It began last summer when we all got together for my mother’s family reunion. My sister had this idea of gathering up our old 8mm film canisters and taking them to a company and having the old home movies put onto a DVD. So instead of drawing names and buying a present for each other, we could all pitch in and give ourselves a family Christmas present.
We all agreed it was a great idea, one which I promptly forgot about three days later as I drove home to Colorado. But my sister persevered and offered to help Mom gather every thing up. My mother is a very organized person; not only were all the canisters in one place, they were all dated and labeled with events. My sister did all the leg work. It cost a little more than we expected (so what else is new) but the finished product is so worth it. I was excited when the mailman delivered my copy and I tore open the wrapping just to look at it. The DVD is labeled: Price Family, Home Movie Memories, 1967 – 1971.
I waited to pop it into the DVD player till my son could join me for Christmas dinner. We sat back after opening our presents and I started the show. Walker doesn’t remember ever seeing these old movies and it had been a really long time for me. Of course there was no audio feature with that original camera, and we did not add music to this DVD, but this really does allow for allot of commentary from the viewers. It gets to be a very interactive process. Walker and I were giggling and laughing out loud at the outfits and the stilted antics of me and my younger siblings; we were 14, 12, 10 and 6 years old when the movie begins.
I had really huge hair, my sister began her movie career as a gawky pre-teen, and my two youngest brothers are absolutely adorable. My mother and dad are so young and thin, boy did they have their hands full. All of our relatives, holidays, and family vacations are right there, and my Dad did a really good job as an amateur film maker. The hair-do’s alone are certainly historical (read hysterical).
Well, let me tell you, there is a really good reason that none of us went into show business. I can still hear my Dad saying, “This is a movie camera, so MOVE !!” And in our awkwardness with this new adventure, we flopped around like fish out of water. It is as hilarious now as it was embarrassing then. However, this was a tremendous gift that we gave each other this year and I want to thank my mom and my sister once again for putting this together. Our early family history did not all fit on this first DVD but we will definitely get the remaining years transferred to one more DVD.
Pop the corn, dim the lights, and grab a spot on the couch, the fun is not over yet.
* annette
Showing posts with label Celebration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Celebration. Show all posts
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Thursday, May 21, 2009
A Robin's Lesson
Glorious day. Lying in bed it seems like the little bird outside my window is confirming all my happy thoughts for this day. I formulate an idea and she chirps happily. I am thrilled that we concur on this day’s promise. Pulling on my old sweats against the chill of the morning, I check my email and there is a new one. Ya Hoo!! That’s the reason I looked first thing in the morning, isn’t it? Yes. I promise myself to stay open, honest, curious, willing to communicate, ready for whatever happens next. Really? Easier said than done. I write him back and hit the send button. In a few days he will be here and I still have so many things to do … like polish my toenails.
I put water on for coffee and go outside to feed the horses. It is a slendiferous morning! The sky is soft blue; the color deepening as it touches the tops of the snow covered mountain peaks. I look again and there is a spot of red in the sky. A hot air balloon is riding the air waves under thin wispy clouds. My horse gently knickers at me to get a move on. She cares not for the clouds, or the sky or the hot air balloon, she wants breakfast. “That’s why I’m here” I tell her as I crawl through the fence and greet her soft eye. “Your wish is my command, and I hope you are as willing later in the day when we saddle up for a jog around the loop!”
Horses fed, the evening meals ration laid aside, I stroll out and bury my face in the lilac blossoms. Wet with dew, they please all the senses. I glance at the garden that I finally got planted yesterday. It is full of promise, brown crumbly earth free of weeds, tipi’s in place ready to support the pole beans and snow peas. As I walk to the house ready for a warm brew, I paused to soak in the stillness. A fat robin flies right by me and lands on the patio. He drinks from a small pool left by last night’s watering. Then he runs across the concrete into the grass. Wondering if he can hear a worm, I watch him cruise over to a patch of dried grass and begin sorting through today’s offering. Without turning my head I notice another plumb little robin land high up on the gutter. Her skinny little legs carry her quickly across the shingles until she stands at the edge of the roof looking down as her partner shops for building materials. Finished, he flies a graceful arc around the corner of the house and heads toward the large pine tree in the font yard. She parallels his flight and, although I can no longer see them in the thick branches, I hear them discussing the home improvement project. I am sure, with her help, he will do a fine job.
They have it all figured out. Work with what you have. Help one another. Spread joy. Sing when possible.
* annette
I put water on for coffee and go outside to feed the horses. It is a slendiferous morning! The sky is soft blue; the color deepening as it touches the tops of the snow covered mountain peaks. I look again and there is a spot of red in the sky. A hot air balloon is riding the air waves under thin wispy clouds. My horse gently knickers at me to get a move on. She cares not for the clouds, or the sky or the hot air balloon, she wants breakfast. “That’s why I’m here” I tell her as I crawl through the fence and greet her soft eye. “Your wish is my command, and I hope you are as willing later in the day when we saddle up for a jog around the loop!”
