My sister Jen asked me the other day if we are seriously considering selling our Denver home and moving someplace smaller and easier to manage when we get back this spring. We talk about it all the time, especially now that the houses in our Denver neighborhood are selling for ridiculously high prices. It was a fair question, and I didn’t really have an answer.

There’s one thing I know for sure, though. It is seriously time for us to get rid of stuff. I have written about that on several occasions. It’s easier to write about it than to actually pull up our britches and do it. It’s time.

I was reading an article recently about ideas for blog posts. One idea was writing about something that is practically worthless, but means a lot to me. Frankly, I have a basement full of things like that. I’m not talking about the storage room that holds things like punch bowls and picnic setups for sitting on the grass. Let’s face it, I will never serve punch again and if I sat down to have a picnic, I wouldn’t be able to get back up.

I’m talking about things like my father’s clarinet or the flowered bowl that my mother always served her mashed potatoes in on holidays. The clarinet is worthless. When Addie was playing clarinet in the school band, I offered it to her. She took it in to her teacher, who took one look at it and said the amount of repair required would cost more than a new clarinet. The flowered bowl would probably sell for a buck at Goodwill. But it was a wedding present for my mom and dad, and actually has a china stamp on the back.

When Bill’s mother moved from her home in south Chicago to an independent living facility, Bill ended up with his father’s carving set. It is made from the horn of reindeers. I’m not making this up. It is beautiful, and sits in a lovely padded case IN OUR BASEMENT. I recently approached Bill with the notion of giving the carving set to one of his kids, who actually entertain and, well, carve. He quickly and firmly said no. I tried to argue with him, telling him that we have never used it and never will. My arguments were useless because his decision wasn’t based on reality. It was based on sentiment. “Why do you want to keep it when it sits on the shelf?” I asked him. “Because it was my dad’s,” he responded.

And there you have it. Bill’s reindeer horn carving set is my clarinet. And there are many other examples of such items. Bill’s mom gave me many lovely things over the years, things I used but never will again. But I can’t imagine taking them to Goodwill. They meant something to her, and they mean something to me. What about the Hummel figurines that my mother collected and I got some of? I would like to see the look on any of my daughter-in-laws’ faces if they were given a porcelain statue of a boy wearing lederhosen jumping over a fence.

There is no other option than to bite the bullet and pack these things away. I know it. Bill knows it. But do our hearts know it?

The other night, Bill, Jen, and I went to her daughter Maggie’s house for dinner. As usual, we congregated around the big center island and visited while Maggie and Jen cooked. We always seem to congregate in the kitchen, no matter at whose house we are being entertained. I think that’s pretty common. It’s a great chance for laughter and stories and tinking glasses if a toast becomes necessary.

We began talking about music, and for reasons I can’t recall, Bill brought up the Mamas & the Papas. “Oh yeah,” I quickly responded. “I loved their music.” And before you could say 45 rpm, Jen spoke to a nondescript appliance in the corner of the counter and said, “Alexa, play the Mamas & the Papas. Suddenly the air was filled with the sound of…..

Bah-da bah-da-da-da
Bah-da bah-da-da-da
Bah-da bah-da-da-da
Monday, Monday (bah-da bah-da-da-da)

…..(which all of you Baby Boomers are now singing in your head). I was immediately struck by two things. The first, of course, was could you have even begun to imagine back in 1966 (you were probably in your early- to-late teens at that point, depending on your Baby Boomer birth date) that a time would come when you could simply tell a little black cylinder to play a particular song, and that song would be immediately come out of the box? No 45 to stack. No cassette tape to drop. No CD to insert in the slot. Just your voice being the boss of an inhuman object named Alexa.

After having come to grips with that thought, I immediately began singing along with the song. I knew every word, as I do almost every song popularized in the 60s and early 70s. I mostly sang Michelle Phillips’ and Cass Elliots’ parts, because that’s what I had done as the 13-year-old listening to my transister radio in the back yard while I slathered myself with baby oil so as to get a great tan (and unknowingly perhaps give myself skin cancer in 40 years). Suddenly, I was a teenager again. Because that’s what music can do to a person. It can take you back to great — or sometimes not so great — memories. My teens were great years, so my memories were great.

