No spontaneity until Sunday

My grandson, Francis, wandered into the Washington DC adventure because our destinations might coincide, and he could use a favor. As you recall, he invited me to lunch to quiz me and assess the opportunity. I heard nothing more, and dismissed the possibility of seeing him, until the package intelligence surfaced.

A week and a half ago he asked if I could bring a package for him. Sure, what’s the plan? He hadn’t thought about that, and since he is a spontaneous kind of a guy, he’d just ship it.

I forgot about it again until his mother called, and explained what he was planning to do, which was to bike the tow path trails from Pittsburgh to DC, ship home the bike and other stray belongings, grab the package, containing among other things, his laptop and his photo ID passport, Uber to the airport and visit his South Carolina cousins on Tuesday. He would find us on the mall via his sister’s GPS.

Sounded like a plan to me; I signed off and forgot about it again.

I followed France several days on the trail via his morning and evening Facebook posts.  I was impressed at his determination. He was in it and would see it through. The snow, the frozen trail, camping several nights in primitive conditions, and then that eleven hour day, slogging uphill in mud, walking the bike. Poor guy came out several miles short of a town with decent food (France likes his decent food), and settled for outback poutine; French fries and gravy, served up in a crossroads bar.

But then it was downhill, and he rolled along beside the Potomac River in sixty degree weather, into his favorite lodging, an AirBnB, very near the National Mall. Good food, nice bed, clean clothes. Teddy Roosevelt thought about his safari porter, and texted me, at 6:30 this morning:

How would you like to coordinate package delivery tomorrow? My AirBnB is right by the National Park.

I smiled and went back to sleep. At 8:30, after a shower, dressing, breakfast, bed making and so forth, I replied:

Tomorrow I am driving to Alexandria VA. Expect to be on the National Mall around 10 am Sunday.

Five minutes later: Alright.

I expect he will be through with sister, cousin and grandma long before Tuesday, and change his ticket for a Monday flight.

The weather forecast is outstanding, half the cherry blossoms survived and will peak this weekend. The weather here was so lovely today that I had the front door open all afternoon. 

Toby was beside himself, between standing on the door closer, and peering through the chink at the bottom. I promised him I will get him an all glass storm door this summer and maybe an interior door with full glass this fall, though  that improvement will be more for me than for him.

Oh, the details and the reality

This morning Francis is on the downside of Mountain Top. He says, on FaceBook, it’s a gradual descent into DC. In spite of the mud, he seems intent on sticking to the towpath trail. It has been muddier than he expected. He spent eleven hours on the trail yesterday, the majority of it walking, and fell short of his goal of connecting from the GAP trail to the C&O Trail.

France is on the C&O this morning. He said he would start early, perhaps 2 a.m. It seems he did. He expects to be in DC Friday evening. He can just track his sister’s GPS from Cleveland to DC, all day Saturday. Knowing France, he will spend Saturday biking the National Mall, so he can tell the girls where to go. I’ll let you know if he conquers the road and arrives before we arrive.

I wonder when I emerged from spontaneity? When did I abandon “Get dressed; road trip.”  It doesn’t seem that long. But steering two youngsters and myself through a weeks’ getaway required planning. Looking into visiting Monticello, Mt. Vernon and Montpelier was an education.

Perhaps we paid a small admission fee back in the eighties; I don’t recall. Now you pay the fee and get tickets in advance. But, there’s more. You don’t just show up; you schedule a time. So much for spontaneity. I did some juggling and added extra driving to visit all three Presidential homes in two days, to accommodate George Washington.

The area temps will be in the sixties for the duration of our stay, but rain in the forecast, so I made sure everyone has a raincoat. I already learned the circulator bus for the National Mall is a dollar every time you get on, so I will bring a lot of dollar bills. Then I thought of the regular bus line that will get us to the mall, and made the call. It is $1.75, exact change only. I’ll add a roll of quarters. I think I’ll get hand warmers, too.

Laura and I need to think about efficient packing of the car, since I’ve added the push chair to the luggage. She is charged with getting audio books at the library Wednesday night, while I am at the trustee meeting. Laura and Caroline exchanged texts about the book selection while she and I drove home from shopping last weekend.

