Author: Judy

Let Freedom Ring…But Not Too Loud

~ Judy ~ Leave a comment
I GOTTA GET ME ONE OF THESE.

Time again to celebrate America’s #1 national holiday and favorite excuse to let loose. While we proudly wave our flags and grill our brats (a German invention, I believe), let us not forget what the day is all about, i.e., our independence from those damn Brits, who wanted to tax us for things like tea and sugar. We’ve built a nice little country here, with an income tax rate of 10 to 35 percent admittedly, but at least we have our own flag and national bird.

In the meantime, be careful with those fireworks, which we used to have to buy across the border in Wisconsin but which are now available at fine retailers everywhere. Well, not the big stuff that’s capable of launching a small rowboat into outer space – this is still the state settled by serious Germans and Scandinavians after all – but nonexplosive, nonaerial things like sparklers and party poppers, which should be more than enough fun for anybody.

And while we’re on the subject, don’t forget to… Drive safely. Swim with a buddy. Use sunblock (SPF 30 or more). Don’t leave the potato salad out in the sun. Watch out for poison ivy (three serrated leaves per stem). Check the kids for ticks. Wear a life jacket in the boat (it’s the law). And if you haven’t had a tetanus shot within the last ten years, you might want to stop at the clinic before heading up North. The 4th of July – what fun!

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Photo: Google Images, micsmarket.com
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Grandma Judy Calls the Roll

~ Judy ~ 1 Comment

Maria
I went to Maria’s softball game this week. This is her first year playing fastpitch, and I’m thinking she may want to work on her self-confidence in the batter’s box. She appears as likely to wait for the walk as to swing at any given pitch. Not a bad strategy actually, and one I can relate to, but connecting bat and ball seems sort of core to the game. On the other hand, the girl can run once she gets on base.

Christian
Christian, who turned eight this week, is feeling miffed that his march to adulthood hasn’t equated to something more than bigger sneakers. As he told his mother, doggone it, he is old enough for the 12-inch sub at Subway now.

Grace
Grace was at Maria’s softball game, although she wasn’t exactly in thrall of the action on the field and as a result spent a good part of the time capturing the local color with my camera. Which is how I end up with photos like this of some random bald guy…

and the now ubiquitous, but always riveting shot of Gracie’s feet…

Cosette
Cosette spent the week fixating on her birthday, still three months away but why wait till the last minute. It was the subject of numerous phone calls, with instructions on finding Thomas the Tank Engine toys (Aisle 2 at Target), the theme for her cake (Thomas the Tank Engine), and where to park when I get to the party (not in the street but in the driveway next to the neighbors’ flowers, Daddy will show me where).

Bret Jr.
Toddler Bret remains as exuberant as ever. Recently he conked me in the head with a cookie. (I know it shouldn’t hurt, but it did.) We were at a birthday party where they passed out big hard cookies in plastic bags, an open invitation to reckless cookie swinging and I should know better than to bend down to talk to a toddler in those circumstances. It wasn’t as painful as the time Toddler Christian broke my nose, or even the time Toddler Maria clobbered me with a hair brush, but it smarted. So don’t go giving toddlers potentially harmful cookies in plastic bags. Just don’t.

A small bird has built a small nest in the ivy growing up a pillar outside my front door, and now I can’t get up on a ladder to pull the wayward ivy off the house without risking being pecked in the eye. And so it goes.

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Dumb Wildlife

~ Judy ~ 2 Comments

For the third day in a row I’ve had to pull a pile of twigs out of my newspaper box. Some clueless but determined bird fills it up about as quickly as I can empty it. While I don’t mind a persistent bird as much as persistent hornets, who continue to try to establish a hive in the eaves over the kitchen window despite the fact that I keep blasting it off with the hose, obviously I cannot allow wildlife to nest in the newspaper box. Even if I had the carrier throw the paper in the driveway until the baby birds had hatched and flown away, the mailbox is part of the whole setup, and I can’t have some territorial mother bird dive-bombing the mail carrier. I am not going to the post office to pick up my mail just because a stupid bird can’t figure things out.

One fall some Swifts built a nest in my chimney. They made a racket up there and, convinced it was a raccoon, I sent up an exterminator, only to find out that Swifts are protected and cannot be removed from your chimney no matter how much they annoy you. You just have to put up with it until the whole family picks up and flies away. Forget about having a fire.

