A Short Post About a Serendipitous Tradition

Posted on April 2, 2013 by gretcheno

Okay, you might not believe me when I say this, but truly, we TRY to find each and every plastic Easter Egg each year at our outdoor Easter Egg hunts…but somehow, every year, one or two get lost and then a year or so later we find them, bitten by animals, grubby, abandoned, lying in plain sight beneath a tree or a bush. We love this “tradition” – even if it happens purely by serendipity and never by design.

The first time it happened, 8 years ago when we moved out to our acreage, we weren’t too surprised. We had hidden over 200 eggs that year, and, though we didn’t count them all afterwards, we were pretty sure that there were some unaccounted for.

Searching high and low!

“Did you guys search in the way back?”

“No, that was too far.”

The hunt begins. Seven 5 & 6 year olds having fun.

We went back to look and found about a dozen. BUT…we still didn’t find them all. In fact, it took us three years to find all of those, we know because that was the only year we hid little erasers in some of the eggs and, sure enough, when the lawn-mower found an egg three years later, it had a butterfly eraser inside it…and the marks of some creature’s teeth all over the egg’s smooth, plastic, ovoid exterior.

Mostly they’re found in the spring, when the long grasses have died back and the new ones haven’t yet taken their place. It’s as if the snow has rooted out the eggs, shoved them forward like icebergs shoved rocks across the plains, and they wait to be found, little mountains of color in our prairie lawn.

Ironically, it’s not green eggs that we tend to find, but pink or purple or orange – colors, in other words, that you’d expect would be easy to spot beneath a tree. But, as Carl Sandburg so poignantly reminds us, “I am the grass; I cover all“.

A few weeks ago, the kids and my husband took a walk in the back yard, despite the March wind and snow. When they came in, cheeks red and noses running, some twenty minutes later, Boo proudly held up the egg they had found.

And then, with a grin, she opened it.

Lovely. Was it a malted egg? That’s my guess. Though, to be sure, it’s an educated guess more than an obvious match for said candy. The remains of it could fool an archeologist.

The interior. Not too appetizing one year later.

I burst out laughing, loving the grubby egg, the continuing tradition.

The lucky finder of the Golden Egg one year ago.

Anyone care to hazard a guess on how many eggs we’ll find a year from now? If the seven five and six year-olds who came to hunt eggs at Boo’s party have anything to say about it, it will be zero. I, however, as the realistic mom…I’m guessing two or three.

Or, should I say, that’s what I’m hoping for. After all, it would be a shame to let a good tradition die.

I love dying eggs!

PS – Sure enough, there’s at least one that we couldn’t find this year. Boo says that the leprechaun took it. Could be she’s right. How else can we explain their total disappearance?!

Not eggs…but a egg-like welcome to a party!

PPS – ON EASTER DAY Boo found one from last year – nice and grubby and innocently hiding all year long near the well. What a hoot.

A tradition continues.

Afterwards.

What’s a Little Ice When You’ve Got Angels on Your Side?

Posted on March 4, 2013 by gretcheno

After 19 years of living in the Mid West, I think I’m beginning to belong.

I have joined the ranks of Minnesotans who say, “If we stayed home at the least little bit of nasty weather, we’d never go anywhere for six months.”

I have survived two horrid driving events in the past month and a half, and I am alive to tell about it, with my untainted driving record still in place.

Lest you think I am bragging, let me hasten to assure you that I know – I KNOW – that God has at least one angel on perpetual “Keep Gretchen Safe While She’s Driving” duty – so it’s not to my credit that I’m alive…it’s to His.

I don’t know why He has chosen to protect me in this way. All I can think is that He must still have some plans that involve me and it’s just not my time yet. Which is fine with me.

Both of these wretched driving situations of the past few weeks have involved freezing rain. Both involved me saying, “What am I, nuts?” as I drove along the highway at speeds less than half of the 65-75 suggested miles per hour. And both found my husband out of town and my kids and I braving the elements together.

And both, I must admit, did not take me out of the house for life or death reasons.