Suddenly Laura burst out laughing. “Caroline just gave me a list of books I can’t get. The sexual scenes are too explicit for Grandma.” I laughed, too, and had trouble keeping my eyes on the road, for wiping my eyes.

May, 2007. Bekka, blowing bubbles. Uncle Walt on the ramp. Caroline in pink; Laura in some of her clothes, and France, who couldn't catch all the bubbles himself, commiserates with his father.

President Tweet

A news commentator on a PBS station this morning misspoke, “President Tweet trumped.” Several sentences in she caught herself and said, ‘I meant “President Tweet trumped.”’ And gave up. 

President Tweet, it is. Now President Tweet is quoting his “favorite” Irish proverb, written by a fellow in Nigeria, named Alhassan. Mr. Alhassan wrote a little morality poem, and its last verse certainly should be taken to heart by President Tweet.”

Always remember to do your duty,

And some kindness, day by day.

But never forget to live a useful and happy life,

That is the only way.

That’s my political remark for the day. Here is a grandmother tale, funnier than President Tweet.

Francis, my grandson who is two weeks younger than Laura, started on his spring break adventure today. He is biking “The Great Alleghany Passage” from Pittsburgh to Washington DC, by himself. Or fellow bikers he meets along the way.  I’m copying and pasting a description I found on Google:

The initial 125 miles of this tour are on the Great Allegheny Passage from Pittsburgh to Cumberland, MD, located on abandoned railroad beds. The final 184 miles from Cumberland, MD to downtown Washington, DC, are on the C&O Canal Towpath, which is the heart of the C&O Canal National Park.

I traveled this highway at least once a month in my show days. Let’s see if I can describe it. He’s starting in Pittsburgh, so we’ll skip the bit about the flat farmland in Ohio. He’s a little bit up the hill to start. Then, the road climbs the Alleghany Mountain. Before the top, my road went through the Alleghany Tunnel, and dropped down just a bit to Breezewood. From there the road climbs Mountain Top, before dropping down to Hagerstown, Maryland, and on to Washington DC. France biked the Alleghenies from West Virginia to Illinois last summer, so this is just a little spring break jaunt. He says.

Francis wanted to meet up in DC. He proposed the rendezvous back when we met for lunch, and even acquiesced to some chair pushing in exchange for courier service of a small parcel via Grandma’s car. He texted me about passing off the parcel. I texted back, in a Grandmotherly way, “We don’t have a meeting plan for DC.” He replied he was just going to be more spontaneous, and guessed he’d ship the package, instead.

For, in DC, Francis will ship his bike back to Ohio and take a plane to meet his mother in South Carolina.

Beth called me the next day. She does not want to ship the package. Here’s how the great meet up will work. Francis will find us in DC via the GPS on his sister’s phone. Who am I to question. The plan is on.  

Erin Go Braugh

I see Francis has invited us to follow him on this trip: summitventure.co

What to do with another snow day

Due to inclement weather and the other usual phrases, school is cancelled again today. It just occurred to me I cannot remark smugly that I used to walk uphill both ways. Actually, I did. 

However, there were way fewer cars on the roads then, and we walked strung across the roads that had no sidewalks. When we reached sidewalks, the homeowners and shop keepers had them cleared. The majority of kids these days seem to be on busses, and bus traffic on poorly cleared, early morning roads is a different matter.

I woke the second time to the front door slamming. I’d already told Laura there was no school, so I looked out the window. She tells me this is a far more efficient method of getting ice from the window than coming back in for car keys to get the snow brush.

I looked out the back window, at my neighbor’s car. This is what Laura started with.

Laura had a plan. She’d texted Deb and asked if she could help at Elements Gallery. She packed a lunch, I ate breakfast, and I dropped her off.

Back home, I perused Google news to see what new wheels fell off the clown car that is the presidency of our country. My current assessment is, the wheels don’t actually need to fall off. The Republican controlled houses of Congress are doing a fine job of shooting holes in them. And hopefully in their own feet as well.  The realization is dawning that replacing ACA with, and I quote, “The World’s Greatest Healthcare Plan, 2017,” is political suicide.

I used to send postcards to people in power, asking them to oppose or support things I opposed or supported. Or, I’d tell representatives doing a good job, “Thanks! Persist!” Now I’m thinking of sending post cards to, say, Paul Ryan: “Why stop at 14 million. Go for 24. No, 34. That’s a nice big number. Your seat is up in 2018; keep up the fine work.”

