At one point during Heather and Lauren’s recent stay with us, we had a total of 13 pieces of electronic equipment accessing our wireless network at one time.

That’s right – 13. Four smart phones, five IPADs, two laptop computers, and two Nook tablets/ereaders.

Can you imagine? And the grandkids know how to use every last one of them. And when I say the grandkids, I am including Micah, who turned 2 yesterday.

I’m dead serious. At one point he had in his hot little baby hands one of the smart phones and he was playing music using an app called Spotify. I’m presuming an adult originally connected him to the program (though I’m not convinced that is necessarily true), but once he had access, he knew exactly how to play the music and select a new song. So there he was, his little 2-year-old self, listening to the music coming from the phone in his hand, bopping his head in time to the music. WITH COMPLETE AND PERFECT RHYTHM. (I feel compelled to add that when a hip-hop or rap song would come on, his mom would grab the phone and move it quickly to the next song. Thank goodness. We don’t need those words to be among his first.)

When he would tire of a song, he would go to the next. I’m not making this up.

And Micah isn’t alone in his technological skill. When Jen’s grandson Austin was 2, he was playing with her smart phone. When he returned it to her, she noticed her phone icon was missing from the phone’s desktop. Somewhat panicked that she now had a phone from which she didn’t know how to make telephone calls (because we Baby Boomers need pictures donchaknow), she frantically handed it back to him and explained that she needed her phone icon back. He complied.

I’m asking again, can you imagine?

I, for one, know just enough about my smart phone to be dangerous. But I find the whole social scene around technology to be fascinating.

We were recently at a restaurant at which there were a large number of young adults. In fact, I felt a bit like the chaperone at my senior prom. Anyhoo, as I glanced around, I noticed that at somewhere around three-quarters of the tables, someone was looking at his or her smart phone. I watched one particular table at which a young couple, who I would venture to guess were just dating and not married, sat. The young man spent nearly the entire time looking at his cell phone. He would occasionally say something to the woman, and she would answer, but he didn’t look away from his phone. The thing is, she didn’t seem to be a bit distraught about this phenomenon. It’s the new reality, I guess.

I try not to judge. I used to get annoyed when I would take my grandkids to the park and look around to see nearly all the adults accompanying children looking at their smart phones instead of interacting with their children. But I don’t know their stories. My daughter-in-law pointed out to me that perhaps the adults are actually working away from home, and their presence keeps the children out of daycare. Who knows?

It’s all of no matter because smart technology is here to stay. And human nature is human nature. We now have instant access to information. I am as addicted to Wikipedia as the next guy. My IPAD is the first thing I grab in the morning. From it, I read the paper, I check on the activities of my kids via Facebook, and I post my blog. Yesterday evening I sent a text to someone who didn’t respond immediately and I was frustrated. Bill laughed at my impatience.

“This is what it’s come to,” he laughed. “We expect immediate access to absolutely everything and everyone.”

So true.

Nana’s Notes: You know by now that many of my blog post titles come from songs. Today’s title comes from a really sad song sung by the Carter Family. You can’t get any sadder than a lot of the old hillbilly music. That was looooooong before technology.

It doesn’t happen nearly often enough, but when it does, it sure makes me smile.

Last night, the whole family — 20 in all — gathered at Dave’s and Jll’s house one more time before Heather and Lauren and Joseph and Micah leave to head back home to Vermont this afternoon.

We used the occasion to celebrate Micah’s second birthday, which is actually tomorrow.Everyone also had the chance to meet 3-month-old Cole for the first time.

The kids played on the zipline in the backyard, they dressed up in a variety of clothing, and at one point we even watched the performance of a play, written and directed by Adelaide of course.

My heart was so happy. Here are some of the memories.

Have a great weekend.

Micah gets help opening his gifts. Lots of help.

Cole’s getting sleepy in the arms of his Aunt Heather.

Micah is LOVING having happy birthday sung to him!

Micah is pretty sure that he doesn’t want his mama holding another baby.

Guest Post by Rebecca Borman, following a recent visit to Santa Fe, New Mexico

I recently realized that, as much as I enjoy the beauty of the southwest, I haven’t seen all that much of it. Determined to start seeing some of my surroundings, I decided to spend a few nights in Santa Fe on my way home from a recent trip to Denver. It just seemed silly to keep zooming past it on my way to and from Colorado.