Take last night, for example. The kids and I drove out to our pastor’s house for a book discussion with some other couples from church. I like this chance to talk about interesting stuff, and the kids like the opportunity to play with their friends. I’d seen the weather report, yes. I knew that the rain was beginning to fall as we left the house…but I’m an optimist. I figured, “Either the weather report is exaggerating and this won’t come to anything or I’ll drive home in the freezing rain and put those angels to work.”

Okay, I didn’t really think about the angels. I just hoped for the best and ignored the worst.

When we left their house two hours later I was slightly worried. As we slid on our tennis shoes across the road to our car – holding tight to the little one’s hands – I was a wee bit more worried. As I started up the car, after breaking the ice on the door handles, I was in full “praying mode”.

This was one of those, “Kids, please turn off the radio and don’t talk,” car rides. What usually takes us 13 minutes took us 35. I saw a few semi trucks pulled off the road and I wondered – not for the first time – how truck drivers do what they do.

The temperature was 26 and the rain was relentless. In the dark and the conditions, I managed to make a wrong turn. I forgot to put on the Four Wheel Drive until I was about three miles from home. The ABS brakes kicked in several times.

But, despite it all, we made it home.

When the garage door finally shut behind us, I realized I was shaking.

“I never stopped praying,” Meep, our oldest daughter said.

“I prayed a little,” our son added.

The six year old was asleep.

Yep, she’s a born Minnesotan. “Mom will get us through. What’s a little ice?”

Either that or the angels were singing her a lullaby as they kept our car on the road.

Girl Scout Writers – Part One

Posted on February 18, 2013 by gretcheno

For several years I have had the privilege of co-leading my daughter’s Girl Scout troop. The girls are in the 4th and 5th grades now and – if you’re interested – are busy selling cookies!

But that’s not why I’m writing about them. I’m writing about them because we’ve been doing a writing badge – and they’ve discovered that writing can be hard work!

Part of my incentive for them to write was a promise that I would post one of their pieces here on my blog. I should clarify that this was an incentive for some…and a “de-centive” (that ought to be a word) for others…though, me thinks, that the ladies who fussed about it did protest a little too much.

So I give you the first of my (anonymous) Girl Scouts writings – reproduced exactly as she wrote it, without correction.

Enjoy!

Top Hat – by S., grade 4

Flat and tall and black as coal,
accsesorizing feather shows a lot of soul.
Leathery soft and a velvet brim,
the brushing against the mad hatter’s wig.
Smells like a tap dancer’s daisy-scented bangs,
taste’s like the metal on the hook it hangs.

Stockings: The Best Part of Christmas Morning!

Posted on December 18, 2012 by gretcheno

A few years ago I entered a holiday writing contest, hosted by my local newspaper (that would be The Daily Globe!). The theme of the contest was “Holiday Traditions” and from the moment I saw it advertised, I knew exactly what I needed to write about.

Stockings.

We don’t have a mantle…so they hang here until being stuffed!

In our family, Christmas stockings are the highlight of our Christmas traditions and, ultimately, of our Christmas day. There is no other part of Christmas that is so…sacred. (I probably shouldn’t use that word in the context…I mean… “sacred” is the whole point of Christmas…but setting that aside for the time being, let’s take “sacred” to mean – for the duration of this post – “THE MOST IMPORTANT THING ABOUT CHRISTMAS”!)

Okay, that being said, everyone looks forward to presents, right? I mean, when kids write letters to Santa, they don’t say, “Please bring me lots of tiny things that will fit into my stocking.” No, they say, “Please bring me a ball or a doll or a new bike.” Or, as in many of the letters from first graders that were printed in the paper yesterday, “ipods, ipads, computers, and a queen-sized bed”. Apparently kids are far more optimistic than they were in my day. Either that or more greedy.

My much-loved sock!

In our family, as in any other, presents such as these under the tree are anticipated with great joy. BUT…it is the stockings, full to over-flowing with fantasticness, that inspire the most glee. They are the first things to be opened on Christmas morning and they tide us over through breakfast as the presents beneath the tree continue to beckon.

Why is it that our stockings are so admired?

Because they’re magical. And they’re huge.

