This year has been the year for summer road trips. For me, that’s a good thing. I do enjoy a trip down I-80.

We spent the past week in Chicago visiting Bill’s mom. We never mind the drive because, just like we do when we drive to Phoenix, we do it in two days instead of one. Denver to Council Bluffs, Iowa, and then on to Chicago the next day. By driving, we have access to our car and don’t have to deal with a rental car.

But best of all, we get to enjoy the interesting, and almost always funny, things that happen along the way.

Here is some of what we experienced this past week, both on the road and while in Chicago…..

The first day, we noticed an inordinate number of Corvettes. By time we had reached Kearney, Nebraska, we had probably seen something like 70 or 80 Corvettes. We began speculating as to why we saw so many. Clearly it couldn’t be accidental.

We stopped at a rest stop somewhere near York, Nebraska, and pulled up next to three Corvettes. I couldn’t resist, and asked one of the owners why we were seeing so many Corvettes on I-80.

He and his wife were more than happy to explain.

“We are all driving to Bowling Green, Kentucky, where these cars were manufactured,” they told us. “There will be somewhere around 7,000 Corvettes there this weekend to enjoy the festivities the plant is providing.”

They also told us that many of the drivers were going to stop in Lincoln, Nebraska, to spend the night. This information caused Bill McLain to exit at Lincoln in order to find the hotel at which many, many Corvettes would be parked. Though we gave it the ol’ college try, we were unable to find the hotel.

Still, here is a photo of the three cars at the rest stop….

Our daughter and her family joined us in Chicago, and 5-year-old Joseph and 2-year-old Micah spent quality time with their great grandmother….

One of the things Bill’s 97-year-old mom was eager to do during our visit was show me the new Meijer’s store near her house. Meijer’s is a midwestern grocery chain that offers enormous varieties of almost everything. So, if you’re looking for bacon, instead of four or five brands, you will find 20 or 30….

The Meijer’s store we visited was even larger than the one at which we had shopped previously. I seriously am not sure I’ve ever visited a larger grocery store. I would call it a Super Walmart on steroids.

For example, the Hostess display offered many choices….

As you can imagine, Joseph was delighted with the Lego offerings….

The sheer number of EVERYTHING made me laugh.

On our way back home, we stopped at what is literally the world’s largest truck stop — the Iowa 80 Truck Stop. It is seriously enormous. In addition to many fast food restaurants and an inordinate number of things that truckers simply can’t live without — which apparently includes All Things Chrome — there are at least three semi-trucks located INSIDE THE STORE. Now that’s a big truck stop. We stop almost every time.

This time, Bill pulled a Diet Coke from the refrigerated case, and this is what what he found on the bottle as part of their new advertising campaign….

What are the chances of that?

Next road trip? Phoenix at the end of October.

Everyone has heard some version of the song referred to in the title of this blog post. Literally translated, it means “my sunshine.”

I wanted to sing this song at the top of my lungs the other day as Bill and I wandered through one of the most amazing and fabulous places I have ever visited – Eataly. It felt like my sunshine.

Before I tell you about my amazing day in a place as close to Italy as possible without getting on an airplane and flying for seven or eight hours in a seat that only reclines a tenth of an inch, I have to tell you a bit about my love affair with Lidia Bastianich.

She is known in our family simply as Lidia, similar to Madonna or Cher or Bono. If I mention Lidia, I don’t have to explain who I mean. She has had a variety of cooking shows on PBS for many years, and has about a million cookbooks, all of which I own. I like her obvious love of food and simple cooking and preparing a meal for your family. My ideals about cooking imitate hers.

While she has restaurants around the United States, she lives in New York City and her first restaurants were there. And a couple of years ago, along with another famous chef – Mario Batali – and her son Joe Bastianich, she founded a food market – and I use that term loosely in this case – called Eataly.

Jen and Bec visited New York City’s Eataly recently during their trip, and I was very envious. I looked on line to get a little more information, and was delighted – simply thrilled in fact – to learn that there is an Eataly in downtown Chicago with an even bigger footprint than the one in NYC.

