The last time I had traveled via Greyhound was eight years ago in the Deep South, a long story I won't go into. It was very unnerving because it was an all-night ride and I was freezing cold and I didn't have a clue about how anything operated and--worst of all by far--I couldn't understand a word anyone was saying, from people behind counters to intercommed announcements.
This time, we'd be in places like North Dakota and Montana, where people speak English.
"You meet plenty of shady characters when you take the bus," my brother Fred warned. Yes, well, I would keep Jenny in sight at all times and rely on angels.
We didn't actually ride on Greyhound until well into the trip. First it was Jefferson Lines and then Rimrock Trailways, both of whom featured clean buses and friendly drivers and, instead of shady characters, sweet Midwestern grandmas with white hair.
"I could do this often," I thought to myself as I leaned back and read a magazine and then chatted with the grandma behind me and then moved to an empty set of two seats and stretched out for a nap without the slightest worries about Jenny as the competent driver drove on.
At a small town in North Dakota I watched as one of the grandmas got off the bus and her grandson picked her up. He was a handsome, clean-cut young man in jeans and a t-shirt without a logo of any kind who grinned with delight at seeing his grandma and gave her a nice hug and piled her suitcases in the back of his pickup. "Note to self," I thought, "Find some excuse to send my daughters to North Dakota to meet some nice farm boys." How did I know this guy was a farm boy? Because the flatbed trailer behind the pickup looked very worn and farmish.
There's a place along 94--can't remember if it was in North Dakota or Montana--where you've probably stopped for a break if you've ever driven that route. I know we have, a number of times. There's a Flying J and a replica of a fort with teepees outside and a restaurant called the Trapper's Kettle. Well, the white-haired grandma with the orange jacket who got off there told me that she and her husband at one time owned all the land there that is now the rest stop, and on which they've discovered oil. As we drove off and I noted the oil well nodding to the west of the Flying J, I wondered if she regrets having sold the land.
We got to Billings around midnight and had a two-hour wait in the station. Jenny curled up like a joey in a pouch and went to sleep. The young man on the other bench, who had jeans with holes that looked like they were there from actual work and not for fashion, asked me if I'm from Albany, Oregon. He had noticed the "Smuckers" logo on my sweatshirt. It turned out he grew up in Albany and loves God deeply and once worked for a grass seed farmer near Scio and knew the Freitags through a dairying connection and also Samuel Kropf. Now he goes around to different Christian camps and does building and maintenance work and also helps with programs, like this one he just came from in Wyoming where they have troubled teens working with horses. His name is Marty and he felt like a reassuring angel sent my way in that somewhat ominous depot, and I felt safe asking him to watch Jenny while I went to the restroom or bought tea.
And then the pleasant travel winds of the previous 15 hours shifted really fast.
Quote of the Day:
"Mom is embarrassing the tar out of me with her little orange sippy cup."
--Jenny, in our travel diary. See, my sis Margaret left Nolan's cup at Mom and Dad's, so I brought it with me since they'll be visiting here next, and figured I might as well put it to good use and filled it with iced tea. And it looks like a real cup and not a sippy cup, I think. Ok, just found a photo. See, it's called a tumbler.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Our Epic, Part Three
The endless line into security at Chicago/Midway finally ended after a year or two and Jenny and I slipped on our shoes and gleefully caught our plane and had an uneventful flight to Minnesota, where my sister and brother, Rebecca and Fred, picked us up.
Five of us six siblings came "home," the missing one being my oldest brother Philip who lives in Oregon, about an hour and a half away from us.
Only the youngest cousins were there, and it was cool to see a new generation take over Mom and Dad's basement and goof off together and talk and laugh. No copies of the Grandma's House Gazette were typed out, but Jenny got out her design for a robotic bug, and she and Austin, who is also 11, refined it, adding hydraulics in the knees and padded feet, that sort of thing. They want Matt the engineering student to look it over and see if it would work.
For Mom's party we kept it low-key, family only, and had a picnic in the shelter above Lake Koronis and then cake and ice cream and gifts at the house. I thought the weather was hot and oppressive but the Pennsylvania and Virginia people thought it was downright pleasant.
Mom gets more tired than she used to but is still her amazing self. Like: the other Sunday she invited guests for dinner but when she and Dad were about a mile from home, their car ran out of gas. So she took off on foot cross-country, across half a mile of soybean field, and got that dinner on.
