That's a Croc of ...

It's been a long time since my last post. Mostly because there hasn't been anything too exciting to report, other than the usual daily grind. Today is my day to vent.

I may face stoning for my position on the foam shoes that I still see people sporting this spring. Never in my wildest dreams did I think Crocs would survive more than one season. Surely, I thought, they can only be a fad. Yet here they are once again, being proudly sported by many moms and their kids. Let me tell you where the line must be drawn - men should not even consider putting those things on their feet. Whenever I spot a man wearing Crocs, it's obvious there's a woman dressing him.

Just imagine the conversation:

She says, "Hey honey, I have a surprise for you." (All women know you must use a term of endearment when you want something.)

Of course being a man, he's already hit the fast-forward button and started thinking of tonight's activities. Or maybe he's a little more conservative, and is just thinking she's made some yummy dessert. Either way, he has to play it safe. So he simply responds, "I've no idea."

That's when she unleashes the sales pitch. You know, the statement that always precedes the introduction of something that may not be embraced by the significant other. She tells him about these fabulous shoes with such enthusiasm. Oh, how comfortable they are! And so easy to slip on when you need to run outside, and "you know how handy that would be!" Blah, blah, blah... Oh, and here's the bonus: she found them in a manly camo print!

The next thing you know, I see the poor guy in the WalMart check out line with a box of tampons and a bag of rice. "Mr. I Wear Camo Crocs" in public, please turn in your man card, you obviously did not deserve it in the first place.

So this poor guy was responsible for the reawakening of my hatred of Crocs. As if that weren't enough, I spot a a mother and daughter in the parking lot, each sporting a pair. The mother had a utilitarian brown pair, and the daughter had hot pink ones with accessories dangling from them. Okay, even the people who actually wear Crocs say they're ugly. So why try to dress them up with jewelry?

My confession for the day: In a temporary moment of insanity, I actually tried on a pair while in a Hallmark store. You can always count on Hallmark stores to carry the latest fads. There weren't many people around, so I quickly slipped them on. You know, just to see what all the fuss was about. And to my surprise, they are UNCOMFORTABLE! Somebody please tell me why people wear these things. Don't try to convince me otherwise, some fashions just need to die.

I'm having 80s flashbacks. Remember jelly shoes?

So You think You're Tough?

In honor of Arthur McClure Sawyer, WWII Veteran - Pop, we all love and miss you!

Imagine coming home from school at 10 years old and finding that your father has left you and your 2 siblings. Your mother died when you were a toddler, and there is no family to care for you. If that happened today, you would surely be shipped off to a foster family and given a life of hope, or perhaps misery. Like anything, life is what you make of it. There are two choices when you wake up: fight or quit.

I'm proud to say my grandfather was a fighter. He was that little boy who came home to find he was left to care for a family. The stories told of trapping rabbits or catching snakes to sell for money could hold you captivated for hours. And the thought of working on a farm from sunrise to sunset for 25 cents a week, yes cents, and "your keep" wears me out. But it was what had to be done to survive, to fight for the next day.

If that battle wasn't enough, Pop enlisted in the Army for two reasons: baseball ("the boys" loved to play ball when they weren't training - In some ways, I think he actually saw being enlisted as getting to have a childhood), and he was paid well, or well enough that money could be sent home to his sister. He told countless stories of training in Panama; the sun so hot it would bake your skin to the point it peeled off in sheets, your socks so wet you could wring the water out of them, and the ground so dry it would crack open. Believe it or not, those were some of his more enjoyable times while enlisted.

I've never seen a man so proud of America. The flag was hung every morning, she was brought in at night and if it started to rain. All the while, she was never allowed to touch the ground, and he made sure his granddaughter knew the rules as well. To say he was patriotic would be an understatement. Like all of our soldiers, Pop was willing to give his life for our country. For my freedom. For your freedom.

Pop posing as a young man.

