to not Snowbird Bash in this particular post, and I will tell you that for the most part, the winter visitors drive the 45 mph speed limit. The only thing you have to watch out for is that they slow down to 1 mph to make turns, and they enter the freeway at that same 45 mph.

It is a fact that I have the same trouble when I return to Denver after spending the winter here in Arizona. By that time I have gotten used to driving at the speed of sound, and must constantly remind myself to slow down.

On a slightly different note, I mentioned we came back to a broken garbage disposal. Bill spent yesterday installing the – ahem – Waste King 8000 Legend. This particular garbage disposal, my friends, could actually grind up a car if we could fit it down the little hole. When it comes to any kind of appliance or machinery, Bill IS Tim the Tool Man Taylor.

By Bob B.

Time certainly does fly when you are having fun cruising down the highways and byways of the Great Plains of the USA. I can’t believe it has been three months since my last trucking report. Now I know how John Steinbeck felt when writer’s block paralyzed his production. Well, kind of.

Summer has been amazing, and now we are in full blown Indian Summer. The magnificence of the green sea of the prairie grass gently flowing in the summer breeze from horizon to horizon is awe inspiring. I can only imagine what the pioneers and American Indians thought of what was before them as they took weeks and months to traverse terrain that I navigate in a matter of hours. You know, American Indians were the original Snow Birds. After enduring last winter in the northern plains, who in their right mind would not go south for the winter?

Indian Summer in the Midwest has been simply beautiful. At this point the trees are still full of leaves, although the leaves have started to fall. The cottonwoods which pretty much line the banks of the Platte River the entire length of Nebraska along The Interstate tower over the cornfields and prairie in a predominant brilliant yellow gold. Interspersed among the cottonwoods are brilliant reds of oak trees, various greens of cedars and pines, and a few browns and tans from other varieties. The trees stand sentry over amber waves of grain, the khaki tan of uncut corn, and patches of green grass and hay at the corners of pivot irrigation circles of cut and uncut corn.

Harvest is underway. Depending on where you are, you see fields being worked and truckloads of sugar beets and corn taking up my space on the road. Just yesterday afternoon at the elevator on the west side of Fremont, NE, on Highway 30 about 50 grain semis were lined up two abreast extending out on to the highway waiting to unload. In other areas mountains of yellow corn are being piled for storage and shipping. I wonder how many field acres it takes to create a mountain of corn 150 feet high by 200 yards wide by half a mile long, and how many of these mountains there are. There are quite a few of them. Boy, I just can’t wait to see them covered with snow…yeah.

In addition to the millions of bugs I have collided with, my truck this summer has assisted in the suicides of squirrels, rabbits, possums, swallows, sparrows, a sea gull, and near misses with several owls, coyotes, foxes, and a bald eagle determined not to surrender his hasenpfeffer lunch. The eagle ultimately was intimidated by the big red beast barreling down upon him. A couple days ago Bambi’s mother met her demise trying to dive beneath my trailer as I rolled on by. It was 2 a.m. as she was climbing out of the right side ditch. I saw her as she hesitated as I approached. Then she leaned forward as if she thought she could make it, but held back. I moved left into the other lane as I passed her and thought, “Thank Goodness, she stayed.” Then I felt a thump, thump at the rear of the trailer and sudden loss of brake air pressure. I immediately pulled over to the shoulder to see the damage. Two air lines had been sheared off near the trailer tires on the curb side, and what a gory mess underneath. All I could do was wait for repair help to arrive meaning, time for a nap. Who knew that the circle of life ended with a pair of truck tires? At least me and the truck were safe. Again, those prayers are working.

Time to go, but before I do I want you to consider what happens to a rubber band if you had laid it out in the sun all summer. It would dry out, become brittle, and crack losing its elastically. The same thing happens to your windshield wiper blades. Unless you want to be changing your blades some dark night when the wind is blowing, snow is falling, and it’s 18° outside, change your wiper blades now. Your life may depend on it, and mine too. Best wishes and be well.

