Winter blues? Maybe it's time to visit an island.

It's not officially winter yet but some of the coldest temperatures of the year have descended upon us Kansans.    Temperatures that can bring a squeaky whine from even the toughest of us.  Probably need to exclude myself from that "toughest of us" group.  I just want to be near the fireplace with a cup of coffee and a good book.  I was designed to hibernate.  

I'd like to give you something to at least dream about.   Sanibel Island, Florida.  A slice of heaven off the gulf coast near Fort Myers (which in itself is another lovely spot for a getaway,  but it is just a bit more lively & commercial).  

View from our rental condo, 2010, at Oceans Reach Resort.  Screened-in lanai.  Bliss, I tell ya. 

In 2010 we were looking for a place to take a vacation for our May anniversary and decided on Sanibel from some friends' recommendation.  No buildings over 4 stories high and no street lighting (think very starry nights on a beautiful island)  It's a decidedly quiet and wonderful place.  Very family friendly.  Lots of seashells, and there is a wildlife refuge that is quite nice.  Bike path over the entire island.  Historic lighthouse.  Plenty of restaurants and groceries, although it's best to shop for most of your food before you cross the bridge to Sanibel.  And you can always cross back over that bridge any time and be in Fort Myers. Easy peasy.  

But really, it's all about the beaches.  White sand between your toes.  Sea shells in abundance.   Beautiful warm gulf waters.  Sunshine.  Vitamin D therapy at its best.  One walk onto the lanai of your oceanside room with gorgeous view of the beach and relaxation commences.  Smiles form. You might never want to leave.  Ahhhhhhh.  

This is  Oceans Reach Condominiums, looking back at the building from the seashore.   The island of Sanibel is off the beaten path, and Oceans Reach is even further off the beaten path.  It's well away from the main road on the island.  So very quiet and serene.   It is not inexpensive.  And condos generally require that you stay one full week.  Oceans Reach is mid-range price wise.   And there many other options for oceanside lodging with a variety of prices.  

Winter is the priciest season, and truly the most wonderful time to travel to most anywhere in Southern Florida.  Summer is a good (less expensive) option for anywhere in Florida.  But having a good time in Florida's summer heat does require that you enjoy sweat.  Your own sweat.  Others' sweat.  Take a hat, too, because your hair will be just nasty awful. Side note:  you will likely never see these people again, and they look/smell just as bad as you.  Chill out.  👍  

We took a dolphin tour, and we drove over to the Everglades for an airboat ride.  Other than that, for one full week we walked the beaches.  We rode bikes on the island.   We read books.  We cooked our own food in the condo and ate out at fun places a couple nights.  But the bulk of our time was spent on the beach in total relaxation.  It.  Was.  Heaven.  

 Walked miles along the beach, and wrote our initials in the sand.  That's as clever as we get when it comes to sand art.

When we pried ourselves from the beaches and headed back to the Sunflower State, we vowed that every single year we would again go to Sanibel on our anniversary.  That was 2010.  This is 2016.  Though we have made a couple trips to the NW Florida coast (Destin/So Walton) and really loved that area, we haven't been able to take a trip back to Sanibel. Yet.  These frigid Kansas temperatures and gale force winds may just dictate a winter vacation.  Hey, sometimes you can get really good last minute deals.  Hmmm.  Think I just figured out what I want for Christmas, Mr. DeWayne.  

  

Goodnight, Sanibel.  

P.S.   Just for the record, the Destin/South Walton Beaches area is gorgeous, offers really beautiful places to stay, lots to do, and is a bit more populated.  But the temperatures are enough cooler in the winter that it doesn't have the same appeal to me for a wintertime escape as Sanibel does.  

Capturing Time

If you’re old enough you should remember the day when taking a photograph involved quite the procedure. My mom had what I think was a Kodak Brownie camera (? maybe) that she was ecstatic about. The process was slow. Film to buy at a store and then load into the camera. Then you had to remember to advance the film after taking the picture or risk double exposures. And the blinding flash that was so easy to forget to use, and of course when you really needed it you’d learn the bulb was burned out. Yes, little bitty light bulbs. Yes, we had to replace them. Yes, in a CAMERA, children of today!!! Then you had to use up all the film before having the pictures processed. Which always resulted in random shots of nothingness. Often we had more random nothings than good pictures. 