Dad at 93 still takes care of his animals, prunes his trees, zips up and down stairs, milks the goats, and eats unspeakable healthy concoctions for breakfast, with hints of broccoli and orange peel and garlic and oatmeal, which maybe explains a few of the other activities.
We siblings did what we always do. Margaret zipped around and made lots of food, Fred told stories with long pauses, Marcus made connections, Rebecca affirmed everyone, and I thought of all the things I was hearing that would make wonderful stories but sadly are not for public consumption.
I was also convinced more than ever that the difference between writers and non-writers is not talent or the lack of it. It's whether or not they sit down and write. I have siblings who can tell stories like no one you ever heard, and they're the ones who ought to be writing them every month for the world to read, not me, and yet I do and they don't. Strange. And if I tell them this they don't believe me, and they get this patient-big-sibling look--oh that's just Dorcas, all gushy and dramatic again.
Well, I'm sure I'm right.
Oh, there were a few spouses too, Anna and Loraine and Rod and Chad, who are all amazingly patient with us Yoders and our slightly neurotic ways.
We went to church, of course, the same Beachy-Amish church I grew up in, on Sunday morning, and Jenny was impressed with the short prayers. I was impressed by all the things that never change, but then the pastor announced a prayer request for a man injured in an accident and said we can get updates by email or internet, and my mind got a violent jerk.
We took Dad to Litchfield for a chiropractor appointment and picked up a bag of goat feed at the farm supply store.
And then, carful by carful, people left and Mom looked sad. And last of all Anna took Jenny and me to St. Cloud to the bus depot.
"I'm gonna miss you," Jenny told her grandpa and grandma when we left, and she meant it.
Quote of the Day:
"How far do you live from Oklahoma City, as the tornado flies?"
--my cousin Charles, to Fred
Five of us six siblings came "home," the missing one being my oldest brother Philip who lives in Oregon, about an hour and a half away from us.
Only the youngest cousins were there, and it was cool to see a new generation take over Mom and Dad's basement and goof off together and talk and laugh. No copies of the Grandma's House Gazette were typed out, but Jenny got out her design for a robotic bug, and she and Austin, who is also 11, refined it, adding hydraulics in the knees and padded feet, that sort of thing. They want Matt the engineering student to look it over and see if it would work.
For Mom's party we kept it low-key, family only, and had a picnic in the shelter above Lake Koronis and then cake and ice cream and gifts at the house. I thought the weather was hot and oppressive but the Pennsylvania and Virginia people thought it was downright pleasant.
Mom gets more tired than she used to but is still her amazing self. Like: the other Sunday she invited guests for dinner but when she and Dad were about a mile from home, their car ran out of gas. So she took off on foot cross-country, across half a mile of soybean field, and got that dinner on.
Dad at 93 still takes care of his animals, prunes his trees, zips up and down stairs, milks the goats, and eats unspeakable healthy concoctions for breakfast, with hints of broccoli and orange peel and garlic and oatmeal, which maybe explains a few of the other activities.
We siblings did what we always do. Margaret zipped around and made lots of food, Fred told stories with long pauses, Marcus made connections, Rebecca affirmed everyone, and I thought of all the things I was hearing that would make wonderful stories but sadly are not for public consumption.
I was also convinced more than ever that the difference between writers and non-writers is not talent or the lack of it. It's whether or not they sit down and write. I have siblings who can tell stories like no one you ever heard, and they're the ones who ought to be writing them every month for the world to read, not me, and yet I do and they don't. Strange. And if I tell them this they don't believe me, and they get this patient-big-sibling look--oh that's just Dorcas, all gushy and dramatic again.
Well, I'm sure I'm right.
Oh, there were a few spouses too, Anna and Loraine and Rod and Chad, who are all amazingly patient with us Yoders and our slightly neurotic ways.
We went to church, of course, the same Beachy-Amish church I grew up in, on Sunday morning, and Jenny was impressed with the short prayers. I was impressed by all the things that never change, but then the pastor announced a prayer request for a man injured in an accident and said we can get updates by email or internet, and my mind got a violent jerk.
We took Dad to Litchfield for a chiropractor appointment and picked up a bag of goat feed at the farm supply store.
And then, carful by carful, people left and Mom looked sad. And last of all Anna took Jenny and me to St. Cloud to the bus depot.
"I'm gonna miss you," Jenny told her grandpa and grandma when we left, and she meant it.
Quote of the Day:
"How far do you live from Oklahoma City, as the tornado flies?"
