Archive for the ‘moving forward’ Category


2020 to me could be easily described with a chart detailing the general state of the union and those living in it.  In January the arrow might been pointing perhaps to the right of center in the NORMAL (we’re never totally normal) section which would be at the far left. As the arrow begins to arc more to the right and things begin to go haywire the arrow moves quickly into UNUSUAL. By March the arrow had moved further right to WEIRD, finally ending up at the extreme right in DOWNRIGHT BIZARRE. In my estimation we have finally gone to as far right as we can without moving off the chart entirely. I’m beginning to think the atmosphere is so strange if an alien spacecraft were to land in Old Town Sacramento and little green men were to deplane right on Front Street someone would hand them a mask and not even give them a second glance.

I remember thinking in 2019 I couldn’t wait for 2020 to show up on the calendar. I had somehow survived my first year without Rick next to me in bed and was beginning to show signs of life again. 2020 looked to me to be fresh and untouched, the perfect blank page on which to start the beginning of a new chapter in my story. I found myself looking forward to it with guarded anticipation. Whoops, my bad.  Had someone said to me last year 2020 would be the year of the COVID-19 pandemic, our country would erupt with civil and racial unrest, police reform would be instituted across the board, and the whipped cream on the sundae would be a highly charged, contentious and divided political climate I might have once again headed towards the closet with my bag of fiery Cheeto’s and a bottle of Gray Goose. Sigh. Being by nature a rather silly being I am struggling to locate my sense of humor of late. It seems to have put up a sign like everything else in world, “CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE”.

Though California is beginning to awaken from it’s sleep with stores pulling up their blinds and beauty parlors turning their signs from CLOSED to OPEN, cases of the virus continue to be on an uphill climb. The world, at least for me, has gotten smaller. I find myself thinking about what I am doing wherever I am rather than just being able to enjoy the activity I am involved in. Masks have become part of my daily routine. Because I am one of only several who can still run a sewing machine in my peer group, I have been busy sewing masks for friends and family. Now along with my keys, my purse, and a bottle of water, one or two masks and a container of hand sanitizer are included in my must haves when leaving the house. Yesterday while in the market a lady smiled at me (she was not wearing a mask). My mask had frogs dancing across the front which I assume was what elicited this reaction. I smiled back but realized she had no idea I was smiling so I said “I am smiling, you just can’t see me.” to which she replied, “Yes, I can. I could see it in your eyes.” Even though she wasn’t wearing a face covering that was nice. People are angry. Let’s face it we here in the United States are not used to inconvenience. It is touted as a free country by its creators and we like to hold them to that promise.

The head of a grief group I am part of said something yesterday that rang true to me. We are being asked to learn a new way of being. Change for humans is never a garment we wear easily. Truly we are creatures of habit comfortable in our way of doing things and resistant to having things turned upside down. Sometimes there isn’t a Plan B. Right now I think we only have Plan A to deal with for at least for the time being. This totally sucks I agree but since we are all in the pot together perhaps it would be prudent to at least attempt to swim in the same direction?

My best friend calls me an idealist. I’m not a fan of labels, but perhaps this one applies. I tend to think the best of people out of the gate. Sometimes I am disappointed but more often than not I am not. I prefer thinking people to be honest, dependable, kind, generous of spirit and loving than to presume they are not. I don’t like the idea of waiting for someone to screw up and then pouncing on them the moment they do.  I believe most of our life we spend our time making mistakes, correcting the error, then heading in the right direction until we mess up again, and repeat. The important thing to my mind is we learn from these course corrections and hopefully adjust our behavior accordingly.

For my peace of mind and to locate a bit of normal in the midst of chaos my friend and I confirmed our reservations for a weekend getaway at the coast for much later in the summer. Three days basking on the beach, enjoying the beautiful California sunshine and doing nothing requiring any heavier thought than lifting a book to eye level and sipping something intoxicating from a straw. OMG. My mind is doing a tap dance just thinking of it. Yes. This I consider a total sanity check and I am already deciding what to pack in my overnight bag.

Keeping myself occupied beyond writing on my beloved blog, I have been working on several projects with my daughter as well as some sewing projects as I mentioned earlier. I also have my work with a non-profit I’ve been associated with over the past six years. I encourage those of you out there interested in doing some volunteering to sign up for whatever opportunities are available in your area. God knows we have some extra time on our hands these days. A lot of the jobs posted I have noticed are those requiring little interaction with others, with many being able to be done at home. There is nothing as soul nurturing as being involved with something altruistic that is not about you but rather benefits someone else. If ever there was a time we needed to nurture our souls I believe right now has a bullseye stamped right on it.

As much as I love to be in the kitchen I am trying not to devote too much of my day to preparing food. The downside to cooking is you are probably going to eat what you’re producing. Seems to me at least this would be the next logical step. Then as your pre-pandemic pant size begins no longer to be your mid-pandemic pant size you are forced to go shopping for new pants which in the present climate isn’t the safest place for you to be. Another downside is that many places won’t allow you to try clothes on as the fitting rooms are off limits. If you do go ahead and buy pants and take them home only to find they don’t fit, the stores won’t take them back because they are not accepting clothing returns. I have one friend who simply ordered a supply of yoga pants on the Internet in various sizes and is riding this out until the gyms open, which they are now trying to do, to exercise the weight back off. Good luck with that. It is usually a whole lot easier to load the pounds on then it is to peel them back off in my experience.

In this strange new “now” I find a lot of interesting things to look at personally. My creative self, often lost in the flurry of activity I always seem to immerse myself in, has risen to the surface. Dusting off my sewing machine was the first sign of this resurrection, quickly followed by my taking out my drawings I haven’t had, or rather made time for, in the last year or two, and a book I’ve had in mind for several years now has a first chapter rather than continuing to be just an idea yet unhatched in my tattered brain. Yay.

A friend of mine called yesterday to tell me mercury is in retrograde. This means, for those of you not in the know (like me – had to look it up) that Mercury is moving in the opposite direction of the Earth. This, if one believes it to be, effects communication, travel and learning. Good news. After I hung up I did some deep breathing exercises and then consumed a half a pint of Chunky Monkey. I tried to convince myself I was doing this as a sacrificial gesture to make room in my crowded freezer for more important items such as meat and frozen foods but even my own mind couldn’t wrap its arms around that pile of horse droppings. Sigh.

An hour of so later the phone rang once again. Looking at the screen lighting up I controlled the urge to run and save myself from whatever the dreaded retrograde was sending my way. In the end my curiosity overrode my survival mechanisms and I pushed the screen to accept and said hello. It was my hairdresser. We had our first appointment since the pandemic several weeks ago when my roots had reached the step just beyond critical and she put me beautifully back into balance. Lovely girl. Aside from being excellent at understanding how to color and cut my hair, she’s a charming lady who I enjoy talking with while my roots are cooking. I have only been with her the year since I moved but during that time we went through the usual hits and misses associated with getting a new hair dresser and had now had reached the happy zone just before the virus arrived. Before Emily there were three other ladies at my previous address and amazingly each one in turn just as I got settled moved out of state. What are the odds? Assuming this call was an appointment change of some sort I asked what was up. Wrong question. Why didn’t I grab the vodka and make a run for it? Hindsight really is 20-20.

Emily, it seems, and her husband and three children have decided to move to Texas and are leaving in two weeks. Really? Is it me? Who was I in my former life Vlad the Impaler? Why can’t Mercury just go in the same direction as Earth? Apologizing for the short notice she assured me her friend in the same salon would have my color specifications in hand for my next appointment and take good care of me. Please. This isn’t my first hair salon break-up. Last time I got a similar assurance and she dyed my hair the color of merlot (I am definitely more chardonnay). Ugh.

So my chin is held high. I am deep breathing like a long-distance runner and trying desperately to keep the faith and allow the happy thoughts to have their way with me. Hope you all are doing the same. Until next time – stay safe.





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The last day of my trip to Manitoba had arrived. Butterflies flitted around in my stomach as I packed my suitcase and got ready to leave for the airport. Bob J. was to drive me. The man never seemed to stop. The day before while sitting next to me on the beach he had disclosed this was the most time off he had taken off since his wife had passed away. In another world, at another time or under different circumstances I believe those piercing blue eyes might have more than intrigued me. However, as I was not moving to Manitoba any time soon and most definitely he was not relocating to Northern California it seemed more prudent to just entertain an occasional bit of wishful thinking and leave it at that. Nonetheless, I found him both most attractive and definitely interesting and I felt sorry to be leaving both him and his lovely family in my rear view mirror.

Taking a last look around what had been my nest for the last nine days I zipped my luggage and took a final walk down the hall into the now familiar kitchen. All hands were on deck that morning including Bob, Sr. who was seated at the table blowing on a cup of coffee. A bag of wild blueberry muffins sat on my place mat with a handwritten note pinned to it from Chris “for my new and dear friend Susie for her trip“. A lump in my throat now joined the butterflies doing a rumba below my belt. The children were all questions as usual. “Susie, why do you have to go? Are you coming back? Can we come to California some time and visit you and go to Disneyland?” I didn’t have the heart to say this was probably goodbye. We took lots of pictures which are stored for me to revisit one of these rainy days when I am sorting through my memories.

Bob J. pulled the truck up outside. Hugs and kisses were spread all around along with the promises people make to keep in touch and see each other again. I remember looking out the back window of the truck as we rattled down the dirt road and seeing them all standing in the yard waving, Chris dabbing at her eyes with her ubiquitous apron.