I don’t know why the creatures of this earth want to torment me. There was a turtle in the garage last week. It had parked itself under the car and I was afraid to back out, because the last thing I need to come home to is a dead turtle. I think it’s the same one that’s been hanging around since Mother’s Day, when daughter Jessica spotted it in the driveway and made her boyfriend John reluctantly put it in a bucket and then transfer it into a plastic kiddy pool to show the grandkids; except that it looked so pathetic trying to scramble up the sides of the pool that they let it go and it crawled off into the raspberry bushes to hide, which was ridiculous because any one of my grandchildren could have been the inspiration for Lord of the Flies. Well, not Grace.

Since then I have seen the turtle plowing through the grass, parked on the front walk and lurking in the rock garden. Yesterday it was back in the raspberry bushes. At least I think it’s the same one. They all look the same, green and neurotic. Stalked by a turtle, besieged by things that fly. No wonder I’m a mess.

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Pages from Grandma’s Diaries: Bret Jr., Part 1

~ Judy ~ 2 Comments

All kinds of things change when you’re the fifth grandchild. For one thing, Grandma doesn’t have as many pictures of you to pick from when she needs one. For another, you have to be more assertive than numbers 1 to 4 to get any attention at all. Luckily, this is not a problem for Toddler Bret.

I call him Toddler Bret because he’ll be two in July and I can’t call him Baby Bret anymore. His sister said so. As I believe I mentioned, when his parents chose to make him a Junior, they failed to come up with a nickname, leaving everyone to muck along with two Brets in the family. I’m starting to wonder what Toddler Bret makes of it himself. Conversation at the dinner table, for instance.

“How was your day, Bret?”
“Bret, eat your apples.”
“Would you pass the mashed potatoes, Bret?”
“Bret, do you want more milk?”
“Ursa really needs a bath, Bret.”
“Bret, no feeding Ursa from the table.”

I picture him throwing up his little hands in despair. “What in the name of Fisher-Price does the woman want of me??”

Or maybe not. His days are full. He’s like a little locomotive, legs pumping, running here, running there. He has wants. He has needs. He has a lot to think about: “What’s going on? Wait for me, Cosette! I want to do that. Run, run, run! Where’s Ursa? Get the ball, Ursa! Where’s Mom? It’s time to jump off something! I can dance like the Wiggles. Mom, I need a hug. I want to go outside now. Where’s Cosette? What’s Cosette doing? I can do that!”

And that’s pretty much how it goes, all day long. His sister is commander in chief, i.e., whatever she does, he does. WHATEVER she does. Cosette jumps off the bed, Bret jumps off the bed. Cosette sticks out her tongue, Bret sticks out his tongue. Cosette marches down the driveway carrying a stick, Bret marches down the driveway carrying a stick. Cosette picks a flower and throws it in the bushes, Bret picks a flower and throws it in the bushes. Well, you get the picture.

Cosette likes to call me on the phone and let me know what’s going on at their house. Lately she’s been putting me on the speakerphone, because Toddler Bret has things he wants to say too. Well, yell. “Ball! Dog! Ma! Down!” God knows what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter, he just wants to be acknowledged.

Of course, very soon now he won’t be the youngest grandchild anymore, but number 5 of 6. It’s hard to say how that’s going to go over. As I said, he has wants, he has needs. On the other hand, he could end up commander in chief.

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Windexed

~ Judy ~ Leave a comment
“EVERY AILMENT, FROM PSORIASIS TO POISON IVY, COULD BE CURED WITH WINDEX.”

You know how it is. First you can’t buy a vowel in the game of life, then you notice it’s been two months since you looked at your blog. I wanted to write something here, I really did. I was waiting for a happy thought.

I had a Moment of Joy on Friday. It was casual day at work, so blue jeans all around. I had on a light blue pair I like that don’t make me look too fat. As usual, I brought my breakfast to work, including yogurt mixed with mashed strawberries. At 7:30 a.m. I sat down at my desk, opened the little plastic container, and promptly dripped yogurt in my lap. “Why does God hate me?” I wondered.