--my cousin Charles, to Fred
Friday, July 16, 2010
Our Epic, Part Two
I must be learning to conquer my ADD, because we went out to the coast with our tent trailer on Monday of last week and came home Wednesday. Then the very next day Jenny and I left for Minnesota without any tears or bloodshed.
I call that an accomplishment.
First we flew to Oakland, where you drop down-down-down over the water, and right about when you're feeling under your seat for the life vest, the pilot says Land, Ho! and a runway appears and you gratefully thump down.
We spent six hours there, two more than scheduled. Jenny and I passed the time admiring the expensive food but not buying it. $4.99 for a scoop of ice cream! But then I remembered that in one pocket of my purse was some "fun money" Amy had given me. So I got a Frappucino and Jenny got a hot chocolate.
Everyone coming to our gate would anxiously look at the news on the TV screen, which I was vaguely aware of--a trial of some kind. And then they would look relieved or upset or amazed, and turn to someone else and say, "Involuntary manslaughter!"
Finally my curiosity got the best of me and I asked a woman near me what was going on. Oakland, she said, is very racially divided, and on New Years Eve of 2008 some young black men were booted off the tram, and a few policemen got involved, and one of the policemen thought he was grabbing and shooting his Taser but it was actually his gun, and he shot and killed one of them.
And now they were having a trial. I guess the options were second-degree murder or involuntary manslaughter, and he got the latter.
It was such a big deal in Oakland that many businesses were boarded up for fear of riots, and the highways were so clogged with people fleeing town to escape whatever might erupt, that the woman I was talking to took two hours to go 19 miles, and missed her flight.
A sad story all around, and interesting that even up in Ontario we knew about the Rodney King case 20 years ago, but right next door in Oregon we hadn't heard about this.
Then we flew to Chicago/Midway and got our stuff in baggage claim and then found out the ticket counters and security areas are closed until four in the morning. So we were stuck in baggage claim for the night with its loud announcements every 5 minutes about when the ticket counter opens. I found a few seats without armrests and tucked Jenny in for the night. I set my alarm for 5:15 and dozed off in one of a dozen back-breaking positions I would endure before a woman woke me in the morning and said my alarm is going off.
We pulled our haggard selves upstairs and checked in and were soon in a line at security that stretched on and on, it seemed, over rivers and mountains and into unseen lands far away, and we would never reach the end, and we were doomed to miss our flight, I just knew it, but I hoped and prayed I might be wrong. And when we finally reached the lady that shines the little flashlight on your drivers license, she told me coldly that no, there's no way to expedite us through security and I should have showed up two hours early. And then we rejoined the endless line.
But we were having an adventure, we told ourselves. Right? Right????
Quote of the Day:
"I practiced saying it to the fly right before I squished him."
--Jenny, when she quoted one of her "camp verses" to me--Ezekiel 33:11. "Say unto them, As I live, saith the Lord God, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked; but that the wicked turn from his way and live: turn ye, turn ye from your evil ways; for why will ye die, O house of Israel?"
I call that an accomplishment.
First we flew to Oakland, where you drop down-down-down over the water, and right about when you're feeling under your seat for the life vest, the pilot says Land, Ho! and a runway appears and you gratefully thump down.
We spent six hours there, two more than scheduled. Jenny and I passed the time admiring the expensive food but not buying it. $4.99 for a scoop of ice cream! But then I remembered that in one pocket of my purse was some "fun money" Amy had given me. So I got a Frappucino and Jenny got a hot chocolate.
Everyone coming to our gate would anxiously look at the news on the TV screen, which I was vaguely aware of--a trial of some kind. And then they would look relieved or upset or amazed, and turn to someone else and say, "Involuntary manslaughter!"
Finally my curiosity got the best of me and I asked a woman near me what was going on. Oakland, she said, is very racially divided, and on New Years Eve of 2008 some young black men were booted off the tram, and a few policemen got involved, and one of the policemen thought he was grabbing and shooting his Taser but it was actually his gun, and he shot and killed one of them.
And now they were having a trial. I guess the options were second-degree murder or involuntary manslaughter, and he got the latter.
It was such a big deal in Oakland that many businesses were boarded up for fear of riots, and the highways were so clogged with people fleeing town to escape whatever might erupt, that the woman I was talking to took two hours to go 19 miles, and missed her flight.
A sad story all around, and interesting that even up in Ontario we knew about the Rodney King case 20 years ago, but right next door in Oregon we hadn't heard about this.
