Paul Newman---RIP

Paul Newman died. Gulp. But he was 83, so it isn't a tragedy. I feel badly for his wife Joann Woodward; they were married for 50 years. That's just the first thing about him I admired: staying married (and apparently happily) for all that time to the same woman. It is a rare thing among famous Hollywood guys to pull that off.

But there were lots of things about him and his career to admire. I like that he devoted so much time and fortune to good works. He wasn't flashy about it, either. And he was a real human in that he did crazy things like his passion for car racing. Some famous people might have avoided such a risky hobby, but he loved it and so he went out there and did it.

I was junior in high school when Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid came out. In our town, the theater (or showhouse, as it was called) was only open Th Fr Sa. They showed the movie twice, with previews and cartoons in between. Usually, we were late, and so we stayed for the beginning of the second movie to see what we'd missed. But, I could drive in 1969, so my sister and I were on time for the first show. We didn't even budge, and sat all the way through the second show, and on Saturday we came back and watched both of them again. Wow. It was something completely different from what we'd been accustomed to in a Western, and it grabbed me. I went out and bought the album, then the piano music. I've watched the movie a hundred times since, and can quote most of the dialogue. Between the relatively new guy playing Sundance (Robert Redford) and the stunning Mr. Newman, I was in love. It creeped me out when I found out that Newman and MY DAD were only two years apart in age---eeww. My dad...But, it didn't keep me from maintaining the crush.

There were lots of Newman movies that were fantastic, Cool Hand Luke, The Color of Money, The Verdict, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Hud. They are all iconic, and he was terrific in them all. Oh, yeah: The Sting! But when you're 16 and you fall in love...there's something about that big teenage movie crush...sorry to see him go. Glad he was here.

RainMan Life

It's amazing what things can make a lot of difference. Here's a few from work:

• This year's crop of fourth graders has no obvious hoodlums; there are a couple of boys who seem to be raising themselves (and we were cautioned by other adults about that) so they are often ungroomed and have learned to be sneaky and adept at lying; there are a couple of girls who are unduly distracted by the little accessories that nine-year old girls collect. But--no one is super-sexualized, no one has clearly declared their gang affiliation, and no one has [yet] declared in a huff, "I'm not going to be your friend!" crossing our fingers...
• Having only 75 students daily instead of 98 is an amazing relief! I am not completely exhausted at the end of each day.
• Having 75 minutes per period instead of 60 is another bonus. We can get a complete lesson finished and practice time and extra skills work. Plus, those who are really slow to finish can almost always get finished.

Here are a couple of things from the rest of life:

• Oatmeal is a terrific food. I could actually eat it twice a day. Sometimes, I do.
• I hope Jeopardy! never gets canceled--what else would I do with that thirty minutes of my day that would be as satisfying??
• Is there anything better than cantelope? I don't think so. Well, maybe raspberries, that you eat as you pick them off the vine while standing in the patch at your grandma's house.
• Routines are very soothing. It is calming to me to have a place for things; to write each new date on the white board; to put the newspapers in the recycle bin; to put freshly ironed clothes in the closet. I can hardly think of anything more unsettling than to run for office: every day a new city, never knowing where or what you'll eat till someone hands it to you, not sleeping in your own bed---bleh---if for no other reason, I'd never be in politics.
• I love planning what I'm going to wear the next day just before I drop off to sleep. It has become my most effective sleep aid. I go over the possibilities and make the choices of shirt, skirt/pants, shoes, jewelry and then I can drift right off.

And now that I've established myself as seriously OCD, I think I'll go iron some things so that I can safely plan tomorrow's wardrobe, and then I'll eat a portion of cantelope while watching Jeopardy.

Wild Living in Las Vegas

I read in the local paper today an article about bighorn sheep, and it was so intriguing, that I got in the car and drove down there to look for myself. The desert bighorn sheep is Nevada's state mammal, so as a fourth grade teacher, I had a professional responsibility to do this. Sort of...but mostly I can't resist seeing wild animals up close and personal.

They are grazing in a small park, surrounded by many people, kids on the playground, basketball courts. This picture just shows a couple, but there were probably 50 animals in this park. If a person came too near, the sheep just sauntered away. Once a little boy broke away from his mom and ran toward them, and so the sheep jogged a little to the other side, as the mom frantically chased her son and snatched him up. It's astonishing. The neighborhood feels very protective. The sheep headed for the mountainside as the sun went down and, on the street they walk through to reach their trail, I noticed that at least three homes had put out watering troughs in the driveways! One was a big metal tub, one was a little wading pool, and another an actual stock trough from a feedstore. It was endearing.

I've seen wild sheep a few times since moving here. They are always on the canyons walls as you drive down to Hoover Dam, and I've seen them on the pass as you leave the valley to the west, also. They are interesting to see because they are so adept at their adaptations. They graze on a surface that seems devoid of vegetation. They leap and hop around on rock strewn, steep terrain in way that defies gravity.

