Yucca

The yucca plant is quite unfortunately named. The word “yucca”sounds far too close to “yucky” and the plant is far from that. Since this year has been unusually wet on the High Plains, we’ve gotten to enjoy a profusion of yucca flowers. This field is just one of many loaded with beautiful yucca flowers.

These yuccas on this road cut are helping to reduce erosion.

Yucca, also known as “soapweed”, is a very useful plant. Uses include fiber, baskets, rope/twine, paper, food, soap and medicine.

Cattle and wildlife have somehow not found this particular field. They love the flower stalks. The top blossom makes me think of some Aztec god’s tongue sticking out, just like the one at center right of below picture.

OK, so I have an active imagination, but, if you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you already knew that, didn’t you?

Holey radiator

This old radiator reminds me of several things:

1) An overgrown wasps’ nest with several breaches in the cells. Visitors beware!

2) What I’ve considered doing to several rather lemony cars I’ve owned — not to put them out of their misery, but to put me out of mine!

3) Jon BonJovi’s song Shot through the Heart, covered by Demi Lovato. My lyrics reflect No. 2:

“An angel’s smile is what you sell;
You promised me heaven, but we’ve been through hell.
Tow truck’s coming to drag you away.
I’m sick of walking; you are going to pay!

I’ve got a loaded gun;
You’ve got nowhere to run.
No one can save you,
The damage is done.

(You’ve been)
Shot through the heart
And you’re to blame.
You give cars a bad name (bad name)
(Since) You won’t start,
I’m gonna end your game.
You give cars a bad name;
You give cars a bad name!

No go juice

Two things are absolutely necessary for a successful photographic adventure: 1) Vehicle filled with gasoline; 2) Camera with empty memory card and charged battery.

The camera was not the problem this time, but the go juice nearly was.

We drove the back roads on our way home from our bed and breakfast. No good way exists to reach Garden of God from the B&B. We took state highways through some very small towns, then took off on a gravel road.

We forgot one very elementary rule. Check your gas gauge before leaving!

We could have filled up at least once, but never thought about it.

We were in the middle of nowhere when Hubby looked at the gauge. Needle was hugging the E line. I could see the tops of a grain elevator on the horizon to the north, totally out of the way of our intended destination. We weren’t going to arrive without gasoline, so northward we went.

I’ve heard that 12 miles is the longest distance visible on level ground. Those elevators were all of that.

Twelve miles is a long, long way in a truck running on a bit more than fumes.

Hubby asked me to pray. As if I needed a reminder?

We had forgotten our cell phone, leaving it in the van, and no farmhouses were in evidence. If we ran out of gas, we faced a very long walk.

Surely, any place with an elevator would have a gas station.

Not this time.

These elevators were in a tiny, unincorporated town that lacked any gas station. The elevator sold us one gallon of gasoline, enough to get us the five miles to the gas station in the next tiny, unincorporated town.

I kept on praying. What a relief when we pulled into the station! (Yes, God does answer prayer, even when we behave foolishly.)

Hubby gave me a $20 bill to pay for fuel. I went in the only visible door, which entered a storage area stacked with motor vehicle parts. I asked the attendant to start the pump. He said he would, then disappeared. I saw no other door and expected him to return.

I sat in a chair next to the gasoline truck driver and chatted with him, all the while wondering where I was supposed to pay for this.

Hubby finished pumping gas and started staring at me, as if to say, “Will you get out here already? We need to leave!”

I was not about to run off without paying, but still had no idea where I’d find a cashier. Finally, I looked behind some of the shelves. A passageway with a door was hidden back there.

The cashier was startled when I appeared. Since the main entrance was on the other side of the building, opposite the gas pumps, she didn’t expect a customer to materialize out of the storage room. I gave cashier the $20, picked up a nice co-op cap and left.

“What took you so long?” Hubby asked.

“I couldn’t find the cashier!”

He just shook his head.

What’s a road trip without a little adventure?

Dead Car Rover

I’m looking over this dead car, Rover, With its parts scattered all over the yard It’s hood is missing, the chassis is gone,

The pickup bed is somewhere else on the lawn.

No need explaining that there’s no seat remaining And the steering wheel will turn no more

I’m looking over my old car, Rover, Which is deader than any door!

Grass is always greener…

This steer got out of his pasture and strolled across the road to visit the neighboring bull. After awhile, Steer decided it was time to return home.

Bull did not seem to care for being left alone. He turned around and let out a loud bellow, seemingly in protest of his loneliness.

Steer strolled back across the road toward his pasture,

only to find that he can’t go home again!