Then we flew to Chicago/Midway and got our stuff in baggage claim and then found out the ticket counters and security areas are closed until four in the morning. So we were stuck in baggage claim for the night with its loud announcements every 5 minutes about when the ticket counter opens. I found a few seats without armrests and tucked Jenny in for the night. I set my alarm for 5:15 and dozed off in one of a dozen back-breaking positions I would endure before a woman woke me in the morning and said my alarm is going off.
We pulled our haggard selves upstairs and checked in and were soon in a line at security that stretched on and on, it seemed, over rivers and mountains and into unseen lands far away, and we would never reach the end, and we were doomed to miss our flight, I just knew it, but I hoped and prayed I might be wrong. And when we finally reached the lady that shines the little flashlight on your drivers license, she told me coldly that no, there's no way to expedite us through security and I should have showed up two hours early. And then we rejoined the endless line.
But we were having an adventure, we told ourselves. Right? Right????
Quote of the Day:
"I practiced saying it to the fly right before I squished him."
--Jenny, when she quoted one of her "camp verses" to me--Ezekiel 33:11. "Say unto them, As I live, saith the Lord God, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked; but that the wicked turn from his way and live: turn ye, turn ye from your evil ways; for why will ye die, O house of Israel?"
Our Epic, Part One
The point was to get there and to save money.
Mom was turning 90 on July 8th and someone got the idea to get all the siblings together in Minnesota to celebrate. So of course I needed to be there.
And I wanted to take Jenny, since she hasn't seen her grandparents in a long time, and I've traveled too much without her, and it just felt important.
So I sat down to buy tickets. And was horrified. See, last December I flew to Minnesota on Southwest, since they now fly to MSP, and I had no trouble getting round-trip tickets for less than $300. This time they were at least $250 per person, each way. I tried other airlines, Orbitz, everything. A thousand dollars to take me and Jenny to Minnesota.
No no no.
We still had a few free tickets with Southwest, but none of the flights had free-ticket seats open, so Paul did his famous wheeling and dealing and finally came up with a convoluted deal: We would fly to Chicago on free tickets and then on $79 tickets to Minneapolis.
Wonderful.
Except that we would spend several hours in Oakland and then get to Chicago at midnight and pick up our baggage and recheck it and fly out at 6 the next morning.
But I am a Yoder, married to a Smucker. I'll do a lot to save money.
Then there was the matter of coming home.
Amtrak was as expensive as airline tickets.
Greyhound was not.
We could get from St. Cloud, Minnesota, to Albany, Oregon for $104 each. It would take 36 hours. We are strong women. We would make it an adventure.
Stay tuned.
Quote of the Day:
[Emily's been home since Tuesday]
Emily: OH MY WORD. Esta and I would make the most epic peach smoothies ever.
Amy: What? Epic? That's a bad word.
Me: Huh?
Amy: Emily told me in no uncertain terms that I can not use the words epic, legit, or intense, ever.
Mom was turning 90 on July 8th and someone got the idea to get all the siblings together in Minnesota to celebrate. So of course I needed to be there.
And I wanted to take Jenny, since she hasn't seen her grandparents in a long time, and I've traveled too much without her, and it just felt important.
So I sat down to buy tickets. And was horrified. See, last December I flew to Minnesota on Southwest, since they now fly to MSP, and I had no trouble getting round-trip tickets for less than $300. This time they were at least $250 per person, each way. I tried other airlines, Orbitz, everything. A thousand dollars to take me and Jenny to Minnesota.
No no no.
We still had a few free tickets with Southwest, but none of the flights had free-ticket seats open, so Paul did his famous wheeling and dealing and finally came up with a convoluted deal: We would fly to Chicago on free tickets and then on $79 tickets to Minneapolis.
Wonderful.
Except that we would spend several hours in Oakland and then get to Chicago at midnight and pick up our baggage and recheck it and fly out at 6 the next morning.
But I am a Yoder, married to a Smucker. I'll do a lot to save money.
Then there was the matter of coming home.
Amtrak was as expensive as airline tickets.
Greyhound was not.
We could get from St. Cloud, Minnesota, to Albany, Oregon for $104 each. It would take 36 hours. We are strong women. We would make it an adventure.
Stay tuned.
Quote of the Day:
[Emily's been home since Tuesday]
Emily: OH MY WORD. Esta and I would make the most epic peach smoothies ever.
Amy: What? Epic? That's a bad word.
Me: Huh?