But, this herd is so attached to the lush playground grass, that I guess they'd think it ridiculous to suggest that perhaps it would be safer up on their craggy heights. And it would be silly, because none of us people who showed up today were going to cause them any stress or harm. No, we just wanted pictures!

Quinoa Vs LDL--The Smackdown

I went to the gym today to walk and afterward I weighed myself. Blah. I've gained back all the weight I lost in the spring when I changed my diet in an effort to lower my cholesterol. Blah. It was a summer of vacations, and traveling and eating, eating, eating--my favorite pastime.

So, I just came home from the market with cantelope, watermelon, pears, apples, Brussels sprouts, spinach, portobello mushrooms, yams, jicama, humus and quinoa. My diet this week will be wholesome. No chili dogs.

This summer I was riding the train back to D.C. from New York when I heard a lady talking in the seat behind mine and she mentioned that she had lowered her cholesterol to 40. Yes, f-o-r-t-y. I knelt on my seat, peered over the top, and begged her pardon for the interruption, but I couldn't help being astounded at her feat. She was much older than me, but she, too, really didn't want to go on meds. So she did it by not eating any animal products for a month. She decided to try it for a just a month. I said that I didn't think I could face life with no bacon ever again, and she laughed and said she didn't say she was a vegetarian, she just was not eating animal products for a little while. So far, it had been quite a few months (I forget the exact amount). She's lost weight and her cholesterol has plummeted.

I don't think I could eat without using milk, however. But, I can cut way back on several things. One of the foods she eats in order to get enough protein is quinoa. It is a grain from the Andes. I've seen it for years in the bulk bins in the markets where they have bulk bins. I only learned how to pronounce it a little while ago. But read about here. It looks easy enough to cook, and if it is anything like short grain brown rice, barley, or oatmeal, I'm going to love it. I love all those other grains.

So, grains and fruit and walking everyday at the gym on the treadmill. It's still rather hot here, and--I've discovered another reason why I'll walk at the gym and not around my neighborhood. When I walk around the neighborhood, I tend to hurt myself because the sidewalks are not even. Every house has a cut out where the driveway is, or tree roots have lifted the sidewalk, so I find myself walking with my head down to watch out for uneven surfaces, or I turn my foot on the bumps. I'm such a spaz...So, I just take the newspaper and read it on the treadmill and then I hardly notice that the 30 minutes have passed.

Well, this is the plan. Only time will tell if I can execute it. I'm just so sick of the big glob of fat around my midsection. I also want to be able to go to my doctor in a couple of months for another blood test and be triumphant that I've knocked the points off the stupid cholesterol test--without the pill. If I can't, then I'll have to take the meds because everything I've read about it tells me I shouldn't mess around--I'll have a stroke. I'd rather have a steamed yam and a nice salad of steamed Brussels sprouts with tomatoes in vinaigrette.

Copy Cat

Here I am, copying a post from a favorite blog. But it's a good one, so here goes:

I am wearing really comfortable clothes, since all day I've been squeezed into a pair of pants that don't fit around my doughy waist anymore. Time to go back to the gym regularly, now that the pool water cooled off.

I am reading three books slowly, periodically. One is a memoir from a soldier in Iraq, one is the John Adams book, and one is a true story written by a enslaved woman who hid in her grandmother's attic for years in her escape attempt from the South.

I am hearing the murmur of the t.v. in the living room, and the swish of cars driving by on the street. When Cool Guy is out of town, I tend to leave the t.v. on for company.

I am learning all the time things I need to review regularly. Here's a great quote I read recently:
"Of the seven deadly sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back--in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you." (Wishful Thinking, 1973, p.2, Harper & Row)

I am thankful that I finished college and that I can be a school teacher. I love working with my students and helping them to do well. It's a very satisfying job.

I am hoping that my attempt to control my stupid cholesterol with dietary changes will be successful. I do not want to start taking a pill. Besides, when you take the pills, the literature tells you that you have to watch your diet, anyway. I need to be consistent with regular exercise, too.

From the kitchen this evening, the only being who has received sustenance is Kitty Cat. She was served her kitty chicken on time. I will have a bowl of granola and call it dinner. Like one of my sisters says, "I've already proved that I can cook." Tomorrow: chili dogs.

Bringing beauty to my home is a lovely fern that is a cutting from the giant, man-eating fern my mother grew in her living room for 50 years. So far, so good--I've kept it alive for two years, and it is flourishing. Regular watering and misting is the secret.

Around the house are the memories of our 34 years of marriage and children: plaster handprints, framed drawings, photos of the kids taken by their talented photog-father, rocks, seashells, the Idaho clock, and books, books, books. Our most valuable treasures proved to be of no interest to thieves.

Outside my window is a magnificent, rocky, desert mountain, soaring over our neighborhood, allowing us city dwellers to always maintain our perspective that we are just tiny creatures on a huge planet. It soothes me to see it everyday.

I am thinking about the upcoming ruckus of when the gameshow airs on t.v. My students will be completely nuts! Periodically someone will come to me in amazement to say they heard a rumor...Yes, it's true. In a month, I'll be a local celebrity, and it's starting to freak me out a little.