My real plan for today is to finish up the DC trip details, like the elusive Montpelier tickets, and get a firm grasp on transportation available in the city.  And, wonder if the ice will spare the cherry blossoms.

Picture credit: Win McNamee/Getty Images

This morning, this afternoon, and tomorrow

Another pancake breakfast this morning, this time in Geauga County, home of real pancakes, real butter and real maple syrup. Good sausages, too.

My daughter Beth, her mother and her husband here. Beth broke a lot of her arm last December, in an awful fall. It's not progressing as well as could it should, but she's a long way from where she started.

We all futility waved  the refill sign around, until Francis took the matter under his six foot charge.

Beth, her mother and her mother-in-law. You remember Grandma Ruth. There is no picture of Caroline and Laura today; they tend to move as unit when together, and fade in and out of sight.

Back home this afternoon, here is Toby, attempting to recover from springing ahead for daylight savings. I took a bit of a nap before supper, too.

I sewed two more quilt tops this afternoon, and Laura put several more together, before retreating to her room to exercise her thumbs.

The winter storm forecast starting tomorrow afternoon is now up to 9" of snow. I'm beginning to take this personally.

Pancakes, snow and art

Pancake breakfast season is upon us again. I wonder how many organizations I could name that do not have a pancake fundraiser. And, so, it was the Hudson High School Parent Teacher Organization's event yesterday. Laura and I were in the crowd.

A sign at the door announced all pancakes were gluten free. In addition, all pancakes were donated by the local Perkins Pancake franchise, as were the accompanying sausages. 

Factory pancakes, re-heated in a steam unit, served over two questionable sausages. At the table, imitation butter and syrup. But, the coffee was real, and my $16 probably is well spent. We left the deafening cafeteria for the quieter student art exhibit in the gym.

There was a lot of good art on display, but these bowls held my attention. My mother would have loved these. All those church bulletins and colorful magazine pages she could have kept from the landfill.

Perhaps in my dotage I will look into the rolled paper art form and make all presents in-house.

This structure is at the end of one of the exits of the high school, and is where I pick Laura up after school, if she needs picked up. They call it The Gazebo. Ours is not to question, etc. I liked the lace edging the melting snow commenced making.

This morning the snow on my neighbor's roof caught my eye. Each section of his tin roof is sending down a a distinct unit of snow.

It’s just as well I dismissed the trip planner

Back when I planned my own routes and made reservations, I used a big Rand McNally, and a stack of notes about motels and phone numbers. Then we had the internet, and search engines. Do you remember WebCrawler? Ask Jeeves? Dogpile? I could ask for a list of motels and start calling for price. Expedia, Priceline, Trivago are the Taj Mahal of WebCrawler.

When I began planning a trip to DC for Caroline and Laura over spring break, I thought the train would be wonderful. I priced Amtrack online, and it was $199 for the three of us. I wanted to take them to the National Mall, to Monticello, Mt. Vernon and Montpelier over the course of a week. It boggled my mind, so I asked a trip planner for help.

The planner immediately quoted me over $500 for the train, round trip. I knew better than that. I let her go, and started in myself. Booking the train was job one. I’d waited a few days too long; the trip was now $250 for the available seats. I booked and clicked next. Next was the return trip, for another $250. With mental apologies to the trip planner, I scrapped the train, and looked for a hotel I could afford for five days.

I used to drive to DC for shows several times a year. Why did I think I’d lost my edge? The Best Western has a shuttle for the half mile walk to the subway. The blue and yellow lines go to the mall. I had the girls look over all the attractions and “plan” what we should do.

Separately, I asked a friend who visited with her father recently. It took them two days to walk the mall. So, I plan on two days and the mall will be “by ear”, or whatever my planners decide. I think between the subway, the on and off buses and trolleys, we’ll be fine. I do have my personal must see’s, including cherry blossoms.

Today I set out to buy tickets to see the presidents’ homes. Mt. Vernon and Montpelier one day, Monticello another. I visited Monticello years ago, when my daughters were young. Back then we bought tickets at the gate. Think again.