Amy: Emily told me in no uncertain terms that I can not use the words epic, legit, or intense, ever.
July Column
Jenny and I just returned from a very eventful trip to Minnesota for my mom's 90th birthday party. So today I'm trying to catch up after a week away from home and internet. Here's the column for July.
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
Campers
There are at least 5 different kinds of campers at a place like South Beach State Park, where we spent the last two nights.
A) The college kids. They pull in and unpack more humans and gear than can logically fit in that old car, then set up the tent and yell pleasantly at each other and play music and try to plug in game things at the outlet at the edge of the campsite and are disappointed to find that the cord, even with an extension cord, doesn't even reach past the car and for sure not to the picnic table.
B) The Fit People. They stay in tents, too. They have kayaks on top of their nice cars, and bike around the campground on nice bikes and wear nice helmets and always wear sunglasses like Lance Armstrong's. And of course they all look like long-distance runners.
C) The Matching Couples. Motorhomes all the way with these people. They put a pretty plaid tablecloth on the picnic table and clamp it down with handy little gadgets and maybe put a matching pinwheel at the end as a pretty touch. They park their matching bikes and matching helmets by the back end of the motorhome and set their matching camp chairs, folded up nicely, against the side of the motorhome. They brush bits of dust off their nice jackets and look like they would like to vacuum up all those wood chips all over the campsite.
D) The Hippies. They drive old vans and set up well-used tents and sit on picnic tables and contentedly play the ukelele, even if they are 6-feet-three and in their thirties.
E) Families like us. They holler about the best way to build a fire and set up their camp chairs all around the fire pit and holler when the smoke goes their way. Their camp chairs look like a mishmash of garage sale finds and gifts from the school board at the end of school. They festoon the tree branches with wet towels and jeans and skirts. They keep the critters fed because when the teenagers are sitting up late around the campfire and a raccoon comes by and takes off with a Hershey bar, they think this is cool and so they don't put the s'mores ingredients in the cooler for the night, or else it doesn't occur to them to do so, and this is the story they tell their mom in the morning when she is up at 6:30 wrapped in a blanket and talking to a daughter on the east coast and suddenly she sees a squirrel right by her chair dragging a bag of graham crackers in his mouth. They play Scum late at night in the tent trailer and holler loud enough that the mom is sure the camp security is going to come by and shush them up. They go down to the beach and haul back the biggest driftwood logs they can carry, which they use to build more fires. They leap down the dunes and get sandy from head to toe. When they go back to the campsite they park sandy size-13 shoes inside the tent trailer in the narrow space where everyone walks. They try to see who can eat the most quarter-pound hot dogs in one evening. Winner: four. They spend hours on the beach and absorb the amazing sunshine and walk for miles and watch the kite-surfers bobbing in the breeze and have the best time of anyone.
Quote of the Day:
"Do trees eat their peas?" "How is the jetty like candy?" "How is the beach like a dog?" "How are the jetties like a baseball glove?"
--intriguing questions painted on the sidewalk as you walk the quarter mile from the campground to the beach. The answers are on a sign at the end. (Yes, beach peas put nutrients in the soil that the trees use. The jetty is a life-saver. They both have fleas. They both catch things.)
A) The college kids. They pull in and unpack more humans and gear than can logically fit in that old car, then set up the tent and yell pleasantly at each other and play music and try to plug in game things at the outlet at the edge of the campsite and are disappointed to find that the cord, even with an extension cord, doesn't even reach past the car and for sure not to the picnic table.
B) The Fit People. They stay in tents, too. They have kayaks on top of their nice cars, and bike around the campground on nice bikes and wear nice helmets and always wear sunglasses like Lance Armstrong's. And of course they all look like long-distance runners.
C) The Matching Couples. Motorhomes all the way with these people. They put a pretty plaid tablecloth on the picnic table and clamp it down with handy little gadgets and maybe put a matching pinwheel at the end as a pretty touch. They park their matching bikes and matching helmets by the back end of the motorhome and set their matching camp chairs, folded up nicely, against the side of the motorhome. They brush bits of dust off their nice jackets and look like they would like to vacuum up all those wood chips all over the campsite.
D) The Hippies. They drive old vans and set up well-used tents and sit on picnic tables and contentedly play the ukelele, even if they are 6-feet-three and in their thirties.