June 6 1944, the 29th Infantry invaded Normandy, and Pop was there as a B.A.R. man. Just a few days before, his shoulder had been dislocated while jumping hedgerows during a drill in England. The sergeant accused him of trying to get out of battle. He replied, "No sir, I'll do my duty." Pop was unable to carry the nearly 20 pound rifle on the injured shoulder, but went to fight in spite of the pain. That's what fighters do. There is no such thing as quitting or giving up, and sometimes you have to adjust your game-plan as you go. It may mean carrying your weapon on the other shoulder, or being laughed at for wrapping your Mae West floation device around your B.A.R. instead of your body. Pop wasn't afraid of being the butt of a joke - if it meant survival. What seemed like a joke to the other men, turned out to be a sound decision after he considered how the weight of his pack made him top-heavy. And thank God he did. When their landing-craft hit a sandbar, Pop jumped in the water and doggie paddled to the shore. The other men, who were unable to right themselves in the turbulent water, did not survive.

Pop told the rest of the story, how he and a guy from another company worked their way inland. There were never a lot of details, and he never mentioned shooting another man, although I'm certain he did. There was never a complaint uttered, although he was injured by shrapnel during the battle, and had his leg broken when a land mine went off as he stepped out of a truck before crossing into Germany. As a matter of fact, those injuries gave him what he considered the time of his life.

My treasure: Pop's medals, just as he placed them years ago.

The velvet is torn and sagging, but I could never touch them to change it.

While his broken leg was healing, Pop spent time cleaning and setting the gap on spark-plugs. It was then that he got to get up close and personal with the B-52 "Bumbers", as he called them. Pop loved those planes, and would talk about how it was a miracle they could stay in the air covered with all the bullet holes like they were. If you asked, he would tell you that was the favorite time of his life. And I'm blessed that he picked "Spark Plug" as my nickname, because I guess that meant I was right up there with one of the happiest things he ever got to experience.

My other treasure: His Bronze Star Citation

Again, yellowing and showing its age, but I would never change how he framed it.

Pop, I'm fiercely proud of you, not because of the Bronze Medals or other Citations you received while serving, but because you made the decision to fight everyday like it was your last. There was never a time that I saw you ever consider giving up, quitting just wasn't in your vocabulary. In life, for your country, for your family - you were born a survivor. America was lucky to have you fighting for her, just as we're blessed to have the men who fight for us today.

May God bless America, and the men who fight to keep us free!

Black Card Sure to Put You in the RED

Today's trip to the mailbox was a little more exciting than most days. I lifted the top to reveal an invitation to receive an EXCLUSIVE VISA BLACK card. OK, so it's not as exciting as Ed McMahon announcing I may have won a million dollars, but it's pretty close. The heavy black envelope and glossy mailer certainly stand out from the rest of the junk mail. Visa's marketing department is working overtime, evidently they are running out of ways to bilk people out of their hard-earned cash. This is how the "offer" reads:

Dear T-,

By invitation, you have been PRE-QUALIFIED to receive the exclusive Visa Black Card. Limited to only 1% of US residents, Black Card members are ensured the highest caliber of personal service. Cardmembers enjoy a 24-hour Concierge Assistant, Exclusive Rewards program, and Luxury Gifts from some of the world's top brands. Made with carbon, the Visa Black Card is guaranteed to get you noticed.

Blah, blah, the marketing garbage goes on and on, until you get to the part where you find that this honor will only cost $495/year. What?!? Hold on just a minute. You mean people actually PAY for the privilege of using a particular credit card? It's even more insulting when you see the interest rate they intend to charge you while you're turning heads. The real tragedy is that someone is actually taking them up on this offer to appear elite.

My favorite part of the marketing propaganda is where Visa touts its carbon card as the ultimate buying tool. What they fail to mention is that all credit cards are polyvinyl chloride acetate, and therefore carbon-based. (And Dr. Kadunce didn't think I paid attention through those 2 years of Organic Chemistry.) Maybe I'll get a can of black spray paint and elevate my check card from its ordinary status.