Horses fed, the evening meals ration laid aside, I stroll out and bury my face in the lilac blossoms. Wet with dew, they please all the senses. I glance at the garden that I finally got planted yesterday. It is full of promise, brown crumbly earth free of weeds, tipi’s in place ready to support the pole beans and snow peas. As I walk to the house ready for a warm brew, I paused to soak in the stillness. A fat robin flies right by me and lands on the patio. He drinks from a small pool left by last night’s watering. Then he runs across the concrete into the grass. Wondering if he can hear a worm, I watch him cruise over to a patch of dried grass and begin sorting through today’s offering. Without turning my head I notice another plumb little robin land high up on the gutter. Her skinny little legs carry her quickly across the shingles until she stands at the edge of the roof looking down as her partner shops for building materials. Finished, he flies a graceful arc around the corner of the house and heads toward the large pine tree in the font yard. She parallels his flight and, although I can no longer see them in the thick branches, I hear them discussing the home improvement project. I am sure, with her help, he will do a fine job.
They have it all figured out. Work with what you have. Help one another. Spread joy. Sing when possible.
* annette
Thursday, January 15, 2009
From a Foggy January Morning....
Prompt = choose a color and write about it……….
This wondrous cool grey morning
I chose a bright yellow shirt.
“It will brighten the day” I thought.
But yellow is a color close to my heart.
Yellow is primal ~ a primary color ~ the Sun.
Lions, sunshine, rainbows, chakra’s, tulips
All are parts of yellow.
When asked for his opinion,
my son wanted to paint our kitchen yellow.
I wanted to, but it would not
work with the other ingredients already in place.
But the idea of it stayed in the back of my mind.
Years later, after my 2nd divorce
I walked into Pier 1 and saw the
most lovely yellow and blue dishes.
Two days later I got my income tax refund check
and I drove back and bought my kitchen sunshine!
I am the weed queen and my on-going love affair
for the yellow haired dandelion will never die down.
I love them. I eat them. I dig in the dirt
and play with her roots.
Yellow is the color of the solar plexus chakra.
From the gut ….. gut feelings …
…primal feelings…… TRUST !
Ah yes, my yellow shirt will help me remember
To TRUST !
And the day will be brighter.
YELLOW !
* annette
This wondrous cool grey morning
I chose a bright yellow shirt.
“It will brighten the day” I thought.
But yellow is a color close to my heart.
Yellow is primal ~ a primary color ~ the Sun.
Lions, sunshine, rainbows, chakra’s, tulips
All are parts of yellow.
When asked for his opinion,
my son wanted to paint our kitchen yellow.
I wanted to, but it would not
work with the other ingredients already in place.
But the idea of it stayed in the back of my mind.
Years later, after my 2nd divorce
I walked into Pier 1 and saw the
most lovely yellow and blue dishes.
Two days later I got my income tax refund check
and I drove back and bought my kitchen sunshine!
I am the weed queen and my on-going love affair
for the yellow haired dandelion will never die down.
I love them. I eat them. I dig in the dirt
and play with her roots.
Yellow is the color of the solar plexus chakra.
From the gut ….. gut feelings …
…primal feelings…… TRUST !
Ah yes, my yellow shirt will help me remember
To TRUST !
And the day will be brighter.
YELLOW !
* annette
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Barn Dance
October 12, 2008. I went to an old fashioned barn dance last night. One of my horsy buddies, Caroline, had forwarded an email invitation to me; the event was touted as a “Celebration and thank you for tornado recovery and rebuilding”. Caroline too had lost several out buildings to the early summer tornado that ripped through Wellington, Colorado. I did not know the folks throwing the party, but since I had driven up to help Caroline clean up the rubble at her farm, I felt like I had contributed to the cause. There was to be live music with a Traditional Dance Caller to lead us through the steps, as well as hayrides and egg toss games, plus a pot luck supper. It sounded like so much fun.
And it was, even though the weather was a freezing drizzle all day long and the temperature was hovering around 37* when Damaris and I arrived. We had dressed warmly as the invite said there would be no heat. The two story large white barn had a green metal roof and as we walked in we breathed deeply of the luscious aroma of freshly sawn wood beams. Damaris looked around at all the hand crafted features and said, “I could live in this barn” and even though I knew what she meant I jokingly replied as I zipped up my coat, “only if you were a popsicle”. We walked in not knowing a soul but we joined the huddle around a crock pot full of hot cheese dip, introduced ourselves, and took turns warming our hands on the outside of the hot pot. Five minutes after we arrived there appeared a long line of people heading outdoors and I walked to the window to observe the egg toss. I watched as “kids” of all sizes and ages stood outside in the mist and tossed raw eggs back and forth, taking one step backward after each successful toss. Of course, the last team with an unbroken egg wins the contest. Today they were moving pretty briskly in the cold drizzle, but they all came in smiling and laughing.
The serving tables were loaded with food for the pot luck, and of course it all looked delicious. Anything served Hot was an instant hit. Damaris and I commented that we could have made the big bucks if we had a large thermos of hot cider!!! I had made a crock pot of scalloped potatoes and the warmest I was for that first hour was clutching it to my chest as I carried it into the barn.
Quickly finishing a slice of purple plum pie, we gave up our seats at the picnic table so new comers could sit down and enjoy their meal. I mentioned to Damaris that I really had to go to the bathroom. The only available amenity was a port-a-potty outside. I have used many in my day, but tonight I was dressed in a long skirt, panties, silk underwear and a slip. I wasn’t’ sure if I had enough room in there to put myself all back together. We decided to use the time while the band was setting up to drive a half mile to another friend’s house and use her facilities. Oh my God, her house felt so warm. Nikki is in veterinarian school and if she hadn’t been studying for a week’s worth of tests she would have driven back over to the party with us.