Bob J. was especially quiet as we drove along even for him. I think there were a lot of unspoken thoughts left hanging between us we both allowed to manage themselves. Going back was to be different than arriving. Coming in they picked me up at the Winnepeg Airport and we drove the three hours to the farm. The plan this time was that I catch a commuter plane to Winnepeg at the local small airport. Once in Winnepeg I would board a commercial flight to Vancouver, and then on to San Francisco. This would eliminate the long drive to Winnepeg and back for Bob J. who needed to turn his attention back to the farm where it was needed.

About a forty-five minute drive from the farm the airport turned out to be small indeed. Other than an assortment of hangers housing the private planes stored at the facility, there was a tower, a large two story structure where passengers and families could wait or grab a bite to eat at the snack bar, and the tarmac itself. Most of the planes visible were smaller prop types, the only exception being the one larger plane with a line of about ten windows which I assumed was to be my ride of the day. In spite of all the traveling I have done over the years this was to be my first and until now my only flight on a commuter jet.

Bob J. and I sat next to one another in the waiting area. I took the opportunity to thank him for allowing me to be part of his and his family’s lives for the past few weeks. In turn he thanked me for coming and giving them an understanding of me and my life in California and the work I had done. At one point he covered my hand with his. I believe for him this was a gesture requiring some forethought and effort. We sat there quietly his hand on mine until my flight was called. Exchanging a warm hug I turned one more time to look at those lovely blue eyes before facing forward and walking across the tarmac towards my plane. Sometimes you look back in your life and wonder “what if”. For me this would be one of those times where I wonder what today would look like had I made different choices back then. However, one cannot spend their life looking in the rear view mirror. As my therapist is wont to say, “that is not the direction you are going”.

Ascending the steps into the plane I was surprised to find it rather small inside. On each side of the plane were rows of seats two to a row. The seat backs were folded forward against the seat cushions themselves. I chose a location about half way back and put the seat back in the upright position. There were six or seven other passengers getting situated with me but no crew in sight at that point. Storing my carry-on bag I sat by the window. Two figures emerged from the building I had just exited. Both were young, very young, and both wore uniforms, one with epaulets on one shoulder. Oh-oh. They looked more like they’d be piloting a Tonka toy then a commercial airplane. Momma. Obviously coming in the direction of our plane as it was the only one on the runway my butterflies began to actually fight with one another as the pair came up the steps and entered the doorway. Sigh. Not only was I going up in a small plane but I was going up with Jack and Jill at the controls. The pair introduced themselves as yes, the pilot and co-pilot, the young lady occupying the second seat. It would not have surprised me if someone said they were still in high school. The co-pilot also doubled as the crew. Before taking off she hunched down on one knee and ran over the safety features of the plane including where the restrooms and exits were and the procedure should we experience a drop in oxygen. Mine was already dropping. Before liftoff we were offered bottled water or a soda and a bag of nuts or chips. All the amenities. Check and check. For those of you old enough to remember when flying used to be a luxurious experience, I for one have to say I miss those days. Hot meals, excellent snacks, free drinks, magazines, head phones and complimentary blankets and pillows. The good old days. Now if you are handed a small packet of pretzels (usually about 7 to a pack) you consider yourself fortunate. Everything has a price tag attached to it during your flight and foot and elbow room has been reduced to such an extent by the time you land you are picking out china patterns with the person in the adjacent seat. These days I view air travel as similar to riding on a bus with wings.

After securing our seatbelts we taxied effortlessly down the runway and were airborne. Before the engines surged us forward I took one last look out my window to see Bob J. still visible standing inside the window of the building where we had waited.  A moment of regret hung over me before I pulled my book out of my backpack and settled in the the ride. I remember thinking that was one of the smoothest and pleasurable flights I had ever been on. The pilots did an excellent job both going up and coming down and in between we soared without incident like an eagle gracefully among the glorious clouds.

In Winnepeg the attendant at the gate for my flight to Vancouver came on the PA to announce my flight was overbooked. The airline was offering a free round trip value $300 to any travelers willing to wait for the next flight on the board. Hmmmmm. I went up to the desk and asked if I could still make my connecting flight to SFO in Vancouver if I accepted their offer. The answer I was given was was yes. Okie. Cooling my heels in the airport for the next three hours I found every position known to exist to achieve comfort on the seats in the waiting area. In between I grabbed a quick lunch and ordered a sandwich to stick in my back pack to eat later on the plane. Naturally my Vancouver flight was delayed. My luck just seems to run in that direction. Darn. Finally getting on board in Winnepeg the flight attendant said I would be really pushing it on the other end to connect with my next flight. Getting to my gate for the connecting flight apparently would require traversing a long expanse of airport in Vancouver to get to my next plane. Goody. Also, customs had to be dealt with. Sigh.

Arriving in Vancouver it was as promised. Customs lines were backed up as usual and by the time I got up to the agent I was really pushing the envelope if I was to make the next flight. After going through my luggage thoroughly (I must have a criminal face) the agent confiscated my bottle of water and my hair spray. The hair spray perplexed me so I asked why. It seems people can actually store a bomb inside. “Okay, you’re on to me. Take my Aqua Net but pleeeeease let me go or I’m going to miss my plane.” Finally I was freed. I sprinted down the aisles of the airport like a horse released from the gate at Daytona luggage flying behind me. Just as the gate agent was closing up shop for my departing flight I rounded the corner. Thankfully she let me board. The plane was totally packed and my seat was towards the back, the middle seat of three across. Stowing my gear in the overhead bin I squeezed by the portly gentlemen taking up the aisle seat and sat down in between two male passengers. Made it. Whew.

During the flight home I reflected on the week behind me. It brought to mind people who are brought into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. The season people come into your life for you to share, grow or learn. They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never learned. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy, but only for a season.  My farm family, I believe, were season people. We kept in touch, but as life does it insinuates itself into your plans and moves you in different directions than originally planned. Last I heard the girls were in high school and Bob, Sr. had retired due to health issues. Bob J. had remarried and we had all moved on. Think of them often and my time in Manitoba. Seems like it was only yesterday I was sitting in that warm and friendly kitchen. Take time to have adventures in your life, it passes so quickly and then the chance to grab the ring is gone.

Have a great day, stay safe, test the water.

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Waking up in spare bedroom on the farm in Manitoba on the morning of my ninth day there, I realized I had just one more night before my trip came to a close. Looking around the cozy room my mind captured a mental picture to place in my memory book. I would remember the cheerful curtains decorated with cherries, the antique rocking chair in the corner with the colorful afghan Chris had given me as a welcome gift tossed over one arm, the photo gallery of family pictures lining one wall, and the birds singing happily in the boughs of the huge oak tree just beyond the window.

Dressing in capris and a tee instead of my usual work attire, I headed towards the kitchen. As usual the family was gathered there. Eva and Dawn were talking excitedly about our road trip. Bob J. was answering their barrage of questions about where we were going and what we were going to do while I loaded another unbelievable Chris breakfast onto my plate. Lake Winnepeg was to be our destination he was telling the girls. Sounded wonderful. For me any place with a body of water was probably a good place to be.

The girls were excused from the table to go with their mom to get dressed for the day. Bob J. filled in the details on our Lake Winnepeg destination. Specifically we were going to Grand Beach Park. Lake Winnepeg, he went on to say, was one of the largest fresh water lakes in the world. Grand Beach Park, though a bit touristy for his tastes, offered everything to do outdoors from swimming, boating, fishing, hiking to an amusement park. The latter he told me was what had the girls all a twitter when I’d arrived on the scene. Let me insert here when I was a kid I loved amusement parks. No matter how high the roller coaster, how stomach turning the ride, I would be first in line to hop on board. As I crested and rolled over forty this became less of a draw for me. In particular I am not fond of rides that jerk you about like a writhing hose on full water power or flip you upside down like a pancake on a grill. Nope, not for me.

Chris, characteristically, had packed us a huge wicker basket filled with sandwiches, snacks, icy cold bottles of water, lemonade and fruit for us to nosh on during our trip. There were times when I really considered proposing to the woman but didn’t get the feeling she would be inclined to leave Ray to move to California with me. It would be a marriage of convenience, mostly tipping the scale on my side. As much as I enjoy cooking, and I do, it would be lovely to have someone else man the fire from time to time particularly with as practiced a hand as hers.

The weather cooperated offering up a gorgeous day with only enough of a breeze to cool us off paired with a gloriously blue blue sky interrupted only by white fluffy clouds occasionally floating by. The girls amused themselves picking out animals and shapes from the passing clouds while Bob J. kept me entertained with history of the areas we drove through and Manitoba itself. The massive array of books in his library apparently were not just for show because he had an impressive knowledge of what he was speaking to which added another layer to my admiration of the man.


Often I speak of my “near perfect moments”. That day held many of them. Driving along with the windows down, the girls chattering, Bob J. weaving his stories, and the countryside fully dressed for spring with wildflowers covering every hillside was definitely bordering on the nearly perfect.

We arrived at the beach around noon. What a lovely expanse of sand it was, a long line of grassy dunes marking its border. Bright beach umbrellas protruded out of the sand here and there and just out of reach of the incoming waves a group of children were busy building a sand castle. “Ahhhhhh”, my soul murmured. “Home.” Removing my sandals I dug my toes deep into the warm sand. Bob J. carried the heavy picnic basket and umbrella while I tagged along behind loaded down with towels, buckets and shovels, a bag of sunscreen and changes or clothes for the girls, and my backpack. Walking in the sand will quickly point out what parts of you are out of shape. In this case after walking what felt like five miles there were so many places to point to I couldn’t narrow it down to a particular area of my body. Once the blankets were spread out and lunch consumed the girls wriggled out of their shorts and tops their bathing suits already on underneath. Grabbing buckets and shovels they ran down towards the water to play. Watching the children plop down oblivious to the sand sticking their skin and begin to dig reminded me of the basic joys of being a child. For most children, not all certainly, childhood is a place of infinite possibilities where dragons breathed fire, unicorns pranced in glittering rainbows, and life, so complicated as we get older, was defined by far simpler terms.

