When It Rains, It Pours (A lot)

Recently I read about the notion that bad things happen in "3's," and while I've never been superstitious, I'm inclined to think that may be the case around here lately.
My recent "triple threat" involves water, water everywhere. The first massive puddle in our basement resulted in a new water heater; the second puddle involved the A/C unit which also spewed water all over the basement; and the trifecta. . . drum roll please. . . . a leak in the roof. Stellar. And as a bonus, because of all the excess moisture (ie flooding in our basement) much of the drywall needs replacing. It's like we're providing our own little local stimulus package. . .

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But let's not stop there. . .

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Sometimes it feels like we've had more than our share of adventures here, whether they come in "3's" or not. For example, last weekend started out with Barnum and Bailey's Emergency Room Circus. I spent Friday afternoon with my youngest as she underwent emergency surgery-- she took a line-drive from a softball to the mouth. Two missing teeth, one fractured bone in her face, one broken nose, and one hysterical mother later she's on soft food and liquids for 6 weeks. This week a follow-up visit led to 3 root canals, and the possibility of several more.

Oh, wait. . . it gets better. . .

While waiting for Youngest at the root canal doctor, I received a phone call from one of my college-girls informing me that she was sitting in the health services building awaiting the results of her Swine Flu test.

Oink. (And of course, my husband is out of the country. Just like him to be 7000 miles away during a crisis. :)

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Not that I'm complaining or soliciting sympathy, but should I continue. . . ?

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. . . Here is part of a text message conversation from my other college-girl that started my day:

"Hey Mom, my car is dead and something is way wrong with it. I tried to jump it with cables and it started smoking and crap. Ugh."

This message was followed shortly thereafter by another. . .

"Can I take Advil?"

And then. . .

"I kinda burned my hand pulling the jumper cable off."

Followed by. . .

"Just my fingers and palm. It's beginning to swell."

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Oh joy. I've lost count, is that 3 things yet? I may stop answering my phone.

The Tree From Which the Apple Fell

Yes, it's been quite a while. I could blame my absence on laziness, or writer's block, or laundry, or a super-bad internet connection. But mostly I've been AWOL because I've been trying to tread water in this unpredictable whirlpool called "Life." It's been one killer of a summer, I must say. So in an effort to placate my loyal reader(s?) a bit longer until my life calms down a fraction . . . or two . . . or twenty, I'm posting this article written by my dad a few years ago. It was recently published in a local newspaper. (And for the record, I think my kids are more like swarming locusts with cell phones.) Enjoy!

P. S. I'll see you soon--I promise.

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To Grandmother’s House They Go

Twice a year our Georgia Connection comes to town. Our older daughter, her husband and their four children live near Athens, Ga. and visit us at Christmastime and in midsummer.
They left for home 3 ½ hours ago. Since cousins like to be together, our four Middle-Tennessee grandchildren spent most of the 10 days at our house as well, forming an ever-moving, ever-eating mélange of adolescents and pre-adolescents — four boys and four girls who range in age from 5 to 17.
The Georgia clan and the two of us filled our four bedrooms and when cousins slept-over, sleeping bags covered every floor.
Do you remember how much food adolescents consume? Elephants put away 200 of food a day, an amount easily matched by our four grandsons and approached by our two older granddaughters. Where the calories go is a mystery. Not one grandchild has an ounce of excess fat. One hundred forty cans of soft drinks, 10 gallons of lemonade, three gallons of milk, 1½ gallons of ice cream and 72 popsicles disappeared in 10 days. A turkey breast, a pot roast, half a ham, a three-pound meatloaf, eight pounds of barbecue, eight pounds of shrimp, seven large pizzas and 15 pounds of catfish are missing.
We cooked three pounds of white beans from the grocery and four quarts of green beans, four quarts of peas and 40 ears of corn from the garden. Homegrown tomatoes, cucumbers, squash and blackberries rounded out their diet.
Lucky Charms and Pop Tarts suddenly appeared on the breakfast menu. Breakfasts ran from 8 to 11 a.m., lunches from 11 to 3 and dinners from 5 to 8 p.m. Of course, there were snacks in between.
Ten to 15 people ate most meals with us but last night we fed 22 as nieces, nephews, great nieces, great nephews, boyfriends and girlfriends swelled the guest list.
Carolyn never left the kitchen for 10 days. I spent most of my time in the grocery store. I haven’t seen the statistics yet but I expect to see an upward blip in the national retail sales figures for July.
Six bicycles of various sizes, two tricycles, a motorized toy jeep, a croquet court and a shuffleboard court provided outside diversions but the most popular activity was hide-and-seek played at night with “it” armed with a flashlight. They call it “German Spotlight” for reasons that escape me. Other entertainment included golf for the boys, horseback riding for the girls, movies and Nashville Shores for them all.
Our house has a computer, four television sets, three bathrooms and a washer and a dryer. All were in continuous use throughout the entire 10-day visit. The upstairs den seemed always to hold grandchildren, one on the computer, some watching TV, some playing board games and all were eating. Now that we are alone, we are considering just raking out the den and hosing it down.
After teary-eyed farewells were over, I watched the final round of the British Open golf tournament and reclaimed my computer. These simple pleasures were somehow less satisfying than I had anticipated and the house seemed far too quiet.
Thankfully, we will see them again in six short months and Carolyn is reasonably sure that she can restore our house to its pre-visit state by then.
Retired pediatrician Bill F. now spends his days working with wood (“mostly making sawdust”), fishing (“but not very well”), puttering around his garden and writing.

