One More Night,

of sleeping among the mountains.  And one more day of playing pool at the pool table,  and watching The Great British Baking Show on TV, and trike-riding on the trikes, and hiking and  mushroom-hunting in the woods.  There was also the one more day of reading, and strumming guitar or banjo (those who were [still are] adept).  I've got to show you one more day of the family vacation-- singing, and eating good food.

What with that baking show, and the singing, and the eating, it only makes sense we'd have a birthday cake at some point, does it not, Reader Dear?!

 

Oops, forgot to mention two other popular pastimes (when it happened to be raining outside):

Tussling!  

Let me assure you, Dear Reader, this inclination for playful fighting was restricted to a small subset (my small actors) for small amounts of time.

And, too, there was the playing of video games--once again, the small actors,  on small screens, small amounts of time!

Overall, we were toasting the good times, in spite of the rain!

*************************************************************************************

It was all Downhill

 

Downhill in a shrieking, streaking way, Dear Viewer!

At the vacation house in the mountains, my  Small Actor and Tiny Actor took advantage of the trikes and the sweeping lawn.   Whenever it wasn't raining, they were doing the downhill thing--yelling and fast riding and hair flying!  My HM (their Poppy) would give them a ride uphill, and then...as fast as they could get to the top, it would all be downhill again!

I do believe, Reader Dear, if the chances of bone breakage, or a headline proclaiming "Grandmother of Five Dies in Tricycle Accident" were not hovering in my imagination, I'd have hopped aboard a trike myself! 

......

Who's to Know

 what twist of fate will ultimately prompt me to post another blog tale.  It appears that a weekend spent with all of my diminutive actors and the Little Actress might provide the twist.  It was verging on two weeks ago that the HM and I hosted our offspring for a long weekend at a mountain house owned by an Amish man.  This owner is an acquaintance of the HM.  "I've got a house in the mountains," this chap told the HM, "that I rent out  to groups.  I've got only ONE weekend left that is still open for the taking." (My parenthesis: not exactly "taking"...as in, there's a reasonable charge.) 

The HM and I swooped in on the deal.  Ergo, our offspring all took COVID tests prior to traveling to this spot, came up with across-the-board negatives, then went to this mountain house for Indigenous Peoples' Day weekend.  

We had a marvelous time (speaking for myself only, Reader Dear, but surmising it was a mutual sentiment).  Considering this property is Amish-owned, you may suppose it lacked amenities.  You may be quite mistaken, Surmiser Dear! Even though the ample in-ground swimming pool was closed for the season, there was plenty to keep us occupied. 

First Son-in-Law, who truly knows mushrooms, led us all on an interesting Mushroom Expedition.  

Following which, he cooked some up with butter for our eating pleasure.

Just a note of caution, Viewer Dear: One should not go picking toadstools willy-nilly and consuming them.   Without the advice of a mushroom expert, one is liable to find oneself pushing up daisies/mushrooms of one's own! (Aarrgh, Dear Reader, no frowning at Yours Truly.  It wasn't I who made up that old euphemism!)

 

Instead: eat these, wild Shitakes, Blewits, and hmm, what was the name of that other one, the mother lode?!:

No Sooner

did I waken to a rainy day, and tell you about it, Viewer Dear, than I woke up this morning  to  a very wishy-washy day!

It was as though the weather itself couldn't make up its mind!  Should it be Cheerful or sad? Wet or dry? Happy or weeping?  Gloomy or gleeful?  Should it put on shades of yellow, or shades of gray?  Should it be as quiet as sunshine, or sing a song of rain?

In case you are wondering, Reader Dear, the answer is... Yes, I could go on! Now that I've anthropomorphized the weather to such an extent, I've got to confess,  I'm tempted to  write a short work of fiction regarding its dire indecision.  (Or, perhaps a documentary; who's to know?!) But, relax, Dear One.  No sooner had I stepped outside to look for a rainbow, than the weather shook off its debate with itself and got very quiet. It settled on yellow for the rest of the day.  Personally, Reader Dear, I was pleased with the choice.  As beautiful and unique as that dual number the weather had  first put on, I felt  it would not wear well if kept on all day.

All of Life Can be Fickle,

 as any human knows, Reader Dear.

For example, let's say that you've planned an outdoor wedding, a picnic with old friends, or a wing-ding of a yard sale--any outdoor event in which you've invested time and perhaps a degree of energy .  Heck, let's say you have invested nothing at all, but simply planned to finally get the weeds out of your flower beds.  

Yes, yes! At long last, it is going to happen!  (You had told yourself this story the day before, in all caps and with lots of exclamation points! ) There is no way this will not happen!!  You were already envisioning the end of the story: the neat and tidy flower beds; Oh, how lovely!