Bob J. dozing in and out in his beach chair didn’t offer much by way of conversation. Left to my own devices I reflected on what an interesting and enjoyable time I’d had on the farm. I would miss them all each in their own way. They had welcomed me as though I was family and I had come to consider them as part of mine. Leaving would be bittersweet. Home was beginning to whisper my name, but knowing I most probably never see my Manitoba clan again left me feeling a bit melancholy.

The day passed quickly. Bob J. and I played frisbee after his nap. With a long drive still in front of us we packed up our gear and retraced our steps to the truck. Exhausted from sun and fun, both girls napped in the back seat most of the ride home. For me leaving the ocean behind always left me sad. Though home has always been where I have hung my hat at the time, the coast has always felt the most like a permanent home to me. Growing up in Nova Scotia with the sea at my back yard left an indelible fingerprint on me that has remained throughout my lifetime.

That night Chris outdid herself. Grilled lobster with drawn butter was the star of the show accompanied by sweet ears of corn, savory garlic bread, and an enormous tossed salad packed with vegetables from her garden. We finished it off with a slice of rhubarb and strawberry pie. The girls browned and exhausted went to bed without a murmur as did Bob J. and I. My plane was leaving just after lunch the following day so it would be time to say my goodbyes. Why is it times you get so much joy from seem to pass in an instant and those you wish would go quickly by drag on like an insurance seminar? Always I will remember that trip as the years tear off the calendar. Some experiences are just rich and this would be one I would count as such.









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My time in Manitoba was quickly coming to an end. I wanted to spend some time working with the animals again before I left and the opportunity afforded itself on my eighth day on the farm. Ray, once again my information highway, said the new calves needed to have ear tags. Interested I asked if I could tag along. (sorry) Ear tags help the farmers identify the gender of the calves as well as track its parentage. If you have a bumper crop of babies each looking much like the next, you will need to have some way to tell which calf belongs to which mother. The mothers, I was told, instinctively will be protective of their offspring. The objective is to perform this task with the least amount of stress to both parties. A calf cage or crate was to be taken out to the field. This will separate the baby from it’s mother temporarily during the procedure while allowing the mother to remain close by and get less agitated. The cow may get testy during this time I was warned, so I was not to get too close to her hind quarters or I might get kicked. Ray explained it is important the tagging be done properly or you risk infection, the tag could get ripped out, or bacteria could easily travel from one small creature to the next. Got it.

I got dressed in my knee boots this time before being prompted to. Mucking about in the cow pastures you are likely to step in a lot of, well, a lot of. Meeting the men by the barn as requested, the cage was already hitched to the back of the truck. Dobbin, the dapple gray was saddled and loosely tied to the gate. Bob J. and were to ride out in the truck with Ray following on Dobbin in case they needed to round up any strays. Coming to the first field we caravaned through the gate stopping just at the perimeter of the grazing herd. Bob J. said there should be five calves in this pasture, though we only counted four. Most likely the missing calf and mother were hidden beyond the tree line so we would have to look the stragglers once the other four had been tagged.  Helping them unload the contents of the bed of the truck I noticed an ominous looking tool reminding me of the eyelet setter I had at home in my sewing kit only much larger. This was used as a “punch” if you will that helps set the tag. Asking if it hurt, my answer was no. As a disclaimer, no calf has ever stepped up to the mike to confirm this to be true so I’m just going to have to take the farmer’s word for it.  Ray said it was similar to ear piercing in humans. Let me just insert here, had I seen that tool headed for my ear lobe I would have continued to wear clip on earrings. I’m just sayin.


I got my ears pierced in my early twenties. My mother worked for a radiologist at the time we called Dr. Pat. Dr. Pat had mentioned he had pierced his daughter’s ears. Mother, knowing I was planning on having mine done at the mall asked if he would consider doing mine as well. Even at that age with two toddlers in tow my mother still worried I would get an infection and die. Losing my dad when he was twenty-five had a profound impact on her and by God she wasn’t going to lose me. Being an only child with an overly protective widowed mother can be both a blessing and curse. You get all the love and you get ALL THE LOVE. Sigh. My mother was a bit of a helicopter parent before the phrase was ever coined. I would happily have just gone to the jewelry store at the mall. To relieve her mind, I showed up at radiology for the appointment and was guided into an exam room for the procedure. Dr. Pat had a reputation for being a bit of a practical joker so he arrived fully gowned with gloves and mask on. On a tray he carried an enormous syringe. Fortunately they caught me before I fled out the door and explained it was a joke. While there he told me the story of his visit to Tijuana over the summer with several of his colleagues. They were on a sort of busman’s holiday down in the Baja Peninsula doing some pro bono work in a small clinic. After a rigorous couple of days with no A/C they decided to stop at a bar in Tijuana on the way home and enjoy a couple of cool ones. As the story went they washed the cervaza down with Tequila shots and everyone got el borracho (plastered). One of the locals in the bar, spotting an easy mark in the inebriated Dr. Pat sold him an enormous sow which they somehow loaded in the back of his station wagon and brought home to the wife. Story was she was less than elated to see both him and the pig. After some heated discussion and most likely in exchange for an expensive shopping trip for the wife the pig was allowed to stay. Fortunately, they lived in a lovely ranch style home in an exclusive area mostly dedicated to horse owners so it was zoned for livestock. When the tony ladies in the area were out walking their pedigree pooches, Dr. Pat would slip the custom made rhinestone collar on Gordita (always thought that was kind of a rude name) and walk her around the neighborhood as well. At one point I believe the neighbors actually got up a petition to have this behavior stopped as unseemly but apparently it isn’t illegal to walk swine in public. He and his wife got a divorce not long after that, not surprisingly as you might imagine. Last I heard he got custody of the pig.

One by one we rounded up the calves and their mothers. Let me preface by saying the calves do not just walk into the crate provided for them. It’s like putting Boo, the Queen of Cats, in her carrier to go to the vets. You don’t just say, “Boo please get in” and the cat aquiesses. Oh no. You hide the cage and sneak up on her while she’s sleeping. You gently carry her towards the open door of the crate being sure she does not actually see the crate or a hospital visit (for you not her) is in the offing. Once she realizes what you are up to you push and she resists, repeat for a half an hour until she’s finally inside. I was handed a bottle of adequate size to satisfy Baby Huey and told once the calf was secured to feed him or her while the procedure was being performed. Believe it or not I asked what was in the bottle. Even for a blonde that was a fairly dumb question. Milk, yes, you win the teddy bear.  Ray slipped a rope around mama’s neck who wasn’t looking happy, while Bob J. rounded up the little one and after a bit of maneuvering got it in the crate and the head stabilized. My part of the program was easy because I had the goods. The little one happily sucked on the bottle while Bob J. did what was needed to be done with not a lot of fanfare thankfully. I cannot stand to see any animal hurt including human animals.

For a brief time in my late twenties I was a dental assistant. Believe it or not I graduated top of my class (Particularly after the what’s in the bottle question. I know!). After graduating, I was placed in an orthodontist’s office as a chairside assistant. Working in a school environment was vastly different than working in the field itself. For one thing our “patient” in school was a dummy (no offense meant). He was an actual dummy we called Fred. Fred was life sized with a full set of perfect teeth and sat obediently in the chair. Never once did he bite me, scream, cry or bleed all over his bib. This, when working with actual live patients, was definitely not the case. Our patients were largely children as braces were the mainstay of our office. Doing xray’s on small mouths should come with hazard pay. I cannot count how many times I was bitten, or had to nearly go to the mat with a small patient to get a set of full mouth xrays completed. The dentist, though delighted with my two handed dentistry techniques was less than thrilled with the “faces” I was involuntarily making while he was working on patients. It seemed they were instilling fear rather than confidence in the person sitting in the chair. After a year I determined dental assisting was not the life path for me but that is another blog.


After all four of the babies were tagged and released to their waiting mamas Ray was dispatched on horseback to round up the missing pair. When he returned Bob J. was educating me on the disposition of cows. Cows, like most species, each have their own personalities. For the most part he said they were not aggressive, however, that is not always the case and you should always be mindful around large animals and be respectful. Bulls were another matter entirely. For those of you who don’t know the answer to another dumb question, cows are female and bulls are male. Bulls can be very aggressive particularly around other bulls and especially when a cow is in heat. Thankfully there were no bulls on the property. How the calves came to be we didn’t get into but perhaps that falls under TMI.

After accounting for and tagging all the calves in two of the four pastoral areas, we broke for lunch. Chris outdid herself that day piling slices of her wonderful homemade bread with cured ham and lacy Swiss cheese. A large bowl of pasta salad was served family style in the middle of the table loaded with cherry tomatoes and spinach as well as a plate of sliced tomato, avocado, cucumber, and dill pickles. For dessert rhubard crisp with vanilla ice cream. Nap please. No nap was on the schedule so we dragged ourselves back out to the field and spent the rest of the day finishing the job we started. The cows were lovely all in all and not a one gave me as much as a dirty look.

Over dinner we discussed what I wanted to do with my last official day on the farm the following day before boarding a plane the day after that for California. It was decided the girls and I would go on a road trip with Bob J. at the wheel giving me an opportunity to see some of the surrounding countryside and allow Chris a much needed day of R&R.  My muscles were reacting to a hard day’s work as I blessedly sank into a tub of hot water before heading to bed. A bit of melancholy had begun to sneak into my being that night. One more day and then back to the reality of job, home, family and day to day life. Ah well, vacation or relocation doesn’t usually last forever.