Silliness aside, I overheard Courtney's friend ask her mom the meaning of vanity last night. Going into debt for the sake of getting noticed should be added to the official Webster's definition. So thanks, but no thanks Visa, I'll enjoy my time in the black - without your prestigious and versatile credit card.

Boredom Busters

The 4th of July arrives, and once again, I'm unprepared for the festivities and fireworks. Friday night found me racing home to get to the fireworks at the local high school, and looking for a parking place in the crowded lot. Ha, luck was on our side, with two spaces marked "reserved" close to the field. Really, why had the spots not been taken? Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, at least not right now. That didn't start until we were stuck sitting in the parking lot because of traffic.

It seems that Franklin County is facing the same budget crunch as everyone else. All of the usual kids activities were there, and the food, yes lots of food. My favorite kind of food - fair food. Funnels cakes, kettle corn, snow cones...Mmm...I'm salivating just thinking of all the fatty goodness. So there was food, family and friends, and the kids played until the show started. We even managed to escape without spending a small fortune on the junk toys. Anyway, I was especially disappointed because the announcement prior to the start of the fireworks promised the biggest display ever. Maybe I'm wrong, but it seemed closer to the ground, with less spectacular explosions and a slightly anti-climatic ending.

Saturday meant a little work in the morning for me, and a cook out at Jeff and Sandy's that night. More delicious food, yummy hamburgers and kielbasa, sides and of course, dessert. Come to think of it, the 4th is becoming more and more like Thanksgiving, we spend the entire weekend eating our way from house to house. I'm sure I gained a couple of pounds that I didn't need. We did attempt to work off some of the calories with a game of badminton and West Virginia horseshoes, but it was a weak attempt at best.

There were more fireworks, this time provided by our hosts, and Chad and Alison. Several years ago, I was hit on the ankle by a mortar that tipped over at the New Year's party. This year I escaped injury and was relieved to enjoy the show without limping. On the other hand, Jeff narrowly missed injury when a mortar exploded in the tube. It was neat to see our firework display, while another show was underway at the lake. The effect was a multi-layered light show, that certainly outdid the display at the high school. And we didn't have to sit in traffic! Alison made a video of the finale, and I'll link to it if she makes a post.

It started to drizzle Saturday night, and continued through Sunday morning, so it left us looking for something to do. Thanks to the inspiration from Charlie, we decided to make butter from the the whipping cream I had leftover from the cake I made for the cookout at Jeff and Sandy's. I'm 34 years old, and I've never made butter, so I thought the kids would think it was fun. Hmmm...wrong, so so wrong. After a couple of shakes of the mason jar, they both decided that the reward wasn't worth the effort. I ran upstairs to get my hubby out of the shower so he could see what I was doing too. He also lacked the enthusiasm I was looking to see. Maybe I was just a little too excited about making butter, or maybe it was just too early in the morning for the rest of the crew. I did take pictures of the whole process, and A- would have been proud, had iPhoto not locked up while importing the pictures. Maybe it's fitting that the one picture that remained was of me, happily shaking the jar, while Court took the role of photographer. The butter was delicious and I will do it again, because I had fun, regardless of how the rest of my family felt about the experience. Lucky for them, I'm not like the Little Red Hen, and I was happy to share my creation.

After a trip to Shannon's grandparent's for lunch, we came home and again found ourselves needing something to do. This time it was my hubby who came to the rescue when he spotted a groundhog in the backyard. I don't have a garden this year, so I really don't care about those pesky critters, but when I had my garden, those little guys could do major damage. The groundhog family viewed my garden as a 24 hour buffet, and they weren't shy about making repeat visits to the salad bar. My hubby was placed on garden patrol, and has never retired the position, mainly because he likes to shoot them. You have to understand just how much he loves to shoot them. If one is spotted from the bathroom window, he will stop what he's doing, go get his gun and, well, you know the rest. I wasn't surprised to see him speed walking towards the back door with the rifle this afternoon, but imagine my surprise when he came inside and asked me if I wanted to shoot it. Huh? Really? Yes, really. Like I said, I was bored and tired of working, so the poor groundhog met his match. I think I had an advantage.