One of my favorite things is playing the piano. I love that I can make music. I really miss the music made by our talented children that formerly filled our house. I enjoyed all of it, and it is a keen sorrow of the passing of time, and inevitable independence of adult children: they leave your home and you are left with only memories.

A few plans for the rest of the week...I must devote some time to sorting out the spelling program I want to implement this year. The parents are begging for more homework. I wish I could find some nearby tomatoes to bottle. I've considered driving up to So. Utah. I don't like commercially canned tomatoes nearly as much. I'll also sleep in on Saturday, duh...

We're Talking Dirt Here

I don't know if other ex-farmers have this problem, but wherever I live, I can't help but notice the dirt. You know, soil--planting medium--earth. Dirt was a big part of my life as a child and teenager. I learned to drive by guiding the tractor around in big circles on a plowed field, smoothing out the furrows with the harrow--the step after the disc, right before you use the leveler. All that work before you can plant the seeds. So, anyway, having spent a lot of time driving around and walking around on dirt, I notice it wherever we've moved to lately. I realize that I've already blogged about soil, but it fascinates me. So, here are some more thoughts on dirt.

The second place we lived in Southern California is called the Oxnard plain. It has ten feet of topsoil, I'm sure. No, really, I think I read that somewhere. Apparently it was an alluvial flood plain, and so over the centuries or millennia, lots of soil was washed down here and deposited. As I drove around the area doing my mom errands, I could see them plowing and planting and I was just astounded that anywhere could have such soil in combination with their year-round fabulous weather. Here's a photo:
Those aren't rocks, or even pebbles in the photo, just chunks of dirt. It is soil, through and through--full of nutrients, and deeper than you could ever plant. It would grieve me to see them covering it up and building houses and shopping centers in what was once a strawberry field.

The reason it was so traumatic for me to see them use the ground there for something other than growing plants is that my childhood experience with dirt was so much different, and so difficult. Apparently, the farm my parents moved onto when I was two weeks old, was anciently the pathway of a long-gone glacier. Every spring the snow melted to expose the new generation of smooth rocks were heaved up from beneath the ground by the forces of frost. My dad would plow, and sometimes we'd run a harrow over that acreage, too, making it easier to walk across behind the wagon as we picked up the hundreds and hundreds of rocks. Plowed ground was rough with the deep furrows and was difficult to drive the wagon on, and even more difficult to keep your balance as you trudged along looking for the stupid rocks. But they had to be removed, because you could not possibly use the drill (seed planter) without removing the rocks. It would have broken the discs right off from it. Plus, if the rocks were sitting up on top of the ground, then whatever machine you used to cut the crop would also have been damaged by the rocks. So, every spring--picking rocks.

And it wasn't like you'd eventualy get them thinned out and one year there'd be no more. There was obviously a limitless supply! Once, we used the crowbar to pry up a really big one, and under it was a "nest" of smaller rocks, and my dad (he was a humorist) exclaimed, "Oh, look! We got ourselves a brood sow--this'll cut back on next year's supply." Not really. We'd pile them up along the fence lines, and eventually, he just designated one place in the middle of the farm for the rock pile, and we'd dump them there. I wondered how it would be when centuries later, archeologists would be excavating my parent's farm and come upon this huge pile of rocks and how they'd interpret the significance of it in our culture.

Finally, Daddy planted alfalfa instead of barley in the biggest field we'd picked for years. This didn't make the rocks go away, but at least he didn't have to plow it every spring. Alfalfa is a perennial crop, and just grows back year after year without having to be planted. When the last day of school came, and other kids were off to a swimming party, we'd be off to the field to finish the rocks. I remember going up and picking rock before school one chilly morning. I don't know who milked! Of all the crummy jobs we did on the farm, this ranked right up there in the top five of Crummiest. Here's a picture of me, two weeks before the birth of my first child, on a visit to my parents and helping the rock picking crew. (What WAS I thinking??)

Ultimately, however, my dad was able to market his Best Crop: when the state decided to move the highway, they bought the whole giant pile of rocks from my brother who'd taken over the farm after Daddy's death. They used them to help build the roadbed. I like to think of my dad exulting up there in heaven as all our labor finally paid off. I always think of him whenever I travel past farmland and see the dirt. I hope someday, in the eternities, he'll get to farm on a place like the Oxnard plain: just plow it and plant it---that is farmer heaven.

Time Flies

ACK! It's been nearly a week since I made a post, and the main reason is that my life has once again slipped into a groove. I get up and go to school. I work, work, work, and come home. I cook dinner, watch Jeopardy while we eat it, and then soak in the hot tub and go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But it is a good groove. Of course, sometimes I correct papers, or do laundry, or iron, or read the newspaper in the space between "eat dinner" and "soak in hot tub". And sometimes I go to a meeting, or just lay around watching re-runs I've put on the DVR. But, once I've checked e-mail, I tend to leave the computer behind.