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My seventh day in Northern Manitoba with my farm family was to be spent with Chris and the children. What a lovely day it was. On this particular day I was pulled into service in the kitchen, a job not unfamiliar to me. That evening there was to be a party in my honor which was such a lovely gesture on their part. Chris, as usual, would be doing the catering.  In her typical efficient way, she had printed menus for her guests. One was handed to me before we began dicing and chopping to provide a glimpse of what we were to be preparing. Breakfast that morning was self serve. Cold and hot cereal with a large bowl of fresh fruit and a plate with a variety of Chris’s homemade breads were set up on the dining room table for anyone to help themselves. Three golden crusted pies were lined up on the sideboard by the open dining room window to cool with strict instructions from the cook not to be touched.

Reading the menu I could see it would be a busy day. The cocktail hour was to begin at 5:00 out by the patio. Icy margaritas, wine and beer would be served for the adults enjoying a cocktail, and lemonade and sweet tea for those too young to imbibe or not inclined towards adult beverages. The appetizers, mostly comprised of ingredients from Chris’s impressive garden, were to include pastry wrapped asparagus with mustard sauce, sausage stuffed mushrooms, and deviled eggs as well as whatever contributions the guests provided. For someone who had spent little time in the city Chris had a very sophisticated palette. I noticed her reading material included magazines such such as Bon Appetit and Food and Wine, magazines I also enjoyed.

Eva and I were dispatched to Chris’s garden to gather some of the necessary ingredients. What an amazing touch the woman had with growing things.  Some of the vegetables in the massive garden area I had never actually seen on the vine before. I was fascinated to peer inside one enormous leaf only to find a cauliflower tucked under the wing of one fold. Up until then I had only seen cauliflowers in the vegetable section at the market. Carrying the baskets provided by our hostess for our harvest, Eva and I filled each to the brim with huge beefsteak tomatoes, green onions, sweet peppers, bouquets of basil, springs of mint, summer squash, cucumbers, and whatever else was on our list.

The main course was to be lamb. I was pleased no lambs were included in the cast of barnyard characters on the farm so it was not to be a family member served to the guests. Chris explained they got their lamb locally which didn’t surprise me. During my stay I had seen several large flocks grazing in the area. Though I had not mentioned it, coincidentally lamb happens to be one of my favorite meats. Growing up it was often the main course at my grandmother’s table alongside a bowl of mint jelly or creamy mint sauce. I assumed, since mint had been included on our shopping list, one or the other might be showing up that night as well. This was not to be lamb as I had ever prepared it before, however. Several whole lambs were going to cooked outdoors on a spit. Sounded wonderful. When I was living in Alabama I attended a huge backyard party where a whole cow was cooked on a spit. Watching that spit revolve all afternoon was too much for my delicate nature bringing out in me the urge to rescue the poor thing and run away with it. Brings to mind a quote from Dr. Seuss’s The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,”He took the Who’s feast, he took the Who pudding, he took the roast beast.” I vowed to avoid the spit area later in this day and simply enjoy my dinner.

Back in the kitchen the aromas were beginning to titillate my nostrils. The lamb was to be served alongside a cheesy, creamy zucchini gratin, crispy Greek lemon potatoes, several salad selections including a fully loaded garden salad and Chris’s simply amazing yeast rolls. Oh yummy for my tummy. I was put in charge of the Caprese Salad, creating several eye catching plates of ripe ruby red tomatoes alternated with slices of mozzarella cheese. This was finished off with fresh basil, and drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. If an organ could do a happy dance my stomach would have been in the middle of the macarena.

After a quick lunch, the girls were relieved of their aprons and left to play outside allowing Chris and I to to concentrate of the tasks at hand. There is something immensely satisfying to me in the preparation of food. Perhaps it’s the colors, or the aromas, or just the immense gratification you get when someone puts a bite of a dish you’ve prepared in their mouths and says “yum”.  A meal, to my mind, should be party for our senses. We eat with our eyes, our noses, our mouths and even our ears. There’s nothing as tantalizing as the sound of a good piece of meat when it hits a hot grill. Good food arranged artfully on a pretty plate is just appealing. No matter how mouth watering your food may be, if you just throw it on the plate and hand it to someone to eat, the full enjoyment of eating the meal is somehow diminished. As good as the meat and potatoes on the left might taste, a person might not feel as enthusiastic about taking a bite of it as they might what is displayed on the plate to the right.

The Caprese salad plated and wrapped, I asked where to store it. The kitchen had one large side by side refrigerator and every inch of storage space was already accounted for. Chris directed me to the sunroom. The sunroom was at the back of the house. It was a large shotgun style room with a bank of windows running along both ends and the yard side. During the warmer months Bob P. said the screens kept the air flowing in and the bugs out making it a lovely place to sit and let your bones dry out after a long day of work. On the inside wall there was a side by side refrigerator and though I had not seen it Ray had mentioned a large walk-in freezer in the barn where they stored butchered meats.

Setting the Caprese dishes on a shelf in the refrigerator I remembered Chris asking me to grab several jars of pickled green beans which she said I would find in the cupboard next to the fridge. Having been told the Mason jars were in alphabetical order (of course) I easily located the appropriate jars under the sign marked “G”. Like many farmer’s wives, Chris said she canned and preserved several times a year for off season months. Looking at the amount of jars, it seemed an excessive amount of food for five people but at harvest time it was my understanding there were plenty of mouths to feed, and if not I believe most preserved items enjoy a fairly long shelf life.

Mid afternoon with everything done and tucked away we separated to catch a shower and clean up for the evening ahead. I had not thought to pack a dress for a week on a farm, so Chris, about the same size as myself, offered me a choice of several light summer dresses from her closet.

Always I have gotten butterflies when having to integrate with a large group of strangers. It’s not that I’m an introvert, I actually love interacting with other human beings, but too many of them at once I find a little overpowering. Once dressed I wandered out in the garden to find Bob J. already dressed and seated in the shade in a lawn chair. After surveying me with his gaze as if checking for weapons he commented that I cleaned up very well. In the world of Bob J. I believe this was a compliment, so I took it as such. In turn I thought he “cleaned up well”. Face free of stubble, hair combed, a freshly pressed shirt tucked into a well fitting pair of clean jeans, most attractive. We sat next to each other for a while enjoying the lull before the storm. He shared he was glad I’d come and that his family had been pleased with how I’d rolled up my sleeves and got dirty along with the rest of them. I thanked him knowing it was high praise from someone who did not relieve himself of praise easily. The moment hanging between us was broken by a truck driving through the gate allowing the energy to dissipate. Excusing myself, I went inside to let Chris know our first guest had arrived and to see what I could do to help.


About forty people ended up filling the chairs out back, some filtering inside after the sun set and the bugs made their nightly appearance. The margaritas were as promised icy cold and tart and if possible each course served was better than the one preceding it. The lamb, well I don’t have words. Ray had cooked it to perfection. It was tender and juicy and, yes, served with mint jelly and sprigs of fresh mint. The tables were set up eight to a table with a smaller table for the children of which there were exactly ten. Twinkling lanterns were strung from tree to tree to provide illumination. Each table was beautifully decorated with long trails of wildflowers. A young man I recognized from church the day before sat on a bale of hay entertaining us with country music and playing his guitar. Desserts were served with a lovely after dinner wine. Chris’s triple berry pie, a recipe I use to this day, was the star sitting alongside a glass bowl of trifle, an assortment of cakes and plate after plate of cookies and bars. About nine, people starting peeling off and heading towards their vehicles as the next day was a work day.

What a wonderful night that was. Everyone pitched in. Once the last guest’s taillights had disappeared down the road we all carried something into the kitchen. Eva and Dawn, running on a sugar high, had to be carried sniffling into bed. Chris and I stayed up late and washed dishes putting leftovers in containers to be stored in the fridge. When finally I walked down the hall towards my room I realized I would really miss this new family of mine. It was a night I shall always keep with me, and of course the blueberry pie recipe.

Chris’s Triple Berry Pie

Double Crust Pie Shell

2 Cups all-purpose flour
1/2 Tsp. salt
2/3 cup shortening
1 Tbsp. white vinegar
4-5 Tbsp. milk

Combine flour and salt in small bowl. Cut in shortening until mixture looks like course crumbs. Sprinkle with vinegar. Gradually add milk tossing with a fork until a ball forms. Cover and refrigerate for 30 mins.

Divide pastry in half leaving one ball slightly larger than the other. Roll out the larger of the two to fit 9″-10″ pie plate. Transfer pastry to pie plate. Trim to rim. Brush bottom of shell with 1 Tbsp. water whisked with 1 egg white. Reserve the rest.

Roll out second shell to fit over top of the first. Set aside.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.


2 1/2 cups blueberries, sorted and any stems removed
3/4 cup raspberries
3/4 cups blackberries
3/4 cups white sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
1 1/2 Tbsp. lemon zest
1/2 tsp. lemon juice
1 Tsp. vanilla
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
1 egg white
2 tbsp. water

Place berries in large mixing bowl. Whisk together remaining ingredients and pour over berries. Using your hands gently turn until well coated. Pour into prepared shell.

Lay top pastry over berry mix. Press and seal edges with bottom shell. Trim as needed. Cut four slits in center to vent. Brush top with remaining egg white/water mixture.

Bake for 50 mins. or until browned and bubbly.

Cook on wire rack.



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stump jpg

Day five of my Manitoba adventure began early as usual. After getting myself organized for the day I greeted the usual faces seated around the breakfast table in the kitchen. Omelets were on the menu, and like in a fine dining establishment I was asked to choose from the ingredients on the table and a delicious personal omelet was delivered to my plate by our chef de cuisine, Chris. I liked sitting in the kitchen with my new friends. The children were always a welcome addition to the table, bubbling over with enthusiasm for the day ahead and filled with youthful exuberance for the world around them. Even if I still was in the process of waking up, I enjoyed seeing their fresh little faces across from me over another great meal.