E) Families like us. They holler about the best way to build a fire and set up their camp chairs all around the fire pit and holler when the smoke goes their way. Their camp chairs look like a mishmash of garage sale finds and gifts from the school board at the end of school. They festoon the tree branches with wet towels and jeans and skirts. They keep the critters fed because when the teenagers are sitting up late around the campfire and a raccoon comes by and takes off with a Hershey bar, they think this is cool and so they don't put the s'mores ingredients in the cooler for the night, or else it doesn't occur to them to do so, and this is the story they tell their mom in the morning when she is up at 6:30 wrapped in a blanket and talking to a daughter on the east coast and suddenly she sees a squirrel right by her chair dragging a bag of graham crackers in his mouth. They play Scum late at night in the tent trailer and holler loud enough that the mom is sure the camp security is going to come by and shush them up. They go down to the beach and haul back the biggest driftwood logs they can carry, which they use to build more fires. They leap down the dunes and get sandy from head to toe. When they go back to the campsite they park sandy size-13 shoes inside the tent trailer in the narrow space where everyone walks. They try to see who can eat the most quarter-pound hot dogs in one evening. Winner: four. They spend hours on the beach and absorb the amazing sunshine and walk for miles and watch the kite-surfers bobbing in the breeze and have the best time of anyone.
Quote of the Day:
"Do trees eat their peas?" "How is the jetty like candy?" "How is the beach like a dog?" "How are the jetties like a baseball glove?"
--intriguing questions painted on the sidewalk as you walk the quarter mile from the campground to the beach. The answers are on a sign at the end. (Yes, beach peas put nutrients in the soil that the trees use. The jetty is a life-saver. They both have fleas. They both catch things.)
Sunday, July 04, 2010
Fish Recipe
Wow, I've had two requests for that recipe I mentioned in the last post. So here it is:
Fish Filling for Grilling
But first: I've done this only with trout, and they were gutted but not cut into fillets or skinned or anything.
Mix:
4 oz. cream cheese
1/4 cup chopped onion
1 t. fresh minced garlic
Sprinkle salt and pepper inside the fish. Stuff the cream cheese mixture in along with one slice of lemon for a small fish or two for a large one.
Wrap it all up tightly in tin foil and put on the grill. Turn it over every so often. I allowed half an hour for the 10" fish I made the other day and that was plenty. The much bigger trout Steven caught a couple of years ago, with meat an inch thick, took a lot longer.
Enjoy!
Fish Filling for Grilling
But first: I've done this only with trout, and they were gutted but not cut into fillets or skinned or anything.
Mix:
4 oz. cream cheese
1/4 cup chopped onion
1 t. fresh minced garlic
Sprinkle salt and pepper inside the fish. Stuff the cream cheese mixture in along with one slice of lemon for a small fish or two for a large one.
Wrap it all up tightly in tin foil and put on the grill. Turn it over every so often. I allowed half an hour for the 10" fish I made the other day and that was plenty. The much bigger trout Steven caught a couple of years ago, with meat an inch thick, took a lot longer.
Enjoy!
Friday, July 02, 2010
A People Day
Today was a People Day.
I drove up to Salem and met my brother's wife Geneva for brunch and coffee. She is the sort of person who should teach classes on how to listen, so even though I went with the intention of listening to her life, I ended up talking a lot.
Then I spent about an hour in Albany getting groceries which doesn't count as People Time except for saying hello to the lovely ladies at Grocery Outlet [no, wait, Grocery DEPOT] such as Steph and Shelley.
After I came home Trish M. called me about ordering polo shirts for this fall. Wait, we can't be thinking about school uniform shirts yet, can we? Trish must think it's July already.
Then Anita called me to invite me to a ministers' wives lunch next week and I had to say no because we'll be out at the coast and also Jenny and I go to Minnesota for my mom's 90th birthday.
While I was on the phone with her, Janelle came over. She used to live up the road and would come over and clean now and then, one of the young ladies who has saved my sanity many times. She now lives in the Ukraine and works with Masters International Missions and was home for a visit, and I wanted to see her pictures and catch up with her before she goes back. [And now I really want to go visit her too, after I visit John and Laura in Poland.]
While I was talking with Janelle we kept getting interrupted, mostly by the phone. [We haven't set up the answering machine with the new fax/printer.]
Lora Z. called to ask when the girls are coming home from their week of teaching Bible School down at Winston.
Lisa the Niece called to ask how to make that oniony/cream cheesy filling for fish on the grill.
Brandon called to talk to Ben about volleyball.
Amy came home from teaching VBS.
My sis Margaret called to talk about when they're coming to visit.
