School’s Out For Summer!

It’s official!  School’s out for summer! If you’re a student (or a school employee) it doesn’t get any better than this.

Certainly you remember some of your last days of school and the start of summer.  The promise of endless days in the sun, sleeping as long as you like, picnics in the park, swimming at the pool.  Trips to the museum and the bookmobile.  Spending the night at your best friend’s house.  Watermelon for dessert punctuated with seed spitting competitions.  And Freckle Contests.

Every summer my neighborhood had a Freckle Contest.  The contestants–me, my siblings, and our friends–would assemble on the front lawn on the designated date–most likely selected because everyone was hanging around looking bored.  The totally unbiased judge–my father–would  carefully inspect the freckles, or the lack thereof, on the faces of the contestants.

After some tense moments, as the judge deliberated with his able assistant–my mother,–the winners would be announced.  It was not unlike the Grammies.  Categories for most every possible conglomeration of freckles:  The most freckles–my best friend’s brother always won this category.  He had freckles on his freckles,–the smallest freckles, the biggest  freckles, the fewest freckles, the prettiest freckles, and the most interesting outline drawn dot to dot by following freckles.

There was never a contestant without a prize, none of which do I have any remembrance of.  But the contest itself was unforgettable.  It was the definition of summer itself.

Father’s Day and Cars

Hubby loves cars.  He can tell you all about the shape of the headlights, the power under the hood,  and the color of the seat covers of about any car on the road.  

To me, cars are a necessary evil. I can’t live without them but I hate the way they steal my money and time.  I have no idea about, nor interest in, the shape of the headlights or the color of the seat covers and I have no understanding of the power.  I just want a car that takes me safely,  and reasonably comfortably, from here to there and back again.

But to honor my car-loving husband, my daughter and I took him to the LeMay Car Museum for Father’s Day.  Along with half the dads in Washington State.  It was packed to the fenders with dads and their daughters and husbands and their wives looking at dozens and dozens of cars.

Again, I’m no fan of cars.  But that bias aside, I have to say the LeMay Museum was a disappointment.  It has  oodles of cars.  Cars that are old and cars that are older. Cars that are sleek and cars that are incredibly odd.  But it’s just a bunch of cars, neatly lined up, but in no particular order.  Up a ramp, down a ramp, back through the middle ramp to get to the next section.  The lay out is lacking thought and character. It’s just a bunch of cars in a very new, expensive warehouse.

I’ll share a little secret:  If you like cars, or if you’re like me, not especially interested in cars put willing to take a look, you need to head to Reno’s National Automobile Museum.

The lay-out makes sense and is attractive.  Cars are set up by decade, in interesting winding patterns.  You get a free audio guide that tells you  facts about some of the cars along with interesting tidbits about the era in which the cars were developed, the people who designed the cars, the mood of the country at the time.  And to top it off,  it’s less expensive than LeMay’s.

There may be more cars at LeMay’s.  And maybe cars you’ll not see anywhere else. I really don’t know about that (because I have no real interest in cars.) But for anyone not completely interested in just the machines, forget it.  Make a trip to Reno.  I hate cars and I’ll go back to the Reno National Automobile Museum anytime.

Growing Older

Have you noticed that each stage of life is so transitory?.  You’re an infant for such a short time, then a toddler, then a pre-schooler.  You go to elementary school, then junior high, then high school.  You graduate and become a college student.  You  get a job and are the new kid on the block. You fall in love and suddenly you’re a  newlywed.  Then a parent of an infant, a toddler, a pre-schooler…an empty nester, a grandparent.  You start getting used to your new status  but  the years don’t slow down.  Without any say in the matter you have a new title and a new role.

Oh, I’m not complaining because they’re all good.  When my kids were little I thought, “This is great.  I love you being little.  I’m not sure I’ll like the next stage but this is great.”  The first day of school was hard but it was also exciting and I thought, “I sure like this stage.  I don’t know why I enjoyed the previous stage so much ‘cuz this is awfully good.  And I’m not sure I’ll like the next stage, but it’s good now.” In the blink of an eye the kids are in high school and graduation looms ahead. Then they’re off to  college and leaving home.  Getting married and having children of their own.  I’ve enjoyed each stage, wondering why I was so unsure about the next stage but once I get there it’s great.  Except for one important issue:  Each new stage means I’m getting older.

I work at a high school and we have just hired a new teacher for the fall.  A teacher, with a master’s degree, who graduated from our school just 6 years ago.  Now this is whole new stage.  I’ll have a  colleague who I knew as a student a few short years ago.   I’m not sure I’m going to like this new role.  But then again, it will probably be great.  Especially if she looks like this picture!

Barbed Wire and Cattle

There’s  a reason the west was fenced with barbed wire. To keep the cattle in.  Or out, depending on which side of the barbed wire you were on.  Because cattle have no sense of property lines.  Or proper manners, either.

Which we experience each spring as our neighbor’s calves grow up. They are just now at the naughty calf stage:  too unsure of themselves to be completely away from mom but too sure of themselves to spend the entire day on their side of the fence. Which, incidentally, is not barbed.  And therein lies the problem.

These little buggers, cute as can be, don’t care that the fence is “hot”.  They run right through it. To our yard.  Because, as any grass eating animal can attest,  the green is much greener on the other side of the fence.

I’m minding my own business washing dishes and there in my backyard is a calf grazing on my bushes, poking holes in the lawn with his big feet, and doing other things that calves do.  So I go outside to encourage him to return home, via the road, and he runs right thru’ the hot wire.  Stops, turns slightly, gives me “the look”, then takes off kicking his heels up, and telling his friends to run away from the crazy neighbor.

There’s a reason the west was fenced with barbed wire.

Chicken Retirement Living

“With accommodations from which you can watch the seasons change, The 4 C’s Retirement & Assisted Living Community is beautifully appointed…”

I don’t know when my husband posted that ad on the internet but we got action right away.  A young friend contacted us and told us she had the residents we were looking for.  She and her husband had some old  hens that needed a good home.

At the time I was envisioning getting out of the hen and egg business as my hens aged and went off to where old hens go.  Then in just one Sunday afternoon my flock of 6 became a flock of 3, which was faster than I’d expected to see my hen business end.  The coyotes had quite a bar b cue that evening.  I could imagine one or two more of my small flock becoming someone else’s chicken dinner over the summer months which would leave me with just one hen, spending the winter friendless and cold.  It was such a sad picture that I decided to take in the geriatric hens of our friends, if for nothing more than companionship.

So the retirees were delivered to our chicken yard. Probably not the smartest move on my part because I don’t really need to feed 6 more aging hens but to tell you the truth I didn’t think we were getting 6.  I was expecting 3 to replace the 3 I’d just lost.  Lucky me, I got 6.  But as the former owners were hastily piling in their car trying to leave before I changed my mind they carelessly divulged the fact that these old ladies were 2 years old, “but they still lay….some”

Two years old?  My goodness, they better be laying! Two years is nothing.  And lay they have.  And now I’m feeling pretty smug.  I’m getting 5, 6, 7 eggs a day from these “old” ladies.  My poor young friends are getting 0, as in a big fat goose egg zero, eggs from the chicks they just got.

And my “aged” feathered friends are watching the seasons change from their beautifully (to a chicken) appointed accommodations at the 4 C’s  Chicken Retirement Home, and living the life.