Bob J., Ray and I were once again on our own. That day, I was told, we were going to be working with the animals, which was perhaps my favorite facet of farm life. Yay. Ray, always a fount of information, filled me in on our schedule for the afternoon. Apparently several times a year they “drag” the pastures to redistribute the manure. Oh boy. Poop again. They wait until the pasture patties are dry to do this. Ewwwww. Truly I cannot think of a subject more unwelcome to my stomach than excrement but certainly if you raise animals you are going to have waste. Having visited the pig pens with Eva and Dawn and unfortunately finding it necessary to inhale once I’d exhaled, I am here to tell you there was no shortage of animal waste in a farm environment and what there is beyond fragrant.  They don’t call odiferous people pigs for nothing. Whew. Cows aren’t much better I’m afraid. I can remember driving across Kansas turning the corner on one dairy farm after another and wondering if the incredibly strong ammonia stench would ever leave my nostrils. The human body, as amazing as it is in how it processes our intake, certainly could use an adjustment on how it is scented when recycled. I’m thinking lavender or camelia might have been a better fragrance choice. I’m just saying.

Bob J. suggested I wear old clothes, and in particular old high boots. This did not bode well for my day. Sigh.

As I have said there was all variety of critters roaming about the farm compound in addition to the herds in the field. Chickens wandered freely about the yard chucking and pecking at the ground, there were half a dozen goats who made their home there, and probably ten pigs and a litter of piglets in the large pen beyond the barn. When we toured the piggies quarters, Chris mentioned as Eva and Dawn get older they will most likely become active in the local 4-H program. Each girl will raise a pig to be shown at the county fair and then auctioned off to the highest bidder for meat. I wouldn’t make a good farmer. Already I had become attached to several cows and a piglet. Most probably I would become vegetarian if I had to sacrifice one of them for Sunday dinner.

Knowing how to tend to these creatures takes years of training, knowledge handed down older generation to younger over countless decades. There are vaccinations that have to be given, births to be overseen, proper feeding guidelines, as well as weather and sickness to be taken into consideration. The vet came while I was there, a woman perhaps in her mid thirties. Watching her work with confidence with the larger animals was inspiring. The animals seem to almost sense this person is there on their behalf. Always I have admired veterinarians. Unlike physicians tending to humans, vets have to versed in a wide variety of skeletal structures and a myriad of species nuances. I might do well with dogs and cats but the first time someone brought me a boa constrictor with a head cold or a tarantula with a hang nail I’d be outta there. Also, the likelihood of a human patient biting you is probably minimal, but vets must face unhappy patients with both claws and sharp teeth every day. I’ve seen Boo, the Queen of Cats, in action. To say she resists a visit to the vet is to put it mildly. I have to nearly go on a reconnaissance mission to get her in the cage. Funny thing though once I get her into the office the staff seems to be competent enough to keep her calm. She sits there quietly as though that was her usual behavior while they probe and poke at her. Cats, go figure.

Ray also told me you have to be aware how many cows are grazing on your land. Too many can be harmful to the land itself. There are a lot of pitfalls to farming apparently. Luxurious crops could be taken down by extreme weather, drought, insects, and many other variables. I found it all both fascinating and perplexing at the same time. My grandmother grew up on a farm and this experience definitely gave me more understanding of what her life might have looked like as a girl. Often when I was small she commented on how women today were “spoiled”. She said in her time there were no cake mixes, prepared meals, frozen dinners. Women back in the day were in the kitchen cooking their meals from scratch with no help from Betty Crocker.

I’m sure she would have been both pleased and surprised to find me working the farm in Manitoba. On morning five of my visit Bob J. and Ray were going to ride out to the pasture in the tractor. My job would be to follow them on the three wheeler carrying the water cooler, lunch, and some tools. Let me reiterate once again it took me three times to get my driver’s license and years to perfect my driving skills. Not only have I never ridden on a three wheeler but most certainly I’ve never driven one. As a kid I dabbled in boys with motorcycles but never actually drove one myself. The only time I was ever even alone on a bike was when I was in high school. A boy I knew had a Triumph 750. I was expressly forbidden to ride on the back of this machine so naturally that was where I was to be found. Hank, the owner of the bike, stepped off to go into a convenience store. He instructed me to straddle the bike and stand firmly on both feet until he returned. Check. Two minutes after he entered the store I leaned slightly to the right and the rest was history. Thankfully, once again I escaped maiming or certain death but his bike wasn’t quite so lucky. That was the beginning and the end of the motorcycle period of my life story. Not wanting to appear to Bob J. and Ray to be a sissy, in particular after my antics of the previous day when I had fallen through the bush and flown down the side of the hillside. So, the three wheeler it was, the three wheeler it would be. My instructions were simple. “Stay on the dirt road do not drive anywhere near the edge of the road. Do not, repeat do not, put your legs near the wheels while the vehicle is moving. Avoid deep ruts at all costs.” Um, “help”.

I hopped on the beast trying to look poised and confident. Bob J. got the machine running for me and explained the shifting situation. Sigh. Inside I had a feeling this was going to make yesterday’s freefall look mild in comparison. Gamely I inched forward. The snail creeping down the path next me was beating me by a mile. Bob J. and Ray were putting a lot of real estate between us as I chugged along at about 1/4 mile an hour. Finally they stopped and Bob J. jogged back to where I was to check on me. Explaining they had hoped to get to the field sometime before sunset, I was instructed to pick up the pace a bit. Okie. The avoiding the ruts portion of the instruction didn’t make it easy going. Since it was a dirt road there were both rocks and ruts at nearly every juncture. Once again my spine was inching up towards my brain. Bob stuck his hand out the tractor to indicate he was going to stop. I did the same lowering my foot to the ground before coming to a complete stop. Don’t try this at home. Doing specifically what I’d been told not to do my leg hit the back wheel taking off the top layer of skin on my calf. Oh-oh. At first I thought I’d just be quiet about it but since it was beginning to look as if I might need a tourniquet I thought I’d better turn myself in. Thankfully working with heavy machinery regularly they kept a fully equipped first aid kit on board for such occasions. Bob J.’s eyes if rolled any higher towards the heavens would have disappeared inside his head. Sorry.

Once I was doctored to they began the “dragging” procedure which was basically accomplished by a piece of equipment attached to the back of the tractor and, yes, dragged along behind it. Well named, yes? Most of the afternoon was spent tending to one pasture after another. Half the time I rode in the tractor with one or the other of the men and the rest of the time I was on the dreaded three wheeler with instructions once again to try and keep myself out of the ICU. Kay.

That evening after a delicious meal of the fresh fish Bob J., Bob P. and I had provided for the table, we sat outside in the lawn chairs until way beyond the time the sun had gone down for the day.  A fire pit had been filled with wood and a lovely crackling fire burned inside the circle. The girls, allowed to stay up a bit late, were dancing in the flickering light. In the tall grass fireflies made what I was told was a very unusual showing making it a very magical evening.

Sleep, I have to say, came easily during those days. You worked hard, you played hard, then you slept hard. Wish I could put the sleeping hard part into action these days. Particularly since the pandemic my dream state is filled with vivid weird dreams and interrupted nights.

Day six on the downhill slope of my trip comes next. See you then. Stay safe.



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Day four in Manitoba was all about fishing. We had been allowed to languish in bed until nine if needed and then the plan was to have breakfast, load up our gear, and head to the river. I was not what you might call an experienced angler. Up until I had married my ex-husband truth was I had never cast a line in the water. Actually, that is incorrect. I did catch a flounder as I recall on a rare outing with my first stepfather. When I had excitedly hauled my fish in the boat he told me flounders were bottom feeders not fit for eating and I would need to toss it back. I was to find out years later, flounder was not only tasty but good for you. I was nine. I caught a fish while he, an experienced fisherman, did not. We weren’t exactly close. I’ll save this story for my next therapy session.

My people really weren’t outdoorsy. The one and only time I ever went camping with my mother was in Yosemite. I was a freshman in high school. In order to coerce her outdoors, my stepfather had to rent a high end travel trailer which was where she spent 90% of her time during that week enjoying martinis in her wedgies. Meanwhile, my stepbrother and I were rafting down the Yosemite river, panning for gold, and watching the fire fall at sunset. My mother’s idea of roughing it would be to stay at a hotel without room service. She always described herself as a “hothouse flower” and that is fine. Everyone has their niche to fill. I adore my mum so whatever venue she chooses to make her happy, makes me happy as well.

So, at precisely nine fifteen I arrived in the kitchen at the farm to enjoy one of Chris’s excellent breakfasts. Not to disappoint, I found Ray and Bob J. already seated at the table shoveling in some really delicious looking Belgium waffles. Yum. After clearing the syrup from my lips, I applied lip gloss and sunscreen, grabbed a ball cap for extra coverage, and headed for the decided meeting spot by the barn door. The two Bob’s were already by the truck loading up fishing gear, a cooler, some folding stools, and a water cooler. Though still early, the sun, already hot against my back, was letting me know it was just gearing up for its day.