Way back when my father was a boy, his mother began the family tradition of knitting these wonderful stockings for her family. My father’s – knitted with wool yarn and still in working condition – was joined by a new stocking in 1958, again knitted by Grandma, when my mom married into the family. When my sister was born a few years later, Grandma got to work again. And so the tradition continued up until the time when Grandma could no longer remember how to work her needles and my sister – that first-born grandchild – took up the needles for the family. In 2013, we’re anticipating that she’ll have to knit two. Horray!

It's not right that mine is so much smaller than my son's. It's wool vrs. cotton yarn's fault...

It’s not right that mine is so much smaller than my son’s. It’s the fault of wool vs. cotton yarn, I think…

What is it about reaching into a bulging sock that is so marvelous? Why are the lumps and bumps and glimpses of things sticking out of the top so intriguing? I think that part of the thrill is the hinted-at-mystery – you get snippets of what’s inside, unlike with pristinely-wrapped gifts that reveal nothing of the contents within. Your imagine soars with a stocking! And, to top it off, you get to reach into a dark hole – something your mother cautions you against in normal life (“It could be a snake’s hole! Leave it alone!”) with no fear of what lies within. No biting, scratching, or hissing will send you running, squealing in fear. Squeals of delight are all that await the inquisitive hand on Christmas morning as it reaches down, down, down into the sock of wonder.

And what does that hand find at the bottom? What awaits you at the rounded toe?

An orange, of course.

My kids don’t get the orange. “Why do I want this?” one of them asked one year, holding the tangerine with furrowed brow.

“Because when your great-grandmother was a small girl in Scotland, an orange was a rare and expensive treat and having an orange in the toe of a stocking was a wonderful Christmas surprise!”

My child was unconvinced.

“Just eat it,” I said. “And be thankful. It’s tradition.”

Okay, even with huge stockings, sometimes we get a little carried away…

Holiday traditions. They can be strange and they can be wonderful. Our stockings fit both of those descriptions. Filled with everything from new socks (hey, they’re huge and need a few big things to take up space) to toys, candy, toothbrushes, books, novelties, ornaments, ties, hats, mittens and scarves.

Oh, and sometimes babies.

The best stocking stuffer ever!

Yes, they’re expensive to fill. But they’re marvelous to unpack.

I can’t wait ‘till Christmas morning!

Trying to make little sister happy with the jingle bells on her stocking…

P.S. – Though I won the contest, I can’t find the original story…sorry! It’s been several years and two computers since then. I have it in a physical file somewhere…in other words, it’s in some box under some bed which I’ll probably find when my kids are grown up and clearing out this house because they’re sending us to a retirement home.

Every 1,825 Days…Give or Take a Few…

Posted on November 27, 2012 by gretcheno

I dressed with care: elastic waistband (for fast removal), cute underwear (I knew I’d be seeing a lot of them, so might as well enjoy it), my long hair up and out of the way (not that my hair would be involved in any way, it just seemed the thing to do). No, I wasn’t getting ready for our Thanksgiving feast, nor was I anticipating a night out with my husband. In fact, I was pretty certain that my husband would be avoiding me for about 24 hours.

It was Prep Morning. Tomorrow would be my colonoscopy.

My Last Supper on Saturday night. It’s tough to have to fast a mere three days after Thanksgiving. The Turkey Tetrazinni was delicious!

I woke up with an hour to spare. I wasn’t about to sleep through my toast time-line. “On the day before procedure you may eat a light breakfast (two slices of toast and orange juice) before 8:00a.m.”… Yes! Toast has never looked so good! I stood before the toaster with a dilemma. Is this slice of bread too big? Can I have butter on it? Oh, the decisions.

Then I faced the glass of orange juice. I opted for the juice glass – as opposed to the taller milk glass – and felt like I deserve a pat on the back for that decision. As I swallowed down my last gulp I thought, It’s pulp-free…perhaps I could have more…later on…. Dutifully, I put the OJ away. After all, I don’t want to go through this again because I’ve done it wrong.

The nurse on the phone told me that three people in their office did it wrong last week. You see, we patients are told that, should we be…ahem…clear…by the time we’ve finished half of our GALLON OF GROSS STUFF that we can then be done.