Knowing that my time was limited, I chose to stay in the central area of the city, at the Inn on the Alameda. The hotel is lovely, more like a series of small inns. My building had a total of eight rooms on two floors. I had a balcony surrounded by trees, making it seem like I was far away from humanity. And yet, I could hear the tolling of the church bells at St. Francis marking the quarter hours. It was a haven.

Santa Fe is known for its chilies, so I was anxious to try out that cuisine. The very efficient concierge made a dinner reservation for me at The Shed. It’s as casual as it sounds. It was lively, and everyone seemed to be having a great time. Perhaps because of the margaritas? I asked the server to suggest a margarita (there were about 20 on the menu). He said the most popular is the “silver coin” margarita, so that’s what I had. I’m no connoisseur, but that was one good adult beverage!

Over chips and spicy salsa, I debated whether red chilies or green. Again the server was helpful…why not order the pollo adobo, which is chicken marinated in red chilies and smothered in green. The meal was delicious. Just spicy enough to require plenty of sips of margarita!

My limited time required an efficient schedule. The three places I wanted to visit were the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum and two churches, San Miguel Mission and the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi.

The Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, though small, contained many of her works, some on loan from collectors. O’Keeffe is known for her regional “sense of space,” especially regarding the New Mexico landscapes, and she aimed to reduce her subjects to their “essential forms.” Those descriptions helped me appreciate her work. I really enjoyed the museum.

San Miguel was a pretty but simple mission church. St. Francis, however, was more impressive, with several altars and large and peaceful grounds. The bells can be heard throughout the central part of town, lending a sense of serenity to the bustling area. And, all right, their gift shop is amazing. I found a hand-carved statue representing hospitality that I had to have. It sits on my kitchen counter, reminding me of my trip.

For lunch, I enjoyed a grilled cheese and green chili sandwich at a café along what is known as Canyon Road. It’s only a few blocks long, but it’s the unchallenged center of galleries in Santa Fe.

I’m always delighted when people are so enthusiastic about their chosen field of work that they just can’t stop talking about it. I found several such individuals in Santa Fe, one of whom was Robert, at the Robert Nichols Gallery. He introduced me to the work of two artists, Diego Romero and Alan E. Lasiloo. Both are artists in pottery, and their work is stunning. Robert pointed out that Lasiloo’s pots have wonderful texture, and encouraged me to touch them (unlike in other galleries where “Do Not Touch” signs were on every shelf). Robert also showed me how artist Diego Romero has fun with his work. He uses an ancient style of art to tell contemporary stories. My favorite features the Trickster (coyote) tampering with the engine of one of the ubiquitous New Mexico pick-up trucks. If you like this kind of art, check out the gallery’s web page.

The sky was darkening and my feet were tired, so it was time for a change of pace. One of my goals in Santa Fe was to find and bring back some of those famous roasted green chilies. To that end, and on the advice from someone at the hotel, I made my way to the Big Lots parking lot. As promised, a young man, his wife, and their little boy (maybe 4 years old) were roasting and selling chilies. “How much do you want?” I was asked. A quarter of a bushel was their smallest amount, and about all I was willing to transport home in my car. “Medium or hot? “ I gave that some thought. “How hot is hot?” She said pretty hot, but with lots of flavor. Why buy NM chilies if you’re not going to get hot ones? So the man and the little boy, wearing gigantic protective gloves, plunked a basket of chilies into the roaster and roasted them before my eyes. That’s fresh! A quick trip into Big Lots, and I had a brand new cooler in which to carry them home. I would have a little bit of New Mexico to take home with me.

That night, I had dinner at a much fancier restaurant, Joseph’s Culinary Pub. My appetizer was a ceviche, with halibut, sea bass, and red and green jalapeno peppers. Yummy. I chose duck for my entrée, and it was amazing. It was a meal to remember.

My final take on Santa Fe? I loved it! Even with only a little over a day, I felt that I had gotten a good feel for the city. If I go back, I’ll probably stay at the Inn again, because of its beauty and location. But, I also noticed lots of pay parking areas, so if I decide to stay somewhere closer to the highway, I can easily find a parking spot for the day.

It’s a city worth visiting, my friends!

‘Twas 2 weeks yet to Labor Day

But all through the store

Fall items were on sale

They are needed no more.

For in the eyes of Hobby Lobby

Christmas is near

No matter the hot weather

Santa’s coming, I fear.

In search of autumn colors,

I entered with hope

To find only Santa,

I don’t think I can cope.

          (With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

It seems I do this every year about this time. I feel as though I’m ahead of the decorating game. I enter Hobby Lobby sometime mid-August to look for some fall decorations for a wreath or perhaps some orange flowers to put in the vase in my Volkswagen Bug in honor of the upcoming season. Fall, that is.