Alexa went on to play song after song by the Mamas & the Papas. Bill and I sang along. We even danced at one point. I’m pretty sure Maggie threw up a little in her mouth at that point. On and on, until finally I thought my head would blow up. After all, how many times can a person listen to Creeque Alley, which of course includes the lyrics ….and no one’s getting fat ‘cept Mama Cass…. without wanting to cry for the poor overweight woman who had to sing those lyrics. Talk about body shaming!

Anyway, I might have to buy one of them newfangled appliances that play music.

And, by the way, all of you Baby Boomers are also recalling that Mama Cass died choking on a ham sandwich. That’s what I thought too. But I looked it up, and that is simply an urban myth. There was, in fact, a half-eaten sandwich in her room, but post-mortem tests indicated her stomach was empty. The rumor, however, will continue to be reported as fact, because the irony was simply too perfect. She died of heart failure, perhaps brought on by body shaming.

Yesterday afternoon, I took a nap. Generally if I lay down in the middle of the day, I might doze for a half hour, or maybe fall asleep for an hour. For some reason, yesterday I took what someone might politely call a power nap. I slept solidly — almost certainly snoring loudly and drooling madly — for nearly two hours.

I woke up in the middle of a dream, and I started laughing. I almost never remember my dreams, but because I woke up from this one, it was crystal clear. In my dream, I was at my foot doctor’s office. My sister Jen was with me. The waiting room was chaos, shoulder-to-shoulder people who were there to see the doctor. As we waited, a terrible storm began outside, with lots of booming thunder and harsh flashes of lightening.

The doctor’s assistant finally came out to take me back to the exam room, where the doctor was going to look at my foot and tell me whether or not I needed to keep wearing the boot I have been wearing for nearly four weeks, after having worn a cast for another four weeks. If not, I could go home in a pair of shoes and on my own two feet. Just as the doctor was about the step into the room, there was huge boom and a big flash of light, and the electricity went out. Not only that, it became quite apparent that this wasn’t any old storm. This was a hurricane. He ran away, telling his assistant to run for cover.

Everyone began running around like crazy people, and it became apparent that I wasn’t going to see the doctor. Without a second thought, I jumped off the exam table and began running around looking for the doctor. I finally found the doc huddled in a room with the other doctors. I yelled at him, “Dr. Hansen, you have to look at my foot.” He told me it wasn’t possible and suggested I take cover.

I was stunned for a moment, and then I made my way through the crowd. Jen had joined me, and I could hear her begging me, “Kris, don’t do it.” Using superhuman strength, I picked up the doctor, grabbing the front of his cheerful red shirt with two hands like I was a defensive tackle.

“You come with me,” I said through gritted teeth. “I am not going to wear this boot home. YOU WILL EXAMINE MY FOOT RIGHT NOW.”

And I don’t know if he did because I woke up at that point.

I have an appointment later today with Dr. Hansen, who I am hoping with all of my heart is going to tell me that I can lose the boot and spend the rest of my recovery watching my swelling go down wearing a bedroom slipper. Woe betide him if he doesn’t. I might actually have superhuman strength.

My sister Bec hosts a Mardi Gras party every year. Last year, however, the party was a no go because of COVID.

One of the traditions around a true blue Mardi Gras party is the King Cake, a coffee cake concoction that includes a tiny plastic baby inside. Tradition says the person who gets the piece of cake containing the baby hosts the next Mardi Gras party. Bec holds true to tradition, and serves a couple of King Cakes at her party, both which contain a baby. At the last party two years ago, my great niece, then 7-year-old Lexie, got the piece containing the baby. Apparently, in her mind, the person who got the baby had to bring the King Cake the next year.