Kansas alligator

Some years ago, golfers in Ulysses, Kan., discovered an alligator in a water hazard. Someone apparently had gotten a baby gator as a pet. When it got too big, its owners dumped it on the golf course. Leaving aside the dubious morality of abandoning a dangerous predator, what sort of fools would want one as a pet? Cue up the Jaws theme! (This particular gator is sunning itself in a Louisiana swamp.)

Fortunately, this Kansas “alligator” is not a predatory reptile.

It’s just a log with a “head and eyes.” Amazing what a little imagination can conjure up from an innocent object.

Get me to the church on time!

In my wedding op order, I told everyone to be at the church by 11:32. Someone had told me that people pay more attention to odd times than they do to times like 11:30.

The bride did not follow her own instructions. I didn’t arrive the church until shortly before noon. This was not due to my choice! Bridesmaid Kelly and I were eating breakfast when suddenly everyone else vanished. They even took my car. We had no way to get to the church. And they did not return.

This was not a good thing. I had set this deadline and I should obey it! What kind of example was I setting? Oh my.

I paced up and down the dining room, fretting and complaining all the while. I was not a happy camper. How dare they take my car and strand me here? Had they forgotten me?

Kelly kept trying to calm me down, to soothe my uptight nerves, but I was having none of that.

I wanted to be at the church and I wanted to be there right this minute!

Dad got a rather angry welcome when he finally showed up in my Oldsmobile. Once we arrived the church, all was well. Even though Kelly and I were late, the wedding still started right on time. Whew!

The Murphy's Law wedding

George and Irene after their wedding. She’s holding the infamous throwing bouquet instead of the one she had planned to carry.

Going to a wedding, as we did Saturday, brings back memories of weddings past, our own and others.

All weddings are memorable occasions, but some are more memorable than others. In May 1989, I was the maid of honor in the most nightmare wedding of all I’ve had anything to do with. Murphy and his law disrupted the festivities repeatedly. I wondered if the mess would ever end.

It all started with the dresses. Irene’s roommate Julie was supposed to make them. She procrastinated and procrastinated. Finally, Irene and I agreed to confiscate the material and send it to my mother, who had agreed to make them for her. But Julie had taken the material somewhere else, foiling our plan.

She was still making them on the night of the rehearsal. The fit was atrocious. While Julie was fitting the gowns, Irene and I were in another room tossing her throwing bouquet back and forth between us.

Irene intended to sing to George, but the church had no way to play an accompaniment tape. So my stereo system was pressed into service. During rehearsal, all went well with my stereo.

Irene had asked the florist to put all the flowers into the refrigerator in the church’s basement. When we arrived that morning, we found the boutonnieres in the fridge, but nothing else. No corsages, no bride’s bouquet. (Bridesmaids’s bouquets were silk.) I asked the best man and groomsmen to search for the missing flowers while I started getting dressed. I helped Irene dress as well.

God bless the best man! He was a career Army sergeant in George’s ROTC cadre and was unflappable. He finally found the corsages in a Sunday school room at the back of the church. That was a relief, but Irene still did not have her bouquet. She was getting very stressed by all this. So was I, but I told her, “We will get through this and all will be well!”

What did I know?

With all these distractions, I had not finished dressing when the photographer started pounding on our door. He was demanding that we pose for pictures. He said that we were behind schedule. “She can’t be late for her own wedding!”

She was near tears at this. “I’ll deal with him,” I said.

I told him that the wedding could not start without the bride. When we were ready, we’d come out for whatever we could get done before the ceremony.

He was still persistent. I told him to leave us alone so we could finish dressing. He was mad, but I did not care.

Irene had to walk up the aisle with her throwing bouquet. Then disaster struck again. When we hit the stereo’s start button, nothing happened. I fiddled with the machine, but could not make anything work. The silence was deafening and I was mortally embarrassed. I tried everything I could think of to make it work, but nothing helped. Finally, it was apparent that the stereo was not going to work. We scratched the song and George went ahead with the poem he had written for his bride.

The rest of the ceremony continued without incident.

Once the wedding was over and the bride and groom had left for the reception, I threw everything we had left at the church into the back of my Escort. It had a hatchback and I had put down the back seats for maximum room. While we were gathering up our stuff, someone saw Irene’s bouquet. It had been placed on top of a cupboard in the same Sunday school room where the corsages had been. What was that florist thinking?

At least she got to carry it during the reception.

As planned, I caught the throwing bouquet. Julie was disappointed and angry. “You planned this! You wanted her to catch it and not me!” Well, she was right, but I did not see what was such a big deal. After all, I didn’t marry my Mr. Right until five years (and at least one more bouquet catch) later.