Back in those days in order to even look at the picture you just took it required printing them, which was a 10 day-2 week process.  You waited all that time, sifted through  12 to 24 to 36 to 48 prints for possibly that ONE picture you really wanted to see.  And often, every stinking one of them was icky and unusable.  Useful only for gag gifts or the like.

Photography was just not that easy back in the day. A good picture was a priceless treasure. Fast forward to today. Wow what a difference. Digital imaging has simplified the life of photo lovers.  I’m happy saying goodbye to the days of film rolls & cartridges. So much easier to look at the picture you’ve taken in a little screen and simply slap the delete button to erase it. Or push another button and crop out your wide hips and thighs. Ah, the bliss of the edit feature. So much easier to store the pictures on your computer, or have them quickly printed.   So much easier that perhaps we forget just how precious pictures really are.

Recently I was in a conversation with a friend who was criticizing an elderly family member for going overboard taking pictures. “He will take 100 shots of the same thing, then move on to another object and take 100 more shots.” To me, that’s just no big deal. Especially when the objects in the pictures are people, family....let’s get to the point: GRANDCHILDREN!! Or puppies. Or whatever your heart desires. Whatever your heart desires. Think about it. Why do we take pictures? I think it’s an attempt to stop time. To capture a moment. When that moment has long passed by and you can no longer hug that person, or talk to that person, or be in the same place with that person.....you can look at a photo and still have the same emotion you had when the picture was taken. It’s as close as we can humanly get to capturing time. What a blessing to have pictures.

Benton & Bunny.  1958.  "We'll go fishing when you're older, Bunny girl."

The picture above is one of only a handful of pictures of me with my dad. I so wish there were more. Only had him for 17 years of my life. One other picture that I possess is one of him and his old fishing friend with a stringer of fish. I’m in the picture, too, because he woke me up to show me what I’d missed out on when I opted to stay in bed instead of getting up at 6 am to go run our fishing lines with them on the river.  I would show you that picture but I was wearing my bath robe and my hair was bed head crazy. Seeing the stringer of fish was way too exciting to take the time to get dressed before heading out the front door. It’s all captured on film. Not a flattering picture, but the memory it brings to my mind is simply priceless. Memories. Priceless.

Take a picture. Or 100 pictures. Capture some time. Hold on to the memories.

Pretty sure this picture qualifies as priceless.   

Time captured.  

Moment to treasure.

Forever in a picture.  

One autumn evening

There's something about a sunset.  I've heard there's also something about a sunrise, too, but I'm far more likely to experience sunsets than sunrises.  

Every 24 hours the sun signs off for the day.  Some days it's just a quick goodnight with no kiss of beauty.  Other times God paints a sunset so beautiful it brings tears to my eyes. That's a fact.  Sometimes a sunset can take me away to one particular evening in 1970.  Kind of odd that one particular sunset has been etched permanently in my memory.  But it is.

My dad was still working for the Ottawa County Maintenance department, but he'd been moved from driving the large yellow Caterpillar road maintainer to the sign department. One of the tasks involved in this job was lighting warning flares every evening in road construction zones.  This was in the day before orange cones with reflective markings.   The flares were metal flat-bottomed spheres filled with oil with a wick extending from a hole in the top.  He would replenish them with oil and light them so that they burned all night to warn drivers of road dangers.  

On this particular fall evening Dad was getting ready to go out on flare duty and he asked me to go with him.  He hadn't been feeling all that well, and he asked me to drive the county pickup truck for him.  I had my restricted license that let me drive with an adult in the vehicle and boy did I love to drive, so of course I was ecstatic that he asked me.  And I readily said yes.   

We left our home in Minneapolis and headed east on 10th street toward Wells.  It was just a beautiful fall evening and the rolling hills were so pretty.  We drove on through Wells to the curve in the road that leads to Oak Hill.   The flares were just beyond that curve and I helped him get them set up and lit for the night. 