There were lights pouring out the wood windows, the fiddler was playing and we could hear the stomping of many feet as we walked back to the barn for the second time, now in the dark. The upstairs of this barn was built to be a dance floor; it was constructed of older dark wood planks that probably had been recycled from another place. I would love to know its history, to hear its story. It was gorgeous, but now it was crowed with moving bodies. They were doing a spiral dance and almost every one was involved. I caught a glimpse of Caroline and Ed as they danced by.
Damaris and I took to the floor for the next dance and didn’t stop until the band called for a break. It was a short break because no one wanted to lose the heat we had finally generated. After an hour of dancing everyone had thrown off their outer sweaters and down vests and we were actually sweating! A cold soda finally sounded appealing. In an earlier day there might have been a gallon of moon shine being passed around but the invitation had specifically stated, “Partly because of the many children expected, this event will be alcohol and tobacco free.” So I had a lemonade, hold the ice, and enjoyed every sip.
After the break we danced for another hour and then found our hosts and thanked them so much for putting on such a marvelous event. On the way home we talked about how enthusiastically the little kids participated and the adorable young Downs Syndrome girl in the pink sweater who loved dancing. Damaris said that if more families spent time doing these old fashioned events together, we wouldn’t be in the mess we are now. Maybe, I thought, maybe not. The times they are a changing. I just hope that I get invited back next year.
* annette
And it was, even though the weather was a freezing drizzle all day long and the temperature was hovering around 37* when Damaris and I arrived. We had dressed warmly as the invite said there would be no heat. The two story large white barn had a green metal roof and as we walked in we breathed deeply of the luscious aroma of freshly sawn wood beams. Damaris looked around at all the hand crafted features and said, “I could live in this barn” and even though I knew what she meant I jokingly replied as I zipped up my coat, “only if you were a popsicle”. We walked in not knowing a soul but we joined the huddle around a crock pot full of hot cheese dip, introduced ourselves, and took turns warming our hands on the outside of the hot pot. Five minutes after we arrived there appeared a long line of people heading outdoors and I walked to the window to observe the egg toss. I watched as “kids” of all sizes and ages stood outside in the mist and tossed raw eggs back and forth, taking one step backward after each successful toss. Of course, the last team with an unbroken egg wins the contest. Today they were moving pretty briskly in the cold drizzle, but they all came in smiling and laughing.
The serving tables were loaded with food for the pot luck, and of course it all looked delicious. Anything served Hot was an instant hit. Damaris and I commented that we could have made the big bucks if we had a large thermos of hot cider!!! I had made a crock pot of scalloped potatoes and the warmest I was for that first hour was clutching it to my chest as I carried it into the barn.
Quickly finishing a slice of purple plum pie, we gave up our seats at the picnic table so new comers could sit down and enjoy their meal. I mentioned to Damaris that I really had to go to the bathroom. The only available amenity was a port-a-potty outside. I have used many in my day, but tonight I was dressed in a long skirt, panties, silk underwear and a slip. I wasn’t’ sure if I had enough room in there to put myself all back together. We decided to use the time while the band was setting up to drive a half mile to another friend’s house and use her facilities. Oh my God, her house felt so warm. Nikki is in veterinarian school and if she hadn’t been studying for a week’s worth of tests she would have driven back over to the party with us.
There were lights pouring out the wood windows, the fiddler was playing and we could hear the stomping of many feet as we walked back to the barn for the second time, now in the dark. The upstairs of this barn was built to be a dance floor; it was constructed of older dark wood planks that probably had been recycled from another place. I would love to know its history, to hear its story. It was gorgeous, but now it was crowed with moving bodies. They were doing a spiral dance and almost every one was involved. I caught a glimpse of Caroline and Ed as they danced by.
Damaris and I took to the floor for the next dance and didn’t stop until the band called for a break. It was a short break because no one wanted to lose the heat we had finally generated. After an hour of dancing everyone had thrown off their outer sweaters and down vests and we were actually sweating! A cold soda finally sounded appealing. In an earlier day there might have been a gallon of moon shine being passed around but the invitation had specifically stated, “Partly because of the many children expected, this event will be alcohol and tobacco free.” So I had a lemonade, hold the ice, and enjoyed every sip.
After the break we danced for another hour and then found our hosts and thanked them so much for putting on such a marvelous event. On the way home we talked about how enthusiastically the little kids participated and the adorable young Downs Syndrome girl in the pink sweater who loved dancing. Damaris said that if more families spent time doing these old fashioned events together, we wouldn’t be in the mess we are now. Maybe, I thought, maybe not. The times they are a changing. I just hope that I get invited back next year.
* annette
Thursday, July 31, 2008
MoonBlood
I walked from one corner to the next ~ 4 corners that established the boundaries of my small piece of heaven on earth. I never dreamed that I would get the house, but I had a son to finish raising and my soon-to-be-ex-husband ~ had a dog. Actually now that I think about it, that is about what he had when we got married. The refinance to get his name off the paper work had been ridiculously easy and now in the middle of the night I was marking my territory.