I am greeted before even entering the store with a display – a veritable forest, in fact – of artificial Christmas trees of all shapes, sizes, colors and price ranges.

Whaaaaaat? I look quickly at my phone to confirm that the date is mid-August. Perhaps I am involved in some sort of time travel, just as Claire Randall in the Outlander books (of which I’m the only remaining person who hasn’t read a single one!) But no, I look outside and see people are wearing shorts and flip-flops. The temperature hovers around 90. The grandkids have gone swimming. Not a snowflake in sight.

I tentatively enter the store to see…..

And…….

And…..

It’s true. Hobby Lobby is knee-deep in Christmas decorations. The remaining autumn finery – a few scroungy orange daisies and a sad-looking scarecrow or two – are on sale at 40 to 60 percent off. Despite the fact that it is only mid-August, apparently Christmas is near.

I remember when people complained that Christmas paraphernalia began appearing just after Halloween. That is a full two-and-a-half months from now. Most of our kids aren’t even back in school! I would be overjoyed if they waited until Halloween.

Perhaps I’m just crabby because by now I have Facebook friends who are talking about all of the Christmas shopping they’ve already done. Maybe it’s just that thinking about Christmas makes me think about snow and that makes me eminently cranky. I just need to get through my summer and fall birthdays before I can begin thinking about Christmas shopping. Please God!

I must admit, though, that this display made me think about A Charlie Brown Christmas, and Lucy’s idea of the perfect Christmas tree. A Charlie Brown Christmas is one of the best things about Christmas….

Better go pull out my Christmas gift bags. Happy Hanukkah!

Have you started your Christmas shopping?

This past Thursday, my delightful Dagny Tess turned 8. Though she is the third of four kids, Dagny makes sure she doesn’t get lost in the shuffle.

I think I can, I think I can.

Despite her tiny size, she displays a determination that is hard to miss. She likes bugs, she climbs like a spider monkey, she’s always without shoes, and she lights up a room with her grin. She is, not surprisingly, the only one of our grandchildren who has fallen from our tree house (without serious injury I’m happy to report). Recently, when everyone else was screaming and hiding under tables in fear of a bat that had gotten in through a window, Dagny was eagerly chasing it. That she would be wanting to study it comes as no surprise to anyone. That’s curious Dagny.

Though most 8-year-olds cringe at the sight of an insect, Dagny firmly declares that she WILL be an entomologist when she grows up. I’m quite sure most 8-year-olds don’t know what an entomologist is. Let’s just say that whatever she ends up doing with her life, as my sister Jen always says, Dagny won’t be working in an office.

Shortly after the photo was taken, Dagny did, indeed, eat the bug she is holding.

I’m glad Dagny is a part of my life.

Have a great weekend.

Sorry about the terrible socks, Son.

Tomorrow my son Court turns 34. Say it ain’t so.

Life with Court was funny from the get-go. Back in the 80s, you didn’t find out 15 seconds after intercourse whether or not you were with child. You actually had to give the doctor a urine sample. It took several days for the sample to be analyzed . Court’s dad had to work the day I went back to find out the results. It was good news! I was pregnant.

I was hugely excited as I drove down Colorado Boulevard in rush hour traffic, hurrying home to tell his dad. The car in front of me stopped suddenly, and I braked, managing to avoid rear-ending the car. The driver behind me wasn’t so lucky. She hit the back of my car. I leaped out of the car, and she got out of her car, undoubtedly expecting me to say, “I can’t believe you hit my car!” She was surprised when, instead, I said, “Guess what? I’m pregnant!” I was so excited I just had to say those words out loud to someone. I even hugged her – this total stranger who was the first one to hear my good news.

Gratified to NOT hear me go on to say that I was certain my unborn baby’s health was in danger because of the accident, she tentatively hugged me back. The good news is I did not go on to name her Court’s godmother. In fact, I didn’t even get her license plate number. My car was undamaged, as was I. But she certainly had a story to tell when she got home that night.

I remember everything about the day he was born. My due date was August 7, and like the dutiful and reliable girl that I am, I went into labor on that very day. My first twinges came as I rode the bus to work that morning. Unlike the labor you see on television where the mother goes from performing brain surgery to immediate level 10 labor pains within seconds, I experienced unremarkable contractions all morning, and went to my previously-scheduled doctor’s appointment that afternoon.