As we got back in the truck to head home, he said "It's such a nice evening, why don't we just drive through Vine Creek on the way home".   Always eager to exercise my driving skills, I of course agreed.  We made our way over to Vine Creek which by 1970 was a ghost town.   His childhood started in Vine Creek, and he pointed out where the landmarks of the town used to be.  By this time except for one small church and one home, there were only a few foundations here and there and a cemetery.  He had stories to share, and I listened.  I was 15, he was 62.  15 year old me didn't always listen. Peaceful moments like this were rare.  And priceless.  

Eventually we drove on and as we rounded a corner to head west,  the sun was setting with trees silhouetted against a stunning display of colors.  The hills were covered with large hay stacks and a windmill was visible in the midst of them.  I stopped the truck and said, "That is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."  Dad agreed.  We sat there for a while and watched the sun drop over the horizon then we headed home.  

My father continued to not feel all that well and a few weeks after this evening drive he came home from seeing the doctor and told us he had bad news.  He had been diagnosed with leukemia.  As it turned out, it was the first day of his last two years of life.  Oh what those two years would involve.  I'm so very very glad I said yes to his request to go with him that one evening in the fall of 1970. 

Of course, this all happened in the days before taking a picture was as easy as pulling out your cell phone and snapping as many images as you'd like.  But a vivid image is there in my memory. Pretty sure it will always be there, no matter how many other memories escape me. Pretty sure the memory will always make a tear slide down my cheek.  

When I see a sunset even all these years later, it never fails to take me back to that one evening.  I thank God for that sunset.  I believe He was in our presence that evening, and He knew Dad and I needed that time together.  God could see the storm of life ahead of us,   And when I see beautiful sunsets now, it serves to remind me He's always present.  Always present to bring peace in the storm.   

Beautiful sunset many many years later while camping.
God speaks without saying a word. 

"The heavens declare the glory of God. The skies display his craftsmanship. Day after day they continue to speak; night after night they make him known. They speak without a sound or word; their voice is never heard."  Psalms 19:1‭-‬3 

Inexplicable mysteries of my gray matter. Subtitled: If I Only Had a Brain

As we watched the KU game against Stanford a few days ago, I wowed everyone in the room with my vast knowledge of Stanford's coach Jerod Haase and where he grew up, the two colleges where he played college ball, and his coaching history that began in North Carolina, as well as giving a brief verbal synopsis of the book he wrote titled "Floor Burns".   To clarify the facts, "everyone in the room" was merely myself, the hubby, and our dog.  In order of wowed-ness, the hubby was least wowed.  The dog came in at #2, and that just leaves me to top the list of most wowed by my vast knowledge.  

Why was I wowed?  Because I just do not comprehend what causes my brain to allow such trivial information (no offense, Mr. Haase) to so firmly adhere to my gray matter.  While letting really significant stuff slide ride on out.  

Would you like to know where I keep my Tupperware colander with convenient handle that I've owned since the early 1980's?  Me too!  I could have used it this evening as I prepared supper.  

I'd also like to share with you where my favorite long sleeved white jersey cardigan that I wear to work in the winter over my scrubs might be located.  In fact, if you know the answer to that, do let me know.  I need it.  

Then there's a key to a cabinet at work.  One day with me and it's history.  Poof!

One may be tempted to chalk this up to the natural effects of aging.  Perhaps to a degree, but to refute that hypothesis, I give you this picture:

The Lonely Sock Club, established in 1974 or so. I was young. Of course over the years there have been many socks come and go from this basket.  They stay until I declare them permanently lost from their matching sock and then I toss them. At which point their matching sock magically reappears.  Too late. 

One of my older sisters whose name starts with L wisely advised me that it's not necessary to wear matching socks anymore.  She's on the cutting edge of knowing what's what, so I've made an executive decision to close the Club. These socks are going back in my sock drawer. You may find me wearing a most unusual combination of socks from here on out.  I'm no slave to fashion.  Why stress over lost socks.  Especially when I've got SO many other things to look for.  

I'll put those socks away here in a minute.  Right now I'm watching the Wichita Shockers men's team play St Louis.  Did you know St. Louis coach Travis Ford was once a star for the Missouri Tigers and most recently coached at Oklahoma State before he was fired last season?  

Wow.  Just wow.   

Snowy happiness. In my own backyard and far, far away

There is snow in the forecast this week. First snow of the season?  We'll see.   Last year we had approximately 150 flakes of snow total during the winter here in the South of Kansas. But a couple of winters ago we were blessed with probably record amounts of snow. The ground was covered a lot of the winter. And I  made a new friend.