My order of travel from our Arlington, VA motel was Mt. Vernon, just a stone throw, and Montpelier in the afternoon. Every morning time I selected for Mt. Vernon returned an error, not available. As times are offered in fifteen minute intervals, and my internet is not that high speed, I called Mt. Vernon. I was in the queue about two minutes before a very pleasant woman helped me book an afternoon tour.

Hoping Montpelier had not sold out the morning, I clicked on over and began the ticket process. I opened the March calendar, and found the last half blanked out, with the note, tickets for those days are available beginning two weeks in advance. I have a big note on my calendar.

I still need to buy the push chair and look into 11x15x6 bags, the largest allowed in. Even though those girls will just check the map on their phones, I’ll be using my trusty old Rand McNally. I doubt I’ll update from the 2000 edition, residing in the back of my car.

The big enchilada

I had lunch with my grandson today. The one who is two weeks younger than Laura and has bicycled halfway across the country. According to my texts, he invited me to lunch “sometime”, at least a month ago.  He had the day off school today, so it was a date.

France wanted to plug his blog, Summit Venture, which has a couple new posts on his summer plans. He biked a hundred miles around Cleveland yesterday. He used the MetroParks and the Towpath Trail for much of the ride, but his route definitely took him through downtown Cleveland. “I guess your mom lets you ride on the roads now,” I said. He deigned no reply.

A few mouthfuls into his burger, he did get down to business. How are the DC plans coming? Over his spring break he plans on riding a 350 mile towpath trail from Pittsburgh to DC—solo. Perhaps he might cross paths with his sister, his cousin and me. And, do those girls even have a plan yet for what they want to visit? I see there was some sibling sparring at his house. “Well, I don’t care what you do. Grandma Joanne is taking Laura and me to Washington DC for spring break!”

The big brother superiority crown slipped a little when I turned to the part of the trip to Monticello, Montpelier and Mt. Vernon, none of which he has visited. France has apparently quizzed Caroline enough to know I intend to take a walker with a seat and fold down foot rest. I will spend much of the trip being pushed down the National Mall. He smirked more than a little at the thought of a porter on each side, propelling Grandma to the Lincoln Memorial.

Halfway through the second bottle of ketchup and the order of fries he wound up taking home, France did pull out his phone and quiz me closely on dates and the name and location of our motel.  I do cotton on, sometimes sooner than later. As I paid the bill I said, “Francis, it would be lovely to see you in DC. You can even push the chair.”

He didn’t think so.

We stopped at a coffee shop on the way to the train stop. He paid for his with his phone. I used my card. I don’t portray grandsons so well as granddaughters, but I’m sure you’re following my amusement here. I pulled to the curb to drop him at the University Circle RTA, to take him over to Ohio City and his part time job, which is being banked toward a Jaguar. Excepting his coffee budget.

Before he left the car, he did thank me for lunch, and then added, “Hope to see you in DC. I’ll even push the chair.”

I picked up Laura after school, and there was an envelope for her in the mail. ‘Nuff said.

Out of left overs

               

I am not the cookerer in this house, and that is a happy circumstance. I don’t care for cooking, and people don’t care for my cooking, so it works out all around.

The cook of record likes to eat, as does her grandmother, but the cook has discovered one does not become a chef overnight and learning to cook is the same process as any sort of education, not always interesting to achieve.

We would eat pasta in cheese sauce every night, if the grocery procurer would allow. Her second go to is soup, and we do have a lot of that. Soups are adequate; a box of broth, some diced meat, some ready at hand vegetables like spinach or broccoli, onions, carrots.

The opportunity for disaster occurs in the spice cupboard. The cookerer has most every spice known to men. She fancied herself the master of their use, but we ate so many spice disasters, she’s retreated to minimal seasoning.

I hoped to find her some cooking classes this summer. But, the national park is not offering cooking camp again. There are two cooking schools in the area, but the summer camps are geared to a much younger age, and guarantee perfect hot dogs or mac and cheese. Beth probably can rustle up some classes for the summer, and it’s only February, so I can let this one go for a bit.

There is a considerable absence of dishes I like. If the cookerer doesn’t like it, it doesn’t happen. But I can be persistent, and then amused when, months later, I find mushrooms, for instance, appearing regularly.  