“Please please please?” I begged Bill. “Can we take one day out of our visit to your mom’s to go to Eataly?”

He agreed without a second thought.

I told you yesterday about our fun day in general terms. But we literally spent the entire afternoon in this amazing, well, I don’t even know quite what to call it. It is an Italian food  market, but there are places to eat and an amazing wine store featuring wines from all the regions of Italy.

In fact, one of the most amazing things about this market is that it featured foodstuffs from all over Italy. For example, the olive oils were divided into all of the various Italian regions – Umbia, Tuscany, Sicily, and so forth. There were literally shelves of olive oils…..

The cheese selection nearly took my breath away…

Here is Eataly’s selection of JUST BLEU CHEESES….

Bill and I have been lucky enough in our lives to spend considerable amount of time in Italy, and while I love all things American, I miss a few things that I think are difficult to find in the United States. Or at least in Denver. One of these is a really true espresso macchiato. Most coffee places offer a macchiato that really is nothing more than a latte. An Italian macchiato is simple and divine. Guess what? They offered it at Eataly….

All of the breads are baked in a wood-burning oven….

We wandered around and looked at the selections of produce and cheeses and meats and seafood and canned goods and were swept back to our days in Italy. With such a selection of foods, it took us considerable time to decide what to eat. We elected instead of going to the sit-down café where they bring food to you, we would go to one of the various stations where you could buy meat or cheese or pizza and make your own lunch. So we ordered a selection of salumi e formaggi, which they served on a wooden peel with bread and olive oil. Ah YUM!

Needless to say, it was a day I will never forget.  Thanks Lidia. I will come again as soon as I can, and that’s a fact.

O sole mio!

Warning. Hillbilly alert!

Despite having married a man from Chicago, and despite making numerous trips over the past 22 years to the Windy City to visit this man’s mother, I have only been to downtown Chicago once — on a business trip.

We visited her once again last week, and elected this time to venture into the city. I truly felt like Granny Clampett — from the moment we boarded the train until we set our feet back down in suburban Mokena six hours later.

It’s not like I live in Podunk, North Dakota. I live in a major metropolitan area, after all. Denver might not have two baseball teams, commuter trains, an El, and subways, but we do have Casa Bonita and the Coors Brewery.

Nevertheless, I felt like a hillbilly all the same. I think Bill wanted to walk half a block behind me as I gawked up at the tall buildings and pointed my camera at something about every 10 seconds.

We boarded at the train station nearest his mom’s house, in a southernmost suburban middle- to upper-class community in the morning. As we headed towards the city, we passed through industrial areas, areas with huge houses, and areas that seemed shockingly poor as we neared downtown. We went past Bill’s high school, were very close to the house in which he spent his formative years, sailed past Comiskey Park (now, sadly, called U.S. Cellular Field), and as we neared the city, I spotted Sears Tower (which, again sadly, has the new name of Willis Tower. Hmpfff.) and began to get very excited.

We disembarked the train, and the first thing I noticed was that Bill became a Chicagoan almost immediately. By that I mean he began to walk fast and told me I had to do the same thing.

“You’ll get run down if you don’t,” he maintained. It was rush hour, so he might have been right. I walked fast.

As we walked, he would point out landmarks and buildings in which he had worked. After the first three or four buildings, I asked him, “How many jobs have you had?” Seriously, he pointed out building after building. I had no idea!

The city is remarkable, but one of my favorite things was seeing all of the interesting signage and restaurants we passed. Who knew that the Weber Grill company, which is of course located in Chicago, actually has a restaurant? Apparently all of their food is cooked on Weber grills.

And Harry Carey, of Chicago Cubs fame, has several restaurants in the Chicago area. Their landmark restaurant is downtown with the cutest signage ever….

I found this story of Bill’s to be absolutely amazing. He pointed out this famous restaurant…..

….and told me when he was a lawyer at a big-time downtown law firm, he used to eat lunch at what they called the Men’s Stand-up Grill. Seriously, men only! Can you imagine? And they would literally eat their hamburgers standing up at a table. Serves them right for not allowing women!