For several weeks when I went out on my back deck in the early morning, this beautiful deer would be wandering around behind our fence, probably looking for the critter corn I throw out for the squirrels and deer.  The deer clearly had sustained an injury or something to one of its knees, as it kind of limped around while walking.  I called her Bum-knee Bambi. While I stood on my deck, she would stand and look directly at me for really long periods of time.  Then she would assume this resting position and just lie there peacefully for hours.   Our friendship lasted a few months and then one day she wasn't around anymore.  Probably met up with the wrong crowd.  They were probably wearing orange hunting vests.  Venison happens.  No biggie.  

I'm not generally one who enjoys walking around in the snow.  For one thing, the idea of slipping, falling, breaking a bone just has very little appeal. I don't want to end up being "Bum-knee B".    However, a while back when I went to Weisbaden, Germany with the hubby while he was on a work trip, it was either get out and walk around in the cold snowy weather, or stay in the tiny hotel room and look out the tiny window at the tiny courtyard. I'm way too hyper for that nonsense, so I walked. Safely and successfully. 

One evening DeWayne and I decided to go out and find our way to a new-to-us restaurant that our friend Ruthie from Wichita had recommended.  The Stadl.   It wasn't in the town center, but rather in the residential section.  And it was about 1.5 miles one-way from our hotel.  So, we bundled up and ventured out into the dark while it lightly snowed. 

This is the neighborhood we walked through. (I took the pics  next day, just had to see the area in the daylight)  Isn't it cool? 

After walking way over 1.5 miles down what we believed to be the correct street, we gave up and decided to hoof it back to our hotel. Well, to be precise, the mister thought it wise to give up our search. I wasn't ready to give it up, and probably whined a bit.  Hey, it's what I do from time to time. 

As we walked back down the same street we'd just traveled, we were in complete darkness except for the window lights coming from the homes along the way.  I let myself gaze at these homes with warmly lit windows and imagine happy families inside their homes, sitting at the dinner table.  Or maybe they were fighting over the toilet paper being hung on its holder wrong, who knows.  

After a bit, as I was gazing  at the beautiful homes I noticed a small dimly lit sign on the lower level of one of the high rise residential buildings, actually more like below ground level.  Sure enough, we finally found our destination.  Easily missed on our first trip down this street.  The sign was dimly lit and the windows were totally dark.  I convinced DeWayne that yes, we really did need to go up and at least look in the windows.  As we opened the gate and walked toward the window to peer in, the door suddenly opened and the owner of the restaurant appeared.  She spoke pretty decent English, and told us that she was just now opening up for the evening and we would need reservations.  We explained that our American friend had recommended the Stadl. And she suddenly had a change of heart, saying "Come on in." 

We entered the door and descended a few steps down into a room that was in the building's cellar with a quite low rough beamed ceiling. The entire restaurant had two small rooms, one that would hold about 15 people, and then a larger back room for a group of 35.  

Being the first diners, we sat at a table in the small room and looked over the German menu.  Luckily it had English sub-titles.  Topfenpalatschinken. Yes, that was one of the words on the menu that definitely required English subtitle. Delicious dessert!! Schnitzel was good, too.

As we waited for our food to be served the diners with reservations started pouring into the tiny restaurant.  One group of four men sat at a table right next to us, ordered beer, pulled out a large notebook and a deck of cards and began playing an intense card game of some sort.  No gambling or anything, just a regular game.  Could have been Pitch or Pinochle.  But apparently they documented the Win/Loss records in the large notebook. It was a big deal, people.  SERIOUS business from the looks on their faces.   One of the 4 was in charge of writing in the book after every game was completed.  I'm not sure they ever ordered food.  

The little Stadl became a lively little place and we enjoyed observing the local folks in their natural habitat.  After our meal we ventured back out onto the snowy sidewalks in the dark and made our way back to the hotel.  No broken hips, no slipping and sliding.  

And I'm more than okay with the snowy forecast for this week.  Bring it.  I can stay in my warm home and enjoy the view if I so choose.  And maybe, just maybe, a new friend will appear behind our fence.  

From shelf life to finish line.