We’re  open to anything that features bacon. I found a recipe for pasta with bacon and peas. Because I would not put bacon in the cart unless the peas came too, I am pleased to say not only did peas cross the threshold, they probably will continue to do so.

My sister made a little casserole I loved; cottage cheese and noodles. I’ve been promoting it for several weeks, but it hasn’t materialized, though the recipe languishes on the kitchen table. Today the cookerer is off with her mother, and I announced I would make cottage cheese and noodles for myself.  I asked if we had everything. “Probably,” on her way out the door.

Only noodles were in house. I went out for cottage cheese, sour cream, Worcestershire sauce and tarragon in order to proceed. It’s in the oven now, and smells wonderful.

I have to admit, if I were the cook, it wouldn’t happen. My fingers fumble to open anything, spoons fly from my hands, and by the time I was through standing for twenty minutes, my back was screaming. Time to knit and watch TV.

The certified, bona fide, guaranteed, genuine lock it down and send the key on a trip to space end to 2016

Laura and I had haircuts today. There was a happy dance.

Forty two days into the new year, the ghost of last year left.

We went to Ann’s for Christmas last year, and I came back to a busy, busy week closing the township books. But, I did slip in a haircut appointment for the two of us. Laura was barely in the chair when Mel called me over, and showed me a tango line of little white bumps along every part she’d made in Laura’s hair.

Mel is so young and so nice, and wasn’t sure this grandma knew the score, so she started out, “Don’t be ashamed. I’m a mother of a little girl, too. This happens all the time.” She wrote a brand name of a treatment on her card, told me to call her if I had any questions. As the door closed behind us, they were hurriedly wiping down all the places Laura had been.

We took the treatment at once. We combed and combed and combed. “Yetch,” Laura said. This is gross. We combed some more.

I sent Ann a text: “”Laura has head lice. Check Pat. They shared that hat. L”

Ann called me. “I checked that text twice to be sure it was dated December 31^st. It is. I pronounce it the end to The Year From Hell. Don’t worry about Pat. He’ll take the cure with flea shampoo.”

Back home, we’d made some headway. But the school nurse said the little buggers had just retreated to the back of Laura’s head. We took the cure again. We washed bedding daily. No pass from the nurse. We combed some more. No pass from the nurse.

Laura texted me a business card from one of the nurse checks. Happy Heads 4 U. Guaranteed. Three trips to Happy Heads later, the nurse was happy. Laura was happy. Grandma was happy.

Mel put four inches of Laura’s split ends on the floor this afternoon.

Why am I so sad today

The sun is almost shining on inches of new snow, which is blowing and drifting as quickly as the roads are cleared. I came home at lunch time to find bird prints in the snow on the drive, on the steps, on the rail. Birds aren’t sad; they just look for food. Places to nest. Scraps to build the nest.

For some reason the weight of hate struck me full force today. We throw that word about too easily. We hate things too easily. The word has become cheap. Life in the world has become too cheap. Why hate people of color? Why hate people who have a different god? Such a waste. And why was it the first thing on my mind today? Perhaps because last thing before bed I scribbled a post card to Elizabeth Warren. Thanks for doing your job so well.

For the first time in years, I’m knitting a sweater. I abandoned sweater knitting for sock knitting at least fifteen years ago.  Wool socks, to keep my feet warm. Other people have cold feet, so I knit socks for them, too.  Unlike my mother, who divided every last bit of yarn into two balls in order to knit matching striped mittens, I put my ends into a bag, to be decided later.

I joined a knitting group last year. I am amazed at all the things to be knit and worn, with aplomb. I am so pedestrian; I could never swag a scarf around my neck like so many women do. But I did learn of a new, local yarn shop from these women, and went to see what I could see.  My goal was to dispose of a pound of left over sock yarn, and to that end I came home with four more skeins of sock yarn, this time in a beautiful moss green wool, to be the base color.

The young artist in residence graded the colors for me and put them little bags numbered one through twenty something. I was sorting through the bag of numbers the other day, looking for thirteen or fourteen or some such. I looked at one bag, and said “Oh no, Laura. This one says 00." I handed her a bag of purple that had 00, underlined.

“Gramma, it’s an 18!”

The wishful thinker.