Apparently three people decided that they were clear…but they really weren’t. “I strongly urge you to finish the entire jug,” the nurse said. I nodded, eyes wide, even though she couldn’t see me through the phone.

I do NOT want to have to do this twice. Once every five years is often enough.

My bathroom was well-stocked…

10:45 a.m. – I begin to drink flavored water. Still a few hours before I have to begin the GALLON OF GROSS STUFF. I can have coffee throughout the day, and tea, and this makes me happy. Until I remember that I can’t add cream to my coffee or, for that matter, to my tea. I can have other clear, unpulpy liquids. And Jello! But not red, or orange, or purple-colored ones. I am amazed how many liquids in the world are red or orange or purple.

Shoot, I’ve just realized: all the popsicles I bought are orange and red. Bother.

Then, to top off that realization, it dawns on me that all of the Crystal Lite packets I have bought to add to my water/medicine combo in order to cut the flavor of the GALLON OF GROSS STUFF are red. All of them.

This does not make me happy. BOTHER! A little later, I am drinking a glass of white cran-peach Crystal Lite…and my five year old daughter walks up to me and says, “That’s orange.” Shoot. Double shoot. I was hoping it was peach-colored.

12:15 p.m. – My husband offers to go to the store for me to get me lemonade. He’s such a nice guy.

12:30 p.m. – Mmmm…turkey broth that I made yesterday. Delicious! Still…it’s weird how much you want to crunch and chew when you’re not allowed to.

2:30 p.m. – Green Jello. Plain. Green. Jello. But in a pretty bowl.

If you’ve got to eat plain Jello…at least have it in a lovely bowl.

4:00 p.m. – And so it begins…I won’t be on the computer for awhile…and I have a feeling that will be fine with everyone. No details of this time period are wanted.

9:30 p.m. – I am done with the GALLON OF GROSS STUFF. I drank all but about 4 ounces. I cannot take any more. This is vile.

11:00 p.m. – Bedtime, how I love thee.

3:37 a.m. – Awake…massive headache…there’s no going back to sleep. They say I can take Tylenol but there are two problems: 1) my Tylenol are red…a forbidden color and 2) I need water to take medicine…a forbidden option. Bother. I toss and turn until 5:45.

6:15 a.m. – I arrive at the hospital, take a wrong turn despite the nice lady’s good directions, and finally ask a roomful of elderly people in a waiting room if they can tell me where to go. One nice lady not only tells me, she leads me there. I must look like a sad little waif.

6:20 – I walk up to the surgery desk and am greeted by a friendly nurse. She opens the door for me and the next words out of her mouth are, “So, what does ‘between the sheets’ mean?”!! I burst out laughing. MY NURSE READS MY BLOGS! How lovely to walk into a nerve-wracking situation and find someone whom I have never met but who knows me…kinda…I am at ease and laughing and even though I’m about to have a camera shoved in unmentionable places, I’m okay with that. Life is good.

7:30 a.m. – I see who my anesthesiologist will be and I smile. His daughter is married to my husband’s boss’s son. I was at their wedding. I love living in a small town.

8:00 a.m. – I meet with my surgeon, whom I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with before. In fact, she takes Tae Kwon Do with my son. Did I mention I like small towns?

8:10ish – I don’t know the exact time as I was having a nice friendly conversation with another nurse about her son (whom I taught when he was in high school) and then suddenly I was back in my personal waiting room, it was 9:00, and I was enjoying the weird sensation of waking up and not knowing how I got there.

9:20 a.m. – I am awake enough to drink every single ounce of water and cranberry juice that awaits me on my little rolly table.

9:30 a.m. – The surgeon’s report: I have a clean colon! Nothing to be seen here, folks. Move along. Move along.

9:40 a.m. – I tell the nurse I’ll be blogging about this. “I wondered if you would,” she says. “I’ll probably leave out some of the details,” I say. Or maybe I only think this. I can’t remember. I was still pretty foggy.

10:00 a.m. – My gas-drawn coach awaits me at the front door. My knight in shining armor will pick up the kids after school, feed them and take them to all the places they need to be. I am free to eat, sleep, and be merry.

I begin by eating.