For the past few years every August when I celebrate my birthday, I do what probably many of you my age do.... wonder how many more birthdays I'll be blessed to celebrate.  My dad's life ended when he was 64.  At the time I was 17 and thought "at least Dad had a good long life".  Ha.  64 is so very very young. The closer I get to it, the younger it seems. 

And then I ponder what my life will look like as the years pass.  Probably many of you do the same.  It's not that I lose sleep while pondering, or even feel any real anxiety over the subject.  But I do wonder from time to time what my "best if used by" date might be.  😁 Shelf life, if you will.

Right now I still feel like the baby of the family, young at heart and still struggling to go ahead and grow up already.  The mirror tells me otherwise. And the fact that my oldest child is 40 (FORTY) tells me that time has been whizzing on by.  And that I'm.....uh.....not young anymore.   

In a conversation with one of my sisters recently we were visiting about the change in family dynamics that comes with aging.  As young mothers, our roles involved daily action.  We were intertwined in every day of our family's life.  And that continued on for years, decades even.  Then slowly, subtly, the roles change.  It's not a bad change, don't get me wrong.  But we go from being active participants to less active participants to eventually (hopefully) much-loved spectators.  At that point, we kind of get put on a shelf and only come down from the shelf as desired/needed by our younger family members.  And again, this is not necessarily a bad change.   A lot of enjoyment can occur while on that shelf if we have the right perspective.  We still have great value and still have a lot to offer to others while on the shelf. 

 We're not alone on the shelf. God promises to be with us, and never fail us.  Not only does God never fail us, He's not even able to fail us!!! Failing is one thing God isn't able to do.  His love never fails. He wants us to just chill and rest in the promise that He's God and we're not.  Whew!! Seriously, isn't that a relief??  Enjoy the shelf!!

Often God has the daunting task of encouraging me to remain on the shelf.  He asks me to gently let go of my desire to jump down and fix what isn't mine to fix.  The scripture comes to mind:  "Set a guard over my mouth, Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips" Ps 141:3.  😉 And of course "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and don't lean on your own understanding".  Prov 3:5.  I would paraphrase the last part to say "don't even begin to expect to understand".  Just trust Him.  Just. Trust.  Him. 

So in regards to my personal shelf life there's really only one pressing concern that I have.  I want to finish well.  That would be the one thing that might keep me awake at night from time to time.  Praying that God would keep me from becoming a grouchy bitter cynical old person who gets left alone on the shelf because no one can bear the thought of being around me.  Praying that my testimony for Jesus would never be negated and erased because of a whiny, sour, negative attitude.  That would be the greatest tragedy I could imagine.  

It occurs to me, though, that even if grouchy, bitter, cynical does appear at some point, we can still finish well.  Confession is always a good thing. Forgiveness and redemption and amazing grace is always promised to every one of us.  We're not finished until.... we're stepping across the threshold of heaven and into the arms of Jesus who will say,  "Well done, good and faithful one, come on in and I'll complete the plan I had in mind for you when I created you."  

The other day in my morning devotions I read from Our Daily Bread something that brought me hope and I want to share it with you:

"If through contented and cheerful old age we show others the fullness and deepness of God, we'll be useful to the end of our days.  Old age does not have to focus on declining health, pining over what once was.  It can also be full of tranquility and mirth and courage and kindness, the fruit of those who have grown old with God."  (written by David Roper).  

We can finish well

Ps 92: 13-14 "Those who are planted in the house of the Lord....shall still bear fruit in old age; they shall be fresh and flourishing".   

Shelf Life -- A look into my pantry. Brace yourself.

With Thanksgiving being last week, I spent a lot of time standing in my pantry, perusing the shelves for ingredients needed to make recipes that I only make once a year.  Not that I only use these individual ingredients once a year, but from the looks of the expiration dates on some of these items I clearly do not cook often enough. 

Exhibit A:  Morton Salt.  It was "made on 10-20-08".  If I'm not mistaken the current year is 2016, very nearly 2017.   And it's one of two containers of salt in the pantry.  The other one has no dates at all on it, so it's probably even older.   Logic is telling me that salt doesn't expire. Wishful thinking hopes I'm correct.