Prepare yourself, Dear One, because here comes the fickle part.   You awaken to a last-minute plot twist! Your charming tale is in grave danger!

As soon as I can envision another whole story entirely, Reader Dear (one that involves no ark-building, or the necessity to exert any energy outdoors) I'll be sure to let you know!  

Tomorrow will be Too Late

 CORN!!  It's NOW or NEVER! 

Though it might sound corny, Reader Dear...TOMORROW will be TOO LATE!

As the HM declared, "It's got to be today! Tomorrow, I can't pick the corn; and, anyway, tomorrow it will be too late! The corn is starting to get old."

Naturally, I dropped everything on my schedule and did the corniest activity around.  I blanched ears of corn (for the uninitiated, Dear Reader [just in case you happen to be one], "blanching" entails putting the ears of corn into a pot of boiling water and boiling for about six minutes (opinions vary on length of time); that's followed by plunging the ears into icy-cold water]).  Then, I cut the kernels of corn off the cobs of corn, and I froze those kernels in bags labeled, "Corn, about ___ ears, August, 2021" 

It took all of my morning hours to accomplish this feat.

But, you see, otherwise, the HM and I, we wouldn't now  have a total of "about 36 ears" of corn to add to the stash that is already in the freezer.  We can possibly withdraw a portion on a miserable, chilly, late-fall evening, and cook it into a sunshine-yellow-gold dish that tastes like a gloriously warm, yellow-gold summery day!

Between you and me, Dear Reader, I'm so happy  I managed to get to the task in a timely manner!*

*Before it was, you know, TOO LATE!

***************

WOW!

 It's no longer the Fourth of July (anywhere in the world, to my knowledge,  where calendars are being used), but I'm back to this blog in time to show you some nearly-current fireworks, Viewer Dear!  

It was apparently party time at the neighbors' place down the road.  Just briefly out on the balcony after dark last night, I was suddenly treated to a burst of fireworks.  I stayed to watch, and the display lasted nearly fifteen minutes!  As pleasing to me as the (manufactured) light in the sky, was the throng of appreciative guests of the neighbors, whose shouts of delight I could clearly hear between each episodic explosion.

I wowed out loud at least once, Viewer Dear.

And, now, I pass along the opportunity to you (though, obviously, each step removed from the actual experience is likely to elicit less of a Wow! [possibly even,  [though I cringe to imagine] a [yawn] So what?!).

Fourth of July

As celebrated by our Amish neighbors.

Although, in full disclosure, Viewer-Listener Dear, the music you hear playing was emanating from the CD spinning in my car as I returned home from a family extravaganza hosted by a sis and bro-in-law of the HM*

*HM himself nearly missing the event**

** Dear Reader, will give further details as we all go further into the future (think Fifth of July, Sixth of July, Seventh of July, Eighth of July...ad infinitum...(or, at least, Reader Dear, as long as we've still got calendars to consult, and fireworks to fire off).

That Crowd

on the bridge took the HM and I by surprise.   Turns out, they were intent on screaming a president's name and waving flags with his name, and behaving a bit like him. It was a loud and chaotic brief time on the bridge, and we were relieved to be done with it when we exited the bridge.  Very much as we were relieved, several weeks later, to be done with the election!*

That trip west was so pleasant that I suggested we repeat the activity the following week.  We chose a new direction, the HM and I.  

We chose to go NORTH.

Actually, Viewer Dear, the HM said, "Why don't we go up to Middle Creek**; I think the geese are arriving."

**Middle Creek Wildlife Management Area; it's NORTH to the migrating Snow Geese, too.

Let's Post COVID

 stories (I'm talking to myself, Reader Dear.  It's what often happens when I'm about to turn backward in time).

During that lengthy and unnerving era of the pandemic when most everyone I knew stayed at home, that's what the HM and I did, too, most of the time.  We stayed at home. Well, we stayed in hibernation other than trying to get food and other essentials (coffee, toilet paper,...[don't make me enumerate everything, Reader Dear]).   If you'll recall, theaters were not showing movies.    Many restaurants were not open for business, unless it was drive-through.  Shopping for non-essentials was not done in person.   The local mall was locked up tight.   Even gathering in person with friends was a no-no.  

Cold weather was starting to add its chilliness to the then-current unpleasant situation.  Most all news was of the unpleasant sort: Dear Reader, think presidential campaign jargon; think ridiculous and clearly false statements by a frantic sitting president who did not know what to do about a worldwide pandemic.  That was about  the time when I suggested to the HM on a random Friday that we should just go for a drive.  Take a little trip away from our neighborhood.  Albeit relatively local, we could still consider it a trip abroad (in the broadest sense of "abroad").  

