Auntie Blog: For the love of blue goo

Flarp, flubber, slime, goo, gak, or oobleck.  Whatever you call it, it’s fun stuff (if you’re a kid).

Ashlynn spent her Sunday elbow deep in this stuff.
This is supposed to be a butt.  I know, I know.
Like the taste of oobleck? Blech!
Gotta keep her head back or it will run into her mouth.
Good thing her nose is clean!
And now you know why it’s a good thing her nose is clean.
And if you would like to blow blue gak bubbles with your nose, here’s how…

Mix thoroughly
1 1/2 cups very warm water
2 cups Elmer’s glue
food coloring (optional, as could stain clothing and skin)
In a separate bowl, mix thoroughly:

1 1/3 cups very warm water
2 level teaspoons Borax

Mix the contents of the two bowls together kneading until it is fully combined. Discard any remaining liquid.

My Crazy Mom Part I

All my life my mom has warned me of the highly possible chance that I may end up in a mental institution.  A matter of fact, I think she has told me twice this week.  She thinks I’m nuts.   I blow her off.  My mom on the other hand, thinks she’s sane.  I asked her if she realized that when I do end up in a mental institution, they will blame her.  I mean can’t we always blame our moms for screwing us up??  It seems to be catching on in society these days.  This sign is currently taped to my mother’s front door.

I’ve always wondered if crazy people know they’re crazy.   She said come back next week and it will say “Do not disturb, I’m disturbed enough already!”  I guess that answers my question.

Till the cows come home

I don’t think cows are too smart, but what do I know.
I have noticed, however, like any animal, when it comes to eating, they pay attention.    
Cows do recognize the feed wagon.  I can pull through a pasture in my vehicle, which is not the feed wagon, and they casually look up at me, give me the once over, and get back to eating.  When Jason rumbles in there, their ears perk up and they start a’comin.

 Jason is a good cowboy. He makes sure they get fed. He makes sure they’re all accounted for. He checks for runny noses and other ailments.  He has a siren on his truck.  They can hear him if they’re too far away and can’t see him. When they hear the siren sound, they come a’trottin.  Now, if he’s being very impatient, he’ll drop a load or two of cake (that’s cow food for you dudes out there). When they hear the door to the cake feeder slam, they come a’runnin.  Most don’t dawdle when it’s supper time. 
They get there and wait for their groceries. 
Some stare at you.
Feed me now!!
Some beller at you.
MOO!!!
Today he was south of town feeding some steers.  He rumbled through the gate and spotted them.  He blew his siren, they took notice, and came a comin’.  And right there, right in the smack dab middle of the herd,  mingling amongst all the steers, were two goats! 

Goats!! 
Red goats!!! 
Red goats with little nub horns!!!!
They must’ve been cows in their former lives because they got in the cake line and helped themselves.  Most of the bovines ignored them and went about their business eating. But a few calves did not appreciate these welfare cases.  They head butted over cake.  Not sure where these univited guests journeyed from.  I asked Jason to get me a picture if he can.  Until then, here is a very tame cow eating a piece of cake from Jason’s hand.

This is a cake line.  Jason has to drive past, count, and eyeball them before they finish eating and scatter.
Yes, this is where your hamburger comes from.  Enjoy!

Sometimes I just can’t say it right

On my birthday, Jason got me this card.

It was perfect.  

I wrote on the back My favorite card! 2009
It’s a little story of us.

It reminds me of Anacortes, WA. 
It reminds me of a happy life.  One to look back on and have zero regrets.  Remembering good times, and relishing the reward of a well-lived life.

Do you know how much I love pie?  Maybe I love this card because of this blueberry pie line.  What if it had said lemon cake?  Would I still be as fond?  Doubtful.

Maybe I’m drawn to the quintessential picket fence in the picture.  I’ve always wanted a picket fence around my house.  But I’d settle for a split rail fence, whatever.  I even want to hop on the bike with its banana seat and ride down that cobblestone path.
It’s obviously Autumn in this card.  The best season of all.  The trees dress in glorious color. The smell of the ocean drifting on a light wind.
No hurry.  No rush. 
I hate the pace of life.  I know hate is a strong word, but it just sums it up for me.  I run in 5th gear 90% of the time.  I’d prefer second or even third.
Relaxing in the comfort of a lifetime of companionship. 
And I’m sure the couple in the car (without gray hair even though it’s years and years from now) love talking to one another, never fight over the radio, never get lost, or aren’t prone to fits of road rage.  Sure.

This card makes me smile.
Monday was Jason’s birthday.  I stood in the aisle studying the greeting cards.  Which direction should I go this year?
Mushy? 