Time Out. . .

. . .Back in a few days!

:)

Leave It To Beaver. . .

I'm not naming names, but let's just say that, a number of years ago, a certain mom may have told her 5 year old daughter that her new pink plastic safety scissors could not possibly cut hair and not to even try it; and the certain inquisitive 5 year old may have decided to try it anyway; and the new pink plastic safety scissors may have left a really large gap in an otherwise pristine haircut on a certain nameless 5 year old daughter's head, therefore proving the otherwise very smart mother wrong.

I know a certain mom (whose inquisitive daughter's bad haircut grew out, and whose daughter is now in college) who kinda, sorta misses those days. . . but I’ll never tell.

Spooky and Jingly

Check it out here: SpookyTimeJingles

The Story of My Life. . .

So much to do. . . so little time left to put off doing it.

Three Cheers for the Red, White, and Blue

Quacked Up

Trying to get all my ducks in a row, but they keep wandering off.

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See you in a few days.

:)

How Does Your Garden Grow. . .

Growing up in the middle of suburbea I never really gave much thought about summer gardens or vegetables or weeds or fertilizer or rototillers or aphids. I never really had to. I lived in a world of ignorant bliss where summer's bounty was readily available at the local Kroger store (with an abundantly stocked Kroger produce section), and from a guy selling fresh peaches and tomatoes in a little roadside stand on the way to the mall. I never had to give a second's thought about plowing, or when to plant, or when the last frost had come, or how much fertilizer to use; and I never had to worry about when it might rain, or whether the 100+ degree temps were going to fry my seedlings. My biggest concern about gardening and "harvest time" was deciding whether to use paper or plastic in the checkout line. During those carefree days as a young teenager, the most important summer activity involved suntanning at the local pool and deciding whether to use Johnson's baby oil or Coppertone Coconut Oil. (And, for the record, my current dermatologist hates me for using either one.)
It's not that I never heard about farming or gardening, it's just that I never had to do any. Once, however, I came close, when I was invited by a friend to drive to east Tennessee to help her family harvest their potato crop: "Sure, I'll help y'all pick potatoes! Will we be using paper or plastic?" I soon discovered that neither paper nor plastic was on the day's agenda, but garden spades and wheelbarrows, and mushy dirt (aka mud), and ants, and lots and lots of sweat. I also discovered that potatoes do not grow on trees or even bushes, but in the ground, of all places! Thus began and ended my early farming career.

So now that I'm a grown-up and I live out in the middle of nowhere on a farm in rural Georgia, my Tennessee family thinks it's quite interesting and a little amusing that I even have a garden, let alone work in it. It's not a huge, feed-the-world-sized garden, but one just large enough to suit our family's needs. Surprisingly, I discovered that I actually enjoy playing the role of "Farmer Jane." Some years we've experimented with things like heritage watermelons and winter squash, but mostly we plant the old standby vegies like beans (if the deer will cooperate) and tomatoes (if the blossom rot will cooperate) and corn (if the crows will cooperate) and okra (if the aphids will cooperate.) And we always plant my all-time favorite summer vegetable, yellow squash. This year was no exception, and during the spring we bought 8 tender seedling squash plants from a local distributor, and put them into the ground. The plants grew and thrived and began to have blossoms. I'm no expert, but I noticed that these plants looked a bit different than I remembered from previous years. Now, I may not have a rich heritage of farming in my blood, and I don't have much of a green thumb unless I'm using green paint, but I do know that when you plant 8 squash seedlings, this. . . r or plastic at the checkout line in the grocery store,

. . . is not what you expect to grow. This is what we city-girls call a cucumber. But hey, what do I know? I once thought that potatoes grew on trees.

USA Rocks

From every mountain side,

Let Freedom ring.

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~Samuel F. Smith

"America"