tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64119324788124889382024-03-12T18:25:10.321-07:00crayzmadrecrayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-88693284451402373512012-12-20T21:02:00.001-08:002012-12-20T21:02:33.865-08:00Sometimes It's the Simple Things that Do You In<h2>
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I know, it's the holidays and I am running around like a chicken with it's head cut off just like all you other chicks out there. But I felt that it was my duty to sit down and write a little story to warn you unsuspecting crafter wannabes out there about what can happen when you think that a craft is just too easy to be true.<br />
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Case in point, the lovely little Christmas tree in a jar. I know what you're thinking (because it is just what I thought). "What a simple little craft...I have a blue mason jar, wouldn't it look lovely with a little tree inside, nestled in the snow?" It is at this point that someone should come up and slap some sense into you. <br />
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Here is my story. I saw this little tree in a jar on the Art of Doing Stuff blog which I follow religiously. I can't say enough good things about this blog and this story in no way is directed at any fault on the part of Karen's instructions on how to make this wonder of wonders. And by the way, my finished product does not look like Karen's example...at all.<br />
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The supplies needed sounded so simple: a blue mason jar (check), Epsom salts (check, or so I thought), a small Christmas tree and a small string of white battery operated lights. Easy peasy, right? So, off I go in search of my supplies. First stop, the Dollar Tree; no little tree, no lights, and a call to my honey to double check the Epsom salts, (nope used them last winter to try to melt snow on the steps). I did find the salts (check).<br />
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After visits to every store that had "dollar" in it's name I still had nothing more than stinkin' Epsom salts. So, on to stores with the word "mart" in their name. Nada, zip, nothing. I did find plug-in white lights, those would work, right? Wrong. The lights had to be coiled up and placed at the bottom of the jar with the salts covering them. What I realized, as I was trying unsuccessfully to wrestle them into the jar, was that their cord was much thicker than the battery operated lights so the lid wouldn't have fit over them even if I had conquered their unruly behavior. That Karen is a smart girl. Okay, so scrap the plug-in lights. What was the point anyway, I still hadn't found the<em> ignorant</em> little tree. <br />
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My last resort was going to the store that will suck every brain cell out of your head the minute you walk in the door, Hobby Lobby. (I have set a record of 4 hours shopping in that store and by the time I came out, I couldn't remember my name or where I parked the car) After much searching high and low, I finally spotted it. On the lowest shelf, in the farthest corner of the store, I found one... scraggly... little tree. It wasn't the beautiful plush looking tree like the one Karen used, it was more in the line of the tree that Charlie Brown used. But, it <em>was</em> a tree and it <em>was</em> small enough to<em> cram</em> in that <em>stupid</em> jar with the <em>stupid</em> Epsom salts snow!. So now, I still had to find the battery operated lights. I found them with green cords and red lights, white cords and green lights, but none were to be found with white lights with a white cord. At this point I am ready to pitch the whole thing out in the back yard with the dogs and say, "Here you go, dogs, Merry Freakin' Christmas!"<br />
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I did what any self-respecting menopausal woman at the end of her rope would do...went home, took a chill pill (you know the kind), and started digging though my Christmas stuff, where I found a battery operated set of white lights with a <em>green</em> cord. It was at that point that I made the decision to screw the snow, screw the Charlie Brown Christmas tree and I wrapped those green corded lights around that green CB tree and <em>crammed</em> it into the jar. Yes, <em>crammed</em>.<br />
There. Project finished. So, now it's time to just sit back and admire my handiwork.<br />
Only one problem...I forgot to get batteries.<br />
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<br />crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-31380114469856808902010-03-09T17:28:00.000-08:002010-03-09T19:20:21.697-08:00Unexpected Treasure<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL1KxVyjyvMQkXqGovJJmrIoLuRJp2yTCiUWgLzVxmzEcKEB6mpXDhA0JhxSsYA27OOx6NOVcjHDlL08psf2hfDJ7CRYhDfN5tbmFAn0-THkgPSS5JVBo9PzAqC7eSKtQ6fXdXOQkJqmsI/s1600-h/Ozark.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 251px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446839555688310130" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL1KxVyjyvMQkXqGovJJmrIoLuRJp2yTCiUWgLzVxmzEcKEB6mpXDhA0JhxSsYA27OOx6NOVcjHDlL08psf2hfDJ7CRYhDfN5tbmFAn0-THkgPSS5JVBo9PzAqC7eSKtQ6fXdXOQkJqmsI/s320/Ozark.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I love a really good book, one that hooks you right from the beginning and you never want to put it down. One of the things that frustrates me the most is trying to find a good book. It is hard for me to go into a bookstore and lay out $15 to $20 for a book when I know I can buy one at a thriftstore for 50 cents or even a dollar for a hardback! But finding a good used book is a little bit more of a challenge. You can't really pick your choice by author. You have to take a gamble by reading the description on the jacket...sometimes you win...sometimes you don't...and sometimes you don't even realize just how close you came to missing something really special. That is the case with the book that I just finished reading: "A Northern Light" by Jennifer Donnelly.