A-, yes I took this picture just for you.

So the 4th of July festivities have ended, and we're heading into another work week. The week is sure to lack the excitement of the weekend, and next weekend looks to hold no more promise since I'm planning a yard sale. I have kid's clothes and toys covering the pool table and filling an entire room. Wonder if the kids will help peddle their goods?

Camping and a Father's Love

To my Dad, whom I love dearly, and thank with my whole heart for loving me for just being me. You are the GREATEST - and Happy Father's Day!

25 or so years ago, Dad and I would take camping trips of various types. My favorite trips would start out with Mom dropping us off, with the canoe, on the Blackwater River. When I say we went camping, it was none of this air mattress, bathrooms, showers, and other conveniences kind of camping trip. When we went canoeing and camping, we only took the bare essentials: 2 black trash bags packed with sleeping bags, and another bag with hot dogs, buns, some bacon, and coffee. How many times did we eat hot dogs with soggy buns and bacon that was burned to a crisp? And just how many times did the canoe flip over? Dad, even though you don't go canoeing anymore, you may get a dry bag for Father's day.

Dad, this is how you cook bacon on a campfire. Notice, it isn't black. :-)

For those of you who haven't been on the parts of the Blackwater River that resemble a creek, let me assure you, there are plenty of places that you actually have to drag the canoe because the water is so shallow. I'm sure my dad didn't find this a pleasurable experience, and I can remember one trip in particular where the bottom fell off of one of his shoes, so he tore a piece off one of the sacred trash bag "dry bags" to hold it together. I was thinking, "Why doesn't he just get another pair of shoes?" Who knows why, but I do know that he still has a pair of classic 1984 Nike swoosh jogging shoes that are worn so smooth on the bottom I call them his "racing slicks". Regardless of his shoes falling to pieces, we always managed to have a great time.

Our river float usually left us camping in the Devil's Den, sans tent. The name conjures up all sorts of scary thoughts in a kid's mind. Like I said, it's been 25 years since I've been there, but the cave on the side of the river seemed huge to me at 10 years old. No, not just huge - huge and scary! I mean, the name alone makes you think that the devil will be there waiting for you when you arrive. Fortunately for me, the devil was never made an appearance, but I sure watched the campfire dancing on the stone walls until I couldn't hold my eyes open any longer. I'm sure Dad always wondered why I insisted on a big fire, I guess I figured that if a fire could keep wild animals away, surely it would work for the Devil too. Now that I'm older, I suppose a fire to the devil would have been like the brier patch is to Brer Rabbit, and I would have been in real trouble had he ever made an appearance. Dad camped there when he was a little boy, and it makes me sad to think that my kids will never experience going to sleep wondering if they'll wake up looking the old devil in the eye.

Even though they may not get to have the same experiences I did, they will still get to go camping, but it will be Shannon's style of camping. This Father's Day weekend marks our first family camping trip. Shannon is an outdoors guy, but he's a man who prefers to have some comforts of home. The first time I went camping with him was on a river trip where I discovered that he packed an air mattress so he could sleep better. I couldn't believe it, an air mattress! Wasn't that some type of camping faux pas? That was also the first river trip I had been on where I didn't eat soggy hot dogs, but manicotti for dinner and a delicious casserole for breakfast (thanks to Chad and Alison, who are the true gourmet campers). Once you make the transition to his type of camping, you start to get soft, and the next thing you know, you're looking for a place to charge your laptop so you can blog.

That's right, we're camping, and I'm blogging. And I can imagine my dad is rolling his eyes right about now, but my main concern is which direction I need to move in order to pick up on the open "Z LAKE HOUSE" signal that is near the camp spot. If we had Wi-Fi here, I would want to come camping every weekend!