Yep, the doctor assured me. You are in labor. Your baby will come tonight. (You will note readers below the age of 40, we also did not know the gender of the baby in those days. Whaaaaaaaat? How did you plan your nursery?)

My labor was fairly bearable. Labor is labor. It ain’t swell but it generally doesn’t kill you, at least in the 20^th century in a hospital. The final pushing stage was extremely difficult, however. I was certain it was because Court’s dad and I had missed the particular Lamaze lesson dealing with the last stage of labor because of a conflict. (And no, it wasn’t to visit our divorce lawyer. That came four years later Smartypantses.) It was unpleasant enough that I received flowers later that day from Court’s dad with a card that said, “I will never do that to you again.” I am dead serious. You can’t make this stuff up.

The doctor handed Court to me and as his father and as I gazed at Court, I tried to see a connection between him and us. Despite having spent nine months inside of me, he felt a bit like a stranger. And then suddenly I saw that his mouth looked exactly like his dad’s. Voila! The boy was ours.

For 18 years (and then some), he and I shared our life together. Each

summer we did three things: went to a drive-in movie, played miniature golf, and took some sort of vacation. We spent time with our family – he grew to know his aunts and uncles and cousins and Nana and Poppo, just as I had known and loved my own. He was shy with girls, and confided his “crushes” to me. (Until high school when those confidences came to a screeching halt. Thank God.) He patiently put up with

Seriously, couldn’t someone have given me a heads-up on the bad hair style?

my choices for his clothes (OP surfer shorts and dorky shoes from Target) until such time as he was old enough to make his own choices (dorky baggy pants and overpriced Air Jordans).

I stuck with him as he rapped. I watched him drive away in my car the first time, just hours after getting his license. I picked him at midnight the night his car broke down by old Mile High Stadium.

Court and I were, and are, buddies. Together we picked out the house in which we lived for much of his childhood, we bought our dog Fritz, we took lots of vacations (many with his cousin BJ), we spent time with my family, and we got each other out of a variety of predicaments. We were (and are) always there for each other.

He is now a stepfather of one and a father of three. I am proud of how seriously he takes his role as husband and parent. He provides for his family and teaches his kids the importance of love, honesty and hard work. At 34, he continues to make me proud of him every single day.

Hope you have a great birthday, Son.

My sister Bec just spent a few weeks with us to get away from the Arizona heat. It’s true that you don’t really know someone until you live with them for a while – at least I’m sure that’s what she would say.

You see, the fact of the matter – and what I don’t think she suspected – is that I’m a slob.

She would never tell me that, but I’m pretty sure she headed straight to her doctor’s office when she got back to Arizona to get a tetanus shot. Just in case. And frankly that was probably a smart move.

I come from a long line of NOT slobs. So, you see, I have no excuse.

My mom kept an immaculately clean house. She washed and changed bed sheets every Wednesday. She did I don’t know how many loads of laundry each week, probably including Dad’s bakery whites. She dusted and mopped her floor weekly. Each night after dinner (with help from the kids), she washed the dishes, wiped down the counters, and swept the floor. This, on top of preparing dinner every night, owning a business that kept her incredibly occupied, and being the mother of four children.

I don’t own a business, we have no kids in the house, and yet I change bed sheets every couple of weeks, I wash my kitchen floor when footprints begin to bother me, I haphazardly wipe down my counter, always leaving streaks in the process. My bathrooms are cleaned just often enough to prevent state authorities from coming in to shut down my house. I do laundry when Bill starts pulling out his travel underwear. Sigh.

But I can cook! Does that count for anything?

I feel compelled to tell you that I am, of course, exaggerating. I tell you this in fear that I will never again have a house guest. It’s true; I really am exaggerating. But not by much.

I loathe housework. I always have. I always will. I can walk past clutter longer than any other human being I know. I have taken to putting things on the steps that need to go upstairs, but I can walk over them for days. There can be something sitting on a counter that only needs to be put into a drawer in the next room, and it will remain there for, oh, I don’t know, three months.

For most of my married life (and therefore, most of my life in this almost-3,000 square foot home – I had a cleaning lady. She did an admirable job, but I used to think she and the helpers she brought along with her must – MUST – have been saying in Spanish, “These people are pigs and should not be allowed to own a home.” Unlike my mother-in-law, I did not clean my house in preparation for the cleaning lady. I just left her check on the table and hid until she was gone.