Our trip downtown actually had an express purpose, about which I will write tomorrow. Here’s a hint….

Bill and I are visiting his mother in Chicago. The other day we went to Bill’s favorite pizza restaurant (and believe me, there are a lot from which to choose). The young woman who was our server came to take our order.

“A garbage salad,” I said, which is a wonderful, but HUGE salad that is plenty for three or four. “And a large sausage thin-crust pizza.”

I, of course, was ordering for both of us, knowing there would actually be enough to take some home to Bill’s mom.

“Very good,” said our server pleasantly. “And what would you like, Sir?”

If what I ordered is considered a single portion, it’s no wonder I see so many overweight people as I look around!

It was delicious, and plenty for all of us! By the way, you can see how big the pizza is if you look at the wine glass next to it.

Have a great weekend.

This past weekend we celebrated Kaiya’s 6^th birthday with a delightfully fun party at the house of her mom and dad. Kaiya’s Kounty Fair, they dubbed it. There were games and prizes and every kind of fun food you would imagine there would be at a county fair. Lots of work for mom and dad, but a great result.

Every weekend, at least one of my grandkids is going to a birthday party for someone or other. Cousins, school friends, church friends, every age, gender and ethnic background. Lots of birthday parties. Monkey Business, Skate City, Jump Street, Water World, Chuck E. Cheese, multiple other venues.

Somewhere in a photo box far, far away, there is a picture of my sister Jennifer’s first birthday party. The gathering consisted of Bec and me and two neighbor girls who were about our age, and a birthday cake. I recall that the photo shows all of the girls dressed to the nines. I think I remember that photo so well because having a birthday party at all was unusual. Perhaps we all got a party on our first birthday.

I never cease to be amazed at how much time and energy is spent entertaining children on their birthday these days. It’s a wonder the Baby Boomer generation isn’t made up entirely of serial killers as a result of birthday party deprivation. Maybe others were luckier than I, but I simply don’t recall attending a lot of birthday parties as a kid. And I certainly don’t recall my mother and father providing a party every year for my siblings or me.

I’m truly not being critical. The parties are tons of fun for the kids. But it just seems like it’s another example of the planned activities and fun kids experience nowadays as opposed to the more spontaneous activities of Baby Boomers. The lack of spontaneity is no doubt a result of a more dangerous world in which kids can’t just be sent off in the morning to play with their friends all day, coming back home at the dinner bell.

We had dinner the other night with one of my friends who is the mother of 6-year-old twins. As usual, when she was leaving, we vowed to get together more often. We frequently promise to do just that, but don’t get around to it often enough.

“We are just so busy,” she said.

And man, ain’t that the truth. Well, actually there’s no “we” about it. I’m retired. I’m not that busy. But parents of young kids just seem to be running all of the time. And it’s even worse if both parents work outside the home, as is the case with my friend.

I would love to have the point of this blog post be that parents should just slow down (frankly, I would love this blog post to have a point at all!), but I don’t think it’s possible. There are only so many minutes in a day and only so many days in a week, and most parents do the best that they can.

Still, I would love my grandkids to experience a summer day in 1960 just to see what it feels like to be completely free.

On the other hand, perhaps if I had experienced more organized activities, I might have learned to roller skate and swim!

I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always,

As long as I’m living

My baby you’ll be.

Those words are from a children’s book written by Robert Munsch called Love You Forever. The book is actually kind of bizarre, though the sentiment – that parents love their children forever — is sweet. At one point in the book, the mother looks through her grown son’s window, then comes in and takes the adult man into her arms while he continues to sleep in order to recite the above poem to him. Yeah, now that’s just creepy. I promise I won’t ever do this.

I had actually never heard of the book, but my very good friend gave me a copy of the book when my mother died. Creepy or not, the book made me bawl like a baby.

I have said before and I will say again that when Bill and I got married, his kids became mine and mine became his. Nevertheless, Bill and I each have a special feeling and relationship about and with our birth children. We were, after all, with them even before they were born. We helped shape and mold them from the time they could walk and talk. Their first words were Mama and Dada, and that meant us! Having stepchildren is simply a bonus gift from God.