It's what we did.  We got in the car and headed west.  Where we ended up was beside the river that is the western border of the county in which we live.  It's the same river beside which I sojourned for a while some years ago, the one  with the seven bridges.  It's a lovely river, Reader Dear.  It's much lovelier seen from an outdoor table on a balmy autumn evening than from a hospital window (of that you can be sure.)

We had a light supper on an outdoor deck at a restaurant on the far side of the river.

And then we headed home.

My goodness!!

Yikes!  What was going on as we crossed the bridge, headed home?!*

*Keep in mind, Dear One, this was late October, COVID-slash-election year in the USA!

To be continued...  

I've Got to Get Us Home!

Myself, The HM, and our Hometown Friends, whom we brought along to the concert; we've got to get home!

That Weekend ended quite a long time ago, relatively* speaking. 

We who were only in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia for That Weekend spent that Saturday strolling around the college campus that the majority of us had attended a very very long time ago, (relatively** speaking, of course)

We also dedicated part of that hot sticky Saturday to perusing the farmers' market in a nearby town.  And we walked around the shops in the city.

*(As compared to, say, the space of time since  I checked into the Toyota Parts and Service Center today, and the guy told me it would be about an hour and a half to repair the tire with the nail embedded in it).  

**(As compared to the length of time it took for me to find the complimentary coffee machine and the complimentary snacks and the complimentary wi-fi enabling me to carry on with this post] at the Toyota Parts and Service Center waiting area).

Yes, yes.  Got to get us home and move along to new and current tales (Such as, oh, I don't know,  nails poking holes in tires. Aargh)!.

Sunday, en route home from That Weekend, we four travelers stopped in (again) at the home of the Concert-hosting friends for a delicious and leisurely lunch (We'd gotten a gracious invitation! [I don't wish for you to suppose, Dear One, that we just dropped in, looking hungry]).  Sadly, I did not take more photos of the food we were served.  You will just have to take my word for it; it was a lavish lunch!.

And, it was at this spot, too, where we were steered toward some entertainment (previously shown to you, Viewer Dear).

After some lengthy good-byes (such beautiful weather, such a pleasant visit, such dear friends [translates, as you may know, Dear Reader, into foot-dragging),

 we were on our way home.

We left the peaceful mountains behind and drove peacefully 

and uneventfully home.  

And thus ends my historical record of

That Weekend, Dear Reader. 

Alarming Alarm Continues

Dear Reader, that loud blaring alarm continued to sound in our hotel room, even after the HM had been down to the lobby and back up to the third floor, and we had both disrobed and gotten back into bed. 

"This is bizarre!  What do we do now?" I wondered.  Trust me, Reader Dear, you could not have slept through that noise.  And trust me again, it's for sure that if you couldn't snooze while it was sounding, there was even less possibility that I could sleep.

"Well," said the HM, "When I was down there in the lobby, they were trying to find someone who knew how to turn off the alarm."  

Yikes.  In this on-going metaphor, Reader Dear, it was a bit like trying to find some solution to the pandemic  other than wearing a mask and staying home (sticking with the metaphor, compare, let's say,  to staying outside the building, or declaring this whole loud alarm was simply a hoax [okay, okay, it's not a perfect metaphor, I'll grant you that. There was no way to ignore a noise that was loud enough to wake the (nearly) dead])!  

The HM and I, we griped and griped.

About a half-hour of griping ensued.  And then, just like that, all was quiet.

The end.

p.s. Next morning, there were conspiracy theories in the breakfast room.  Someone said the alarm was caused by a malfunctioning hair dryer.  Someone claimed the staff was teaching all the new employees how to prepare for such events.  They were all theories.  Only theories. Similar to my theory that you, Reader Dear, are tired of hearing about the alarming alarm.  I maintain that's better than being simply tired from a loss of sleep.

The actual end.  

Still Talking about it.

Who knew, Reader Dear, this story would go on and on.  And, WHO KNEW, as well, when this whole pandemic thing began (in it's confusing, disjointed way) that it was going to last so long?! Remember the story I just gave you of That Weekend? (Come now, it happened so recently). 

Well, after the lovely concert had reached its end, and the HM and I and our Hometown Friends had done a lot of visiting and eaten a lot of cookies and marveled at the night sky, we drove back  to our hotel, went to our rooms, and retired for the night. Speaking strictly for myself, we were tired. All four of us (so I was told by three of us) went to sleep. The beds, in my opinion, were luxurious and well-outfitted.

 ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

 Now, then. I'm going to tell you of a small event that could be a quasi-metaphor for how the COVID pandemic progressed. In the dark of night, we woke to a loud squawking noise.