After George and Irene left for their wedding night, more stuff went into the back of my Escort. I went to their house, fell on the couch and could not move. Irene’s mom showed up, looking for her purse. I dragged myself off that couch and we looked in the back of my car. We had a hard time seeing anything in the dark. The porch light and car dome light weren’t bright enough to illuminate every detail.

She said she’d attend that church the next morning and look for her purse after the service.

I fell back onto the couch. I could not muster up enough energy even to remove my bridesmaid’s gown. I slept fully dressed for several hours.

George and Irene came home about 11 the next morning. They unwrapped their gifts, then left. I crashed again. About 45 minutes later, they called. Their car had broken down. Could I come get them so they could catch their train to their final honeymoon destination?

Of course I could. I picked them up at the repair place, then I drove them the hour to the train station.

When I arrived home again, I figured the wedding had finally ended.

Not so.

A few minutes later, Irene’s mom showed up again. She still could not find her purse! We looked in my car again, but saw no purse. I promised I’d mail it to her when/if I found it.

I went back in the house, thinking that surely I had to be finished with this wedding!

A few minutes later, she showed up again! “I just had to look one more time before I leave,” she said.

Finally we saw that blasted purse. It had fallen down between the seats and was just barely visible. She drove away satisfied. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and took a long nap.

Even with all those difficulties, I count this as a successful wedding. They are still married 20 years later. Happy 20th anniversary, George and Irene! I cannot believe that it has been that long.

"Meaner than Billy the Kid"

Hubby and I went on a trip in August 2007 that I had won in 2006. We stayed in Vail and Keystone, Colo., and we spent one evening of that trip at 4 Eagle Ranch above Wolcott, Colo. I finished that scrapbook Friday night. I’m not behind at all! HA!

As part of our visit to 4 Eagle, we received four coupons for old-fashioned looking pictures. Of course, we had to dress up as Pa and Ma Barker. Hubby asked for the Jim Beam bottle as a prop. Photographer had never thought of using that, so the liquid in that bottle is actually JB whiskey. Proprietors said they would save that bottle after it was emptied for photo props.

Hubby says I look “meaner than Billy the Kid” in this picture! You be the judge.
When I was working on the 4 Eagle pages in my book, I used Western embellishments that I had gotten for another project. One of those embellishment packets had a rope (well, OK, a string) with a loop tied on one end. I just could not resist tying this rope around Billy’s neck.

Since I am a confirmed recycler, I did my best not to buy lots of embellishments. Instead, I cannibalized many magazines and brochures we had picked up on our trip. Cutting information and embellishments from them saved me much money. I cut everything on this page from magazines — except the postcard. Recycling publications makes me feel so virtuous! I save money, make my page look good and diminish (a little bit) what goes into the landfill.

Mostly, I’m glad to have this project finished!

Billy the Kid’s picture comes from ChronicleoftheOldWest.com

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No alibi

My college friend Mila Marie reminded me that we shared many “fun times” when we were in school together.

We went to a very strict conservative Christian college, but we still managed to have lots of fun.

One year, my dorm room looked out to the street. Mila came over one day and we devised a fun pastime. When we saw someone we knew, we yelled out the window “U G L Y: You ain’t got no alibi. You’re ugly, ugly, absolutely ugly!” Once we finished this “cheer” we ducked down as far as we could and still see the person’s reaction.

This went on for awhile. We were hooting with laughter as we watched people craning and turning their necks to see who had yelled at them.

Then disaster hit.

We cheered at someone else we knew, but we didn’t see that the Dean of Women and a friend were right behind that person. The dean was not known for her sense of humor.

She roared, “Who yelled that?”

Of course, we weren’t about to confess. If we had, our hides would likely have adorned her office wall. We valued our skin.

She ordered her minions to discover who had yelled that wicked phrase in her direction. They searched, but when they came to my room, Mila and I were the picture of innocent students hard at work on our studies.

If the searcher had only known us, she would have known much better. Mila and I were rarely innocent. Cooking up pranks was way too much fun!

Graphic borrowed from JunkMailGreetings.com.

Lost her marbles

When I was in high school German, our teacher (Lehrerin) often assigned us skits.

When we reached the unit on medical terms, Mike was a neurologist (ein Neurologe), I was his receptionist-nurse (Arzthelferin- Krankenschwester) and Jackie was our patient (Patientin). When Jackie entered our office, we diagnosed a brain tumor (Gehirntumor) and told her she needed an immediate operation (einer unverzüglich Operation).

She lay down on the operating table (Operationtisch) and we cut an incision (Inzision) in her head. Of course, all this activity was discreetly hidden behind a stage curtain (Theatervorhang).