Horray! I’m free for another five years! It’s a drag being 42 years old and having to have colonoscopies every 1,825 days, but it’s a family history thing. And let me tell you, as nasty as THE GALLON OF GROSS STUFF is, it’s a million times better than having colon cancer. Colon cancer is basically preventable…your doctor goes in, takes a look around, finds (or not) any nasty polyps, removes them, and you’re good to go. You get rid of them so that they can’t develop into anything cancerous. It’s unpleasant…yes…but it’s worth it.

Did I mention that it’s unpleasant? Yes, it is. You want to EAT, you want to CHEW, you want to not have to drink your GALLON OF GROSS STUFF. But you do it because otherwise you might be facing major surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, or even a stroke (like my mom had after her colon surgery) or, worst case, death.

I think that drinking A GALLON OF GROSS STUFF and running to the toilet every few minutes for several hours is better than those options.

Just saying…

PS: FYI – The GALLON OF GROSS STUFF is greatly improved with Crystal Lite (or Propel, or Ocean Spray) packets. That way it’s like drinking a gallon of salty lemonade…as opposed to just salty water. You be the judge.

PPS: There are those who may be thinking, “Yes, it’s nice living in a small town, but what about when you go to the grocery store and there’s the doctor/nurse/surgeon/anesthesiologist/insert position here who saw you in the all together?” Well, there is that…but I figure hey, it’s their job. They’re used to it and they don’t let it bother them, so why should I? My OB/GYN’s son takes piano lessons from the same teacher as my daughter…if my husband can smile and shake his hand at recitals, then hey, I can too.

Caves, Coliseums, Indiana Jones…and Me!

Posted on November 15, 2012 by gretcheno

This is my second post about my Thanksgiving experience in Tunisia many moons ago. Five American women in Tunisia…made for some interesting moments…

Every morning in Kairouan, Tunisia, we woke at approximately 5:00a.m. as the muezzin’s call to prayer echoed through the neighborhood. Turns out, the minaret in Kairouan is the oldest in the world. I neither knew nor appreciated that then, though the sound of it did add to the feeling that I was living in an Agatha Christie novel. Or a Mrs. Polifax, maybe.

A wee bit of the souk in Kairouan.

Our second day in Tunisia we chose to go to a souk. I didn’t know it at the time, but this bazaar was the exact same bazaar where Indiana Jones up and shoots that overly-zealous, black-clad, scimitar-wielding ninja-esque guy in Raiders of the Lost Ark.* When we were there, there were no ninja guys to be seen. Instead there were pottery merchants and food vendors and carpet sellers, who lured us into their shop with the promise of tea and who were rather cross with me when I chose not to buy a carpet because it would cost me all the money I had and then I wouldn’t be able to buy anything else for the rest of the week. Let me just say: I’d have been better off with the carpet. Far better. I could still be walking on it, or admiring it hanging on my wall. Instead I bought classy things like a clay camel bearing jugs of water and a tiny wall hanging and a tea set (okay, I still like the tea set). Live and learn, eh?

I bought this in Tunisia for my mom way back in 1987. Service for 6!

From the souk we went to El Jem, a Roman coliseum, complete with lion enclosures down beneath the floor of the arena. I shut my eyes and tried to picture the Christian martyrs, to hear their murmured prayers despite the roars of the lions in their ears. Mostly I just smelled hot, dry air and saw sand. In my memory there was hay on the floor of the crumbling lion stalls…but it’s possible that was only in my mind. Unless, of course, they brought some in to stimulate the imagination of gullible Christians like me.

The Roman coliseum at El Jem.

We kicked ourselves a couple days later when we found a brochure for Carthage in the hotel lobby. Apparently none of us had done our homework to realize that Carthage is in Tunisia. Oh, well. At least we saw one Roman ruin, albeit a lesser-known one. Perhaps it was for lesser-known Christians. The non-vocal martyrs of the Roman age. Either that or the ones who would produce less of a spectacle while being eaten by lions.

The next day we saw the fourth most holy Moslem place in the world, the Great Mosque of Kairouan (after Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem). This is the oldest Moslem place of worship in Africa. Apparently seven trips to this mosque equals one hajj to Mecca. We walked around the courtyard, but we didn’t go inside. I mostly remember blue mosaics: beautiful color in that dusty land.