The area we were going, as it turned out, wasn’t too much of a drive. The truck could only take us so far, however, after that I was told, we would need to walk in the rest of the way.  Parking under some trees for shade, we unloaded the bed. Bob P. said we had about a forty-five minute hike to the river. Since I was a girl I was given the lighter items to carry such as poles and the tackle box, while the men hauled the heavy cooler between them with the other items piled on top. Sometimes it pays to be female. The underbrush was quite dense in spots and insects were prolific. I had doused myself with insect spray before leaving the house which seemed to keep them at bay. At some points the drop off on one side of the trail was very steep. Several times I nearly lost my footing when stepping across loose rocks and gravel. Holding the poles in one hand and the tackle box in the other didn’t leave me much to balance with. Just when I was starting to feel tired the men signaled to me from up ahead we were going downward from the path. Oh. The bank angled straight down in this area. I could hear the water flowing below and see the river through the gaps in the trees so knew we were getting close to our destination, or at least to the river itself. Yay. Bob J. was first down the side of the hill with Bob P. following close behind. They slid more than walked down the slick slope with the cooler sort of careening along in the middle. Bob J. yelled for me to watch my footing. As the words reached my ears, I took my first step down the hill pushing through a matted patch of greenery.  I stepped into the air beyond where I stood, which was all that was available at the time to step into. Suddenly I was airborne, soaring like a flying squirrel floating from one tree limb to another. Both men watched in amazement as I sailed past them landing with a loud splat in the middle of the river. The impact, thankfully more frightening than hurtful, caused me to release what I was holding as well as all the air in my lungs. Lying there wet, embarrassed and gasping for breath I watched as the bait box bobbed and weaved in the current. Bob J. was quickly in hot pursuit as the poles were beginning to submerge where they landed. Whoops. The only thing wounded on me was my pride and a scrape on my elbow fortunately. After checking me out for injuries and finding me in one piece, the two men just shook their heads. Unspoken but hanging in the air were the words “women, right?”

After all our floating gear was recovered, we located a good spot along the river to set up “camp” for the day. The lush foliage around the water’s edge afforded us some shade, a blessing since the sun now high in the sky was taking no prisoners. Whew. Bob P. helping me load my hook with a fresh worm, I cast my line in the water and settled in to wait for a tug. I have to admit that eviscerating a worm is not my favorite pastime so whether it was more “girl” stuff or not I allowed the men to do the dirty work for me. My ex used to tell me the worms don’t feel a thing. Uh-huh. It didn’t look like it felt good to me, and I’ve never read an affidavit from a worm confirming that it did.

I caught three small fish that day.  When I pulled the first one in Bob P. said it was crappy. Pardon me? Turns out this was not an assessment of my fishing skills but that they were all crappy, or rather black crappie, a popular pan fish and quite delicious when tossed in a frying pan. About one o’clock we opened the cooler and helped ourselves to a lunch consisting of wonderful sandwiches Chris had provided for us. Secretly I was determined to bring her back to California with me to have her cook for me for the rest of my life. Delicious bread piled high with thin slices of meat and fresh vegetables from the garden. Along with her other gifts, Chris had a way with yeast and flour baking them into the most wonderful grainy breads. Our sides were potato salad, coleslaw and a colorful fresh fruit salad, which in the heat was a particularly welcome treat.  The Boys, tossed down a few cold ones and threw in a few fishing stories, while I stuck to the container of lemonade included in the cooler to keep me level headed for the hike back to the car.

Bob P. filled me in some of the missing spots of his life after a brew or two. His wife, Bob J.’s mom, had passed away some ten years back. Like Bob J. and Anna, he told me, he and his lovely Lizzie had been married right of school.  Actually, she was married right out of school with Bob P. leaving school in tenth grade to help his parents with the farm. He had done his time in the military during “Nam”, as he put it, but didn’t offer any further information about his experiences there. A silence fell over him on mentioning that period of his life. Guess that said enough. Sometimes a lot can be revealed in silence. I can still picture the military cemetery where my father was buried. White crosses spreading for miles in every direction. So much loss.

Bob P. knew nothing but farming, and didn’t seem to care to. This land, these crops, his family were to be the patches in the quilt of his life. No more, and no less. That seemed, to my eyes at least, to be sufficient for him. He talked about the rough times, when crops were ruined by weather and money was tight, or when Lizzie got sick, and then when he lost her, but when he spoke of the farm and the land a sort of peace settled over him which I found quite lovely. I would hope I could find that kind of contentment in my life at some point.

A breeze came up as it had every day since my arrival making the trip back to the car less arduous. The three of us talked easier in the cab of the truck on the drive home. Sharing part of you with others helps to form the beginning of the bonds that bring us together as friends. At the ranch the little girls were waiting for me when we drove in the yard. Eva slipped her hand into mine and said she would take me to the much promised puppies. Dawn, not one to be ignored took my other hand and the two girls guided me to an old shed behind the barn. Pushing open the wooden doors we stepped inside. A fan was whirring loudly in one corner where a blanket had been laid out. What looked to be a large hound dog or similar breed lay on top of the blanket next to seven or eight tiny fat bodies all feet and tails looking to be enjoying their afternoon siesta. How sweet they were. The mama, I had been told, was named Ariel after the Little Mermaid. What a gentle lady she was. Checking me out thoroughly and seeming not to find me wanting, she allowed me to kneel down and pick up one of her babies and cuddle him to me. How I love puppies with their little blurry eyes and their sweet milk breath. I wished I could tuck this little man in the folds of my suitcase and take him on the plane with me. The puppies had no names yet, Eva informed me. Chris explained later they name them when they personalities begin to emerge, a ritual the girls are very much a part of. Eventually homes will be found for the majority of the litter. If one stands out as a good working dog he or she may be kept for the farm. Dogs are not pets on a working farm apparently. They are treated well, and loved as part of the group but they do not come in the house and put in their hours along with everyone else. Several cats were present in the yard as well. The felines were there for rodent control and only one, Sam, almost sixteen could be seen languishing on a chair in the family room or enjoying his evening meal in his bowl in the kitchen. He had put in his time working and was now free to take pleasure in his retirement.


Another wonderful day was put to bed along with tired and well browned me. The day to following would be busy so sleep was essential and it didn’t take long for my eyes to close after turning out the night. I was heading into the midpoint of my trip. Day five was on the horizon.




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Day two on the farm in Manitoba began before the rooster crowed, literally. The alarm dutifully did it’s job at precisely 5:30 rousing me from a well deserved sleep. Jet lag had settled in the night before following a long flight from California the day prior added to my first full day of work on the farm.

Liberally slathering sunscreen on my already pink-tinged face, I pulled on a pair of jeans, a clean tee shirt, and slipped into my work boots. Excitement began to build as I brushed my teeth and walked down the hall towards the kitchen. Pushing open the door I was greeted by the now familiar faces already seated around the table.  While filling my plate from the mosaic of dishes arranged on the center island I found myself thinking a five-star hotel could not have provided a finer breakfast. First came a plate of blueberry pancakes. Piling several on my plate and drowning them in syrup, Bob J. explained these had been made with wild blueberries his granddaughters had picked for me to enjoy. I thanked both girls for their efforts, and moved past the pancakes to help myself to a light as air homemade biscuit which I topped off with a generous ladle of thick, creamy sausage gravy. A chafing dish of fluffy scrambled eggs came after that, and to complete the menu, the most decadent cinnamon rolls my mouth ever had the pleasure to welcome.  OMG. They were hot, sticky, gooey bundles of wonderfulness dripping with butter. Chris, the family chef, must live in the kitchen to produce such amazing displays. Yum and double yum.  All this with two little ones running around beneath her feet. Amen to you girl, that’s all I had to say. Made me want to break out my “Women Rule the World” apron and slap that baby proudly on.

I took a seat at the empty chair at the table. The girls, done with their breakfast, had been asked by the their mother to remain at the table until the adults were finished eating. Both children provided me with little glimpses into their lives. Eva, the oldest, said she would be celebrating her birthday in two days. When asked how old she was going to be, she held three fingers up while proudly replying “four”. Dawn piped in one of the dogs had puppies which she would show me later if I’d like to see. I assured her I would love to see the new arrivals, adding a visit to the puppies to my to-do list. It was obvious their mother had time for something besides cooking. The girls were nicely dressed, the matching bib overall shorts outfits neatly pressed with not a spot to be seen. Eva, blessed with a huge mass of chestnut hair, had it pulled it up tightly into a thick pony tail, secured by two yellow ducky clips.  Dawn, younger by a year and a half, wore her hair down in long ringlets of gold living up to her lovely namesake the goddess of the morning. Completing the picture, her sweet young face was accented by a sun kissed band of tiny freckles running up and over her upturned nose. Both girls were very well behaved. While at the table they received just one admonishment, this from their grandfather who didn’t appreciate Eva referring to her sister as “a poop-head”.

While the two Bob’s were discussing the work schedule, Ray turned to ask his wife what she had on the calendar. Wiping her hands on the dish towel Chris said once the kitchen was empty she and the girls were going to harvest vegetables from the garden before starting her day.  Taking my now clean plate over to stand next to her I asked what “her day” usually looked like. The first chore on her list, she said, after the humans had been attended to, was feeding the livestock housed within the gates of the compound. This included an assortment of chickens, pigs, goats, dogs, and two horses. Chris went on to say there were always pens to be cleaned and fresh hay to be hauled in and laid down.  There were twenty plus hens and one rooster occupying the hen house. Eggs had to be gathered and the bedding changed for these tenants as well on a regular basis. My guess was free moments were at a minimum for this lady as she went on. Three times a week the horses had to be groomed and exercised. Ray, usually in charge of this, left it to her when there were crops to be seen to. I suddenly felt tired. A simple “I keep busy” would have sufficed. As she went on I wished I could slip back under the covers for a short nap. In between all her chores she raised two toddlers plus cooked and cleaned for the family. Perhaps an amen wasn’t enough. I began to suspect the woman should be knighted.

As for my day, it had been decided I would accompany Bob J. and Ray to the feed and grain while Bob P., the elder statesman of the group, stayed around the compound to keep an eye on the children. Bob P. mentioned he was going to town for supplies later in the week and if interested in seeing the town I was welcome to join him.  Accepting the invitation I was ushered out the back door to head to the feed and grain.