Then Mike tipped over a box of white marbles. As the marbles poured all over the floor, I exclaimed, “Ach, nein! Sie hatte ihre Marbeln verloren!” (Oh, no! She has lost her marbles!)

The class and teacher howled with laughter and we got an A+.

However, maybe we shouldn’t have gotten graded quite so highly. According to my favorite German-English language dictionary (Wörterbuch), the idiomatic translation would be Sie nicht (mehr) alle Tassen im Schrank haben or “She has no (more) cups in the cupboard!”

Oh, well. I’ll never complain about a perfect grade! Danke, Frau Kreiger!

Photo is borrowed from AntiqueTrader.com.

Attack of the killer rooster

Following is an excerpt from Marilyn’s book. We think (hope/pray) that we are nearly finished with it.

Dad’s dad had an ornery streak in him when it came to roosters and he set a bad example for me. Grandma always had lots of chickens and several roosters. I followed Grandpa around his farm, and one day he showed me how to make a rooster mad.

Grandpa picked up a large stick and jabbed it at the rooster until the bird’s feathers stood up on his back. As the rooster grew angrier with every jab, we stepped away from the fence and let the rooster’s rage fester.

Thank goodness, Grandma’s chickens were locked inside their fence.

Not so with Mom’s chickens. Our chickens were allowed to roam freely. They kept down the weeds and grasshoppers and grew pretty hefty on nature’s provisions.

Sometime later, I decided to tease one of Mom’s old roosters, just like I’d seen my grandpa do! Dad warned me that this would come back to bite me. He told me not to come crying to him when the rooster decided to attack me.

I ignored Dad’s wise words.

Every day, I picked on Mom’s old rooster, making him angrier each time. One day, the rooster showed me just how furious I’d made him. When I turned my back, he ruffled up his feathers, making him look twice as big as he really was. He spread out his wings, put his head down, and charged me as fast as he could! Just in time, I saw him coming towards me at full rooster speed, and ran as fast as I could to the gated yard! With him right behind me, I slammed the gate shut. He crashed full speed into it. That made him even madder!

I was terrified!

As I stared at that rooster, I remembered my dad’s strong words of caution about pestering the rooster and the price I’d have to pay.

Now what?

Even though Dad had warned me, I thought Mom and Dad would be sympathetic.

I went into the house crying and I told Mom what had just happened.

She didn’t act one bit surprised and had no sympathy on me whatsoever. She reminded me that I’d been warned!

I asked her how I was supposed to go outside and do my chores. She told me I’d have to figure that out myself. She didn’t relieve me of any of my chores.

I had to come up with a plan to protect myself from my stalker. I decided to carry a broom handle with me everywhere I went!

That rooster seemed to know when I gathered the eggs. He always heard or saw me coming and tried to ambush me seemingly every time. Immediately, his feathers ruffled and his head went down. He started strutting right towards me!

Even though I always carried the broom handle, he still scared me! As he got closer, I pounded the broom handle on the ground and he stopped. But instead of fleeing from me, he just stood there and glared me. I didn’t dare turn my back on him.

When I slowly walked away from him, he inched towards me, staying just out of the broom handle’s range. While I gathered the eggs from the chicken coop, he stood in the doorway. Every line of his body said, “Just try and get past me!”

So I didn’t try. I evaded him. I always went out the other door, slamming it behind me! I took the long way back to the house with the precious eggs and my broom handle. Most of the time, I fooled the rooster and he went back to being master of the hens.

Several times I forgot my trusty broom handle. He always seemed to know when I was defenseless. He appeared out of nowhere, feathers ruffled and head down, ready to charge! I ran as fast as I could across the yard to escape the rooster’s wrath!

One day, Dad needed my assistance to sort cattle in the corral. Dad was in a hurry and ordered me to not to waste any time meeting him in the barn.

Grabbing the trusty broom handle, I sprinted across the yard towards the barn. Out from behind the tractor came the rooster, eager to attack me. Since Dad’s wrath was to be feared much more than the rooster’s, I swung the broom handle as hard as I could at the rooster. BOOM! I whacked him squarely in the head. He keeled over right before my very eyes. I had killed Mom’s rooster! Oh, no! Now I’d have Mom’s wrath to deal with as well! Incurring my mother’s wrath was not to be taken lightly either.

I ran to the barn and told Dad what had happened. His expression told me he was not pleased with me at all.

As we started sorting the cattle, Mom entered the barn.

Oh, dear. I was in deep do-do now!

Looking straight at me, she asked what I’d done to the old rooster. She saw him wobbling across the yard like a drunk and knew I’d done something to him.

I quickly spilled my story. I told her that I had whacked him hard with the broom handle so he’d leave me alone.