Tiles at the mosque.

Courtyard of the Great Mosque

Later we saw a “Camel Drawing Water from a Well” – which, in retrospect, I have no idea why it was a tourist-draw, I just know that it was a “must see” we were told. More like a “must-pay”. (The picture in this link is an actual camel drawing water from a well in Kairouan!

We took a bus into the Sahara Desert one day for lunch at a Berber hotel. And when I say “hotel” I mean cave. Or, rather, series of caves. We walked through a dark and sloping tunnel to a coutyard, open to the sky. Surrounding us were cave openings, dark and doorless, each entered by way of a ladder propped against the walls of the cavern.**

Similar to the place we ate…

They led us to one of the biggest openings and we climbed the ladder to find a long table waiting for us. Lunch was ready. We ate meat – goat, I think. And flat bread and vegetables in a stew-like dish. I’m an adventurous eater, so I tried everything. I don’t think I left exactly full, but I left satisfied and intensely interested. I mostly remember how dark it was – such a contrast to the incandescent world I lived in. I remember looking out of the unlit cave into the bright, desert light. Everything I saw out that cave entrance was tan-colored. Everything. It was sandy. It was hot. It was far, far away from home.

No, I don’t think I was homesick…but I was intensely aware that the world I lived in, the world I knew and understood, the world I complained about and criticized like any other teenager, was actually far from the norm of all teenagers the world over. I’m not saying I realized I was blessed – for who’s to say that a Bedouin teenager living in a cave isn’t equally blessed (It’s not all about STUFF, right?) – but I’m saying I realized I needed to be more thankful.

And, in the season of Thanksgiving, to a self-centered 17 year old, that was realization indeed.

Next time: The Camel Market, where we learned that “working together” is not necessarily a good thing.

This is the land we drove through. The edge of the Sahara.

*Just to be totally clear: I’m actually not positive if the bazaar in Kairouan was the bazaar used, or if it was the bazaar in Sousse. I found references to both as being used in Raiders’ street scenes. Also, I know that “ninja” is not the right term for that guy in the movie, I just can’t think what the correct term should be! Here’s one quote I found to be interesting on the topic of filming Raiders: “The Holy City of Kairouan in Tunisia was the Raiders of the Lost Ark filming location for Cairo. Appropriately the town’s name means “little Cairo”. For filming the scenes on Sallah’s terrace, 350 television antennas had to be removed from local buildings to present a 1930s skyline.” It should also be noted that elsewhere I read that the lovely white and blue houses that are typical in Kairouan were not typical to Cairo, circo 1936. I’m pretty certain that movie watchers didn’t mind…

**Picture Luke Skywalker’s aunt and uncle’s home in Star Wars: A New Hope. That’s kind of like the place I ate in, only our place was far more primitive. The actual location of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru’s house is in Tunisia and can be toured.

Come Along for a Ferry Ride!

Posted on August 16, 2012 by gretcheno

I recently spent 8 days back on Orcas Island, Washington where I grew up and I took over 1,200 pictures! I thought you might enjoy a photo-journey on the ferry boat. My family and I love riding the ferries – though, admittedly, when I lived there the novelty had worn off. (When it takes an hour to ride to the mainland, it’s not something you want to do all that often.) However, now that I am essentially a tourist, it’s fun again.

So…welcome to the Washington State Ferry system: without having to pay the toll or wait in line!

PS – Some people have asked me how often people do have to ride the ferries. That depends on each person/family, but most stay on the island for weeks at a time – or even months. However, there are some who ride it over daily. They walk on and keep a second car on the mainland so that they don’t have to pay to bring the car over, which costs a lot more. The island is 60 square miles, so everything you need is there: schools, churches, grocery stores, a pharmacy, gas stations, etc. HOWEVER… everything costs more due to the “import” fees! For example, when I was there in July, gas cost $4.35 a gallon…compared to about $3.53 here in Worthington.