I have lunch with my birth son Court once a week or so, and I look forward to it a great deal. It’s fun to sit and talk about his grown up life. I love hearing about his job, and laugh at his stories about his kids. I’m very happy that he lives close to me and I have the opportunity to see him often.

The thing is, as parents, we never stop loving our children. The relationship between children and parents is one that, if it’s as it should be, provides security in a world that is often crazy. If you can’t trust your mom or your dad, who can you trust?

And when Court calls me and asks to meet me for lunch or a drink after work, or maybe come for dinner, I feel like a teenager who just got asked to the prom by the quarterback. So very pathetic.

But it isn’t just me. Bill is the same way. Last winter when we were in Arizona, Bill’s middle son Dave was able to visit us since he had a work-related meeting in Phoenix. Bill was understandably excited to see him, and eagerly awaited his arrival. He spent the entire day preparing the house. He bought new outdoor plants. He sprayed our grass so that it would be really green. He watched the progress of Dave’s plane on his smart phone like it was carrying Lord Grantham and he was the valet Mr. Bates (Downton Abbey? People. I shouldn’t have to explain this!)

He did the same more recently as we awaited the arrival of Heather and Lauren and the boys. Cleaned, straightened, tracked their flight. And nothing makes him happier than when all three of his kids are at his dinner table.

My guess is, however, that his kids would never suspect that to be the case. He greets them pleasantly, but with no overt enthusiasm. He is a man, after all. Can’t display our feelings….

A recent political television ad told me (and you KNOW you can trust everything those ads say) that one-third of adult children between the ages of 18 and 31 live with their parents. I did my own double check on that fact because it seemed really high to me. What I learned is that the census data from which this number comes includes college students who live away from home during the academic year. Nevertheless, the number is striking.

Court lived with us for a while as he finished college here in Denver. It worked fine, but he was as eager to move out on his own as we were to say goodbye.

Here’s the thing: your kids are always your kids, even when they’re all grown up. You interact differently with them than you did when they were inquisitive 3-year-olds or sassy 12-year-olds. You don’t necessarily sleep with one ear waiting for the telephone to ring like you did when they were 16 and out with your car.

But you worry just the same. You want to make their lives easier if you can. You want to help them make good decisions if you are able to do so without being a buttinsky, though that’s nearly impossible.

And you love them forever.

You just don’t peek in their windows.

If I hadn’t been in the hospital the day she was born – six years ago yesterday – I would swear Kaiya was switched at birth. She was clearly born to be a princess! After all, when she was a mere 1-year-old, she carried a Hello Kitty purse. Her first word was “pink.”

Well that last part’s not true, but the part about the purse is pure fact. I’m not sure what 1-year-olds carry in a purse, but sometimes you just need to accessorize.

She is small as a minute and smart as a whip, and has her Papa Bill and me wrapped around her little finger. When I pick her up from school and watch her face light up when she sees me, it melts my heart.

She turned 6 yesterday, and will celebrate with her friends and family today.

Happy birthday Miss Kaiya. I’m glad you are in my life.

Pretty in pink.

Striking a model’s pose.

Happy with her ice cream cone.

Have a great weekend.

My 11-year-old granddaughter and her 9-year-old brother left yesterday on an airplane to visit their aunt in Bozeman, Montana. All by themselves. Yoiks.

Since they seem to get on each other’s last nerve much of the time, I was having a bit of difficulty picturing them sitting happily next to one another, actually, well, touching. Still, as siblings tend to do,

When no one’s looking Alastair and Addie actually hold hands!

Addie and Alastair stick together when necessary, so I expect they were there for one another

while traveling on the plane. Maybe even had some fun.

Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty we’re free at last.

And I KNOW they’ll have fun at their Aunt Julie’s house. It’s more fun than being at camp because they each get their own bedroom!

Preparing to board. Still smiling.