I’m back in the saddle again
Out where a friend is a friend
Where the longhorn cattle feed
On the lowly Jimson weed
Back in the saddle again – Gene Autry

 

Bill and I arrived back at our Arizona home this past Saturday. Back in the saddle again, so to speak. I wasn’t here more than 10 minutes before I saw my first person wearing a cowboy hat and riding a horse. Right here in Mesa.

In the words of Gene Autry, whoopi-ty-aye-yay.

We will only be here for a few weeks this time, back simply to check and see that our house survived the brutal summer temperatures of the Arizona desert. This summer, it also had to survive some really severe rain and subsequent flooding.

Mostly, it seems to have come through like a champ, though there are always issues.

Our drip system got sick, our garbage disposal is leaking, the tree with which Bill continually wrestles looks like it’s ready to reach out and grab some poor, innocent trick-or-treaters with its thorny branches, and the smell of no-one-living-in-the-house-and-the-temperature-reached-heavens-only-knows-how-high prevails.

My solution to the latter? Cook. Specifically, a red sauce with lots of garlic. When it comes to a battle of odors, I’ll put my money on Team Garlic any day of the week.

When I enter my Arizona house for the first time, I tread carefully, always concerned about the possibility of critters. Thus far we haven’t ever seen a scorpion, but there’s always a first. So far, no scorpions to be found. The worst thing was a long-dead centipede, which didn’t thrill me, but did I mention long-dead?

Being thoroughly cautious (read a Big Fat Chicken), I even made Bill help me strip the bed to make sure there were no visitors lurking deep under the covers (there weren’t).

Sunday afternoon I ventured out to the grocery store to gather a few things for my red sauce. And, of course, some wine. The Snowbirds (of which, admittedly, I am one) are starting to trickle back, but no one rammed into the back of my leg with a grocery cart, so I call that a success.

I will say, however, that we passed many an RV bearing license plates from Minnesota and South Dakota and Saskatchewan and Iowa, all heading to their winter home probably just down the street from me. The locals grit their teeth at our arrival, but we help them pay our bills!

And Bill and I enjoyed our fettucine with a red meat sauce. Yum.

Have you heard all of the buzz about the Roman Catholic nun who took first place in Italy’s version of The Voice? Sister Cristina is amazingly talented. I love this video. It is a whole new take on a familiar song. It left me smiling and feeling good.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0e8Uve7cJU

Have a great weekend.

In the past few months, I have noticed that I get regular notices on my telephone from Google regarding traffic situations on the road on which I am traveling. When it first happened, I was driving on I-36, AKA the Boulder Turnpike, heading towards Estes Park. As I was dodging construction equipment resulting from a road construction project that has been going on for about 25 years, my phone dinked, alerting me of a message. Soon thereafter, I was forced to come to a dead stop, so I checked my message. Google was informing me that there was road construction on the Turnpike and I would be delayed by 15-20 minutes.

It, quite frankly, creeped me out. How did my phone know where I was? I concluded that I must have at some point turned on some sort of GPS tracking system, justifying it by assuring myself that by doing so, Google would be able to help me find my phone should I lose it or it gets stolen. As if anyone steals phones that aren’t IPhones.

Anyhoo, since then, I have been getting regular traffic alerts. Mostly they come long after I have figured it out myself, but sometimes they come in advance. The thing is I don’t check messages when I’m driving, so by time I see the message about the traffic situation, I’m usually already there.

Like everyone else, I am getting used to the fact that Google and Amazon and Facebook know more about my life than I know myself. Still, something interesting has been happening in the past couple of weeks. I have been getting alerts telling me it will take me 14 minutes (or however many minutes) to get to work.

I find that really interesting because I haven’t had a job since November of 2007. I wonder where Google thinks I work?

When the message appeared yesterday, I finally investigated further. Apparently Google believes I work in a mostly retail area in south Denver called Streets of Southglenn.