I had a little too much excitement the other night. About 9:30 I opened the door between the kitchen and the garage to take out empty drinking water jugs and pick up filled ones, and a startled teenager stood up from the passenger side of my car, where he had been rifling through my console looking for something to steal. We stared at one another for a millisecond before I shrieked for Cool Guy to come. The punk darted back out of the garage by slithering under the big door that had been left ajar, as usual, to let out the stifling hot afternoon air. He ran away too fast for either of us to get even a glimpse of which direction. I wanted to follow him home and yell at him. Actually, I wish I'd had the presence of mind to realize how he got in, and hit the garage door closer button to trap him inside. Then, I'd have taken the broom to him--whack whack whack--until he begged for the police. But I was too shocked to see him in there to remember that the door was still open a little when it should already have been closed down all the way. He didn't take anything, but a few hours off the life of my startled heart. Believe me--the garage door will never again be left ajar for ventilation. What a jerk.

So, aside from that, really, it's been a routine week in the life of the teacher who has started another school year. My students are reasonably cooperative so far, and time flies when you're busy with children. It's Friday already tomorrow! Whoo-hoo!

Panhead Passion

"Panhead" refers to a style of Harley-Davidson motor that was manufactured between 1948 and 1965. It displaced 74 cubic inches and had hydraulic valve lifters. But the compelling, and unmistakable identifier,was (and is) the beautiful alumium pan-shaped heads on the top of the cylinders. I give you beauty:
This is a bike I saw at the Primer Nationals (the car/bike show) last week in Ventura. I don't know why I'm so drawn to Panheads, but they really cause my head to snap around whenever I see one drive by or see one parked. It isn't all that often that you see them except in a show like the one we attended. More and more, the only Harley you see are the "new" style engine. The frame might be chopped, and the paint job incredible. Or the rider might have had the bike all done up in a total retro look: tourquoise and cream paint, fringed leather saddle bags, old-style seat. But one look at the engine, and I know it's just decor, not The Real Thing.

Probably my love for this motor comes from the bike we drove when were newly-weds. Actually, the very first chopper was a 1938 Knucklehead. It was very stylish---long stretched forks, radical rake, hard-tail suspension with a teardrop gas tank, and a tasteful sissy-bar. It was elegant, but I still don't know how Cool Guy drove that sucker around hilly San Diego. It had a foot clutch and hand shifter, so he needed one foot on the brake, one foot on the clutch, and one foot on the ground at a traffic light...oh wait...YEAH! But, we never crashed. And we looked quite awesome: Through a complicated series of events, we parted with the Knucklehead and ultimately ended up with a 1954 Panhead, that needed work, so Cool Guy rebuilt it and repainted it in our spare bedroom. It must be the smooth shiny pans. I just think that they look the most Harley-like of all the models with which I've become acquainted in the 35 years I've been hanging around the garages where he's worked his mechanical magic.

I started hanging around the garage when I realized that if I didn't go to the garage, I'd be excluded from the main passion of the relationship. I can safely say now that the motorcycle doesn't outrank me any longer, but I don't think that was true for the first few years. I read the shop manuals, learned the names of the tools and assorted engine parts. Eventually I began to assist in small, but important jobs, such as bleeding the brakes, helping to adjust the clutch cables, holding up the bike so the headlights could be adjusted just so. After a number of years, and a number of engine rebuilds, I could almost assemble a V-Twin myself. Almost.

One of my favorite stories is the time that Cool Guy was in Wyoming helping his friend with a Panhead engine, but they needed another cylinder to replace one that couldn't be salvaged. I was in San Diego and would be traveling to join him, so I was instructed to go shopping at a used parts dealer. CG told me what to ask for, what to look for, and how to measure the walls with a micrometer to be sure that it hadn't been machined out of tolerance. I stopped off at the shop, really just a converted garage, after teaching my Primary class one afternoon (on a Wednesday). I was ignored for a minute, then given a distracted greeting. I explained what I was shopping for, and after he returned from the back and placed one on the counter, he slouched onto a chair to see what I'd do next. Well, first I ran my fingers down the inside to feel if it was smooth. Then, I held it up to the window so I could more easily see if there were grooves that someone had tried to buff out. By now, the shop owner was sitting up straight on his chair, looking at me curiously. But when I pulled the micrometer out of my crocheted purse and measured the thickness of the walls, now the guys in the back came through the door to the front to see who this little girl in the dress was, exactly. And they offered to bring me a few more cylinders since that one "might not be the best one they had." I managed to get a really nice one, too, for a good price.

Among the informational reading I did in my motorcycle education course was the infamous Easyriders magazine. It was actually one of the few resources for the homebased chopper builder back then. (The only kind of chopper builder at that time, actually.) It had tech articles with step by step photos, and ads for sources from which to buy specialized parts or tools. It had photos of "old ladies" in varying stages of undress, draped on their guy's choppers. The magazine also featured really lame fiction. After reading a dozen or so magazines from the garage collection, I groaned one day that I could certainly write better than any of these people. So I wrote a short story, passed it around to our biker friends for revision suggestions, and after I fixed it up, I mailed it off to the editors. But I gave birth to our third child the very next day, so I promptly forgot about it. Three months later, they sent me a check and a magazine, with my story featured prominently. I was immediately, and ever after, a mythic figure to all our biker pals. The only downer: my original story featured a Panhead, but they printed it in their special 80th issue, which was a tribute to the 80 cubic inch engine, so they took the liberty of changing my fictional chopper to fit their theme. The gorgeous artwork that accompanied the story also featured---not a Panhead---but an eighty. Bah.