The moon was full and sparkled down upon me as I stopped at each corner. I raised the jar to the moon and prayed my thankfulness. I asked for wisdom and grace to carry on, I asked for courage to face the future. I proclaimed by sincere thankfulness for the masters, teachers and angels that had guided me to this moment. I poured a small amount of liquid with each prayer. When I finished the four corners I walked to the ornamental windmill standing in what I conceived to be the center of my home site. I finished my prayers as I spilled the rest of the blood tea into the heart of this land. I floated into the house to finish my ceremony with a song in the glow of candlelight. I surged with the promise of moon and the power of earth. I felt at once both the softness of a single blade of grass and the strength of the giant cottonwood. I was rock solid with courage and determination filled with a gooey center of mushy love. I was woman!!
For the few days preceding my ceremony I had been collecting my menstrual blood into a Mason jar. At the same time I made a strong infusion of rose petals and lavender flowers to add to my brew. The power of a woman’s blood combined with the inner and outer aspects of love symbolized by the plants that I cherished.
I thanked the goddess for bringing into my life the teachers and circumstances that had opened up this small town Christian girl to the ongoing lessons of a much broader universe. I had never done anything like this before. I wouldn’t have had a clue about performing this kind of ceremony if it hadn’t been for the thirteen month study of plant spirit medicine under the tutelage of a modern day shaman. My life would never be same after my introduction to journey work and an ever expanding awe of the spiritual universe. I was like a sponge.
That experience was followed by a wondrous year I spent at herb school. I walked away from that year long program with 4 notebooks full of facts and hand-outs on the medicinal properties of plants, plus I had been introduced to earth centered ritual celebrating the feminine. The women I met would become dear friends and mentors. I sat in class and listened to women discussing the power of being female. I was shocked and dismayed. I was shocked because I could not believe any one could enjoy nearly bleeding to death every month and dismayed because I had lived so long, suffering through the dreaded curse, totally unaware of the power that these women described.
I only had a few years to explore this new monthly “moon blood”, and then it was over, as dramatically as it started. But this is now; and I am woman!!
* annette
The moon was full and sparkled down upon me as I stopped at each corner. I raised the jar to the moon and prayed my thankfulness. I asked for wisdom and grace to carry on, I asked for courage to face the future. I proclaimed by sincere thankfulness for the masters, teachers and angels that had guided me to this moment. I poured a small amount of liquid with each prayer. When I finished the four corners I walked to the ornamental windmill standing in what I conceived to be the center of my home site. I finished my prayers as I spilled the rest of the blood tea into the heart of this land. I floated into the house to finish my ceremony with a song in the glow of candlelight. I surged with the promise of moon and the power of earth. I felt at once both the softness of a single blade of grass and the strength of the giant cottonwood. I was rock solid with courage and determination filled with a gooey center of mushy love. I was woman!!
For the few days preceding my ceremony I had been collecting my menstrual blood into a Mason jar. At the same time I made a strong infusion of rose petals and lavender flowers to add to my brew. The power of a woman’s blood combined with the inner and outer aspects of love symbolized by the plants that I cherished.
I thanked the goddess for bringing into my life the teachers and circumstances that had opened up this small town Christian girl to the ongoing lessons of a much broader universe. I had never done anything like this before. I wouldn’t have had a clue about performing this kind of ceremony if it hadn’t been for the thirteen month study of plant spirit medicine under the tutelage of a modern day shaman. My life would never be same after my introduction to journey work and an ever expanding awe of the spiritual universe. I was like a sponge.
That experience was followed by a wondrous year I spent at herb school. I walked away from that year long program with 4 notebooks full of facts and hand-outs on the medicinal properties of plants, plus I had been introduced to earth centered ritual celebrating the feminine. The women I met would become dear friends and mentors. I sat in class and listened to women discussing the power of being female. I was shocked and dismayed. I was shocked because I could not believe any one could enjoy nearly bleeding to death every month and dismayed because I had lived so long, suffering through the dreaded curse, totally unaware of the power that these women described.
I only had a few years to explore this new monthly “moon blood”, and then it was over, as dramatically as it started. But this is now; and I am woman!!
* annette
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Essay: Missouri. Blue Gold.
NOTE TO SELF. Picking Blueberries is way easier than strawberries … which now grow too close to the ground. Raspberries and blackberries bushes have thorns; even Mom’s back yard gooseberries have thorns.
My mom, sister and I decide to skip breakfast in order to get to there early ~ the pre-recorded “Berry Patch” message said there were more pickers than berries and warns that it has been consistently picked out by the end of each day. They open at 7 am and we arrive about 8. We know the routine. We walk briskly up to the self service counter, grab a one gallon white bucket, tuck in the heavy duty clear plastic bag and grab a piece of twine to tie the bucket around the waist, allowing for two handed picking.
Patch #1 has a closed sign on it but Patch #2 is open and there are already heads bobbing above the lush greenness. Row after row of fruit laden bushes ~ but we are in search of the bluest blueberries. There are dozens of muffled conversations drifting above the long steaming rows; mothers exchanging favorite recipes, children comparing the taste of warm juicy berries. The birds squawk from the tall treed perimeter, probably discussing the two legged wingless crowd below ruining their dinner plans.