Now, my son works in an office building at the Streets of Southglenn. It’s true I regularly drive there to meet him for lunch. Maybe once a week or so. Apparently Google doesn’t think I work very hard since I only go there once a week.

But, the thing is, I drive a lot of places regularly. I drive to Mass every Sunday. I visit the library once a week or so. I go to the grocery store almost every day. Why did Google decide I work at Streets of Southglenn? I wonder what they think I do for a living?

I could be a food server at Snooze Restaurant. I might work in the automotive department at Sears. Maybe I’m a lingerie model at Victoria’s Secret. Perhaps I dish out ice cream at Dairy Queen.

It’s only going to get creepier my friends.

Have you had any experiences with technology that have made you sit up and take notice?

By the way, God is apparently a Bronco’s fan because take a look at this sunrise taken from our upstairs bathroom window….

Go Broncos!

Bill, who is a lawyer, was scheduled for rare hearings downtown Tuesday and Wednesday. I saw him off with a kiss and a smile, expecting a quiet day.

I sat down with my book, and after a bit, noticed that my wrist was beginning to hurt. Well, not just hurt. Throb.

On Saturday afternoon, following our train ride to Glenwood, after we had checked into our hotel, I had noticed the beginnings of some pain in my wrist. I thought carefully, but couldn’t come up with anything that I had done that would result in wrist pain. Sure, my walk to the dining car was somewhat ungraceful, but I hadn’t taken a free fall face first into the aisle, saving myself only by breaking my fall with my wrist. Hadn’t happened.

So I ignored it.

But it didn’t go away. In fact, by Monday afternoon, I noticed that not only was it hurting, it was swollen as well.

Again, I thought and thought, but couldn’t come up with a reason for a sprained or fractured wrist.

So I ignored it.

But as I sat in my chair yesterday morning feeling increasing pain in my wrist, I decided it warranted a visit to a doctor.  I called my doctor’s office, and after they finished laughing hysterically, they told me I might get in to see them sometime before the 2016 Summer Olympics in Brazil.

They suggested an urgent care near their office.

I know you think I’m going to tell you a horror story about waiting to see the doctor in urgent care, but the fact of the matter is, beyond hearing the two receptionists talk unceasingly about food, it all went pretty well. I filled out my ten thousand forms (thankfully, it is my left wrist and I’m right-handed), and was called in very quickly to the examination room.

It wasn’t long before a man walked into the room.

“Hello,” he said, as he entered. “I’m Dr. Bob.”

Dr. Bob? Was I on Sesame Street? I can’t have a serious conversation about my medical condition with someone who calls himself Dr. Bob.

Anyway, Dr. Bob looked at my wrist, prodded it a bit so that he could see me wince in pain, and asked me about any accidents I may have had. When I explained that I couldn’t recall any accidents, he said, “Do you think I should I take an X-ray?”

Seriously? He’s asking me? I have degrees in journalism and communications, not orthopedic medicine. I throw up at the sight of throw up. I never got a grade above D+ in any science class I ever took. And he’s asking me if he should do an X-ray.

I think he sensed my annoyance when I said, “Dr. Bob, I don’t know whether or not you should take an X-ray. Do you think you should take an X-ray?”

At the end of the day, we (since now I’m apparently his medical partner) decided against an X-ray at this time. He sent me home with a splint and the suggestion that I make an appointment with a hand specialist for a week from now that I either make or break, depending on whether or not I’m still in pain.

I think Dr. Bob might have earned his medical degree from Dr. Bob’s School of Medicine for Animals and Big People Too.

Good mornin’ America, how are you

Don’t you know me? I’m your native son.

I’m the train they call the City of New Orleans.

I’ll be gone 500 miles when the day is done. – Arlo Guthrie

During our various and sundry travels through Europe, Bill and I have logged a lot of miles on trains. For the most part, train travel in Europe is efficient, relatively inexpensive, ranging from bearable to darnright fun, and handy as can be. Even in Italy — thanks to Mussolini — the trains run on time.