I stopped having a cleaning lady because I simply cannot justify paying someone to do what I think I should do now that I am retired. That’s, of course, not necessarily true. There would be many very good reasons to pay someone to clean my house, not the least of which is that then my house would actually get cleaned. Still, I can always think of a better way to spend a hundred-some every month than on house cleaning. Expensive bottles of liqueurs for my Barefoot Contessa recipes, for example.

All this is to say that I want to announce to the world, and particularly my sister, that I spent the better part of yesterday morning cleaning my kitchen. I swept, I scrubbed, I buffed, I polished, I disinfected, I tossed away food with stuff growing on it, I wiped down all of my appliances. Whew.

See how shiny? It looks great and it makes me very happy. I informed Bill that we can’t cook or eat or even walk in the kitchen for at least a week. But even as I gaze lovingly at my clean counters, I see the dust settling.

It’s almost not worth it, is it? Sorry Mom.

Yesterday Jen and Bill and I took our stepmother Shirley out for her birthday. We were supposed to go last week when Bec was still here, but the heavy rain prevented us from being able to make it to Loveland. It rained so hard for a few days there that I caught Bill out back getting the supplies together to build the ark. He had the foxes all lined up. We were concerned that there are three, and he’s only supposed to bring two. Perhaps we could leave behind the one who has decided my perennial garden is a great bedroom and has smashed down my flowers.

Anyhoo, we had lunch at Shirley’s favorite place, Panera’s. We each ate a half of a sandwich and either a healthy salad or a nourishing bowl of soup. We were feeling satisfied and proud of ourselves for eating a wonderful light lunch that was good for us. That is, until I looked across the street and saw the Menchies sign. Oh-oh.

Just like in a television drama…..

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER…….

Kaiya and Mylee spent the day with me Saturday. While Kaiya happily watched a Disney movie about fairies, Mylee – who would prefer to watch a movie about monster trucks – said, “Nana, I want to do something fun.”

How about if I read a book to you? Nope.

Want to color a picture for me? Nosireebob.

What if we go outside and dead head my flowers? Not on your life. (It was worth a try.)

“I want to go get frozen yogurt,” she said firmly. Because Mylee says everything with great conviction.

The movie was just getting over and Kaiya was happy to join us, so off we went to their favorite frozen yogurt place (with which I was wholly unfamiliar) – Menchies.

Those two were a sight to behold as they a) used the little tasting cups to sample VERY MANY flavors, and b) piled on the toppings after carefully making their yogurt selection. They were old pros in young bodies.

FAST FORWARD TWENTY-FOUR HOURS

Bill, Jen, Shirley, and I were not nearly as adorable as we too selected our flavors and piled on our toppings. We did, however, enjoy our frozen yogurt immensely.

But it got us talking about desserts in general. In particular, our childhood experiences with desserts.

Bill’s mother provided dessert for her family EVERY SINGLE DAY OF THE WEEK.  Generally homemade. How could I possibly wonder how Bill got such a sweet tooth?

Conversely, my mother almost never offered us dessert after dinner. She might make an angel food cake from a box for our birthdays. If we were very lucky and the moon and Venus were aligned in the seventh house, she might make us a banana cream pie.

But there is one dessert she offered once in a while that remains in my memory. Canned date nut roll. She would open the can on both ends, push out the roll, slice it in six pieces, and serve it with homemade whipped cream. It was delicious.

Canned Date Nut Roll, circa 1960.

I have looked for cans of date nut roll at numerous grocery stores to no avail. I have checked online, and can only find canned date nut bread made by the Vermont Country Store for a mere $17.00. Are you kidding me? Still, now that I’m thinking about it again, I may get desperate enough.

I could bake date nut bread, but the only recipe I have been able to find is from the Barefoot Contessa and contains about 187 ingredients – one of which is Cointreau, an orange-flavored liqueur, because she is incapable of offering a recipe for a dessert that doesn’t include an expensive liqueur. I’m not opposed to liqueur, mind you, but I have 10 or 15 bottles of stuff with names I can’t pronounce that have one tablespoon out of them that I’ve used in a Barefoot Contessa recipe.

And somehow I just don’t think it will be the same. Maybe that canned date nut roll was just so good because we really didn’t get dessert very often and it was such a treat. And maybe I loved it because the circles were so perfectly round.

Still, I bet date nut bread would travel well, and Bill will begin working on that ark very soon…..

I had a lot to smile about last week during my trip to Nebraska. However, my sister and I came across this sign in a suburb of Omaha that literally made us turn around and go back so we could take a picture.

We would call this a traffic circle in Colorado. But then, thanks to our marijuana laws, our traffic is much calmer.

Have a good weekend.