But, I will always love the Panhead engine. It conjures a simpler time of life: dumpy houses, too many pets, very little money, and the worst jobs I've ever had. BUT...we were in Southern California, where every day was a perfect day to get the motor running, get out on the highway, and look for adventure. Or at least get the wind in our hair again. I hope I'm never too old to climb up on my seat behind Cool Guy.

First School Break

The First Day went well, the First Week zoomed past, and here we are at the First Three Day Weekend! What a year! Also it is the First Day Ever for both of our grandchildren who are five years old, so it really is a landmark year.

We celebrated this little break in the routine with a trip to Port Hueneme, our home for six years (1989-1995). There is a bike/car show at the Ventura County fairgrounds and we went there to look around at the groovy vehicles and the gearheads--many geezer gearheads, actually. Hmmm...we fit right in. Although, again I realized how grateful I am that I didn't ever get a tattoo. On a woman of A Certain Age, a tattoo is just not a good look.

We drove down the coast highway, past Mugu Rock, which you'll recognize if you've seen any car commercial on television. We'd planned to do lunch at Neptune's Net, but evidently so did most of the rest of Southern California. We were too hungry to wait, so we cruised back up to Oxnard and had albondigas soup at El Ranchero in downtown. After a nap, we visited some old friends, and tomorrow, back on the motorcycle for more cruising around a favorite old stomping ground.

Once again, note to self: move back to the coast---ocean is good.

First Day...Again

It's the first day of school tomorrow. There have been a lot of first days. As a teacher, this will be my 14th. I can hardly believe it has been so many. I admit that this year, after my first summer off in four years, I'm not quite leaping for joy that the new year has begun. Partly, it is because there is yet another Big New Thing. We've had imposed on us, in the guise of "it was voted on", a new report card that does not use letter grades, but just rates each of the standards assessed as "exceeds" "meets" "below" and "emerging". I think this is good for preschool and kindergarten. Maybe even first or second grade. A narrative assessment of how a student is doing on individual skills. But upper grade students always ask first, "Is this and A or a B?" no matter how many notations or rubrics or narrative assessment comments you put on their work.

So, we'll all be scrambling around trying to figure out how to grade things without using a grade...It's mostly just a resume bullet point for our leader. It is hard to jump into such a big project when you don't have any enthusiasm for it. Ooh, listen to her whine...

Once the students show up, I'm sure I'll feel better. As long as I still enjoy the company of nine year kids, I'll be fine doing this job. I don't know what else I'd do, anyway, since I didn't win the million dollars, after all.

Just Wondering...

How hard is it to attach the milkers to those furry little cat udders?

Should I Do Something?

I have a co-worker, with whom I work rather closely, whose interaction with her own child is very distressing to watch. But, I don't know if I should say anything. Probably not, huh? The child is with her on these work days, because he is in the younger grades, (I'm trying to be vague...) so I witness these interactions. She is very harsh and sharp when she speaks to him.

He's doing regular kid-like things, like trying to climb up in her lap while she was sitting at the computer, but tipped back in her chair, talking to me. She shoved him away, and in a loud, angry voice said his name, "***** GET OFF! I TOLD YOU I'M WORKING! GO AWAY!" ooh. All of it could have been said in a neutral voice, or a kind voice, and it would have had the same effect: tell the child that climbing in mom's lap right now is not desirable.

You know how whiny kids get at the end of the day? And they might even hang on your arm? Of course, he's a regular kid, and he does these things frequently at the end of our school day, when he comes on down to his mom's room to meet up. She is consistently harsh and, frankly, almost as whiny. It's almost the way you'd talk to your younger sibling to get them to knock it off.

It is quite striking to witness on the regular basis that I do. I probably can't do anything to affect it, because I realize that this attitude of negativity is an integral part of her personality. But I wonder, if I did find a way to point out that speaking in a neutral or kindly voice to her little son would be good for both of them, if she'd be able to hear me? Or would I just put myself into a place where I don't belong? Probably, huh?

Thumbs Up

We went to see Man on Wire Saturday night. It's a movie about the fellow who strung a tightrope cable between the World Trade Towers in 1974 and then did a performance way up there. Of course, he sneaked up there, no one gave him permission.

I vaguely remember this happening. It occured in April, about six weeks before my wedding, plus the whole country was completely engrossed in the Watergate scandal. Just four months later, Nixon resigned.

Watching this movie was a delight. One strong impression I had was that this was the definition of obsession. The young man in the film had seen an article about the trade center towers before construction had even begun, and from then on, had this need to walk between them. Another thing that intrigued me was his ability to engage, or almost entrap, others to help him pull off his exploits. He's climbed and walked a number of places where he wasn't invited.