Okay…now for the photos! Oh, and here’s a link to the ferry website…http://www.wsdot.wa.gov/ferries/ and this link tells you specifics about the fleet. http://www.wsdot.wa.gov/ferries/vesselwatch/vessels.aspx

The view coming down from Anacortes to the ferry dock. If you’re runing late and you see your ferry in the dock…you’re probably out of luck!The ferries here will take you not only to Orcas Island, but also to Lopez, Shaw, Friday Harbor, and even to Sydney, British Colombia on Vancouver Island.

Old pilings against the newer docks in the background. The old ones are much more picturesque.

There’s nothing like beachcombing.

A ferry approaches! But it wasn’t ours.

It’s COLD water!!!

The kids were dodging the waves. Such a great past-time.

Some small waves kicked up by the ferry.

A ferry, pulling in to the dock, viewed from the beach.

I just thought this was cool.

Beneath the ferry dock – what a fun place to play!

Our ferry: coming into the Anacortes dock.

Barnacles…vicious on the knees when you’re young and prone to falling.

There are 23 ferries in the entire Washington State system…though not all of those serve the San Juan islands, where Orcas Island is. This is one of the larger ships.

Just a lovely view!

Crab pot bouys. It’s illegal to investigate (and steal from) someone else’s pots…but it happens, nonetheless.

Fishing boat.

Steam gives way to sail in the law of the sea, but ferry boats have right of way no matter what. At least…I know I’d get out of its way!

Park your car below and then head up the stairs to relax and enjoy the view!

There are even puzzles provided! Put in a few pieces and then leave the rest for the next riders!

The high tide line.

Bull Kelp.

Boats of all sizes can be seen along the route.

The prow of the ferry, pulling out from Lopez Island.

All manner of boats to be seen along the way.

Coming in to the Orcas Island ferry dock.

Madrona trees near the ferry dock – I love them!

Boats of all ages can be found…

I love the lines and geometry…

Summertime Schmummertime (Oh, and the Blue Angels, just for fun)

Posted on June 18, 2012 by gretcheno

“Summertime and the livin’ is easy…” NOT.

Obviously, George Gershwin did not live in the twenty-first century.

It’s not that I have the kids signed up for a million things. (Though the few things I do have them signed up for take up plenty of time and running around.) It’s just that having them home more means more mess to clean up, more meals to make, more times I have to stop at the gas station, etc., etc, etc.

More distractions, in short. For heaven’s sake, I was so distracted last night that I forgot to call my father for Father’s Day. And no, I didn’t send him a card.

Sorry, Dad.

Happened to capture this the other day driving past Mankato – it’s the Blue Angels! Okay, I guess summer is good for some things…

Summer also means more noise, more questions, more interruptions.

All of which means less time to write.

My youngest (aka “Boo”) goes off to kindergarten this fall and, unlike some moms, this is not going to cause me grief. I mean, yes, I’ll probably cry a wee bit – I am fully expecting that – but then, as the taillights of my husband’s car disappear down our dirt road, taking the three kids to school, I plan on dancing a jig.

And I don’t dance.

That is how historic that moment will be in my life.

Does this make me sound terrible? I hope not. I mean, I love my kids and I love having them around and the house will feel empty and lonely without them. I know this to be true.

BUT…it will be quiet. I will not be constantly interrupted as I attempt to write, constantly asked questions, invited to tea parties, and told jokes that, frankly, make no sense but I’m obliged to laugh at.

NOW I ADMIT that I will miss all that – not just this fall but someday, when I’m older and gray (okay, older and grayer). I know that I will long for one more interruption, one more puppet show. It’s just that now, at this point in my life, I long for quiet. I long for a tidy house. I long for uninterrupted writing time when I can actually finish my manuscript (for the second time) and send it off to my (hopefully) agent.

Okay. Gotta go drive Boo to one event and Meep to another. Now you can laugh at me and tell me that the grass is greener, etc., etc.

All I know is the grass is positively sparkling on the September side of the fence, whereas over here in June…it’s turning brown.

Sugar Rush

Posted on February 10, 2012 by gretcheno

As I write this, we are marking the start of eight days of sugary insanity in our household. Two children’s birthdays with Valentine’s Day in the middle always makes for a week-long sugar rush the likes of which is unparalleled for the rest of the year.