Exhibit B:  Hershey's Cocoa. Good grief.   I could sign it up for Antiques Road Show.  Would you throw this away?  It's half full.  I think I made some brownies with it the other day actually.  And they all got eaten. Perhaps by me alone.  But I don't really turn away any sweets based on quality.  Equal opportunity snacker. The bathroom scales agree with that statement.  

Exhibits C & D:  More evidence that I simply don't cook much. Tapioca expired in 2013.  No part of my memory can dredge up what I might have used this for.  ??  

Baking powder expired 2014. But it's almost empty.  It's going in the trash.  I have another container of baking powder in the pantry that still has a couple weeks to live.  

If I were to take pictures of the spices in my spice rack you might see Roman numerals for expiration dates.  Do spices expire?  Seriously?  I'm not tossing any of them at this point.  No worries, I probably won't ever use most of them anyway.  🙌  They fill up the empty spaces in my cool huge hanging spice rack and make it look like I'm an expert cook.  Clearly an illusion.
                   

My final exhibit is one of 3 (THREE) large (LARGE) jars of Jif peanut butter.  It's set to expire in August of 2018. The other two jars, same thing.  I can quite accurately predict that all three of these jars will be history in probably less than 2-3 weeks.   I consume approximately 1 tablespoon every 4 or 5 days. Tops.  

But my beloved husband, bless his heart, is in love with the stuff.  Specifically, only JIF brand. No Skippy, for heaven's sake. No off brands.  No Kroger.  No all natural organic freshly made right in front of his eyes peanut butter at some high dollar food store.  We've been married 42 years.  I'd like to think he'd choose me over PB but I wouldn't actually bet money on it.  No biggie.   

He eats insane amounts of peanut butter, and I look like a pathetic version of Mrs. Patmore from Downton Abbey when I cook.  It's a match made in heaven.  And I'm planning on our match having a really long shelf life.  💕    

Driving lessons across the pond. Guten tag.

A few years ago the hubby and I were in Germany on a work trip for him.  The month was December and unknown to me at the time, the country of Germany is famous for outdoor Christmas markets.  An outdoor market in the cold month of December doesn't necessarily make one hyperventilate with excitement.  But one should.  Vendors set up open tents of handcrafted items for sale in a large open area midtown, with lights and decorations. The most popular time of day to check out these markets oddly enough is in the cold, often snowy, evening.  Hot drinks are served and people come out in droves to stroll, drink gluhwein, visit, and shop. 
  

This picture is of the market in Heidelberg and though it's not that great of a picture you get the idea.  It's a big deal   The people are friendly and it was easy for the two of us Kansans to blend in and appear to be just another German couple.  Until we rented a car and decided to take a little road trip to explore the countryside and more Christmas markets elsewhere.  From Heidelberg we drove to Heilbronn and drove slowly in search of their market area.  In the daylight we could see the market at a distance and we slowly proceeded over the quaint brick streets.  Signage was tricky but we felt certain we'd found the correct street at last, and made a right turn in the direction of the market tower area.  I became nervous pretty quickly because the road just seemed so narrow, but we surmised it was a one way street.   And we drove on and on and made a really tight turn, all the while not seeing any other cars driving on the street we were on.  We did eventually see something else on the street.  Pedestrians.  Yes boys and girls, we were driving on a sidewalk.  Half way across the world from home.  Surrounded by people who looked like us but were considerably more intelligent.  There was  no way to turn around so we crept on until we found ourselves right smack dab in the middle of a big old Christmas market.  Riding in a car.  To say I was mortified... well, that doesn't begin to describe it.  We could see an end to the sidewalk and it looked like it merged with a street.  So we proceeded on, driving over thick power cords that had been draped to the various vendor tents.  Squeezing through tight spots in our little rental BMW.  Kind of giving embarassed smiles and waves to the Christmas Market customers milling around.  Horror of horrors, the sidewalk ended up at a dead end with 3 foot drop off onto a railroad track.  You're wondering what we did?  There weren't many options.  DeWayne put the car in reverse and we backed up through the market, back over the power cords, back around the tight curve, and finally was able to reverse our direction.  Surrounded by people and I'm pretty sure I could read lips.  "They must be from America.  Probably Kansas."   

Does this look like a sidewalk to you?  Okay, in retrospect I have to admit it does.  But I'm telling you the infrastructure in these German villages is daunting.  