I see a bush with lots of potential and peel off from my family to seek my fortune. Heat, sweating, picking, quiet thoughts, I spread my arms to take advantage of a cautious breeze. “Levi. Levi?” a woman calls out. “Can you hear me son? Norma Jean, have you seen Levi?” I glance around to see if anyone resembling a Levi is in my row. Obviously he has returned, for that section of the pickers quiets down. We all take a deep breath and continue picking.
I listen in as two women one row over from me but totally out of site, discuss the fact that boyfriend Dan is only good for a few select things ~ I understood quickly that he is very satisfying and, I admit, I leaned towards them as they whispered and giggled. Although I could not hear the juiciest details, I do know that he is definitely not husband material as he is addicted to computer games. Poor Dan.
“Mommy, mommy, look at this one. It is the biggest blueberry ever,” a little boy proclaims. With a condescending snit to her tiny voice his sister explains, “I’m only picking the red ones.” "Tatum, honey……” we hear her mother patiently explain that blue ones make much sweeter pies.
“Come on kids, this section is all picked out, let’s go farther down and start there.” “But mommy there’s a lot of ‘em right here,” her young son declares as Mom herds her chicks off in search of easier pickings. On a hunch I bend down and lift up a branch near where the small boy had stood. BINGO! What a score, the lowest branch was covered with the biggest juiciest blueberries ever. The ones I don’t consume drop into my nearly full bucket.
Trying to get out of the patch, hot as we are, is its own challenge. I raise my voice one notch above the buzz, “Marcia?” “Over here” comes my answer. I am at the end of a long row and start walking east. “Over here” I hear my sister call out again. “Marco” I call out cheerfully. “Polo” I hear from more than one section of the patch. Everyone giggles; I smile as I spot Marcia’s straw hat. Even as we agree that our buckets are full, we cannot help but search for the ultimate berry as we slowly exit the patch with our hand picked treasure ~ blue gold.
TIP: Do not rinse fresh picked blueberries before freezing. Rinse them as you use them. Seriously.
* annette
My mom, sister and I decide to skip breakfast in order to get to there early ~ the pre-recorded “Berry Patch” message said there were more pickers than berries and warns that it has been consistently picked out by the end of each day. They open at 7 am and we arrive about 8. We know the routine. We walk briskly up to the self service counter, grab a one gallon white bucket, tuck in the heavy duty clear plastic bag and grab a piece of twine to tie the bucket around the waist, allowing for two handed picking.
Patch #1 has a closed sign on it but Patch #2 is open and there are already heads bobbing above the lush greenness. Row after row of fruit laden bushes ~ but we are in search of the bluest blueberries. There are dozens of muffled conversations drifting above the long steaming rows; mothers exchanging favorite recipes, children comparing the taste of warm juicy berries. The birds squawk from the tall treed perimeter, probably discussing the two legged wingless crowd below ruining their dinner plans.
I see a bush with lots of potential and peel off from my family to seek my fortune. Heat, sweating, picking, quiet thoughts, I spread my arms to take advantage of a cautious breeze. “Levi. Levi?” a woman calls out. “Can you hear me son? Norma Jean, have you seen Levi?” I glance around to see if anyone resembling a Levi is in my row. Obviously he has returned, for that section of the pickers quiets down. We all take a deep breath and continue picking.
I listen in as two women one row over from me but totally out of site, discuss the fact that boyfriend Dan is only good for a few select things ~ I understood quickly that he is very satisfying and, I admit, I leaned towards them as they whispered and giggled. Although I could not hear the juiciest details, I do know that he is definitely not husband material as he is addicted to computer games. Poor Dan.
“Mommy, mommy, look at this one. It is the biggest blueberry ever,” a little boy proclaims. With a condescending snit to her tiny voice his sister explains, “I’m only picking the red ones.” "Tatum, honey……” we hear her mother patiently explain that blue ones make much sweeter pies.
“Come on kids, this section is all picked out, let’s go farther down and start there.” “But mommy there’s a lot of ‘em right here,” her young son declares as Mom herds her chicks off in search of easier pickings. On a hunch I bend down and lift up a branch near where the small boy had stood. BINGO! What a score, the lowest branch was covered with the biggest juiciest blueberries ever. The ones I don’t consume drop into my nearly full bucket.
Trying to get out of the patch, hot as we are, is its own challenge. I raise my voice one notch above the buzz, “Marcia?” “Over here” comes my answer. I am at the end of a long row and start walking east. “Over here” I hear my sister call out again. “Marco” I call out cheerfully. “Polo” I hear from more than one section of the patch. Everyone giggles; I smile as I spot Marcia’s straw hat. Even as we agree that our buckets are full, we cannot help but search for the ultimate berry as we slowly exit the patch with our hand picked treasure ~ blue gold.
TIP: Do not rinse fresh picked blueberries before freezing. Rinse them as you use them. Seriously.