So our camping trip started out with a flurry of throwing things together, a quick trip to the local Wally World, and a trip to the brother-in-law's house to borrow his big tent. Camping when I was little was preceded by miles of hiking up Grassy Hill, or by several hours of floating the river, not by driving 20 minutes to a flat campsite that is already cleared. As if that wasn't easy enough, there's a fire pit already built and plenty of easy access wood for fuel. That sounds nice and easy, except for the fact that it wasn't quite easy enough for Shannon. I didn't question it when he asked me if I had any "fire starter" when we left the house, I just said "no", thinking that we would gather leaves and twigs like normal people would. Not my husband, not in a million years, not when you have mineral spirits at your disposal. Yes, mineral spirits. I questioned how combustible it was - "is this a gasoline, or kerosene type of starter"? Needless to say, I wasn't comforted by his answer that he didn't know. For those Redneck Engineers out there, mineral spirits will start a fire without an explosion or the loss of body hair.

The Redneck Engineer

Okay, so that may be no big deal to some of you. How about when I see my husband's eyes light up because he "has an idea" that would be fun for the kids? Fun for the kids? I'm thinking they're going to pick up sticks for the fire, or maybe play in the lake. Nope, not my husband. Now I see that he's carrying a log that he places on a stump. I'm still stuck in safe creative play mode, thinking the kids may pretend that they're going to ride a horse or something else silly. Good grief, I must have lost my mind, this is my husband we're talking about. While announcing he was the former blue ribbon knife and tomahawk thrower, he proceeds to start teaching our 4 year old son how to throw a camping axe at his target. All I could think about was how I was going to explain my little man showing up in the emergency room needing stitches. Lucky for me, it was a quick game, and there was no time for any blood to be shed. It may have had something to do with my chanting, "be careful, that's just not safe, you shouldn't be letting him play with that" over and over.

The future blue ribbon winner?

After two potential disasters, we let the kids play in the lake (little danger there), we cooked hot dogs (okay, so a couple rolled in the fire and were rinsed with fresh water, then reheated), and then we went to my favorite part of camping - the making of S'MORES. Dad never introduced me to this delicious treat on our camping trips, but I can guarantee they're a big part of everyone I take the kids on. You may not be aware of it, but there's a special technique to make the perfect s'mores. I prefer my chocolate slightly melted, and on a hot day, that's easy since you're really struggling to keep the chocolate from doing just that. In the fall though, I place a piece of chocolate on the bottom graham cracker beside the fire to get it on its way to gooey goodness. And while we're on the subject of chocolate, not just any chocolate will do for me, it has to be dark rich chocolate to bring out the flavor of the marshmallow and graham cracker. However, the preparation of the marshmallow is the real key to the perfect s'more, it has to be perfectly melted and hot enough to continue the melting of the chocolate. There are those of you who may prefer to create mini-torches, and that was how I roasted marshmallows until I had one of my flaming masterpieces land on my wrist, leaving a scar that is still visible today (another one of those camping trips with my dad, and he insisted that it wasn't blood on my wrist - good thing it was dark). Now I prefer a slow, long toasting that leaves the outside golden brown, and the middle completely gooey. When you place that on the piece of slightly melted dark chocolate, and sandwich it with the last piece of graham cracker, you may as well say it's close to heaven on earth. That's yummy goodness.

The ingredients

My perfected toasting technique.

Court prefers a little char.

Perfection.

A happy little boy, messy, but very happy.

So here I sit while the kids are fishing, bathing in the smoke from the campfire with a full belly, and watching the sun set behind the trees while listening to the water lap up on the shore. Could camping get any better than this? Hmmm...if I could just just figure out where "Z LAKE HOUSE" is located, I would think I had reached camping heaven.

***UPDATE*** I just had a camper walk by me and ask if I'm doing homework! I have to admit, I smiled and said "yes". That just feels good!

Click here to see the photos from our trip.