Foggy minds did not immediately know what was developing (based on research gathered later). There was that LOUD noise. It continued to sound relentlessly. The HM climbed out of bed and was looking at his phone. I thought perhaps it was his alarm. But, No! he said. Not my phone! My brain was beginning to squawk now, and the HM said, "I think it's the fire alarm!"

 I cracked the hotel room door and watched masses of bleary-eyed fellow-third-floor hotel guests standing in confusion or milling toward the staircase, headed down. 

  "What are we supposed to do?" I said to no one in particular.

"I would guess leave the building!" one woman responded.

Back into our room I went, and began to put on clothing.  "I suppose I could die for this," I said to the HM, "but I'm not going down to the lobby in my sleepy time outfit!"

He was already dressed and heading out the door to see if he could get more information.

When fully clothed, I grabbed all the items that I didn't really wish to envision in a cremated state: laptop, phone, purse, those shoes I just bought. Oh, and my glasses...

By the time I got to the top of the staircase with a couple other straggling risk-takers like myself, there was a guest who had already been below, and was headed back toward the room that housed the bed he'd been using (I'm only assuming that's where he was going; like the pandemic, there were many theories).  "They say it was somebody smoking in their room," he muttered.  

Hmmm.

Okay.  

But why was the alarm still sounding?!!

Reader Dear...yes, this post is to be continued (sound like the quarantine?!)  Confusion still reigns.

The Concert

I told you, didn't I, Dear Listener, that this was a concert given by the Concert-Hosting Couple's son and his wife? Clymer-Kurtz did the performing--the playing and singing. You can search their website and find out all about them. But, meanwhile, I'm going to give you a few more little samples of their offerings...

...because I can. I've got two more clips. I regret I can't place you in a lawn chair on that balmy late-spring evening, soaking up the music and the bonhomie the way I did. However, as I stressed in last night's blog post--there's only so much I can accomplish, Dear One. Another item on the impossible list is showing you the night heavens that were spread out above the HM and me and our friends as we were leaving the concert. It looked for all the universe as though it were trying to win a competition: Brightest and Showiest Starlit Night Sky.* Alas, omitted getting photos of the after-concert spread of cookies and drinks, as well. (It would have won a competition, too [entirely different category, rules, and judging, but blue-ribbon-worthy, in my opinion]). That Weekend: still more to come; aka, more posts on this, Reader Dear. *I took a photo of the sky. Pfft, so paltry! I immediately deleted it.

That Weekend

Dear Reader, presently, as I put fingers to the keyboard, "that weekend" was the one that began just nine days ago. Since I've got an overload of past history to pile on this blog, it seems imperative to regale you with the details of That Weekend without further ado. You see, we (the HM* and I) had gotten a sweet invitation to attend a concert at the home of friends who live far out of our area (two states removed from us). When we decided that, yes-by-golly, we should travel for this event, let the Great Quarantine be, well...be consigned to the trash heap of history, I checked with the inviting hostess to see if it would be perfectly okay for us to bring along another couple of friends. The hostess responded, "Marvelous!" (I'm paraphrasing; she's so generous and obliging, this friend; she was busy baking a small truckload of cookies to serve at the concert). That's how it developed that the Hometown Friends traveled with us on a high-traffic Friday afternoon, to enjoy with us the musical evening at the home of the Concert-Hosting Friends. We checked into a full hotel (newly constructed, and opened this past February). Many of the staff were young, but friendly and accommodating. We freshened up, stopped for a speedy supper, and made it to the concert right on time. Oh my, Listener Dear...what an enjoyable evening!

Of course, Reader-Listener Dear, I've surely got to finish up with more details, more snippets of songs, more cookies and coffee...er, sorry, you know there's a limit to what I can make out of you, Dear Would-be Cookie-eater Dear. Come back tomorrow for more moments and days of That Weekend! *Husband of Mine, if you'll recall; aka Horse Man.

It seems like "the olden days" are sorta, kinda, maybe coming back. I'm talking about that pre-COVID era of time. The days when masks were simply for hospital workers or the halloween kid. If a stranger sneezed nearby, one simply said, "God bless you" and didn't give it a second thought. Reader Dear, I have to admit it feels strange. It is awkward addressing you as "Reader Dear". What a long...long...exceedingly long pause. Do I even know how to pick up the metaphorical "pen" and begin this tale again? Can I share a photo with you? I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I want you to see, Dear Viewer, the lastest "event" I have to share, the latest "performance" I was privileged to witness. It made me laugh with delight.

With a little luck, perhaps you'll be laughing, too. (I've got more to tell you about this trip out of town last weekend; there's plenty more to add, but we've got to see how this first "turn" goes). ...to be con'td.