She said that most likely this had done the trick, but that she’d better not see me teasing any more roosters.

I wasn’t about to tease any more roosters. Oh, no. Not after that. Lesson was not just learned; it was burned into my head. He was the first and last rooster I ever picked on!

That old rooster had learned his lesson too. He never came after me again. He still kept a wary eye on me, but from a distance.

We had called a truce.

The rooster lived to a ripe old age. When he died, he was so old that Mom feared he would be too tough to use in noodle soup!

Madam Ruth

The fax machine rang this morning. I told Hubby, “I just know it’s an offer for a trip to Cancun.”

Sure enough.

He said, “You were psychic. Are you going to set yourself up as Madam Roxie?”

“No, Madam Ruth, the black-haired gypsy with the gold-capped tooth!”

He asked, “Are you going to get a gold-capped tooth?’

“Uh, no.”

The lyric in Love Potion No. 9 is actually “Madam Rue, you know, that gypsy with the gold-capped tooth?”

"No cat is sleeping with me!"

No, I am not the Bearded Lady. I took Boo’s picture with my new webcam on the day after Christmas 2007.

I could not have my cat with me in the months before Hubby and I got married. My parents kept Midnight. When we returned from our honeymoon, we brought Midnight home.

Hubby said that he did not want to sleep with a cat. He thought he was allergic to kitties and didn’t want one in bed with him. I said nothing. Midnight had slept with me ever since the day I got her as a tiny kitten. She wouldn’t agree with Hubby’s idea of the way things ought to be. And I knew very well that she was not going to be kept away from her mistress without stating her opinion.

When we crawled into bed the night we returned from our honeymoon, Hubby shut the bedroom door in Midnight’s face. She was not amused. She started the most pathetic, piercing howl I’d ever heard her emit. And it went on and on and on. I buried my face in my pillow and bit it to keep from laughing.

Hubby mumbled and grumbled about the awful wailing that came from the other side of our bedroom door. Finally, after about 20 minutes of this ghastly noise, he jumped out of bed and said, “That’s it! She can sleep with us; I can’t stand this noise for one more second!”

He threw open the door.

Midnight immediately ceased her horrendous caterwauling and strutted into the bedroom. Her body was stiff as if she were in a full-dress parade. Her tail was straight up in the air and every step was precise and deliberate. ”I showed you!” She jumped onto my side of the bed and made her bed in my pillow. She looked at Hubby with what can only be described as a triumphant glare, as if to say, “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing in my bed, but you WILL NOT separate me from my mistress!”

Sadly, we lost our Midnight 10 years ago and Boo came to us.

Hubby again announced that we would have a catless bed. Boo had never slept with me, so he thought he could keep out the new kitty.

Boo also had a different opinion. He sat outside the door making a horrible racket. This time, Hubby didn’t last 20 minutes. After about five minutes, he sighed and opened the door. Boo didn’t act as if he were on parade; he just jumped into bed and curled up between us. He looked positively smug. “I knew no human soft-hearted enough to adopt a stray kitty could resist my caterwauling!”

Does the howling cat always get the bed?

Midnight the middle hitter

I looked through Marilyn’s previous book Bits of Splashes of Rainbows and Feathers to see if she had stories that should also be told in the one we’re working on, Splashes of Rainbows and Feathers.

In previous book, she said that her son’s kitty Scooter liked to chase images on the TV screen.

Our previous cat Midnight was a very sedate, rather prim cat. Her main source of exercise was to flee to the top of the refrigerator any time I touched the vacuum. I had caught her tail in it once when she was hiding underneath the couch. She wanted to be well clear of that wicked, cat-sucking machine. I lived in a tiny house at this time and the vacuum was stored in the bathroom. Nearly every time I went into the bathroom, I touched the vacuum’s handle. Midnight instantly ran for the fridge top.

My TV was perched on an old two-drawer file cabinet on one end of my battered couch. I propped up my head on the couch arm on the other end to watch my little $35 black-and-white TV.

I was hardly ever home, so the TV was rarely on. When I did watch the tube, Midnight usually sat right on my chest, just below my chin. That night, I was very tired and had only enough energy to flop onto the couch to watch the tube. Nebraska volleyball came on. As we watched the action, Midnight’s tail started twitching. She crept toward the TV. I realized that she was stalking it. She inched her way down toward my feet and the TV screen until she was right in front of it. Every time the ball was set, Midnight swatted at the ball. She had a near-perfect hitting percentage. I couldn’t see the game, but I didn’t care. What was happening live was much funnier than what was on screen.