A terrible analogy

Stronger folk than I demonstrate around the world, while my little stream of postcards flows to Washington, and potus throws out executive orders with sound and fury which, unfortunately, signify something. His is an ill-considered power move, an effort to be seen as powerful and effective out of the gate. 

Social media around the world, anyway that which I read, shows resistance large and small. How about America First, Netherlands Second. That’s a great set of buttons from a lot of countries. He does read polls, I hear, so every poll we answer may help. In small ways and big, just resist.

Back in the real world, Laura and I went shopping for a dress recently. For the next dance, of course. Miss leggings and flannel shirt seven days a week sure likes to dress up for a dance. Grandma fashion adviser thinks her build is more suited to straight lines than to layers of net and chiffon. No more pouf.

We sorted though half a dozen tall racks of dressy dresses. Most were floor length, so the hangers were over both our heads. Several trips to the dressing room later, I had two prime candidates over my arm, when we broke right out of the racks and straight into The Dress.

Like two kids. “I like that,” said Grandma. “I love that,” said Laura. “It needs a leather jacket,” said Grandma. This child has had a leather jacket on her wish list since forever. We added it to the purchase and headed to checkout. Her Christmas money was wiped out.

The dance was last night. We done good. Makes me almost remember being fifteen.

The secret life of Grandma

“The secret life” has been a rejoinder between Laura and me for the last six months. Emptying the trash one evening, she spied an empty Panera coffee cup. “What’s this!? When did you go there!? I didn’t know about it!”

“The secret life of grandma,” I replied.

Since then, if she knows, she smugly remarks she knows about the secret life of grandma. But, if she doesn’t know, she sets about finding out. Toward that end, I try to leave a clue about new secrets. 

Today I met a new acquaintance for lunch, and told myself to bring back a napkin or some such thing for a trash clue.

Lynn is not so much a new acquaintance. We’ve sat beside each other for months, waiting for our respective one p.m. counselor appointments. We get on so well for ten minutes every other Wednesday, we decided to go to lunch. And so we did, today.

We discovered in short order, we grew up on North Hill in Akron. My sister and I often remarked how often children who grew up on the hill moved back as adults, as Lynn had done. North Hill is big enough to have three elementary schools, a junior and a senior high, so being from the hill doesn’t equate to being from the neighborhood.

Lynn, though, grew up on the third street behind me. She’s six years younger, and I didn’t remember her, so I asked if she knew my sister, Janice Lytle. “L-y-t-l-e,?”, she asked. “Was Melvin Lytle your brother? I still have the love letter he wrote me in fifth grade!”

The restaurant closes at two, and they sort of boosted us out, so we’ll pick this up another time. And, I forgot to bring home a clue. So, let's not mention this until next time.

Easter, about 1955

My brother Walt, me, mom, Mel,

and Janice, the baby who can't lift Mom's purse.

I've used this picture before, and sub-titled Jan as the one who never was spanked.

Yin and Yang are working with a desolate landscape

My Yin and Yang knowledge is the usual schoolgirl type. The contrary forces around us now are not complementary. Yang is not bright and positive, but using its force to stop ordinary folks at airports, detain them at will. People on business trips, travelling home from vacation, students.  

Power changes people; not necessarily in a bad way, I'm sure, but when added to a personality already obsessed with the grandiose, the uses of power are  ranging  from petty to autocratic. Today I am sick at heart. The new potus is devoid of empathy, and today’s postcards include one to him, telling him not to become the fool of power.

Back in my real world, I still need to be the change. Youngsters wear that slogan on their shirts, on their backpacks, on their trinkets. It’s the distillation of my philosophy of doing the right thing in my sphere. Today was a good day.

I went back to my birdseed store and bought a bag of mixed safflower, sunflower and peanuts. Laura filled the bird feeder this morning, and we had a tufted titmouse before she was back indoors.

Today was the monthly stock up grocery run. Even more fun because my daughter Beth, and granddaughter Caroline, came to pass the couple of hours Francis is at rock climbing class. I love these people.

Caroline has a new haircut. The last time you saw her, she had a messy bun, like Laura usually wears. Today, a bob. Her story is, the hair was in her face in gym class and she had nothing to secure it. After school, she and her girlfriend cut her hair. They braided it at her neckline and cut it off. "It's like cutting a rope."