Piling into the cab of the old work truck I was positioned once again between the two men. We drove down yet another deeply rutted dirt road before pulling out onto the main highway. Now, in Northern California this main highway would have been considered more of a byway but in the area we were in I believe it was the main traffic bearer. At least it was paved, unlike most of the roads connecting the farm. Whether it was the truck had no shocks at all or they were just old and worn I don’t know, but with each rut in the road it felt like another vertebrae snaked it’s way into the back of my brain. Ray, definitely the conversationalist of my two companions, talked to me about the fields of crops we were passing, explaining what this row was growing and the next in between filling me in on the general history of the people living there and the area as a whole. Asking what crops were grown on their farm he explained we would be working in the fields later in the day so he would show me first hand. Apparently there were also sprinkler systems to be maintained, animals to be monitored, and then later in the day, very late I was to find, the tractors would be put to work spraying the crops. Nap please.

Being in the middle afforded me an equal vantage point to observe both men simultaneously. Certainly they were drastically different physically. Ray, the taller and leaner of the two had dark red curly hair reaching to just above his shoulders. Slightly balding at the top, he covered the thinning spot with a ubiquitous ball cap displaying an embroidered maple leaf across the front. The only time I saw him without that hat during my stay was at meals when Chris insisted it be left on a hook by the door. Bob J., easily three inches shorter than Ray, was by far the sturdier built of the pair. In comparison to Ray’s mop of longish curls, Bob’s brown straight hair was tidily trimmed over his ears. Both his face and neck bore the imprints of a typical “redneck” tan which had turned the skin above the collar line a deep rusty gold. The bronze color contrasted startlingly with the most gorgeous pair of sea blue eyes ringed by lashes most women would most likely die for. He wore his fifty two years easily, nothing telling his age aside from a touch of gray sneaking in around his temples and a latticework of fine lines branching out from his eyes and mouth. All in all a very attractive man. Uh, not that I noticed.

Aside from looking like polar opposites, Bob leaned towards being on the quiet side. Ray, on the other hand, was prone to story telling, stealing the spotlight whenever he could. Ray shared his impressive repertoire of jokes with me at every opportunity often laughing uproariously before the punch line had even been delivered. Bob, I noticed, mostly surveyed the sky during Ray’s joke telling giving me the impression he’d probably heard these stories many times before.

Thankfully the truck slowed, coming to a complete stop in front of a bank of silos giving my spine a chance to realign. A train track stretched as far as the eye could see on either side of the massive buildings. Bob J., explained local farmers had used this grainery to store their crops until it closed, along with many others in the province, several years back. He spoke at length about the dwindling labor pool and crop processing and shipping issues making it difficult for the farmers to get their grain to market. Many families worked farms that had been handed down generation to generation for decades and were deeply vested in their land and their way of life. There was something incredibly lonely about the tall empty buildings before us. It reminded me of many small towns around the area where I lived in Arkansas. A deep country way of life leaning precariously on the precipice of extinction. Towns marked by banks of store windows bearing wax “x’s” with dusty main drags where old men sat in front of empty shops drinking sweet tea in worn rockers remembering better days. Young people mostly moved on in those no name towns to the larger cities for a chance at better jobs and a higher standard of living. Always found something profoundly sad about watching a town die.


When he was done bringing me up to speed on the silos, we moved on down the road twenty minutes or so. Under a huge sign reading “Feed and Grain” the truck turned into a large parking lot looking more like a pick up dealership. Trucks of all shapes and sizes filled the parking spots, some hauling trailers and some not.  It seemed there was a stock auction that day which explained all manner of livestock peering out of windows in trailers or simply standing in the beds of the trucks. Huge chutes were releasing grains into pick up beds as we walked inside the massive warehouse. A welcoming gush of cool air washed over us as we walked into the main store area. Jeans and boots were definitely the outfit of the day. Pallets with enormous bags of food were being checked out by the cashiers. I wandered off as Ray and Bob J. went about their business. While perusing one aisle I heard a small tinkling noise. Looking down I was pleasantly surprised to find a small pig returning my stare. Around her neck was a pink and white bandana and below that hung a studded collar with a tiny gold bell dangling from a hook. “Oink”, it said. “Hello” I said in return using my native language, not well versed in pig. I was to find out shortly this was a mini pig fittingly answering to Petunia. Petunia it seemed was owned by the proprietors of the place and somewhat of a local mascot of sorts. If cuteness could be bottled this little one’s owner could be making some big money.  Petunia and I accompanied one another down several aisles before she left me to follow a family with a small dog on a leash. Fickle these pigs.


An hour later with all their purchases loaded in the truck we turned back toward the farm to have lunch before going out to the field. Lunch? I had packed in enough food in a 48 hour period to sustain me if lost in the wilderness for two months. Like a camel I could probably have lived on my stored fat indefinitely. However, once again seated in that comfortable kitchen I found myself tucking away another delicious meal followed by a bowl of fresh fruit and cream. Amazingly I could still button my pants.

Ray stayed behind after lunch to help Chris in the barn, leaving Bob J. and I to ourselves giving me time to find out more about my long distance friend. I shall begin there at my next writing.Each day added a dimension to my adventure. Many things I’ve done in my life have held a little risk. Let’s be honest nobody says “I do” four times in a lifetime if there isn’t a bit of daredevil in their soul. Many things I regret, many things I treasure. It you never color outside of the lines how will you know what you might have missed? Day Three coming soon. As always stay safe. Hopefully their will be hugs and a rejoining of the mainstream not too far in the foreseeable future.



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I actually have an appointment this morning. I know! My appointment book has been as chaste as a novitiate for weeks. Today I am to have allergy testing. I’d be lying if I didn’t insert here that going outside in the big bad world feels a little off putting. My instructions were to wear a mask and maintain social distancing. K. Yesterday I cranked up my car and drove it for a bit both to remind myself driving was part of my routine and to give my car a chance to recharge it’s battery. When I came back I dragged the industrial size bag of potting soil I purchased several months ago around to the front yard and worked in the dirt for a couple of hours. People walked by and stopped to say hello or waved while I was out there and it felt less isolating and more like being part of a community.

While outside beneath the massive trees lining my property (well, mine as long as I deposit a rent check) I was serenaded by the sad song of a mourning dove. Movement on one of the branches overhead drew my eye to where I could see a dove perched on a large nest in the crook of a limb. Mom, or so I called her, I’m not clearly versed on how one goes about telling the difference in doves and wasn’t formally introduced, remained on the nest while her partner flew back and forth to the ground or to other trees gathering whatever he was bringing to the table. Soon I could see three dear little feathery heads pointed towards the sky beaks open so I’m assuming dad had been tasked with providing lunch. A friend called so I stopped for a moment and went in the house to take a break. Telling her of my sweet birds (yes, yes I realize they are of the earth and not actually mine but they are on my property so for now I shall lay claim to them), she said doves were a sign of peace and restoration. Boy, could we use that right now. She went on to suggest I purchase food and a feeder for the birds and then they would remain in my yard and make it their home. What a lovely thought. I do love birds and all creatures. However, after spending $8.99 for eggs yesterday and $12.99 for instant decaf coffee I am hesitant to take on the feeding responsibilities for other living things beyond Boo and myself.  Nonetheless I ordered both food and a feeder before I had time to talk myself out of it. C’est la vie.

dove mourning nesting protection camouflage to protect them from predators

Going back outside to finish my potting I was pleasantly surprised how peaceful it made me to know the little family was settled in above me. Our world is populated with such incredibly beautiful and interesting wildlife. I never stop marveling at the vast selection of creatures provided for us to share space with and enjoy. When I was little my grandfather enrolled me in a course through the Audubon Society. Birds were a particular love for both him and my grandmother and this they shared with me. He and I would sit in his cozy den and study the different species of birds and their habitats. It was always special for me to spend time with the first important man in my life. Sadly we would only have seven years together before he passed away. My grandmother too was a bird fancier. Many of her knick knacks, which were plentiful, were decorated with birds.  When fall arrived I can remember walking behind my grandmother while she carried the red vinyl step stool to one of the huge trees shading our back yard. My job was to carry the net bag of suet which was going to be hung off a limb to feed the birds prolific in the trees where we lived.  Suet, for those of unfamiliar with the term is a mixture of fats and grains. From what I have read, it actually serves to keep the birds warm. In Nova Scotia this would be a plus in any form. Once the bag was suspended we would watch the birds from the dining room window as they circled down to pick pieces of the mixture out from between the holes in the netting. Funny, how some memories just stick like glue to your insides and remain there always.

Birds are interesting little beings with definite personalities, at least the domesticated variety. My friend Carol had a bird named Wilbur. Wilbur was a lovebird by description who shared a cage with his “wife”. I do not remember the female’s name but lovebirds, appropriately named, mate for life. The two were inseparable. Wilbur wiled away his days attending to his lady love while singing happily in his cage. The wife died unexpectedly one day leaving poor Wilbur devastated by her loss. They purchased another mate for him but he never warmed up to his new “wife” with anything near the fervor he had loved the first. The heart wants what the heart wants I guess spans all species.

I too have always considered myself a nester. My ex father-in-law told me once if he gave me a cardboard box and a ball of twine somehow I’d come up with a home. Home has always been a bit of an elusive commodity for me. Truth is I’ve never let a lot of grass grow under my feet. Having counted thirty-nine moves in my life hasn’t left much time for establishing deep roots.  That being said, it has been necessary to create “home” at whatever location I currently found myself in.