I don’t know why I was so disconcerted that they flew by themselves. My son Court was much younger than they when he flew unaccompanied the first time. I think he was only 5 or 6. His dad was at a work conference in Tampa Bay, and he flew out at the end of the week so that they could spend the weekend at Disney World. I think it might have been the first time he was ever at Disney World. I would venture to guess, by the way, that Court would say Disney World is his favorite place on earth.

Anyhoo, back in those days anyone could walk all the way to the gate with someone leaving on a plane, and be at the gate when they arrived. I was a nervous wreck because Tampa Bay is far away as you know, and the plane ride was several hours long. I had total confidence that his father would be at the other end as he had promised, but still – very scary.

I remember working very hard (and I think successfully) at acting calm and grown up. As for Court, he was a bit nervous, but not overly so, and I wanted him to stay that way. When it was time to board the plane, he boarded last. The flight attendant came over, took him by the hand, and led him away. I waved goodbye, fake smiling until my cheeks hurt. But just as soon as the doors closed, I sat down on one of the chairs and bawled like a baby.

He made it safe and sound and his father called me just as soon as he had him in his keep.

Court flew as an unaccompanied minor one more time, and randomly, it was again to Tampa Bay. This time I had a work conference, and our plan was the same as the previous plan. Pick him up at the Tampa airport, rent a car, and drive to Orlando for the weekend. Court was maybe 8 by this time. I was less nervous, even though this time he had to change planes.

But when I retrieved him at the airport, he had a very funny story to tell. On the first leg of the flight, he sat next to an elderly woman who spent the entire flight telling him about all of her experiences with aliens. She had, she said, been abducted several times.

Being only 8, he was forced to be polite and listen, but even though a mere youth, he knew the woman was cray-cray, and couldn’t wait for the flight to be over.

But here’s the thing. The woman was so pleased to have a captive audience that she took it upon herself to get her seat changed so as to be next to him for the second leg of the trip. Yes Friends, he had to listen to another hour of alien stories.

So, the point of this mostly pointless rambling story is that even though they might get on each other’s nerves, what you know is often better than what you don’t know. I don’t think either Addie or Alastair has ever been abducted by aliens. As long as they can put up with, well, touching.

I’ve never seen days go by so fast

A little more sand falling through the glass

She was hot as July and sweet as sunshine.

Oh, she could’ve been mine

But we ran out of summertime.

From Out of Summertime by James Timothy Nichols and Jonathan Singleton

I love this song performed by Scotty McCreery on his debut album Clear as Day. While I’m not concerned about a girl who’s “hot as July and sweet as sunshine,” I well understand the feeling of running out of summertime.

My herb pots and columbine in June.

Every year about this time, I begin feeling as though I’m running out of summertime. I know, I know. I have poked fun at my mother who used to get this feeling around the Fourth of July. Still, about this time every year, my tomatoes begin drying up and stop bearing fruit, the petunias start getting leggy, and I fight disinterest in watering the whole kit and caboodle.

The sun is rising sometime around 6:15 or so, which, looking on the bright side, allows me to sleep a bit later. But at the same time, I have to turn on my living room lamp around 8:30 in the evening so that I can see my way upstairs.

Even the foxes are making themselves much more scarce.

Here’s the funny thing, though. Once I get past the end of August, I feel a bit better. I actually like Indian Summer a great deal. I love the fact that the days are warm and the nights are chilly. Our backyard aspen trees start will start changing colors, and the apples and pears will be ready to be picked from our trees and made into delicious pies, cobblers and crisps. I can almost smell the cinnamon. I have a recipe for a pear caramel tart that I’m determined to try this year.

It really is just the latter part of August that makes me somewhat forlorn. I’m sad to see my grandkids go back to school, which – for most of them – will happen August 25. The good news, however, is that they don’t share my sadness at the return of school days. In fact, all of them are excited to get back to their school routine. That makes me happy. I will tell you that there was never a single time in my life when I was happy to go back to school. Didn’t happen. But they are, and that’s good.

Here are a few shots of my flowers early in June…..

Dianthus were in full bloom early this summer.

Snow in the Summer. Lovely, no?

Here is my somewhat sad looking flora today……

Pitiful.

So sad.

Leggy, but still pretty.

The good news though?

Football.