I wanted to roll off the couch with laughter, but I didn’t dare. If I laughed, I feared I’d break the spell. After a hard day, I needed all the entertainment I could find. I was choking on laughter. When I did expel a laugh, I had suppressed it so hard that it sounded more like a sob. Midnight kept turning to see what was wrong with Mistress. Was Mistress distressed? I smiled at her and she turned back to stalking volleyballs.

Finally, I could suppress the guffaws no longer. I started howling with laughter, rolling onto my side and doubling up. Midnight looked back at me reproachfully. I had disturbed her stalking pattern! At this, I laughed so hard I fell off the couch and started rolling on the floor.

Midnight walked over to me, stuck her nose in my face and mewed loudly, as if to say, “Mistress, how am I supposed to catch anything when you make such a commotion!” I howled even louder and she stalked away in disgust. I could just hear her thoughts: “Humans are SO WEIRD!”

A very redneck Christmas

Marilyn writes about her boss’s Christmas gift in her best imitation of redneck style.

As our admissions team considered a nice (or not-so-nice) Christmas present for our Director of Admissions, ideas flew through our office like reindeer on a mission! The result was the Ultimate Redneck Survival Kit, a gift we knew Gary would be so happy to receive. Not only did this gift have its hilarious aspects, most of the items were very practical, and they may become a lifesaver! As Tiffini and I put together this lovely gift set, our excitement grew. On the day we packaged the items, we were laughing so hard, we could hardly contain ourselves! (Yes, some people are easily entertained!) Of course, one needs the Ultimate Gift Box in which to place the lovely items. An old cardboard box with duck-taped edges came to our rescue! In Tiff’s best Redneck style, she wrote, “Redneck Survival Kit” on the side. Inside the box were some unusual gifts, each wrapped in their own special gift bag: a lovely brown paper lunch bag! Each gift came with a set of instructions, so that Gary could figure out how they were to be used. Hopefully, those in Redneck Land will appreciate Redneck Survival Kit instructions: A man who is outside in every kind of weather needs a Redneck Weather 4-Caster. We made it from a large block of wood with a twig duck taped to the side of it. We found some bright red yarn from Grandma’s sewing basket to hang from the twig. In our best Redneck handwriting, we listed possible 4-casts: *If yarn is swinging side to side, it’s WINDY. *If yarn is wet, it’s RAINING. *If yarn is white, it’s SNOWING. *If yarn is still, it’s STILL. *If yarn is gone, TAKE SHELTER! Yes ma’am, every Redneck needs one of those! Then you have the Redneck Wynd Chyme. Find an old board about 3 feet long, and gather those darn beer cans left in the yard from the last party there. Yessirree, then take some good ol’ wire and wrap three strands of it around the ol’ board. Then take those dirty ol’ beer cans and wrap the wire through the tabs. HEY, NOW, THAT’S ONE NICE WYND CHYME! Gary is quite the outdoorsman. He goes motorcycling in the summer and snowmobiling in the winter. We wanted to make sure that he was cared for on his outings. Every snowmobiler needs his own set of munchies. We found some Rodent Roughage that sure looked and tasted like those salted peanuts at the local farm stores. We came across some Reindeer Turdz that sure did look like chocolate-covered raisins. Then there was the all-important Fish Bate. That sure did look slimy, but it tasted just fine, kinda like those gummy worms the kids like to eat. Now Tiff is quite the city gal. So she found Gary some good ol’ sushi! Yessirree, she sure did! That was the best-tasting sushi I’d ever had. Kinda reminded me of sugarcoated gummy worms! I could eat quite a few of those myself! That Tiff was really a-thinkin’ about Gary’s safety out there in them bitter-cold mountains on that snowmobile, yessir. In case his brakes went out, she made an Emergency Snowmobile Brake. She found this red brick in her backyard, and tied some of that there bright red yarn around it. If Gary throws it out in the snow, hopefully the brick will catch something in a short time, maybe a tree root, and snowmobile will come to a screeching halt! Of course, a man could get lost in them there mountains on a snowy day. A Redneck GPS system sure could come in handy. This little bag contained what could be mistaken for sunflower seeds. The instructions said, “Leave a trail of these behind you so that you can find your way home. If the seeds are gone, hunt down that darn rodent who ate ’em and KILL him!” Oh there ya go! Sure ’nuff, no one should be without a good ol’ GPS. Of course, we all know Gary’s quite a b.s.-er. What snowmobiler isn’t?