While living in Longview, Washington with my ex husband home at the time was a motel room. Working a construction job at the lumber mill we knew on arrival our stay in the glorious northwest would most likely last under a year. To lease a place to hang our hat would most likely have required a one year commitment, not doable in our case. Also, with our household goods taking up space in a storage unit in the Bay Area we had nothing to furnish it with. So, we opted to stay with other construction types at a local motel catering to nomads such as ourselves. There were two rooms plus a bathroom in each generous sized “suite”. Ours was on the second floor overlooking the pool. Each unit had a sliding glass door leading out to the balcony which gave it more of an apartment vibe. There was a small refrigerator in the room off the bedroom/sitting room which comfortably held a sandwich and a quart of milk before feeling crowded. Since we would be there months rather than days I began to look for options for cooking in place and storing food as going out to dinner or picking something up every night was both expensive and is definitely not the healthiest option.

Having no utensils or cooking implements posed a problem. Someone suggested thrift shops. Up until then I had never stepped foot in one. What wonderful places to forage in. For a five dollar bill you could get a whole bag of mismatched silverware. Who knew such riches existed at the Salvation Army? I asked my husband to construct a makeshift three shelf unit with bricks and planks on an empty wall in our room. I filled the shelves with the mish mash of well loved pots and pans purchased with my bag of silver leaving the remaining shelves for food storage. After speaking to the motel owners about wanting to cook in the room they provided me with two two-burner hot plates to cook on.  This still left me with little room to store fresh items so once again I found myself standing in the motel office asking about refrigerator options. As miracles do, one showed up to help. The owner had an apartment size refrigerator in storage. The next day it was hooked up in our “spare” room. Yay. Before long I was cooking all all burners if you will. We made some great meals in that little room that year. My ex was an excellent cook. Hailing from southern Texas he made some delicious pots of gumbo or etoufee which we shared with neighbors who regularly followed the enticing smell to our door.

All in all it was an interesting experience that I will file in my memory book under “innovation”.




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Another week in isolation. Sigh. After hearing on the news that a woman in Texas sat in line for eighteen hours waiting for food from a food pantry I made a promise not to complain. Although my pantry staples such as paper towels etc. are dwindling I haven’t missed a meal as yet (as my scales will corroborate) so feel I had best keep my mouth shut for more reasons than one. Everyone seems to be having trouble locating paper products I’m hearing. I finally located Kleenex for my mother I believe from a website in China. I’m not kidding. It took two and a half weeks to arrive and I could have furnished my living room and had change left over for what I had to pay for it. My son, Steve, called yesterday while in Costco. Apparently he scored Kleenex but still can find no toilet paper. With a house full of teens at his location this situation is bordering on critical. Teens tend to undervalue the products they are provided I have found. One roll of paper towels could be called into service to clean up a few drops of milk off a counter.  From first grade until high school Steve played soccer. Being a working mom I wasn’t always home when he got back from practice. Team members were given carte blanche by my offspring to pillage our cupboards for snacks and juice. My grocery bill began to rival the national debt until I finally realized where the leak was occurring and put a plug in it.

One thing I am definitely noticing about me these days is a sort of general malaise. Since I seem to have all the time in the world to get things done I have adopted an “I’ll do it tomorrow” attitude which for a steady doer such as myself is a tad unsettling.  Yesterday I realized I hadn’t hopped in the shower for three days. The fact that that the cat, usually joined at the hip with me, had begun maintaining social distancing alerted me I’d better remedy the situation.

Though I may be sitting in my dining room, in my mind I am in Hawaii. Images of pristine beaches lined with elegant palm trees and caressed by glistening azure waters keep filling my thoughts. Though I could not live in Hawaii, I love visiting. Over the years I’ve been to the islands four times.  As much as I appreciate the glorious landscapes, resplendent flowers, and friendly inhabitants the thought to me of being confined to an island space with the only avenue of escape being an airplane triggers my claustrophobia. However, spending a few weeks there enjoying what the islands have to offer is definitely always a plan I could embrace.

I was twenty-two when I first landed in Hawaii. My husband at the time, the father of my children, had won a week on Oahu through a local condominium development drawing. The trip included a seven day stay at a Waikiki hotel one block from the beach, a one day Jeep rental, and show tickets to see Don Ho. When you travel, even if the accommodations are free, expenses such as food and entertainment need to be accounted for. Our budget at the time with two toddlers had room for an additional taco split four ways at Taco Bell on payday and not much else. Taking this into consideration, we decided to bring food with us. We borrowed an extra large suitcase from a family member. One of our wedding gifts had been a Farberware indoor grill which had never been taken out of the box. The grill filled half of the extra luggage with the additional space taken up by hot dog buns, bread, peanut butter and jelly, condiments, beverages and snacks.


Stepping off the plane in Honolulu we were greeted by natives bearing lei’s and a whoosh of hot humid air capable of sucking the breath from your lungs. Next our pictures were taken, which would be pitched to us later at our hotel for a substantial price. Once our bags were collected, a hotel shuttle driver loaded them in the back of his mini-van and we were whisked off with other hotel goers down the main drag while being treated to a brief tour. “Pearl Harbor is coming up on your right, ladies and gentlemen. To your left we are passing the Dole Pineapple Factory. Tours run daily.” Check and check.  Traveling as you mature is more about seeing historical sites and local attractions but at that age it was more about “where’s the beach and the mai tai’s”?

Though I missed my little ones at home with their grandma there was something decadent about having a little time for just us. Both my children had come into the world before my twenty-second birthday so in many ways I was still a kid myself.  Waikiki did not disappoint. Our hotel, located at the very end of Kalakaua Avenue, offered an uninterrupted view of Diamondhead from the small balcony patio. My parents had gifted us a little spending money when they dropped us off at the airport which we planned to use on one night of fine dining and drinks by the pool. A reservation had been made at the concierge desk on the way up to our room for dinner out and a Jeep later in the week. All was good in the world.

The first several days we lazed on the gorgeous shoreline taking turns slapping suntan lotion on our browning bodies and washing it off again in the crystal blue Pacific. Each day around noon the sky would cloud over and a brief sprinkling of warm rain would begin to fall. At first we got up when the rain began, but after realizing locals remained in place until it passed we followed suit. Obviously the rainfall had everything to do with the incredible lush surroundings we were enjoying so let it rain, I say, let it rain. If heaven truly does exist on earth Hawaii must be included somewhere in the square footage. At night we would walk to a hotel bar for a drink and enjoy complimentary pupus overlooking the ocean. Then back to our room to plug in our trusty grill and cook a couple of hot dogs or some of the meat and sides we’d picked up at a local market. Our fine dining night we got dressed up and ate at a lovely restaurant perched at the top of a building. The revolving floor provided diners with a panoramic view of Honolulu and the food was amazing. Lights twinkled on boats passing by and drinks with umbrellas and fresh pineapple arrived regularly at our table. A lovely experience I shall always remember.

On the third day we picked up our Jeep as ordered. Immediately obvious was that the vehicle had neither doors nor a top. With the sky a clear blue dotted with a couple of fluffy white clouds and the temperature hovering around a glorious 80 degrees “who needed them”, said my husband. “K”, says I. The state park that was to be our final destination was, according to the concierge, about a 45 minute drive from Honolulu. On our way we were going to stop at the Byodo-In Temple. What a gorgeous spot that was. The serenity of the place passes over you like the touch of a gentle hand. Brightly colored koi populate a pond under an arched bridge as you enter the temple itself. Inside we were greeted by a Buddhist monk. Almost mythical in his demeanor the man lifted his arm only to have small brightly hued birds swoop down and perch atop his sleeve. I mentioned this to the desk clerk on our return and she said she wasn’t aware the temple was staffed. Odd. I think of that from time to time with wonder, but magic was in the air on that trip.


Climbing back in our Jeep we headed for the far end of the island. The entrance to the park was marked by a huge pond with lily pads floating atop the water bedecked with enormous lotus blossoms in a variety of colors. Bull frogs sang their song from the marshes surrounding the pond.  Following a hiking trail we saw all manor of decadent floral displays. Lizards flitted in and out of rocky mounds and the air was alive with insects traveling from one bloom to the next. All and all a lovely way to spend the day.


Late afternoon clouds moved in and we decided it was time to head back to the hotel.  The suspension on the Jeep was less than cushiony leaving my spinal cord feeling like it had pierced my brain every time we hit a bump in the road. The sky, now very grey, was beginning to look concerning. In particular, because there was nothing between us the air around us but, well, the air around us. Suddenly the sky opened up and a torrential onslaught of water careened down from the heavens. Never, other than when I lived in Alabama, have I seen that much rain fall in that short of a period of time. With nowhere sheltered to pull off and nowhere to hide we kept on moving for at least another 30 minutes before reaching our hotel. I managed to grab my purse around one turn before it floated out onto the highway on the tsunami building on my side of the floorboard. The hotel staff were kind enough to say nothing about the fact my shoes were bubbling as I walked across the lobby making sounds like pulling a cow’s hoof out of a mud puddle every time I took a step.

The rest of our trip passed uneventfully. On our last night in Honolulu after reviewing our meager cash supply we decided to walk down to a McDonald’s we had passed earlier in the day. On our way a gentlemen in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt standing outside of Don the Beachcomber’s stopped us asking if we’d had dinner. Nodding no in unison side to side he asked if we’d be interested in watching a presentation about condos for sale on the mainland in exchange for dinner and a show. Our heads were once again nodding together this time up and down. Don’t know if you could purchase a condo for $7 and change even in those days, but we were open to listening their pitch, especially with a meal involved. Dinner was a delicious buffet followed afterwards by an excellent show featuring Hawaiian dancers. What a great way to end our time there. Condos in and condos out.

So, aloha for now. I shall lean back in my beach chair and point my face towards the sun and dream of porpoises and sea turtles and something rummy and cold.





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