Berry stains are notoriously unforgiving. Drop yogurt with mashed strawberries in your lap and, make no mistake, you will get a pink spot that really pops on light blue denim. Time was of the essence. I dipped a napkin in my water glass and attacked the stain, which was about the size of a quarter and already had a stubborn, hopeless look about it. “Nobody likes me,” I thought.

Then I noticed the bottle of Windex I keep on the floor by my desk because any day now I’m going to clean my office. I grabbed it, aimed, pulled the trigger and… the spot vanished. Disappeared. Poof, stain gone! “All my troubles are over,” I told myself.

For the rest of the day, I preached the gospel of Windex. People were amazed. That night I woke up at 3 a.m. thinking about Windex and how it might be my salvation in other ways. Mustard is tough. Would the magic work on mustard? There was nothing for it but to get up, go down to the kitchen, put some mustard on an old rag and shoot it with Windex.

Which did not work. BUT it wasn’t REAL Windex; it was a bottle of blue stuff that looks exactly like Windex but costs less because I am committed to saving pennies in any small way I can to offset the thousands of dollars that fly away every month. Obviously, I need to get the genuine article and try the mustard test again. Yes, I will buy Windex. And maybe a little spray bottle I can fill and keep in my purse. Better safe, as they say.

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Photo: Cinema surveillance images (thecia.com.au)
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Mama Kissed A Soldier

~ Judy ~ 5 Comments

My mother is dying. Her name is Luella. She was a kind and loving mother and a beautiful and amazing woman in every way. When she was still a teenager she met my father, Andrew, fell in love and loved him her whole life. They were nineteen when they married, too young, a product of the war that engulfed America and took all the young men away to be soldiers, sailors and marines, while all the young women stayed home, wrote letters and prayed.

The most horrific day in my mother’s life was the day my father was killed in an accident. He was just 45 years old. Although she built a full and active life afterward, losing him colored her world forever. I truly hope they find each other again soon.

Grandma Judy’s Birthday

~ Judy ~ 2 Comments

Grandma Judy had a birthday this week. She doesn’t care much for birthdays anymore and would prefer to forget them altogether, but people keep making her celebrate anyway.

Grandma Judy’s idea of a good birthday is finding an expensive present to buy herself. This year she bought TWO presents (because she deserves it): a silver bracelet from Turkey and a black corded clutch purse from the 1940s. These things help Grandma Judy feel a little less irritated about life. She bought some shoes, earrings and books too, which didn’t count as birthday gifts, but what the heck, she was out.

Grandma Judy’s family took her to Red Robin Gourmet Burgers for dinner, an excellent choice when your party includes five children under age eleven, including a toddler who gets mad if you put the wrong food in front of him. Grandma Judy finds her grandchildren highly amusing even when their parents do not.

Grandma Judy’s grandchildren gave her several wonderful homemade drawings to help her forget how much she doesn’t like birthdays. These children are the most precious things in her life. So if there is a lesson to be learned here, I guess it would be: if you are going to get older, better get yourself some grandkids. Also, there is no harm in surprising yourself with a nice birthday gift.

SOME PEOPLE ARE MORE THRILLED THAN OTHERS

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Mouse Hunting Season Again

~ Judy ~ 7 Comments
SEE HOW THEY ARE?

So we’ve been having this unseasonably warm weather and along with it the anomalies that brings. I heard on the radio this week that we can expect a bumper crop of mice. One pair of mice reportedly can result in over 3,000 offspring in a single season, and mating rituals are starting early this year. For mice, that is.

People who know me will tell you of my long and embattled war with critters. Some of the worst mouse experiences were chronicled in Of Mice and Me (under Critters in the archives), if you’re interested. I don’t care to write about them again. Right now I am girding for the next semiannual skirmish. Spring and fall is when they start scouting for weak spots in the foundation.

Personally, I leave mousetraps baited with peanut butter in the basement all year. I don’t check them, of course. In fact, I surround them with paper bags and furnace filters, so I won’t have to see a dead mouse. Then I wait for my son-in-law, Bret the Brave, to show up and check the traps. He hasn’t been by for quite a while. It could be getting ugly down there.