* annette
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Ode to a Honda
I have been driving Honda cars for over 25 years; to date, I have had three. My 1st Honda was a little light blue station wagon, I have no idea what her vintage was, but she was used when we bought it before my son was born. Her name was Old Blue. My 2nd Honda was the large square wagon with dark tinted windows; it was used and blue as well. It was my office on wheels, lots of interior space, plus it had high clearance for barreling through the snow. I always thought of that car as a juvenile delinquent but I loved it. It was November of 1992 and my family was getting ready to drive to Missouri for Thanksgiving. I was short on time so I took him to Grease Monkey for a quick oil change the day before we left. By the time we got to Springfield, Mo the engine was wrecked. I didn’t know how bad the damage was but I decided to take him to my friendly mechanic as soon as I got home. We added a lot of oil on that return trip. We found out the engine was blown, but he carried us all the way back to Colorado and delivered us to our doorstep. I still think of him has Brave Heart.
I bought Idgey on December 5th, 1992. It was the first car I had ever purchased new, 36 miles on the odometer, and Bob talked the dealers into free air conditioning. She is an opalescent light green, the color of the movie, Fried Green Tomatoes ~ one of my favorite books that they made into an excellent movie. Idgey was one of the main characters so naming my sporty new car was easy.
To me an automobile is NOT an inanimate object. Every component of my car is made of metals and plastics ~ which I assume are compounds of mixed cellular structures. She needs good air, drinks fluids and, on rare occasions, may emit a little gaseous fume. Even if my theory is weak on facts, my conclusion is the same. She is my friend; she has a heart and feelings. She has been there for me in the good times and the bad, in sickness and in health. She has listened as I sing loudly to the radio, witnessed my tears and prayers, and turned a blind blinker to my cussing and gesticulations. I made up a song for her that I sing every once in awhile. Every year on my birthday we pretend that it is her birthday as well and we go the car wash and get “the works” inside and out; I pay extra for a squirt of “new car smell”.
This February (15 years later) I was having trouble with my heater and I took my car into Hoshi Motors, who have become trusted friends these last 25 years. I asked them to look her over during a routine oil change. As I stood at the counter they gently explained what a head gasket was, and that Idgey’s was going bad. I tried to keep up a pleasant banter as I questioned them about what to expect and what did this really mean? The prognosis was grim, “It could last for two days or another two weeks, but it is going to fail you one day soon. You need to start thinking about a new car.” I started crying on the road home and I cried for days.
I can barely imagine life without Idgey. She takes care of me. Many years ago, coming across Kansas I-70 on a return trip from my parent’s house, I suddenly felt the power disappear. In front of me was an off ramp. Idgey coasted up the ramp, made a left hand turn over the interstate and silently deposited me in front of a pay telephone at a convenience store. She took care of me ~ there is no other way to describe it. I called Hoshi, they checked my file and told me what had probably happened and how much it would cost to get it fixed. When I got back home, I called my insurance agent to ask if I could be reimbursed for the tow truck. “You didn’t need to pay for that, it is included in your insurance!” he exclaimed. “It is?” I asked incredulously. “Nothing ever goes wrong with my car so I didn’t remember that.”
It has been five months since they told me her time was near. I keep a very good record of all the antifreeze I add and I religiously watch the heat gauge, it will be one of my first warning signs. I am still getting over 400 miles per tank of gas and she drives up Boulder Canyon like a trooper. She is my friend, my ally, my office on wheels. When her time is really up, I have a phone number of a charity that I can donate her body to, and she will continue to serve as a learning tool for an aspiring young mechanic. I think that she would appreciate that. But for now, I will continue to sing her song for as long as she will listen.
* annette
I bought Idgey on December 5th, 1992. It was the first car I had ever purchased new, 36 miles on the odometer, and Bob talked the dealers into free air conditioning. She is an opalescent light green, the color of the movie, Fried Green Tomatoes ~ one of my favorite books that they made into an excellent movie. Idgey was one of the main characters so naming my sporty new car was easy.
To me an automobile is NOT an inanimate object. Every component of my car is made of metals and plastics ~ which I assume are compounds of mixed cellular structures. She needs good air, drinks fluids and, on rare occasions, may emit a little gaseous fume. Even if my theory is weak on facts, my conclusion is the same. She is my friend; she has a heart and feelings. She has been there for me in the good times and the bad, in sickness and in health. She has listened as I sing loudly to the radio, witnessed my tears and prayers, and turned a blind blinker to my cussing and gesticulations. I made up a song for her that I sing every once in awhile. Every year on my birthday we pretend that it is her birthday as well and we go the car wash and get “the works” inside and out; I pay extra for a squirt of “new car smell”.
This February (15 years later) I was having trouble with my heater and I took my car into Hoshi Motors, who have become trusted friends these last 25 years. I asked them to look her over during a routine oil change. As I stood at the counter they gently explained what a head gasket was, and that Idgey’s was going bad. I tried to keep up a pleasant banter as I questioned them about what to expect and what did this really mean? The prognosis was grim, “It could last for two days or another two weeks, but it is going to fail you one day soon. You need to start thinking about a new car.” I started crying on the road home and I cried for days.
I can barely imagine life without Idgey. She takes care of me. Many years ago, coming across Kansas I-70 on a return trip from my parent’s house, I suddenly felt the power disappear. In front of me was an off ramp. Idgey coasted up the ramp, made a left hand turn over the interstate and silently deposited me in front of a pay telephone at a convenience store. She took care of me ~ there is no other way to describe it. I called Hoshi, they checked my file and told me what had probably happened and how much it would cost to get it fixed. When I got back home, I called my insurance agent to ask if I could be reimbursed for the tow truck. “You didn’t need to pay for that, it is included in your insurance!” he exclaimed. “It is?” I asked incredulously. “Nothing ever goes wrong with my car so I didn’t remember that.”