Fast forward to 2022. Bec’s party is this afternoon. Our niece Kacy confided to Bec that Lexie — now 9 – was very nervous because she didn’t have the King Cake she believed she was obligated to bring. Kacy confided Lexie’s concerns to Bec, who assured her that Lexie didn’t need to bring a cake. I’m certain Lexie was very relieved and could go back to worrying about Tic Toc videos….

Have a great weekend.

Pay Up
One of our favorite things to do while in AZ is to have lunch at Guido’s Chicago Meat and Deli, because CHICAGO. To be honest, though the owner is originally from Chicago (he even admitted to knowing the neighborhood on the south side of Chicago in which Bill spent his formative years), it’s the Italian sub sandwich that keeps us coming back. It’s scrumptious, but I’m not going to spend any time talking about it because I have done so in the past. But I have to talk about our experience as we left. When we arrived, we were one of the first tables to be filled. However, it wasn’t long before the place was packed. It isn’t a large place, but every table was filled. The staff seemed completely nonplussed by the crowd, and must have had a good routine in place. When we went up to pay, our server took our little black booklet that held our bill and our credit cards. She ran the credit card and handed it back to us. “Just sign it and put it on top of the pile,” she explained. We looked over to see a large pile of little folders containing signed credit card receipts. We literally tossed our black folder onto the top of the file (seriously, probably 25 or so folders high), and headed out the door. I admired their trust, but Bill (coming from Chicago) was certain that the Mob wouldn’t let anyone get out without paying.

Umbrella Weather
While much of the country is experiencing cold temperatures and piles of snow, here in AZ we are experiencing our own form of Armageddon. The weather forecasters have been telling us about cold temperatures and rain, but we awoke yesterday morning to blue skies, though much chillier temperatures. However, sometime around 10 o’clock, it started to rain. The heavens opened up, and it poured. Because the soil is mostly clay, hard rain can cause terrible flooding. Because of this, nearly every neighborhood has little areas where the ground forms a valley where the water can accumulate. While we had enough rain to turn our valley into a little pond, the rain subsided around 4 in the afternoon. It started up again later in the evening, but it hasn’t thus far amounted to much. In the meantime, our Colorado family is experiencing temps in the single digits.

Neither Rain nor Snow
The rain didn’t deter my sister Bec from driving from Chandler to Mesa to have dinner with us. Jen and I take turns cooking, and last night was my turn. I made pork ribs with saurkraut, one of my favorite Mom dishes. It was every bit as good as Mom’s. And because of the cooler weather, we weren’t even troubled by the fact that the oven was on for nearly two hours as the ribs roasted. I mixed the saurkraut with my mashed potatoes. Yum. I was 7 years old again.

Tick Tock
I’m counting the hours until my next doctor appointment on Monday, at which I fully expect the doc to send my off minus my boot. I’m following his rules to wear it faithfully, but I will admit that I am taking it off every other morning to take a shower. Having gone six weeks with sponge baths makes my shower feel mighty good. I think my family is happy as well.

Ciao.

This past Valentine’s Day, I gave Bill a lovely Hallmark card with a verse that truly said what I would say if I could speak romance. I also bought him a small box of chocolate candies. It probably won’t surprise you to learn that the card cost even more than the box of candy. It was a very nice verse.

For the most part, Bill and I don’t observe what we and many others call “Hallmark Holidays.” You know, the holidays that became popular because Hallmark decided to create some lovely and romantic cards and some stupid overly-desperate man delivered one to his girlfriend. That girlfriend told her friends, and before you could say love is a many-splendored thing, Valentine’s Day cards became a critical part of the Valentine’s Day experience. Right up there with a dozen red roses.

Of course, Hallmark cards aren’t limited to Valentine’s Day. There are birthday cards, graduation cards, anniversary cards, bar or bat mitzvah cards, confirmation cards, and on and on and on. If you can’t think of a holiday, you have the thinking about you cards.