When my mother was well, I used to complain to her about having to pick up dead mice in the basement. She wasn’t especially sympathetic. “Oh, just get over it,” she’d say. Which reminds me of the time she took out a loaf of bread and found a live mouse in the bag. Mom dumped out the bag in the kitchen sink, hit the mouse with a wooden mallet, and stuffed it down the disposal. Did I mention that she was raised on a farm?

I have no intention of getting that close to a mouse myself. Otherwise, what was the point of having that big wedding for Gina and Bret? My role in this mission: pick up more mousetraps and peanut butter.

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Photo: ©2000 Craig Orsini
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Again With the Weather

~ Judy ~ 2 Comments
CURIOUS MINNESOTANS WANT TO KNOW–WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?

Remember 2011 and the spring that’s wasn’t? Winter in its perversity went on and on. And on. People had about resigned themselves to never wearing flip-flops again, when out of nowhere came summer. Not a great summer – backyard gardens were fairly shot, refusing to provide adequate salad fixings – but summer nonetheless.

Now here we are, March again, a complete turnaround from last year weather-wise, but it looks like it might very well be another year without a spring. Last year on this date the temperature was 18˚F with a windchill of 10˚F. This past week temps were in the 70s, almost 80˚ last Sunday. At last, you say, payback for Not-Spring 2011. We should be thrilled… yet somehow it’s just unsettling. We fall into bed early and still can’t seem to get enough sleep. We don’t know what clothes to put on in the morning. (What did I do with those pink capris? Is it safe to put away the down vest?) Allergy and sinus sufferers curse the pollen and the air pressure.

It’s Minnesota, it’s March, and as usual, we are out of sorts.

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Photo: Google Images, margekatherine.com
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Not My Coat

~ Judy ~ 4 Comments

Something is wrong. I have this full-length black wool coat. I’ve probably had it for three to five years. I pulled it out of the closet a couple of weeks ago, put it on and said, “This is not my coat.”

For one thing, it felt too big. And there were three buttons down the front, while I’m pretty sure my coat had two. Also, there were little flaps on the pockets and a belt in back that I don’t recall being there before.
 
This must be Jessica’s coat, I thought. She must have taken mine and left her coat here by mistake. I called my oldest daughter. “You have my coat,” I said.
“What?”
“You have my black wool coat. You must have gotten it confused with yours the last time you were over.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I just dropped my coat off at the cleaners.”
“You mean you dropped off my coat at the cleaners,” I said. “Thanks.”
“No, I remember the lining and the hole in the pocket.”
I pressed on. “Well, does it have two buttons or three?”
“I don’t know. Two I guess.”
“Is there a belt in back and flaps on the pockets?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Gees.
She took a shot:  “I think Gina has a black wool coat. Maybe the one you have is Gina’s.”
“Maybe,” I said, but I figured she was just looking for a way to hang up.
 
I called daughter Gina. “You have my coat,” I said.
“What?”
“You have my black wool coat. You must have gotten it confused with yours the last time you were here.”
“I don’t own a black wool coat,” she said. “I have a black leather coat.”
“Really?” I said. “Because the coat I have is too big for me. Also, it has three buttons down the front and a belt in the back and little flaps on the pockets.”
“Sorry, not mine,” she said.
I had to believe her.
 
I wore the coat to work and stood in front of my coworkers.
“I don’t think this is my coat,” I said.
“What? Why?” asked Linda.
I explained about the buttons and the belt and the little pocket flaps.
“That is not your coat,” said Ann, who has opinions on things. “That coat is too big for you, and yours was better material.”
“Right!” I said. We agreed that Jessica must be mistaken. Or trying to pull a fast one.
Linda was noncommital. You’d think she didn’t care.
 
Last weekend my middle daughter, Jill, stopped by. “Do you have a black wool coat?” I asked.
“No.”
“Because I have this coat and I don’t think it’s mine. My coat had two buttons and this one has three. And it has a belt in back and flaps on the pockets.”
“Maybe you’re getting Alzheimer’s,” she suggested.
“What?! No!”
“I could use a new winter coat,” she said.
 
I got a voicemail from Jessica saying she had picked up her coat at the dry cleaners – same lining, same hole in the pocket. I had to conclude that it probably wasn’t mine.
 
I took the coat I have out of the closet and tried it on again. It might be my coat. But I don’t think so.

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