We made him his very own B.S. Bag. The instructions on the little brown bag said, “When the B.S. starts to flow, blow into this bag. The B.S. makes good fertilizer. Spread it on your yard. Can be used around lawyers offices and political scenes as well.” Then we made B.S. Filters. They are to be used when the B.S. Bag just isn’t enough. This bag had little black pieces of what tasted like licorice. The idea is to blow through the little holes and then eat it. Oh my, that was one nice little gift. One day when we were looking around the office, we came upon a bunch of what appeared to be a stack of old wedding rings. As we wondered where on earth those came from, we realized that this Slinky-like gadget must be all Gary’s old wedding bands. Yessiree! So being the nice pals that we are, we put them in this box right where they belong! We also found some Lady Hookers. Yeesirree, you take a box of them there cute little candy canes and use ’em to hook you a gal!

And then we made up a document that Gary might need again one day. Yep, some Day-Vorce papers for ol’ Gary. Now that was quite the document. Instead of copying it all here, ask Gary to show you. You will enjoy it much more that way! So as I sign off from Redneck Land, I wish each of you a very Merry Christmas! As you work in your back yards this summer, keep in mind that many of the little things out there can be put to good use next Christmas! Everyone has a Redneck pal somewhere!

No-bake cookies or no-bake chicken feed?

I’m not one who likes to make cookies for Christmas. Or for any other occasion! Cookies are just too time-consuming for my taste.

Well, this year I [Marilyn] have a somewhat different outlook on cookie baking.

A friend of mine from church seldom has an opportunity to splurge on such things as ingredients to bake cookies. She asked me a few weeks ago if she and I could bake some cookies for Christmas.

Since it was for her, I bought ingredients for several types of cookies and some fudge. Last Saturday morning, she came to my house and we made cookies. We had a great time visiting and making cookies and fudge.

One of the recipes was “No-Bake Cookies.” I’d made these cookies many times in years past, and knew they were easy and delicious! I measured out the ingredients and mixed them. We then took spoonfuls of them and dropped them onto the foil.

I was rather mystified when the cookies didn’t hold together well. They seemed rather dry. So I added a tad more milk. They were still dry, but we continued making the cookies.

When all the baking was done, I sent home tons of goodies for my friend and her husband, with plans to give most of mine away at work on Monday.

After our family had Sunday dinner, I gave my brother some of the cookies we’d made the day before.

That afternoon, I decided to try one of those funny-looking no-bake cookies. I bit into half of the cookie, quickly spitting it out! I thought, “OH NO! What did I do wrong!” I got the cookbook out and read the directions more carefully.

“Well, I had the ingredients correct… let’s see here… OH NO. NO WAY!” The recipe said to heat the ingredients on the stove to melt the baking cocoa into the rest of the ingredients! How could I have missed that very important piece of the recipe? No wonder the cookies were dry and wouldn’t stick together!

I called my brother first thing the next morning and asked if he and his wife had tasted any of the cookies.

He said, “Sis, what did you do to those no-bake cookies? They were AWFUL! We had to throw them out to the chickens!”

We laughed as I told him that I’d forgotten one key detail: to melt the ingredients on the stove.

My brother said, “Oh, well, the chickens ate ’em just fine! But your fudge was sure good!”

When I told my boss the no-bake cookie story, he smiled and laughed, as he nodded his head. He said that my friend had taken some of her cookies to the church’s Christmas decorating party that night. She was sharing with everyone how much fun we’d had making cookies. She then said, “We must have done something wrong with one batch, though, ’cause they’re awful! But please don’t tell Marilyn ’cause I don’t wanna hurt her feelings!”

Maybe I need to make cookies a tad more often?

Tripping the chickens

Following is an excerpt from Marilyn’s autobiography, Splashes of Rainbows and Feathers.

The milking barn had been built many years before my parents bought our place. I loved the old barn, and spent many hours exploring the hayloft. The barn smelled of hay and milk, a smell I came to love.

In the summertime, the big door to the barn was left open. Mom’s setting hens would wander in there and make nests in the straw. Being a curious and sometimes-mischievous farm girl, I would wander in there, looking to see what fun I could stir up. When I saw those old hens sitting on their nests, I’d get ideas!

One particular day, Tim and I devised what we thought was a fun game with those hens!

Tim and I strung baling twine up and down the sides of the open door to the barn, one layer over another. When we were finished, the only way to get in or out of the door was to crawl under or over our twine trap!

I gave Tim an old broom and told him to go behind the hens and chase them off their nests! Tim went in slowly and the hens saw him. They hunkered down in their nests of straw and began to cluck softly. Tim pounded the straw behind them with the broom. They clucked and squawked and flew off their nests. Straw and dirt flew everywhere! The more the hens squawked and flew around, the harder Tim hit the straw. He soon had all the hens off their nests and tried to “herd” them toward the open barn door.