Funny? 

Sincere? 

Romantic? 

Sexy? 

Then my eye caught the one.  The perfect card.  It tells of my hopes.  And dreams, my desire for a slower pace.  And my love of pie.  Yep, I got him the same card. 
It just says it all for me.

I remember when…..

Today is October 17.  It’s Saturday.  I’ve had my walk, I’ve said my prayers, I’ve started my chores.  I sat at the desk and turned the calendar that belonged to Grannie Silcott for today and found that I had written she died five years ago today. 

And then emotion overcame me. 
This is one of my prized possessions.  A picture of her as a young girl.  One time I lost my temper and threw my checkbook.  I didn’t mean to hit this picture, but I broke the glass, so it has been replaced, but the picture and frame are older than mud, as my niece Hannah might say.
This is written on the back of the picture.  It says “To Angel my precious granddaughter, given this Christmas Dec. 25, 1999.  I was 17, I saved money to buy this dress, which cost 20 dollars, that was a lot of money then.  Now I am 93 my birthday will be May 29, 2000.” 
She was born in 1906, so it would have been 1923 when this picture was taken.  She lived through some tough stuff. 
Wow, that’s about all I can say.
“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.  She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.  She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.  Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her:  Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.  Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.  Give her the reward she has earned, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.”  Proverbs 31:25-31

Believe me when I tell you…..

There’s a few things that I can do fairly well. I can cook a decent steak (except tonight when I burned them), I can get ready in under 30 minutes if the need arises: shower, make-up, hair, the whole kit and caboodle (that’s pretty good for a woman); and I’ve been known to win at thumb wrestling a time or two.  And naturally, there’s a few things I can’t do.  I can’t snow-ski and can live the rest of my life just fine if I never wear a pair of snow skis again, I can’t sing,  yodel, or take a non-blurry picture as my blog can testify,  and  I can’t grow a pumpkin patch.  I just learned about the pumpkin thing yesterday.  It started way back in the spring, maybe even last winter.  I wanted to have pumpkins this fall. I ventured to Wal-mart and bought a couple packets of seeds.  I pulled weeds out of my little patch of a garden.  I plowed with an antique plow, and me and my niece Ashlynn planted pumpkins.  We even tried to build those little hills it talks about on the back of the seed packet.  We planted and we talked about our plans for these pumkins.  Oh, the dreams we had of carving, painting, and cooking pumpkins.  Maybe we’ll sell them out of the back of my Ford Escape and make a couple bucks.  There were certain people who questioned the timing of my sowing.  “Isn’t it too late to plant pumpkins?” they inquired. The packet said they need 92 days or maybe it said they need 102 days.   I was cutting it close I knew, but I had good faith.  A few days passed.  They sprouted.  Yippee!  A few more days, they put on some leaves.  Things were looking hopeful.  No, I didn’t water them.  It’s fall, I figured they didn’t need much water.  Nope, I didn’t weed them.  Still, they perservered.  A few more days and they put on flowers.  The pumpkins were coming next.  I just knew it.  I told my class I had a pumpkin patch.  I’d bring some to my classroom.  We’d do a whole pumpkin unit.  We’d measure the circumfrence, circumfrance, how big around they are, we’d guess the number of seeds inside, we’d carve, we’d paint, we’d roast pumpkin seeds and eat the salted devils.   More days were crossed off the calendar.  Still no pumpkins.  They’ll be here by Christmas, I convinced myself.  Who says I can’t decorate the Christmas table with pumpkins?  A few more days passed, and a cold spell descended on the golden spread.  It drizzled for days.  We brought in the potted plants.   We brought out the heavy coats.  We lit the fireplace. I never thought about the pumpkins.  It’s fall for Pete’s sake.  (Do you ever wonder who Pete is?)  They are pumpkins.  This is their time to shine.  This is October for crying out loud!  I checked on them yesterday.  They are withered, lifeless vines with curled up leaves.  I guess pumpkins like the cold and drizzle about the same as a daffodil would.  I guess pumpkins need water about the same as a lily does.  I guess I’ll have to go to Wal-mart if I want to carve, paint, or measure a pumpkin this year.  On the other hand, I guess I don’t want a pumpkin that badly.
My pumpkin patch when it needed watering.  And some sort of white rot on the leaves.
My pumpkin patch on a good day, maybe.  It doesn’t look terrible here does it?  Just a bit wilted.  Wouldn’t you think I’d at least have one pumpkin to show for all my hard work???
My pumpkin patch when it needed weeding.  I won’t even go in there.  There is a giant hole that some critter made in there.  God only knows!  That’s why I take pictures through the fence.  Hey, yeah that’s my excuse for not watering or weeding.
The hole some critter made that had me and Ashlynn running to the house.  It’s about 2 feet deep. We couldn’t help but envisioning something with huge fangs and sharp claws attacking us as we crouched down to take a better look. 
 