Go see this movie. It's almost a documentary, not quite--some things are reenacted. It's black and white, it has some interviews with people who aren't fluent in English so there are subtitles here and there. Just describing it, it sounds weird. And it is, a little. Oh, and the music is excellent! But, you'll love it! It's not like anything else I've seen. It's very entertaining and odd.

Grocery Store Follies

I went to the market for a couple of things. Using the self serve section, I dropped the watermelon off the quickie check-out shelf and it rolled across the floor. After I successfully got it purchased, in a bag, and out the door, I realized that my keys were buried under my wallet because I hadn't put them in their correct pocket. So, when I arrived at the car, I set down my bags (the fabric kind...cool--every stores sells them now) and fished around in my purse for the dumb keys. I got the door unlocked and picked up the two bags that have flat bottoms and handles, and placed them into the car. But where was the watermelon? I'd put it in a net bag that I've had for 15 years or so, and it doesn't have a flat bottom.

The watermelon had been overcome by gravity and had rolled under my car. I couldn't reach it from either side. And it was 107 degrees, so I couldn't exactly lay down on the parking lot and kick at it or push it with a stick. So, I backed up my car a little diagonally, hoping that it would make the melon more reachable.

Except that the watermelon was now jammed under the oil pan and so was being dragged across the pavement as I attempted to free it from being wedged in. A lady came out to get in her truck next to my car. She laughed in that uncomfortable little way we do when we fear the stranger speaking to us from the car now sitting akimbo in the parking lot with the door open, the motor running, and the sun shade still up in the front window. But she couldn't go anywhere till I could get the watermelon unstuck.

Luckily, a really nice man was talking on a cell phone by his truck, apparently calling for someone to help him with his engine (the hood was up). He came over and offered, in heavily accented English, to help me. He was wearing work clothes (I had on white pants, no less) and was willing to get down on the parking on one knee, reach under my car, and tug at the net bag until the watermelon came free. By now it was quite streaked with grease, so he got it all over his hands. Sorry. But GRACIAS, GRACIAS. Sheesh.

The Memorial Ride

Another activity I participated in while visiting Wyoming was a ride up behind our valley to the site of the avalanche that took the life of three men, including my sister's husband, in January. There were many people on this trek, including two babies. We took ten horses and four 4-wheelers. We trailered the horses to the trail head, then saddled them and rode about two miles uphill to the meadow. It had been a favorite destination for my brother-in-law on many snowmachine and horse trips over the decades he'd lived here.

I've seen pictures of the mountain and the debris, but until I rode up there, I had no idea of the immensity of this avalanche. It is hard to imagine how they found these men at all in the vast area where they had been buried. As my sister showed us around, she pointed out landmarks. "Here was his helmet, over here we found his soda can and a glove. Way over there was his windshield." His machine was fifty yards away from his body.

This was the second avalanche he'd been in. I've a seen a video of the first one. Someone was filming the riders as they went up a hillside and just kept filming as he was swallowed up by the snow, not in a ghoulish way, but because it happened so quickly that the video just kept running as the person's brain hadn't quite registered that it was an avalanche covering up a man. That time his effort to "swim" up out of it worked and as the snow stopped flowing, and settled into the heaviness of cement that it does, his gloved hand shot up to the surface and everyone could dig him out immediately. In January, the rescue squad said they found him with his hands up again, but it was many feet below the surface, and several hours after the event.

It is an inspiring place. I can see why he'd return to this spot, in every season, year after year. My sister said he always insisted that everyone just stop and look around and savor the atmosphere, whether they'd arrived on snow machines or horses. He felt like it was a place that should be treated as reverently as church. It was a spiritual environment to him. It definitely is a sanctuary now, not just for the three bereft families. The search and rescue workers were all close friends of the men who died there, and in addition to the small stone my sister placed there in his honor, the squad is creating a memorial that they are going to install along the trail to honor their companions and brothers.

This is my eighty year old aunt who is aboard a 31 year old horse. I hope I'm this adventurous when I'm 80.


This is one of the babies riding with her grandma. Mom and Dad were at the county fair, competing on their horses in some events. This little cowgirl was six months old on that day. She rode a 4-wheeler up the hill and a horse back down. She's a real Wyoming girl, huh?


This is the path of the avalanche. It broke off the ridge, scooped up all the trees in the "V" area and filled the meadow below and splashed up the opposite side. Ten acres, ten feet deep. There are trees lying in the debris field that are eight feet in diameter that were snapped off like you'd break off a cattail. (Looking east)

For the first time in my life, I saw what was on the other side of the mountains that I've looked at all my life while standing in my mom's yard. Fifty-five years of wondering, fulfilled. When I was quite small, I thought that New York City was there--it was east, after all, and I knew that over the mountains, to the east, was NYC. Hmmm...a little further east however, it turned out. (This is looking west)

This is looking north. You can see why he felt like this was a sacred spot each time he visited. It is serene, awe-inspiring, and completely spectacular. Very few of us can spend our last moment on earth in an spot that soothes our soul and makes us acutely conscious of the reality of a loving God. It just happened too soon for those he left behind.