And hey, hundreds of happy Germans were entertained that day.  We take a bow.  The curtain closes.  The end.  

Benton and Bunny

My folks had three teenage daughters when they discovered they were expecting a baby.  Pretty sure my dad, Benton, at age 47 just knew his son was finally on the way.  One last chance to carry on the family name.  Oh the gloom that must have been thick in that hospital nursery the first time he glanced down and thought "No son.  Not now.  Not ever."  In fact many many years later I came across the bundle of greeting cards that my parents received after I was born.  Some of them had all the happy exuberance of sympathy cards. Apparently the whole world, or at least all of Ottawa County Kansas, was sad for them.  "Well, you must be disappointed you didn't get your boy."  Stuff like that. Just dripping with happiness and encouragement.

Fortunately neither my mom nor my dad ever let me know any of that.  If Daddy was disappointed in my gender, I certainly never knew it.  For all I knew my dad thought I hung the moon.  We were pretty thick friends, and I became his trusty sidekick and loyal companion.  As a county employee who drove those big old yellow Caterpillar road maintainers, he'd often take me on the job.  I felt pretty dog-gone important as we drove through the countryside doing what I considered to be the MOST PRESTIGIOUS JOB EVER.  And after work, most evenings you'd find me out in the workshop helping him with his carpentry projects.  But by far, hands down, the best times we had involved fishing.  

We'd fish farm ponds between Niles and Vine Creek pretty often, but my favorite memories involve river fishing.  The Solomon River west of Minneapolis.  After suppertime in the summer we'd head to the river in his old 1948 Chevrolet pickup to set our lines.  Our aluminum fishing boat with Evinrude motor was stored on the Miller farm and we'd venture (slide sometimes) down the muddy river bank and climb in the boat.  I loved the trips down the river, stopping here and there to hang baited lines on tree limbs.  One of us would bait and hang the lines and the other would steer the boat with the arm that extended from the motor.  I preferred driving the boat, of course.  What girl wouldn't? But if I bumped into a log or something it was back to baiting lines for me.  We'd travel to a point near the dam then turn around and head back to the Miller farm to climb back up the muddy bank and head home.  The next morning before the sun came up he'd holler at me that it was time to get up and run our fishing lines.  And, wonder of wonders, I'd get out of bed.  And go with him willingly, sometimes half asleep. Watching the sun light up the sky as we traveled along, I'd listen to my dad hum tunes with accompaniment provided by the Chevy engine.  Happy noises to my ears.  We almost always returned home with a big stringer of fish.

My dad almost never, well let's just be honest, he NEVER said the words "I love you" to me.  Probably just the way a lot of dads were in that day, I don't know. But I can tell you from the bottom of my heart there is no doubt that he loved me.  Actions?  Words?  Which speaks louder?  Yep, I was his Bunny girl.  (his words) For 17 years until he lost his life to leukemia, I was his Bunny.  

During those 17 years I was just flat out positive that I loved fishing.  So a few years later when I  married my husband,  and acquired a father-in-law who loved to fish, it only seemed natural that we'd all go fishing.  I'd like to be able to report that I still  loved fishing, but I did not.  No I did not.  Not one little bit. I did not love fishing.  I loved my dad. 

A few years ago I was driving to Auburn Kansas to spend the day in the company of my delightful, adorable, and perfect grandchildren while their folks were at work.  It's a pretty drive through the Flint Hills and I dialed in a Country music station when I took the Admire exit to take the two lane road through Burlingame on into Auburn.  Country music isn't the music genre I usually opt to listen to, but it kind of helped to pass the time as I drove along.  Until one song came on the radio that grabbed at my heart like a vice grip.  Trace Adkins' "Just Fishin".  I can still tell you my exact location when I heard it, and I can report that driving visibility became very poor because of the tears flooding down my cheeks.  

Thanks, Daddy, for taking me "just fishing".  I love you.  We'll fish together again one day.  I promise.      

 For your listening pleasure:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IheODRwalEw

Nostalgia. A side effect of cleaning

Now that I'm sort of semi-retired, my leisurely breakfasts often include thinking about cleaning.  And occasionally, my thoughts become actions.  Some of  my closets are now phenomenally clean and organized.  Some are not.  Yet.  