I stood outside the door and watched as the hens tried to fly over the twine we’d strung up! The air was filled with feathers, dirt and straw. The hens tried their hardest to fly over the layers of twine. The hens made an unbelievable racket when they either got hung up in the layers of twine or escaped, fleeing for their lives!

I laughed so hard I could hardly stand upright! Tim was laughing hysterically back in the barn! I can only imagine how this must have sounded from the house.

Of course our mother did not miss all this commotion and racket. She ran across the yard, yelling the entire time! Mom did not find our antics at all funny because these were her laying hens. She gave us quite a stern speech and threatened to have Dad tan our hides when he came home. After getting such a fright, the hens didn’t lay one solitary egg for days!

Patty the Pengoosatross

My wife left me [Steve] today. Though we live in the U.S. of A., she is headed for Argentina. She muttered something about the gauchos and walked out the door.

In truth, she is on a sojourn, not a rebellious abandonment. My wife, I call her Patty because that is what her parents always called her, was born in Argentina. She is returning to her place of birth, back to the old pampas stomping grounds.

Penguins trek back to their place of birth, too. Remember March of the Penguins
Every March, through an inborn instinct, the little penguins would start asking questions, like “Where am I from, Daddy? What is my purpose in life?” Of course, the answer to the second question was, “You have no purpose.” For the first question, though, the parents and aunts and uncles and next-door neighbors had an answer: “Here, let me show you.” So they all packed their fresh tuxedos and woolen mittens and took a long walk. They walked all month. This is what is known as The March of the Penguins.

You may think I have gone off track from the story. No. The point is that Patty is just like the penguin. Except for the nice suit. And except she is going in November instead of March.

Patty is also like the goose. How could this be? Because she is flying, not walking. Geese are forever migrating, always flying in that “V” formation. When the weather in the north gets cold, they fly south. By the time they get to their destination, it is so hot that they turn around and go back north.

Patty and her family, from various parts of the U.S. of A., will meet in Miami before their flight to Buenos Aires. Does this mean that Patty is like the flamingo? Well, she does love wearing pink. However, if she stands on one leg she tends to tip over. Thus, after due consideration, I have to conclude that Patty is not like the flamingo.

Patty will be going with her dad and her three brothers on this hiatus. Only Patty was born in Argentina, and thus only she is on this birthplace-sojourn thing. However, the family lived there for many years during the children’s formative years. Thus the inner child of all four siblings lives in Argentina. The inner child of Patty’s dad lives in Colorado, but a big part of his heart still lives in Argentina.

Patty’s mom has passed on to Heaven, but she will be so utterly close in heart and spirit, that she is truly traveling with them. Thus, the whole family will be sojourning to a very significant time in their lives, a place and time with so many memories that this beautiful family shares in such deep ways.

This will be an incredibly fantastic trip. First is the fact that the family will be on this adventure together. Secondly, the sites will be strikingly beautiful. Thirdly, they will be visiting with old friends who the sibs haven't seen in 37 years! (Dad visited them just 28 years ago, so it's just not going to be the same for him.)

One very beautiful place they will be is Patagonia, way down at the bottom of South America. It's further south than Australia or even New Zealand. For a few days they will be staying in Ushuaia. This is the southernmost city in the world! Now that’s really down under, mate.

In Patagonia they will see albatrosses. These birds have the longest wingspan among all birds! They soar gracefully through the sky as majestic as something — well, something very majestic. Is Patty like the albatross? You betcha. The emotions from the depth of her soul, from her inner child in fact, will be soaring like the albatross as she surveys the beauty all around her.

And guess who else lives in Patagonia. The penguins! Coincidence? I don’t think so.

So, to sum up, Patty is like the penguin. She is like the goose. And she is like the albatross. She is very much like the Pengoosatross.

Tortured Toy Story

We found the new Sid Phillips, the toy-torturing neighbor from Toy Story, when we went to Lucas, Kan., recently. Part of our tour included “The Garden of Isis”. This place would be creepy enough in the light, but we toured the place in the dark, the artist, Mri Pilar, leading the tour with a flashlight.

Artist said that Isis represented resurrection and recycling, so was an appropriate title for her work. I her creations made my skin crawl. Even though I love to recycle items myself, torturing what I find is not my style.

She had covered the walls of this house with silver fabric, furthering the eerie effect. I wanted only to escape the horrible, toy-haunted house, but couldn’t see a way to do it. I was trapped within the tour group and Hubby was game to keep going.

When we passed through the bathroom, artist pointed out a bathtub full of naked dolls. She said they were awaiting their transformation into art. I imagined them shivering and shaking in fear of what was about to happen to them. Poor things.

House previously belonged to Florence Deeble, who had created a rock garden outside. I would greatly have preferred to see the rock garden.