Regina called to ask if she could borrow a key for the church.
And all day I kept thinking about my nephew Leonard, who left us four years ago. Tonight there are still groceries not put away and receipts not filed and garage sale stuff not organized, but I am still glad I had a People Day, because the people in my life are precious beyond describing, and you never know when the day will come that you won't ever be able to talk with them again.
Quote of the Day:
"Thou shalt not smoke!"
--my friend Regina's little Sierra, during "Popcorn" time, when the kids were all supposed to jump up and quote Bible verses
I drove up to Salem and met my brother's wife Geneva for brunch and coffee. She is the sort of person who should teach classes on how to listen, so even though I went with the intention of listening to her life, I ended up talking a lot.
Then I spent about an hour in Albany getting groceries which doesn't count as People Time except for saying hello to the lovely ladies at Grocery Outlet [no, wait, Grocery DEPOT] such as Steph and Shelley.
After I came home Trish M. called me about ordering polo shirts for this fall. Wait, we can't be thinking about school uniform shirts yet, can we? Trish must think it's July already.
Then Anita called me to invite me to a ministers' wives lunch next week and I had to say no because we'll be out at the coast and also Jenny and I go to Minnesota for my mom's 90th birthday.
While I was on the phone with her, Janelle came over. She used to live up the road and would come over and clean now and then, one of the young ladies who has saved my sanity many times. She now lives in the Ukraine and works with Masters International Missions and was home for a visit, and I wanted to see her pictures and catch up with her before she goes back. [And now I really want to go visit her too, after I visit John and Laura in Poland.]
While I was talking with Janelle we kept getting interrupted, mostly by the phone. [We haven't set up the answering machine with the new fax/printer.]
Lora Z. called to ask when the girls are coming home from their week of teaching Bible School down at Winston.
Lisa the Niece called to ask how to make that oniony/cream cheesy filling for fish on the grill.
Brandon called to talk to Ben about volleyball.
Amy came home from teaching VBS.
My sis Margaret called to talk about when they're coming to visit.
Regina called to ask if she could borrow a key for the church.
And all day I kept thinking about my nephew Leonard, who left us four years ago. Tonight there are still groceries not put away and receipts not filed and garage sale stuff not organized, but I am still glad I had a People Day, because the people in my life are precious beyond describing, and you never know when the day will come that you won't ever be able to talk with them again.
Quote of the Day:
"Thou shalt not smoke!"
--my friend Regina's little Sierra, during "Popcorn" time, when the kids were all supposed to jump up and quote Bible verses
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Info, Anyone??
I got an interesting email the other day that included this:
I have a memory of a specific house that I saw as a young girl in the late 50’s and 60’s. My sister mentioned your name as an option to start my curiosity research.....here is a bit of the story...
If you have any insights, please comment.
Quote of the Day:
"Whoa. You can think about retiring."
--Steven, to Amy, who had her 22nd birthday on Friday
I have a memory of a specific house that I saw as a young girl in the late 50’s and 60’s. My sister mentioned your name as an option to start my curiosity research.....here is a bit of the story...
I have lived in Oregon since my birth in 1949, we lived outside of Portland. In 1958 we moved to the Crow area, and then in 1959 to Bailey Hill (out west 11th). From the time of 1958-through the later 60’s we drove from west Eugene to Sweet Home. I had two aunts that lived in Sweet Home and we regularly drove the back roads to go visit them. This was before I-5 was built. So somewhere along HWY 99 or a byway we would see these homes that were built mainly into the ground. The roof was clearly visible...they were ranch style...and about 3-5 ft of the house structure was also visible with windows.
No one else remembers them...and my parents are long deceased. At that time our parents would tell us that they were “Mennonite Homes” and being buried like that was part of their religion. I have asked my two aunts that used to live in Sweet Home...who are now in their 90’s and they think I am making this up.
So I was wondering, do you know of any information that would ease this curious mind? I would appreciate any help. I have spend hours on the internet and learned lots of great things..but alas nothing about these buried/earthen homes.
If you have any insights, please comment.
Quote of the Day:
"Whoa. You can think about retiring."
--Steven, to Amy, who had her 22nd birthday on Friday
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Entertainment
I get my fun wherever I can find it.
My SIL Barb said, "You read Craigslist ads for entertainment???" Yes I do. Try it sometime--the horrible spellings and/or rants about the ex in the household ads, the tearjerking "wanted" ads, the bizarre things people are giving away for free.