May your life be more fruitful than my pumpkin patch!

 Have a great night!

Aw Shucks!

I didn’t win the book competition. 
Aw shucks, I tell myself. 
I tell myself that today. 
But Saturday, 3 days ago, I was almost prostrate with grief. 
I was never going to write again. 
I was a terrible writer who would never make it. 
I called my family.
It is very hard to admit to people that you failed. 
Disappointments are hard to take.
Disappointing others is harder. 
But I’ve just got to get up, dust myself off, and carry on.
And eat. I keep my head in the trough.
My husband consoled me with flowers.
Aren’t they beautiful?

And pound cake.

My favorite.

He’s simply mahvalous!

hominy, hominy, hominy

Today I took a big step.  I overcame my fear of hominy.  Yep, hominy.  I had a unfortunate experience during my young adult years that involved an open can of hominy, a fork, a filthy house and a hypodermic needle.  I’ll spare the details, but I’ve refused to eat it until tonight.  

Actually I was pleasantly surprised. Jason likes the texture. He’s a texture man when it comes to his food. He likes that mushy middle of a hominy kernel.
I tried out a new recipe for a hominy casserole that I found from thepioneerwoman.com, a site that I check out regularly these days.  I’m envious of this transplanted city girl who gets to stay home, live on a ranch, and homeschool her children.  Uh…I could do without the homeschooling and, well,  the children too. But the staying home and living on a ranch part would suit me just fine. 
 
If you say hominy 3 times fast, you sort of sound like an auctioneer.  Go ahead.  I know you want to.

Woody Guthrie Jam Session

A small crowd gathered inside the old Harris Drugs this past weekend to play a little music in tribute to Woody Guthrie, a folk singer who spent a few years here in our little town and worked at Harris Drug. 
Legend says that it was while working here, he found a guitar in the back room and began writing and playing music. 
About fifteen chairs formed a circle in this old building and musicians ranging in ages from 12 to 72 played music.  Pardon me while I describe the instruments, as I am far from knowledgeable.  Some had guitars, electrical and acoustical, there was a steel guitar type instrument laying over a man’s lap, a mandolin, and a few harmonica players.   A girl had a bag of tricks for percussion including a shaking thing that rattled and a stick that ran up and down a ridged board.  Looked like something off of Hee Haw, an oldy but goody.  Sometimes, she just clapped along with the music, picking up the rhythm and adding her unique clap.  They passed a microphone around to anyone who wanted to say a few words about Woody’s music or sing.  Some were good, and some were….eh, well you know.  Simon Cowell would not have been pleased.  It was a neat experience to watch these musicians who would ask what key or “gear”  to play in and they could all just pick up the songs, even if they’d never heard them before.  They would  watch the lead guy who started the set until they could just find the music and play.  Woody wrote about the dust bowl days with songs like “Dust Bowl Blues”.  Some of his other titles are “Do-Re-Mi”, “Pretty Boy Floyd”, and “This Land is Your Land”.Here’s a picture of our main street circa 1930’s.  A far cry from what it looks like today. 
Times were tough then, and we think we have it bad.  Watch this video and have a listen:
http://www.youtube.com/v/zqiblXFlZuk&hl=en&fs=1&
So long, it’s been good to know you.

Madhatter

Sometimes I imagine.  I imagine what it would be like to have lived during another era. A different time.  I drink my coffee from a china cup and saucer.  I enjoy the nostaligia of it.  Forget Starbucks and fast food.  Slow it down folks.
Which reminds me of hats.  I like hats.  Can you remember when women wore hats?  It hasn’t changed for men.  Men wear ball caps, cowboy hats, bowler hats, stocking hats, any hat they want.  The only women I see wear hats are in church on Easter or ball caps with pony tails pulled through, a real classy look.  I’m on a mission to find a hat with a unique style.  No, I don’t want some frilly bonnet or ginormous sunhat.  But I think I’m fond of berets.  Perhaps the crispness of October beckons berets.  This site has a smorgasbord of hats to  choose from.
Ashlynn, my precocious niece went garage sale-ing this past weekend and returned very proud of this one of a kind find!
She also found some booties.  Forgive my blurry pictures.  I’m sure my camera was on a bad setting and it had nothing at all to do with the photographer.
And so, I begin my hat hunting endeavor.  Maybe I’ll just borrow my niece’s hand knitted hat.  My husband is thrilled!  (not really)