Look Ma, No Hands! A Bike Riding Adventure.

The news of the weekend is that Court finally learned how to ride her bike. I've met with much resistance when I tried to convince her to ride in past. This is one of the few times I've allowed her to win a battle, mostly because I remember the awful crashes that I experienced when trying to learn to balance and ride as a kid. Of course my failed bike riding attempts resulted in several nasty falls, one of which left me and a friend in her bathroom trying to superglue my broken tooth.

Just like Court, when I decided it was time to ride, my dad held the back of my Pink Panther banana-seat bike until he thought I was steady, and he would secretly let go. Every time I looked back I would crash into the door to our basement, but he never lost patience with me, we would back up and start over again.

I eventually learned how to ride very well, and I would spend hours circling the driveway, dreaming that I was competing in the Tour de France. My skills eventually improved to the point that my brother was allowed to ride with me. I think MoJo liked riding with me because he was the little daredevil of the family, and riding with me was, well...just risky.

MoJo and I cruising on "The Pink Panther"

Not that my parents were overly protective, mind you. When you grow up on a farm, there are hundreds of dangers that you're oblivious to, until you have your own children. I can remember riding on the toolbox of the tractor. No, there's only limited danger in riding on an unenclosed tractor while discing a field or cutting corn, but when I think of all the times I slept on the tractor while holding the metal grab-bar beside me - now that's scary. The good news is I survived it all, and I was always rewarded with a chocolate milk or some candy from Kingery's store at the end of the day. (Thanks Daddy, for the countless songs you sang and taking me with you. I loved every minute.)

Okay, so watching Court transform from barely keeping her balance to whizzing through the parking lot made me feel a little poetic. I'm not sure why, or how this haiku popped into my head, but it suddenly came into my thoughts and there was no shaking it. So here it is, in all of its glory:

She bikes rather fast
legs pistoning up and down,
one crash not the last.

I've promised Court that our first road trip will be to the library that is less than a mile from our house. There is very little traffic, and it's a flat ride so it should be nice and safe. Well, safe compared to riding farm equipment.

A Selective Eater Converted by Science, AKA the Stinky Pee Story

My daughter certainly inherited my picky eating habits, but I've discovered the sure way to make her try something new. It's as simple as turning it into a science experiment. Well, it has to be a little more than a science experiment, there has to be a certain level of "grossness" associated with the consumption of any new vegetable.

Spring was a big deal for me this year because it is the first year I've harvested the organic asparagus I planted almost 4 years ago. For those of you who don't know, it takes a few years before you can enjoy the fruits of your labor (and some of you insist I have no patience). I could have broken off some spears last year, but my husband mowed them down when he thought they were a particularly aggressive weed sprouting in the backyard. Although the harvest was delayed another year, it was certainly worth the wait. These are the sprouts from one of the crowns before they made it to the table.


But I digress...

This story isn't about the patience required to grow asparagus, but about the unique odor produced by the urine of about half those who eat the yummy vegetable. And that brings me back to my daughter, the picky eater, who will eat anything if I promise the chance that a foul odor might result. When you factor in that "hypothesis" is her new favorite word, we had a ready-made science experiment waiting to happen. Court predicted that "her pee would smell terrible because mom's does when she eats asparagus, and if 50% of people are affected with "stinky pee" then certainly her chances were improved greatly."

I know you're dying to know the results, right? After 3 spears of asparagus, Court did produce the "stinky pee" she expected. The snickering on the other side of the bathroom door told me the answer long before the announced, "EEEEEEEWWWWW!!!!!!!!" at the top of her lungs.

I didn't have the heart to break it to her that there are conflicting studies that say we are all "excretors" of the by-products of the breakdown of asparagusic acid, therefore we all produce "stinky pee" and that the defining characteristic may be that only some of us are "perceivers" who can smell the odor. If she knew this, surely Court would have requested a controlled study comprised of all the members of our family. Sounds like the perfect excuse to expand the asparagus patch this fall!