This year, the madness is compounded by Daddy coming home from an overseas trip in the middle of the crazy week, and, of course, he isn’t allowed in the door without treats to make up for his absence. For sure we’ll be set until Easter.

The truth is, living in Worthington, the sugary lunacy begins the third weekend in September with the annual Turkey Day Parade. The candy which is thrown along the parade route by kindly participants fills a bowl which keeps our sweet-teeth going for months. Throw Halloween in there, and Christmas, and Valentine’s Day and Easter, and we need never shop for candy again.

But, of course, we will and we do.

This year, however, I have vowed to draw the line. Just because candy is on sale doesn’t mean I have to buy it! Just because those giant red heart-shaped boxes accost me every time I enter a store doesn’t mean I have to succumb. Easter items will replace the red Valentine things next Wednesday, but that doesn’t mean I have to indulge. In fact, instead of candy for Easter…how about stocking up on fish? That always goes on sale for the season, too. Even though I’m not Catholic, I can appreciate Fish Fridays.

Not sure how cute they’ll look in the kid’s Easter baskets, but hey, in the name of good teeth and less fat, why not? The kids won’t mind. Much.

Okay, what about some Swedish Fish?

Oh, who am I kidding? What is Easter without candy? (Theology aside, of course!) And as for Valentine’s Day, despite the fact that saccharine (or sexual) greetings threaten to replace the real meaning of the holiday, we can still strive to tell those we love how much they mean to us.

Because that is a truth that should never be lost in the sugar rush of velvet boxes and lacey doilies.

Though, I gotta be honest, I’ll never look down on a dozen long-stemmed roses hand delivered by the man I love.

Cough, cough.

Happy Valentine’s Day!!

Firewood

Posted on February 3, 2012 by gretcheno

When we went house hunting 6 ½ years ago we had several items on our wish list. A big yard. A big kitchen. A fireplace. The house we found fit the bill perfectly and we have loved our ten acres, our large kitchen, our cozy fire.

Having a fireplace sort of feels like a necessity when you live out in the country. Yes, we have a small generator, but that pile of wood waiting in the shed feels like a much safer way to hedge my bets against the specter of a power outage.

I grew up with a woodstove as our only heat source. A massive truck would lumber up our gravel road with two cords of uncut chunks of tree trunk. Then came the fun part. They say that the beauty of heating your house with wood is that it heats you twice, right? The chopping and the burning. Well, this wood warmed Dad three times, at least, because we had an enormously long path up to our house, and the pile of wood had to be hauled to the back of the house via wheelbarrow (first warming), chopped with Dad’s hydraulic wood splitter (second warming) and then carried into the house (by me) to be burned (third warming).

The dreaded woodpile chore.

I loathed the wood-carrying chore. I suppose, really, that “chore” by definition, means “un-fun”. Piano practice was a chore. Making my bed was a chore. Cleaning my room: a chore. But there was something about carrying in wood that was particularly disagreeable.

To begin with, I had to don an old, ugly coat. How embarrassing. Then I would put on Dad’s giant gloves, and possibly a hat, and use this weird wood-carrier thing that Mom thought was helpful but I thought was nothing short of putting a new coat of paint on a rotting wall. And then load after load had to be stacked in the built-in wood closet. My life was so difficult.

Flash forward to the present day, when I, now a mom myself, send my kids off to do distasteful chores. Recycling, taking out the garbage, cleaning the cat’s litter box. They fuss and moan. Which is why, the other day, I took pity on them and decided that instead of asking them to bring in ONE load of wood to make a fire, I’d do it myself.
I had gotten it into my head that I wanted to roast hotdogs over the fire. So I went out to the garage, picked up a nice, small chunk of wood, and placed it in my other arm, all crooked and ready for carrying. It had been 27 years since I’d held wood in that way and I was almost blown over with the feel of it, with the memory of the way it felt in my arms, with the smells, the splinters, the very ghost of myself, doing my chores.

For the first time in my life, I actually enjoyed carrying in the wood.

The View From my Window

(Which may be different from – but hopefully compatible with – the view from yours.)

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