But, not the end of the story. Grandma Ruth declared the cut as close to a disgrace to hair as Grandma Ruth is able to sound disapproving. Caroline went to Grandma Ruth's hairdresser, who "loves to clean up bad cuts." "It wasn't that bad," Caroline said.

The three of us went grocery shopping; Beth stayed home to catch up on paperwork. The entire shopping trip went indoors in one trip. Each has two bags of groceries and they split the cat food and litter.

Beth in the kitchen, working. Oh, that arm. She's become a lefty, and wonders how Francis does it. She's just recently conquered the number 8, and confesses her 9's are only upside down 6's.

The girls put away the groceries; I stuffed envelopes for Beth, and it was time for them to go. "See you next time you're the designated rock climber mother.

Closer to spring

We had the six a.m. call today; school is cancelled. Not surprising; freezing rain forecast and freezing rain the obvious meteorological phenomena when I actually got up at 8. In the Secret Life of Grandma, which Laura puzzles over occasionally, “Eight am is when you get up and school starts.” But, not today.

It was thirty one degrees here, all day, until an hour ago, when it rocketed to forty. That is a diversion, so we won’t believe we will wake up again tomorrow to thirty one and freezing rain, and probably another snow day for school.

I eventually went to work, a treacherous jaunt behind and in front of folks who have no idea how to drive in winter. Hint: do not try to idle through slush and snow. Without power to the wheels, you car is nothing but a two ton sled, that cannot be controlled. Grrrrr…

To continue, it was awful getting into the door at work, and that after the road guys unloaded ten pounds of calcium whatever on the bricks that should not be called a sidewalk. They glazed over again as soon as more rain filled all the nooks and crannies.

Once behind my desk, I finished up the monumental country dance that is closing one year and opening another in government accounting. There is a trustee meeting tomorrow, the annual organizational meeting, as well as forty or fifty odd checks to sign (we call them warrants), so best to be as organized today as possible.

My mother-in-law gave me that Revereware pot when I was married, in 1964

Another side bar: for five years I attended the meetings of one township board to take minutes. I have no membership on the board, or authority (of course), but I do like two of the board members well enough to see the minutes are properly taken. I was notified of a meeting tonight, and I simply said to the nice board member, “You’re on your own. Herself (who is the Secretary of the Board), who despises my snotty attitude, can take her own minutes.” I’ll pay for that tomorrow, and don’t give a rat’s patoot.

After I came home and ate a very late lunch, I asked the kid who wonders about the Secret Life of Grandma if she would like to go to Jan’s new studio and deliver the armload of quilt tops we have finished. And, so we did. Jan sent me a picture of a couple. Remember the tree? It’s ready to have its binding whipped down.

There was a bonanza surprise. Right next door to the studio is the deli where I buy pierogis (in the Secret Life of Grandma). Laura got to pick. We have a six pack each of mashed potato and cheddar, and chicken parmigiana (judgment reserved) in the freezer.

I'm just called for dinner. And it’s one day closer to spring.

Marking time

School recommences Wednesday.

We've watched a lot of movies.

Laura's explanation of sci-fi and horror movies finally sank in.

"They're not real, Gramma!"

Among others, I've now watched The Mummy and 2012.

Tonight we're queuing up Harvey and The African Queen. 

Laura spend a day shadowing at Elements Gallery, the porcelain studio in town.

She came home with a spoon rest and an invitation to come back.

I got the wonderful little man there. He's an egg separator.

We had egg separating issues when we baked cookies.

I once made 500 single bed quilt tops for my sister to quilt for shelters.

Emily moved out, and we made a sewing room

I asked Jan if she needed more tops.

Yes, she was down to the last three old tops to quilt.

I now have a layout artist, and a supervisor.

We've made quite a few. I'm not keeping track this time.

Laura irons them, too, which I am unable to do.

Jan used to iron them.

Win-win.

 And, I played cards with the Methodists today.

I keep my back to the refreshment table.

Those thumbprint cookies were really tempting, though.

And Wednesday I must get serious about closing 2016 and tidying up for the auditors. I did continue my unbroken streak of distributing W-2's and 1099's before the end of 2016.

That's thirteen years in a row.

Which means, three years and three months to go.