It has been five months since they told me her time was near. I keep a very good record of all the antifreeze I add and I religiously watch the heat gauge, it will be one of my first warning signs. I am still getting over 400 miles per tank of gas and she drives up Boulder Canyon like a trooper. She is my friend, my ally, my office on wheels. When her time is really up, I have a phone number of a charity that I can donate her body to, and she will continue to serve as a learning tool for an aspiring young mechanic. I think that she would appreciate that. But for now, I will continue to sing her song for as long as she will listen.
* annette
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Gorilla Glue
I feel my father’s presence as I stand near the kitchen sink with the broken pieces of my camera laid out on the counter top. Most folks would probably throw it in the trash but I want to see what I can do. I can hear my father telling me how he had to learn to fix the car because they didn’t have a spare nickel to pay someone else to fix it, and he had to get to work. I can relate. This is my old 35mm camera loaded with the film canister which hopefully will produce 4” color pictures of my last two trail rides. We have history, for years this camera helped me run my business, and right now I cannot afford to replace it. My Dad, if he were alive, would have been able to fix it.
I have gathered up several long fat nails that I find so handy, my hammer, several pairs of pliers, plus an old newspaper to work on. These tools are not for the camera, they are for the glue! The great thing about Gorilla Glue is how well it works. It has fixed every item that I have placed in its path. But, like all super glues ~ it is hard to use after the first application because it glues its own top closed and getting the aperture open again is extremely difficult and downright dangerous. I move past the nails and choose a large gold colored screw. I am afraid it is too wide to enter the tip of the plastic bottle. Wish I had a bigger hammer. I gently tap it in; totally aware that super glue spurting out the top would be a really bad thing. It pierces the cement hard surface inside the half filled bottle. I can now squeeze the container and see the liquid glue at the bottom gushing around; however, it will not come out the top.
Do not let small children read the next few sentences ~ but I am determined to fix this camera. I place the plastic bottle in a sandwich bag (for protection ??) and set it in the microwave on top of a small piece of paper towel. I set the time for 20 seconds, whisper a small prayer, and hit the start button. My Dad and I hover in front of the oven and watch the glass disk spin, wondering what will happen next. Not much. I decide to up the ante and hit the start button again. The glue starts to bubble and the machine beeps “off” before the plastic container explodes. All right! Pulling it out of the microwave, I thank the angel of kitchen gadgets and tip the bottle. Nothing comes out. I grab the big screw, stick it back down in the bottle and when I pull it out there is amber colored glue caught in its spirals! I moisten one side of the broken latch, place glue on the opposite piece and hold them together for a few seconds as the directions recommend. The only problem is I now have glue on me and am becoming permanently attached to the piece of black plastic whose purpose in life has always been to hold batteries in my camera. Plus I have to pee. I pry off my thumb and pointer finger and realize I did not fetch the fingernail polish remover from the bathroom. Since I have to go there anyway, I decide to try to pull down my pants without getting glue on the waistband of my shorts.
… It takes a little time for the glue to harden but it worked. I put away my tools and clean up my mess. With a very strong rubber band (those fat blue ones that hold broccoli stems together) to hold the mended battery cover in place, my little camera and I will bravely go forth and record new challenges. But it is not about the time spent or the money saved. It is honoring the memory of my Dad and the ideals he instilled in me through his stories and the way he lived his life. My Dad would approve and I am proud of myself. My fingers are only slightly tacky and my shorts are not glued to my waist. Life is GOOD.
* annette
I have gathered up several long fat nails that I find so handy, my hammer, several pairs of pliers, plus an old newspaper to work on. These tools are not for the camera, they are for the glue! The great thing about Gorilla Glue is how well it works. It has fixed every item that I have placed in its path. But, like all super glues ~ it is hard to use after the first application because it glues its own top closed and getting the aperture open again is extremely difficult and downright dangerous. I move past the nails and choose a large gold colored screw. I am afraid it is too wide to enter the tip of the plastic bottle. Wish I had a bigger hammer. I gently tap it in; totally aware that super glue spurting out the top would be a really bad thing. It pierces the cement hard surface inside the half filled bottle. I can now squeeze the container and see the liquid glue at the bottom gushing around; however, it will not come out the top.
Do not let small children read the next few sentences ~ but I am determined to fix this camera. I place the plastic bottle in a sandwich bag (for protection ??) and set it in the microwave on top of a small piece of paper towel. I set the time for 20 seconds, whisper a small prayer, and hit the start button. My Dad and I hover in front of the oven and watch the glass disk spin, wondering what will happen next. Not much. I decide to up the ante and hit the start button again. The glue starts to bubble and the machine beeps “off” before the plastic container explodes. All right! Pulling it out of the microwave, I thank the angel of kitchen gadgets and tip the bottle. Nothing comes out. I grab the big screw, stick it back down in the bottle and when I pull it out there is amber colored glue caught in its spirals! I moisten one side of the broken latch, place glue on the opposite piece and hold them together for a few seconds as the directions recommend. The only problem is I now have glue on me and am becoming permanently attached to the piece of black plastic whose purpose in life has always been to hold batteries in my camera. Plus I have to pee. I pry off my thumb and pointer finger and realize I did not fetch the fingernail polish remover from the bathroom. Since I have to go there anyway, I decide to try to pull down my pants without getting glue on the waistband of my shorts.