Last week I uncovered this gem while cleaning a closet.  My dad's hat.  I thought it had been gone forever.  What a precious discovery!!!  I put that hat on my head and let my heart feel the memory of my Dad wearing it.  He only wore it on special occasions, you understand.  Like church or doctor appointments or family gatherings.  His everyday hat was a ball cap permanently saturated with sweat, smelling of a combination of sweat and diesel fuel.  Growing up it was my favorite scent.  Seriously.  It meant Daddy was home.  That headgear was probably destroyed by fire in the trash barrel out back of our house.  (yes you could actually burn all your trash back in the pre-EPA days)  And it probably burned fast with all that diesel fuel!!  

Today I cleaned out a decorative wicker box with a lid that sits in my living room.  Totally forgot that it had anything in it. Surprisingly it contained a lot of kind of cool memorabilia.  Like this AUTOGRAPHED book by John C Maxwell.  I think the hubby received it at a conference long ago.  Pretty cool.  I think I'll read it!!  I haven't read anything other than e-books on my Kindle for years.  I love e-books, but it just today occurs to me that there is no way for an author to autograph his/her work with e-books.  Kinda sad. 

One of my favorite finds was this from our trip to Paris in 2008:

While in Paris on a work trip for DeWayne,  we used this pass to visit museums of Paris.  The L'Ouvre.  Musee D'Orsay.  Palace de Versailles, with it's fabulous GARDEN!!!!   The Pantheon.  This little museum pass stirs up fun memories.  And just looking at it today made my feet hurt.  Holy cow we walked a lot of steps.  The poor pedometer I wore suffered exhaustion from tabulating all of the steps.  Our last stop on museum day was taking a boat trip down the Seine.  Seated.  Ahhhhh.   Our feet thanked us.  

And this little treasure from the Paris trip stirred up really vivid memories:

During the days when DeWayne was working, I would bravely venture out and ride the subway system from our hotel in District 12 down to the center of Paris.  All alone!  No fears!   (to clarify, I wore a large zipped up black coat with my purse and camera underneath.  I like to think it made me look like I was packing heat)    While walking through the subway stations underground and waiting for the various trains to arrive, there was ample opportunity to study the human race.  Using visual, auditory, and often olfactory methods.  Yes, there were some startlingly unpleasant scents.   Live music was always audible in the subway tunnels.  Some of it was startlingly unpleasant, some of it was startlingly marvelous.  My favorite was the day I heard harp music filling every space of the subway tunnel.  The sound was so beautiful it felt like it inhabited my soul.  I skipped looking for my train and walked until I found the source of the music.  And I did.  An elderly balding man playing a harp.  Not what I expected.  I had visions of a beautiful woman dressed in a white flowing gown and perhaps a halo on her head.  But I stood there at a distance and watched him play.  His face radiated love for the music he was making.  His eyes were closed while he played.  No music stand.  Straight from the heart.  When the song finished, he saw me and I walked up to him.  Language barrier prevented any real conversation, but a smile is a smile everywhere.  He had CD's for sale but I wasn't able to understand how many Euros it would take, so he handed me this slip of paper with a website address to order from.  Just today, 8 years later, I ran across the slip of paper.  Never ordered a CD.  But looking at the paper I can still hear the ethereal sounds of that harp.  

Nostalgia is a powerful thing.  Go clean your closets and you'll see!!

Simply B

Simply B

After much time considering starting a blog, maybe today is the day.  Or not.  We'll see.  As brilliant as I consider myself to be with technological stuff, setting up this blog has been kind of challenging.  Yes, brilliant is really brilliant ... well look at that, I figured out how to strike through text all by myself.  

If you're looking for profound posts you may want to skip my blog. I refer to myself as Simply B for a reason.  🙅  BTW the name of that emoji is "face with no good gesture".  Seems appropriate.  

My goal is to have this little blog be empty of politics, mean stuff, deep thoughts, or basically anything of substance.  Occasionally I may stray into meaningful topics.  But don't count on it.  😁  I might share travel info, camping tips, recipes to make and/or recipes to avoid.  And I love Jesus....you will undoubtedly hear about Him.  But again, I'm simply B.  Nothing deep, just an encouraging word or two.  

Until next time, 

Simply B