Bill used to take the train from the University of Southern Illinois (go Salukis!) to Chicago, but that was some time ago and he hasn’t traveled by American train since. As for me, until this past Saturday, I never set foot inside an Amtrak train.

This past weekend — to celebrate Bill’s birthday — we rode the California Zephyr from Denver to Glenwood Springs. Mussolini would have been proud. The trains ran on time. Well, mostly. The passenger train system just isn’t what it is in Europe, and probably never will be. But we wouldn’t have had more fun if the Eiffel Tower had been waiting at the end of the line.

The Zephyr goes from Chicago to San Francisco with many stops in between. We took the line between Denver and Glenwood Springs for our very quick trip. We traveled with our friends John and Carol. John is a highly experienced train traveler, having logged lots of miles in the past few years after becoming thoroughly fed up with the complications of air travel. So he was our guide.

It is very quiet. No clickity clack, clickity clack. Apparently those days are gone. But as we made our way to the dining car, I couldn’t help but notice that it was difficult to walk. (The man couldn’t have been nicer about me thumping him in the head with my purse as I nearly fell onto his lap.)

As we took our seats, I pointed out that I had never once seen Hercule Poirot or any other Agatha Christie character being flung around as they walked to the glamorous dining car while solving mysteries on the Orient Express or any other train on which they seemed to always be traveling. John explained to me that European passenger trains have their own rail lines and they are smooth as a baby’s behind while Amtrak shares its comparatively crappy rail lines with the numerous freight trains that rule the American rail roost. Oh, and Hercule Poirot is a fictional character.

By the way, our dining car wasn’t glamorous, but on the plus side, we didn’t have to wear tuxes and evening gowns. And the food was highly acceptable.

Here’s another thing Hercule Poirot never experienced — exposed buttocks. As we entered Glenwood Canyon, John explained that tradition dictates that the folks rafting or fishing the Colorado River moon the passenger trains as they go by. (This would only work in America, of course, because in Europe the passenger trains are so plentiful that there would be danger of getting one’s butt cheeks sunburned.)

Mooning happened — twice, in fact. Once on the way up and once on the way back. Unfortunately, both times it was on the other side of the train from where I was sitting. I saw nary a bare buttock.

What I did see, however, was spectacular scenery from just about the moment we left Denver’s Union Station until we pulled into the station in Glenwood. Autumn colors, wildlife, roaring creeks, and beautiful Colorado mountain wild flowers. And the good news was we all could enjoy the view since someone else was driving the train. (I don’t suppose you call it driving a train, but whatevah.)

Here are a few other things I learned on this trip:

A) When the train is getting ready to leave a station, it blows its horn like this — long, long, short, long. That is Morse code (dash, dash, dot, dash) for “q”, and that means “Here comes the Queen.” A long-time tradition, probably dating back to Queen Victoria.

B) When you pay for a sleeper car (which we splurged on for the trip back), meals are included in the price. With careful planning and a total disregard for whether or not we were actually hungry, we managed to fit two meals into our five-and-a-half hour trip, thereby making the upgrade pay for itself. By the way, the family sleeper provided us privacy and free meals, but we did no actual sleeping. I’m very happy to report this fact.

And C) when the flight attendants on airplanes tell you to put your head between your legs in the event of a crash landing, it’s to save your teeth so your body can be identified.

I can’t make this stuff up.

We had a wonderful weekend, and I’m determined to take a lengthier train trip sometimes soon.

In the meantime, here are some of the sights we saw….

The famous hot springs pool in Glenwood Springs was ablaze with color.

We caught sight of a rainbow during our trip back to Denver.

The majority of my granddaughters are happy to mug for a camera. In particular, my two 6-year-olds, Magnolia and Kaiya, can smile instantly and prettily as soon as they see a camera coming their way.

Four-year-old Mylee, well, not so much. She will pose, but not particularly happily….

….as you will be able to tell from this video….

Have a great weekend.