Of course, other companies now make cards, but Hallmark cards are the, well, symbolic hallmark of greeting cards. I was interested to learn about Hallmark’s history, and was surprised to see that it is a privately-owned family business. Though now located in Kansas City, MO, it originated as a post card business in Norfolk, NE, a mere 45 miles north of my hometown of origin, Columbus, NE. Who knew? The founder, a gentlemen named Joyce Hall, had a great idea and its success ballooned until it outgrew its hometown and moved to KC.

Hallmark’s (and other companies’) cards have become somewhat prohibitively expensive. A piece of cardboard with a pretty picture and a clever or sentimental verse costs anywhere from $6 to $12, depending on how much folderol the card includes. Ribbons, tulle, springs, and such all cost more. And they have to pay the poets, don’t they?

When I decide to buy a Hallmark card, I make my decision using a tearing-up assessment. The first card with a verse that brings tears to my eyes is the winner. It’s worth a ten-spot if I get choked up as well.

When buying birthday cards for my grands, I admit that I go to the dollar store and get them two-for-a-dollar. It’s true that as they’ve gotten older, they have begun making an attempt to read the verse. All the while, however, I know they are checking out the amount of the gift card at the same time. I’m pretty sure I could give them a card that says I’m sorry for your loss, and they wouldn’t notice.

The real question, however, is what is the appropriate period of time to save a card, especially a Hallmark card. It’s true that I set every card up on its edge on my desk or counter or mantelpiece for at least a day. But I will admit that I give the card one last look after a day or two, and then toss it in the recycling with the empty yogurt containers. Bill, on the other hand, saves them all. I think he’s got every card any one of his grandkids have given him. It will be part of what they have to clean out of our house when we croak.

You know what? I think that last sentence could somehow be turned into a Hallmark card.

Almost two years ago, Bill and I traveled from Mesa, AZ, to Denver, CO, to spend a few days with our grandkids. Since spending winters in AZ, we have often taken a quick trip in March to assuage my homesickness for our kids and grandkids. It’s true that we were hearing noises about something we then called coronavirus, but we weren’t yet taking it too seriously. It didn’t affect us, after all.

While we were there, things began getting worse. We returned to AZ on March 17, and the very next day, the world closed down. We were all under quarantine. Grocery stores were on high alert. Toilet paper was nowhere to be found. Neither was pasta or Ramen noodles or many other things that we were used to be able to buy without a single thought.

You all remember the next year, when we lived in isolated fear, waiting for a vaccine and for things to get better. It was a situation that we wouldn’t have considered possible even a year earlier. What kept us going was the hope that before long, it would all be over.

And, to a large extent, it was. Slowly but surely, we have gotten our lives back. We are peeking out from beneath our masks, we are gathering to worship and to celebrate and to eat someone else’s cooking. But even after almost a full two years, we are still feeling the effects — or the after effects — of COVID.

For reasons I don’t understand because I am not an economist or a sociologist, COVID led to enormous problems with businesses actually being able to find people to employ. Inflation has ballooned in ways we haven’t seen since a peanut farmer was president. We went from worrying about an invisible virus to a very visible lack of supplies. So our grocery shelves are still empty, but for different (if related) reasons. We can’t afford ground beef or gasoline for our cars.

Speaking personally, Jen and Bill and I have wanted to do some remodeling on our AZ home. Specifically, we want to get new floors. We started thinking about this seriously a couple of years ago, and got bids a year ago. We sat down the other day to revisit this idea, and realized how our different world is impacting our little project. Not only are the costs of supplies and labor increasing enormously, it is likely that due to a lack of labor, we will probably be put on a list and by time we get to the top of said list, Cole will be leaving for college.

I exaggerate, but I have to admit that I didn’t think that a full two years after the coronavirus began, we would still be facing issues directly related to that little son of a bitch bat that started it all!

This blog originally posted February 26, 2020, before we knew what was ahead and our most serious worry was the use of the apostrophe!