Or the one Ben and I still chuckle over--a conscience-smitten college student in Eugene said he got drunk at a party and the next morning there was a lawn chair on his porch that hadn't been there before, and he apparently picked it up while walking home, and he has no idea where it belongs, and he feels very bad about this and wants to return it to its rightful owner.
And of course we thought, "Sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee."
I get lots of entertainment out of going to garage sales too, from the great bargains to the hideous ceramic figurines to the talkative hostesses.
And then there was a complete little drama that played before my eyes the other week.
About three sales were clustered on this one street, which meant lots of cars pulling in and out, and people walking. I was happily looking at stuff when I heard a woman's frantic voice--"COLBY!" I looked up. Across the street was a lady about my age standing by a white car. She looked one way, then the other and shouted again, desperately, "COLBY!"
Up and down the street, heads turned as we all felt a chill of fear. Mrs. Garage Sale left the garage and started down the driveway for a better view. I stopped shopping and wondered what I should do. I think we were all thinking of that poor little boy, Kyron Harmon, who had just recently disappeared in Portland.
The woman walked around her car, still shouting frantically. Someone called to her, "Did you lose someone?"
She shouted back, "My dog! He was right here in the back seat! And he's gone!"
At least it wasn't a child.
Heads pivoted up and down the street as we all looked for a streak of fur behind a rhodie bush. Nothing. The lady kept calling.
I think we were all about to spread over the neighborhood when suddenly she stopped. And then she looked really embarrassed, and slapped her forehead, and yelled to everyone, "OH! I forgot! I dropped him off at home!"
We all laughed and we ladies of a certain age looked very sympathetic. Mrs. Garage Sale returned to her folding chair. I returned to the Tupperware and towels. The street resumed its normal traffic.
We were all smiling.
I never know when or where a story will happen right before my eyes.
Quote of the Day:
"Westside Morning Glory Reasonably Conservative Mennonite Church"
--what Ben thinks people in other states name their churches, rather than the practical Oregonian way of "Harrisburg Mennonite," or "Brownsville Mennonite." I don't think he realizes just how many Mennonite churches are in a town like Goshen, Indiana.
My SIL Barb said, "You read Craigslist ads for entertainment???" Yes I do. Try it sometime--the horrible spellings and/or rants about the ex in the household ads, the tearjerking "wanted" ads, the bizarre things people are giving away for free.
Or the one Ben and I still chuckle over--a conscience-smitten college student in Eugene said he got drunk at a party and the next morning there was a lawn chair on his porch that hadn't been there before, and he apparently picked it up while walking home, and he has no idea where it belongs, and he feels very bad about this and wants to return it to its rightful owner.
And of course we thought, "Sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee."
I get lots of entertainment out of going to garage sales too, from the great bargains to the hideous ceramic figurines to the talkative hostesses.
And then there was a complete little drama that played before my eyes the other week.
About three sales were clustered on this one street, which meant lots of cars pulling in and out, and people walking. I was happily looking at stuff when I heard a woman's frantic voice--"COLBY!" I looked up. Across the street was a lady about my age standing by a white car. She looked one way, then the other and shouted again, desperately, "COLBY!"
Up and down the street, heads turned as we all felt a chill of fear. Mrs. Garage Sale left the garage and started down the driveway for a better view. I stopped shopping and wondered what I should do. I think we were all thinking of that poor little boy, Kyron Harmon, who had just recently disappeared in Portland.
The woman walked around her car, still shouting frantically. Someone called to her, "Did you lose someone?"
She shouted back, "My dog! He was right here in the back seat! And he's gone!"
At least it wasn't a child.
Heads pivoted up and down the street as we all looked for a streak of fur behind a rhodie bush. Nothing. The lady kept calling.
I think we were all about to spread over the neighborhood when suddenly she stopped. And then she looked really embarrassed, and slapped her forehead, and yelled to everyone, "OH! I forgot! I dropped him off at home!"
We all laughed and we ladies of a certain age looked very sympathetic. Mrs. Garage Sale returned to her folding chair. I returned to the Tupperware and towels. The street resumed its normal traffic.
We were all smiling.
I never know when or where a story will happen right before my eyes.
Quote of the Day:
"Westside Morning Glory Reasonably Conservative Mennonite Church"
--what Ben thinks people in other states name their churches, rather than the practical Oregonian way of "Harrisburg Mennonite," or "Brownsville Mennonite." I don't think he realizes just how many Mennonite churches are in a town like Goshen, Indiana.
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