The County Fair

I went to my hometown fair this year, in Wyoming. On Thursday night it was Demolition Derby. This was a first for me, because this event wasn't held when I was a youngster. It was okay. Two relatives were winners in their divisions, so it was somewhat fun. But, really, I think it would be a lot more fun to be out there crashing the cars, than sitting and watching it.

But then we went to the 4H stock sale on Saturday, and it felt much more like the Fair I had experienced. There were many, many animals being sold at the auction, including the two lambs raised by my neices. It was a classic auction: the crowd had their cards to hold up, the helpers roaming the arena, sharp-eyed, pointing and shouting an affirmation to acknowledge a successful bid. The auctioneer sang out his rhythmic banter. Lots of money spent for a good cause: the 4H kids and their work at raising a quality animal. But, the buyer also got a year's meat from a reliable source.

When attending the stock sale at a county fair in the West, you must dress appropriately. Here are some photos of the correct footwear:

Notice that the pant legs must scrunch down over the heels, and a little mud on the hem is okay.
Next: the jeans. There is a correct cowboy jean, it must be snug fitting, not slouching off your fanny, but up around the natural waistline, and accessorized with the right kind of belt.

Ideally, this belt will be fastened with a big, oval buckle declaring your prowess in a rodeo event.

Finally, the ensemble is completed with the right kind of hat. Because it is summer, this hat is straw. If it was a cold weather event, then a felt hat would be appropriate. The hat is not soiled, nor is the rim twisted up, ala Britney or a dozen other celebs.

This is the proper attire for the stock sale at a county fair in the West. Of course, your shirt will be button-up (or snaps) and it will have a collar, and be tucked into your pants.

Isn't it interesting that no matter where you go, an unspoken dress code is in effect? Despite being dressed as a tourist from Las Vegas, I wasn't shunned by the other attendees, probably because many of them were friends and relatives who were surprised to see me there at all. It's nice to be the person others are happy to see.

Real Life

Well I came back home to the desert, and my bedroom is still here, and still needs a thorough cleaning. I didn't lose any weight and I still need to do my thirty minutes of walking/swimming/something everyday. I had to empty the catbox and sweep up the kitchen. There was a mini-crisis at church and I was suddenly giving the RS lesson with 24 hours notice. Fourth grade is going to start up again in two weeks and I'll be re-inventing my curriculum because I'm going to be teaching writing and Social Studies together. The garden needs to be revamped for the coming cooler weather. No one but me is here to wash the dishes and clean the toilets.

In other words, even though I won a whole bunch of money, and got to be on TV, Real Life is still here, and nothing really changed while I was away, except the condition of some left-overs in the refrigerator---eeewww.

I'll just keep going along like I always have, but I know that in three months, I'll be able to remodel my closet!! Yea!!

P.S. to the Previous Blog

I forgot to add a couple of pieces to the blog from last night about the game show business:

• The check arrives thirty days after the air date of the program in which you appear. They gave me the fake check that Meredith shows on the air in the amount of money I ultimately won. It's cool to look at!!!
• Yes, you have to pay taxes on it. But, it isn't taxed extra because you won it. It is just taxable income. So, a smart person will get the check, bank the money needed for the taxes, and earn interest on it until she needs to hand it over to the Feds. And since she won the money by knowing weird stuff...then she'll do the smart thing, huh? Yes.
• However, you also have to remember that if you won enough it could put you into a new tax bracket, so read up on it!

I find it amusing that, even though I live in Vegas, Baby, I wouldn't dream of playing blackjack, poker or even putting even one quarter in a slot machine. But I love being on gameshows. It's different, isn't it? I mean, at least I get the fun of being on TV; most of the people I see at the casinoes aren't even smiling.

I'm smiling.

I Got Picked Today...

Remember back in June when I went to a try-out for "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" Well, THEY PICKED ME! I got a phone call while traveling to my family reunion informing me that the show was going to have a special Teacher Week, and would I be able to come? I agreed to, and that started a marathon week of e-mailing, Fed-Ex-ing, faxing, calling, and filling out forms. Here are a few important highlights, if you ever decide to try out for the show:

• No, they don't provide your fare to NYC. You pay your own way, and provide your own accommodations. However, NYC is a very cool city and I'd never actually "been" there--just as a stop-over-never-left-the plane, or a quick trip to JFK to see off Foxyj when she left for her mission to Madrid. So, yesterday afternoon I walked in Central Park, took in the smoggy view from the top of the Empire State Building, saw Times Square and rode in a pedi-cab up Broadway! Whoo-hoo! I truly felt like a Smoot girl in the Big City. I was intimidated.
• All the people in the production staff are really, really nice. Meredith Vieira is really, really nice. It takes SO many people to put on this show, I was quite amazed. I've been on game shows before, almost 20 years ago, and I don't remember that many staffers. Or attorneys...ahem.
• There's no appetite suppressor quite as effective as fear and anxiety. They plied us with food and drink as we waited for our turns, but I honestly could hardly eat, I was so nervous. I knew that it was just for fun, I'd spent very little on the trip (because I cashed in frequent flyer miles for the ticket) and usually a person could at least get up to $1000. But, if I'd have eaten more, I'd have just risked barfing all over dear, kind Meredith.
• Make-up: today I had applied to my skin more make-up than I use in an entire month. Seriously. And I got touched up THREE times. I should look fabulous, dahling, on TV.
• For a person who often cannot remember why she walked into a particular room, it was interesting today what arcane pieces of information ARE in my brain and popped right up when I needed them.
• Here's the official script: "I had a terrific time! Tune in and watch the show [third week of October..tentative broadcast date] to find out what happened!"

So, if you get a chance to be on a TV game show, by all means, go for it! If you don't throw up on the host's shoes from nervousness, you'll probably have a really fun time! And....

WATCH THIS SPACE FOR PRECISE SHOW DATES TO BE ANNOUNCED IN OCTOBER WHEN I GET AN E-MAIL FROM THE MILLIONAIRE FOLKS.

Home Ec, circa 1970

Today in my never-ending quest to organize various piles of debris in my spare room, I came across a bundle of papers that I picked up from my mom's house. These were things of mine that were left behind in a desk drawer in my old room. I'm sure I've gone through these things any number of times in the more than three decades since I gave up my residence in that room. My two youngest sisters and a niece have also lived in there, and it is impressive that anything at all remained from my high school years in the Blue Room. I just gathered up a pile last time I visited and today I finally began to sort it.

I found a couple of keepsakes from a conference I attended at BYU while I was still in high school, called "Laurel-Life". I think it was only held a few years, and the year I went was the first. I have very few specific memories, but I recall that it was terrific. Thousands of girls from all over the United States and Canada attended and then we were to go home and organize a similar event for a Saturday, in our home stakes. It was a unique opportunity to learn some really powerful leadership skills. I went between my junior and senior years of high school. My mom was our chaperon.

But, the really impressive find was a collection of Home Ec materials. Wow. Booklets entitled:

• Make It With Wool: Pressing, Blocking, Shaping (American Wool Council)
• Let's Clean House (Procter & Gamble)
• The Fine China and Crystal Story (Lenox, Inc.)
• To the Chairman of the (Ironing) Board (Faultless Starch Company)
• Guide to Complete Upholstery Care (Bissell)
• All About Silver (J.A. Wright & Company-Wright's Silver Cream)
• Crystal Notes, A Planning Book for Students (Fostoria Glass Company)
• How to Choose the Right Thread and...
• A Story of Thread (Coats & Clark's )

The parenthetical information is the company who printed and distributed the booklet for my teacher to give to her classes. Absolutely fascinating booklets. They all assume that the students are female, that we will accumulate a dowry of household paraphernalia, that we will marry and run our own home, that it will include fine dishes for entertaining, and that we will sew and care for our own clothing.

These assumptions were all fairly dead-on for the girls with whom I attended Home Ec in our high school. Well, I'm not sure that all of us anticipated "entertaining", but we would be hosting family meals on special occasions and would likely use our special dishes--as did our mothers.

You could be thinking, "In 1970??" Wasn't that the Times They Are A Changin' Era?? Well, yes, and no. In my hometown, we were always about 10 years behind the rest of the world, culturally. Mostly. Until I was 14, my house could only receive one channel on our television, because the broadcast had to overcome the height of the mountains surrounding our valley. Some households in town were connected to a mountaintop relay device through an early form of cable or something. (I'm just remembering technology I didn't understand at the time...) But farm people still relied on an antenna--ours was strung between four really tall lodge-pole pine trunks set out in a pasture (actually, the logs were lashed atop another really tall one to get the antenna high enough to catch the signal.) People didn't live there to be cutting edge. Actually, I doubt many of the folks there really gave a lot of thought to Cutting Edge. Some in high school did, however, and longed to leave and find the rest of the world.

But, Home Ec was, in fact, a very useful class for me. I did grow up, get married, and run a household for many years before I got a job that had a paycheck. Many of the things in the booklets and the class syllabus were old hat to me: I'd been ironing since I was about eight years old. And I KNEW how to clean house, and I got lots of practice. But I didn't learn machine sewing at all until Home Ec in junior high, and I really appreciate my teachers for that skill. I still don't have a set of "fine" china, or silver, but I've never really missed them. My mom taught us the correct way to set the table--I've never been embarrassed at a formal dinner with all the place settings: I knew what to do with all those utensils.

The one thing I did learn in Home Ec, however, was that there were girls my age, in my little, old-fashioned farmy town, who had not been taught, like me, to cook and clean. I was surprised over and over at who didn't have basic cooking skills when we learned things in class. Not that many of them, but there were a few. I'm glad they got to learn in Home Ec, because, no matter how the Times Change, people need to eat, and making it yourself from ingredients is a satisfying and economical skill to have.