I recently read the sad news that the Apostrophe Protection Society has been shut down. It’s founder John Richards — a 96-year-old grammarian from Great Britain — threw in the towel.  He founded the Apostrophe Protection Society in 2001 with its mission being “to preserve the correct use of this currently much-abused punctuation mark.” He dismantled it because he was tired of fighting the Good Fight. See above: 96 years old.

Actually, I had no knowledge of the Apostrophe Protection Society’s existence (did you notice my correct usage of the apostrophe?) because if I had known about it, I would have been a vocal and, if necessary, paying member. Misuse of the apostrophe is one of my pet peeves — right up there with not using a turn signal and paying for shipping.

It comes as no surprise to anyone who is vaguely familiar with the use of the apostrophe that its misuse, or even lack of use, has become oh-too-common, and much of the blame is on our increasingly pervasive need for technology. We all know that apostrophes can’t be used in dot-com names. They are also a no-no in the passwords which now have taken over our lives.

Lands’ End’s web address, for example, is www.landsend.com.  Of course, Lands’ End is notorious for its (did you notice I correctly used the possessive its?) incorrect use of the apostrophe. It should actually be Land’s End, but a typo in the name in the early years when the founders couldn’t afford to correct the mistake resulted in a 57-year misuse of the apostrophe. It probably drove John Richards crazy. I’ll bet he shopped instead at J.C. Penney’s and ate at Popeye’s.

Teachers are apparently becoming increasingly frustrated at their students’ inability to use the apostrophe correctly. (Did you notice I correctly used the placement of apostrophe in the plural students?)They blame it on the fact that the apostrophe actually has two purposes: to replace letters when combining two words (you are becomes you’re, and to signify a possession (child’s play).

I admit that I can’t quite understand the confusion. The first rule is simple. If the noun is plural (e.g. students), the apostrophe goes after the s; if the noun is singular (e.g. student), the apostrophe goes before the s. And if it’s not possessive at all, then don’t include an apostrophe. Grocery produce people: DON’T SELL TOMATO’S, ONION’S, OR PUMPKIN’S.

At the risk of sounding grumpy (and I know you are all thinking I’m already on the grumpiness train), Amazon book reviewers, stop saying things like the writing is so good that your swept back in time. PLEASE CORRECTLY SAY YOU’RE INSTEAD OF YOUR because your grammar is so awful that you’re acting as though you slept through English class.

Mr. Richards, if you are feeling as frustrated as me, please contact me at Nana’s Whimsies, which is nanaswhimsies.com (No apostrophe; I’m part of the problem and not part of the solution.)

I’m nearly always the first one up in the morning. Jen’s dog Winston never fails to hear my bedroom door open and close, no matter how quietly I think I’m doing so. He comes around the corner to our hallway and greets me enthusiastically. It’s not a bad way to wake up every morning.

Because I’m up, I take care of his morning routine. The routine consists of a visit outdoors (with which I accompanying him because it’s still dark outside and we have critters that could carry him away). Then we come inside and I give him his breakfast. He eats it immediately, and then looks at me for his morning chewy bone. He carefully takes the bone back to Jen’s bedroom where he consumes it and likely falls back asleep.

However, the other morning, rather than taking the bone back to the bedroom, for reasons only he understands, he decided to hide it. By this time both Bill and Jen had gotten up, and we observed him trying to figure out a place where it would be safe, at least in his mind. He tried under the pillows, which required him to use his nose to push the pillow over the bone. He apparently decided that wasn’t hidden well enough. He walked around some more, deep in thought. Finally, he jumped back up on the couch, and got onto the top cushion. Before we knew it, he dropped the bone behind the couch.

Friends, his body language was hilarious. You could tell that he was thinking, “Well, that didn’t work out as well as I thought it would.” He jumped off the sofa, and went to both sides to see if he could retrieve his treasure, but it was to no avail.

Bill finally found pity on him, and moved the sofa out from the wall so that Winston could run in and get the bone. We were all laughing so hard by that time that he took the bone back to the bedroom and did who knows what with it.

One of the best things about a dog is that they never fail to make you smile.

Have a great weekend.