… It takes a little time for the glue to harden but it worked. I put away my tools and clean up my mess. With a very strong rubber band (those fat blue ones that hold broccoli stems together) to hold the mended battery cover in place, my little camera and I will bravely go forth and record new challenges. But it is not about the time spent or the money saved. It is honoring the memory of my Dad and the ideals he instilled in me through his stories and the way he lived his life. My Dad would approve and I am proud of myself. My fingers are only slightly tacky and my shorts are not glued to my waist. Life is GOOD.
* annette
Monday, June 30, 2008
Prose: 4th of July, 07
Last year the 4th of July had a typical Colorado summertime weather report – mostly clear with a chance of scattered thundershowers. There were some dark clouds over the mountains as we planned our neighborhood trek to the Louisville golf course, but the sky was mostly clear. Victor, Evan (our 5 year old) and I rode with Patty and her 4 & 6 year olds in her SUV, following Betty & John & Juliet, their 5th grade daughter, in their CRV .
The crowd was forming at the golf course as we arrived and we had to park blocks away. The wind was picking up. We walked the sidewalks, pushing our small ones in strollers, making a game of dodging the sprinklers on the way. It was beginning to sprinkle from the sky too. “It’ll pass over.” was our mantra. We found a place we could all sit for the show, spreading out our blankets.
Dark clouds roiled above us, suddenly letting loose with all they had. The crowded lawn was roiling with humanity trying unsuccessfully to evade the fierce raindrops. We lifted our blanket up to serve as a feeble refuge. In a minute its swollen wetness was too heavy to hold up so, we wrapped it around Victor holding Evan. Poor Evan was cold to his tiny bones. And he began to cry. In the confusion we’d lost track of all our neighbors.
We retreated to a covered area where a 20 piece band was still cranking out patriotic party music. We squeezed under the open brick & mortar shelter through the generosity of those already packed in along the edges of the music stands and musicians. We searched the crowds for our ride home.
We knew we couldn’t stick it out—we were soaked. Even if the rain stopped immediately, we would be too chilled to relax and enjoy the fireworks. And Evan was still whimpering. Victor spotted Patty and we fell in behind her in the stream of people heading for their cars. The rain continued. Everyone was running. We splashed through monsoon fed rivers sweeping from the side streets. The sprinklers were still running too, pelting us with water from yet another angle. All the adults could do was joke and laugh hysterically. The kids alternated between laughing and whining and crying.
Finally we got to the SUV sopping wet. We plopped into our seats and Patty started up the engine and cranked up the heat as the rain continued to beat against the roof. We’re homeward bound. As we breeched the ridge near home we noticed that the fireworks had finally begun. Laughing, whining and crying stopped. We looked out at the colorful explosions from afar, oohing and ahhing on cue to their distant yet still captivating displays. The little adventure of the running and rain became the background that highlighted the happiness of being in a warm car while, in the end, getting to watch those celestial lights.
By Terra
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Celebrating Passages.
I had an awesome dinner with my son at our favorite Japanese restaurant. Our conversation was lively as he told me about his landscaping projects and I told him about the horse whisperer class I had just taken. We would pause for a few moments as new enticing morsels were set in front of us, savor the flavor, then off we would go again. I marveled at the amount of information that we had to share with each other, at the easy flow between us. He will be 25 at the end of the month ~ a quarter of a century ~ how can that be? I must have had him when I was five … oh dear ( sigh )
His eyes are clear and his skin has a healthy glow from working out of doors. He has a little reddish brown fuzzy growth covering his chin; adorable and worth every month he has invested in it. He has picked back up his passion for Frisbee golf and has made new friends over the plastic disk. He showed me one that he had hand painted and explained about putting it in the microwave for some reason. I must admit I did not understand the process; I was too happy being in awe of his creativeness.
I asked him if he thought about grandpa much. He said that he did – allot. I know. Even as we looked at each other, we drifted through our own memories. It has been one year since my father passed away. How can that be?
We patted our bellies and laughed at the suggestion of a fried banana ending. I drove him back to the park to get his bicycle. He gave me a big hug. He is a great hugger. I headed for home smiling, thankful that we have reached this place in our lives. He and I ~ we are so different ~ and its okay!!
* annette
His eyes are clear and his skin has a healthy glow from working out of doors. He has a little reddish brown fuzzy growth covering his chin; adorable and worth every month he has invested in it. He has picked back up his passion for Frisbee golf and has made new friends over the plastic disk. He showed me one that he had hand painted and explained about putting it in the microwave for some reason. I must admit I did not understand the process; I was too happy being in awe of his creativeness.
I asked him if he thought about grandpa much. He said that he did – allot. I know. Even as we looked at each other, we drifted through our own memories. It has been one year since my father passed away. How can that be?
We patted our bellies and laughed at the suggestion of a fried banana ending. I drove him back to the park to get his bicycle. He gave me a big hug. He is a great hugger. I headed for home smiling, thankful that we have reached this place in our lives. He and I ~ we are so different ~ and its okay!!
* annette
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