Of course it’s not over

The sun is shining, the thermometer is just short of fifty, and there are cars in the nursery parking lot.  It’s good for both my expectation and purse that I’ll be out of town for a week. Else I would be looking to buy whatever is out, and add some color to my outdoors.

There is political news. The ACA vote is delayed. The house lost the propaganda value of overturning the ACA on its anniversary date. The World’s Greatest Healthcare Plan, 2017, must try again for votes.

In the meantime, the House inquiry into Russian interference in the last election is in doubt. Nunes, who chairs the committee, took confidential information to President Tweet. I’ve heard that compared to Donna Brazile passing questions to Hillary Clinton, pre-election. Grow up. Clinton was not the sitting president, and Brazile was not under oath. Scandalous, yes. A scandal, no.

   

This presidency is costing us so much. Trump sons travel the world on Trump brand business; Melania stays in New York; Ivanka inherits the west wing office and awaits top security clearance. Actually, I think all the Trumpsters are in Aspen this weekend, with a hundred secret security agents. Dumping Meals On Wheels cannot underwrite this expense, even for a day.

A terror attack in London, and its population does what grown up’s do. Gets on. Life goes on. We face down the terror by keeping on; living our lives, believing our beliefs, supporting what we care about, and not taking it for granted. Some more post cards and phone calls do not go amiss.

I enjoyed, and participated in a FaceBook challenge. Paul Ryan had disconnected his office phones and faxes at the beginning of the ACA replacement debate. I took up the challenge to land several tons of postcards in his drive way. Recently the challenge was to mail postcards to the White House, all on March 15^th. What better way to have a president wonder about his approval rating and why it’s running low.

My post card stash is running low. I’m currently working on my wimp senator, Rob Portman, to oppose The World’s Greatest Healthcare Plan, 2017. Something is getting to him. His office phones weren’t answered today.

It’s too soon to hang hope on spring, but not too late to effect damage control leading up to the next election. In the meantime, some kitchen window photos.

Excess rosemary, drying in the egg separator.

 The orchid will be in bloom, when we are back next Friday.

Looking for spring and another story

The park calls this "Brier Rose Farm,"

another euphemism for property they did not need to purchase,

have no use for

and have no money to maintain. 

However, the postman is quite happy it is a trail head with facility.

Looking out over the hills.

Today was beautiful, but cold.

Tree trunks.

I like them.

Kendall Lake, in the park.

Several years ago it had to be drained.

It became too silted in and shallow for the volume of water it handles,

And would be dredged.

When it was empty, Oh, the stench!

It was properly cordoned off, warning signs posted. 

The drive to the parking area is locked every night.

In short, if you could read and think, all would be well.

Two young women were visiting. 

One said "Oh, I lost my ring in this lake years ago,"

and went out to look for it.

Into the stinking muck.

It held her fast.

It rose to her armpits before the level stabilized.

Her friend called for help, 

and our EMT's showed up.

They laid all the plywood available at the local lumber yard on the mud's surface,

and crawled out to her as if it were an ice rescue.

She was so stuck they could not lift her.

In the end they secured a harness under her armpits, which were below the surface,

as were her arms.

They used a crane, on hand from the dredging operation,

to begin lifting her.

The entire rescue took about eight hours.

Paid for entirely, as I've mentioned from time to time,

by the fewer than seven hundred citizens of the township, 

many of whom are children.

Allowances are not taxable.

How do I know it's spring?

I've been busy at the loom. 

I took off twelve or so yards of sapphire woven on the sapphire warp.

Here it is, ready to go down to the washer and dryer.

And here is my cat, Toby, who considers himself essential.

And there behind him is Helen, my essential and unassuming model.

Suddenly I heard her say "I wish I had a pair of basic jeans. Like the ones the pretty girls in the Land's End catalog wear."

How can I deny her?

I stopped at Village Thrift, in Cuyahoga Falls.

A very large second hand clothing store.

I was blinded by the racks of spring pastels.

I felt like I had entered a cattle chute.

Where were the basic jeans?

Perhaps somewhere in the store,

but I was already sneezing from the fumes of the dry cleaning solution.

I stumbled to a rack of summer shorts and picked a pair for Helen.

She wears them well, even as a mono-ped.

We all are enjoying the saga of the ski run managed by millenials, I know, 

so here is another mini chapter.

Emily threw herself into the car Sunday, slammed the door,

snatched at the seat belt and said

"I hope ALL their snow melts!"

Millenials as they are, these youngsters have pretty much sorted themselves over the season.

Sunday someone from "upper management" showed up, and began assigning them to lifts.

"But we pick our own!"

Didn't fly on Sunday.

Emily was assigned to the north slope lift, the one limited to experienced skiers.

"They aren't nice!" (The skiers)

"When I say 'Good Morning' they grunt or snarl.

"When I ask them to fill the seat, to keep the line moving, they say they're going alone!"

I guess the cheerful little earfull is much happier with young families.

There probably is a two foot base on the runs.

In spite of fifty degree weather,

There will be skiing next weekend.

Hopefully "upper management" won't show up.

Pig and toad, surveying our 18" base.

May Day, 1955

May Day, May 1^st, is such a forgotten holiday in America. A good pagan holiday that couldn’t keep up with the times.

My parents had little to say about the holiday.  Coming off the Great Depression and then a World War, I can appreciate they didn’t find the day special.  I recall, when I carried home from school the news that the day was May Day, a bitter remark from my father that the day had been co-opted by the communists for International Workers’ Day

May Day had a place in school, nevertheless.  I attended the same elementary school for all those seven years from kindergarten through sixth grade.  We had a May Day celebration, organized by one of the sixth grade teachers.  Every year the sixth grade girls danced around the May Pole.  I wonder if it was the dream of every girl watching on the play ground to be one of the dancers.

Miss Horning, the mistress of the dance, tried so hard to keep “the gentle arts” alive.  There was a piano in her room, and in my sixth grade year she made me play.  My mother played well, we had a piano at home and I was given lessons.  I was no good.  As I’ve often said, I have a tin ear.  

Once a week I had to follow the only other piano player, a girl named Joy, who played quite well, and bumble through the piece Miss Horning selected for me.  Miss Horning did not allow me to not play, in spite of my protestations.  Eventually I appealed to my mother, who wrote a note to Miss Horning, and my performances were cancelled.

About April Miss Horning assembled the sixth grade girls around the May Pole to practice during recess.  The May Pole, I now realize, was the tether ball pole.  How did she convince the janitor to substitute ribbons?  I cannot imagine.  Perhaps Miss Horning taught the dance to more competent students before my time.   We just went round and round the pole making a spiral of our ribbons.  On May Day we performed for the entire school at a special assembly.

Surely the ceremony was much longer than our short performance of wrapping ribbons around a tether ball pole.  That is all I recall.

 I loved the May Day celebration we learned in second grade.  We wove baskets from paper strips, filled them with daffodils and tulips from the garden, and gave them to our mothers.  My mother told me they should be hung on the door knob, then knock and hide and watch the surprise of the recipient. I made another basket for Mrs. Cole.  I jumped up and down so from excitement she saw me hiding.

My sister says in her day, ten years later, there was no May Pole.  She did remember the flowers; she took hers to Mrs. Rich.  I still associate May Day with bouquets of flowers and the May Pole dance in 1955.

Daffodils