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I like to read books that take place in a different time period or country. Escapism at it's finest. That was what drew me to pick up this book. It takes place in the year 1906 in the north country of the Adironacks. I almost didn't read it. I got it home and upon further inspection saw that it was a book for "young adults". Well, if there is anything I am not it is a young adult. But one night I was not in the mood for television and was desperate for something to read, so I began to read it. Which brings me to the point of this post.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The story is centered around the drowning of a young girl at a summer retreat for the wealthy. But that was not what sparked an awakening of questions in my mind, rather the life situation of the main character. She is a sixteen year old girl and life for her is hard. Her mother is dead, her father works their farm, her oldest brother has run off, she has three younger siblings that she is responsible for raising and she is trying to get her diploma from school so that she can go to college to become a writer. This is in a time when women do not have a whole lot of choices and going to college is definitely not at the top of the list. It is expected that she will marry by the age of seventeen and become a farmer's wife, raise a farmer's children and live a life a marital servitude everafter.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This story made me think a lot about how it was for my own mother at the age of sixteen in 1944. She, like the main character, lived in a rural setting, the Ozark mountains of southern Missouri. There were 8 children in her family. They were not well off and life was hard. My grandpa took whatever jobs he could to feed all of those mouths, logging, driving a schoolbus, going to Kansas to work and taking my mom along with him to cook and clean for their room and board. And it seems as if my grandma spent most of her life pregnant and taking care of the kids while he was working. Most of the time they lived in a two bedroom house heated by wood and with no indoor plumbing. Life was not easy. I have heard stories of getting fruit in their stockings for Christmas or the occasional piece of candy...and they were thrilled to get it. There were several parallels to my mom's childhood in the book. One of them was when the entire family was sick and she had to take care of them that reminded me of a story my mom told about several of her siblings getting the chicken pox and them having to sleep on cots outside. Also, in the book, it was rare that anyone received schooling past the sixth grade. My mom and her brothers and sisters went to school but none were able to go on to college. The boys went into the army and the girls got married. There was no money for college.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Before I go any further I just want to state that I have the best most loving mother in the world and I am very glad that she chose to marry my dad and have three children.</div><br /><div>But reading this book brought up questions...In the book, the men when they were courting, never told the girl that they loved her, even when he asked her to marry him. The main character's mother said that she "just knew" by the way he acted when he was around her and that she, herself would "just know". We place so much importance on saying the words "I love you" that you wouldn't even dream of marrying someone that didn't say them. When my dad proposed did he say the words or did they "just know"? Did my mom ever have dreams to do something besides the path that she took? I have never asked her that...but I think I know the answer she would give. She has always been there for her family. She would send us off to school in the morning and be there when we got home. She would always have supper on the table when my dad got home from work. I have never heard her complain about the life she has. I believe she would say that she chose the life she wanted. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-11340766352283232312010-01-31T09:45:00.000-08:002010-01-31T10:00:33.652-08:00Another cool link...for those of you that are Grandparents<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FVeSncbPflxPXfDQHd_h1yMKrvRaLo9YARgUDZIP9K5g8cmL8YeW10iNmK5l2xh-KZOmwJS1NjOuZ7wa9I3VNtIZH8z8x_40zb0CnZdfZaS2xuafDa16fW0Jc8rr-vYTCxQC2fT59b1a/s1600-h/74282-v2-89x.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 89px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 59px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432963266804089762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FVeSncbPflxPXfDQHd_h1yMKrvRaLo9YARgUDZIP9K5g8cmL8YeW10iNmK5l2xh-KZOmwJS1NjOuZ7wa9I3VNtIZH8z8x_40zb0CnZdfZaS2xuafDa16fW0Jc8rr-vYTCxQC2fT59b1a/s320/74282-v2-89x.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://www.grandparents.com/">http://www.grandparents.com/</a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Is a really cool link for anyone looking for ways to keep grandchildren entertained! Maybe someday I will get to use it...sigh...</div>crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-78888503879074233512010-01-25T15:09:00.000-08:002010-01-25T15:16:10.450-08:00Another Favorite Link<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxp361z_q4kG-hpY93r3CbltFddiubF0kctuJVgRzhYxbGgvge5QnODN1-L8oMTxZTBLf81xYIUl_ChIIINYNLwQDNtPa739xXkjONAT8vm5KSfQqJ-qxmczSNBsFlKOgoLXbNp2tPDVjk/s1600-h/yarn.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 124px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 93px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430819609805046226" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxp361z_q4kG-hpY93r3CbltFddiubF0kctuJVgRzhYxbGgvge5QnODN1-L8oMTxZTBLf81xYIUl_ChIIINYNLwQDNtPa739xXkjONAT8vm5KSfQqJ-qxmczSNBsFlKOgoLXbNp2tPDVjk/s320/yarn.jpg" /></a> Just discovered this great link for folks that knit and crochet. It is a knit and crochet community, it is free to join and has lots of free patterns.<br /><a href="http://www.ravelry.com/">www.ravelry.com</a>crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-32076149934880978792010-01-25T13:59:00.000-08:002010-01-25T15:08:37.891-08:00Auto-tistic Expression<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKTCfbjYaK0oDkWo71wEPYHIKoKA29NA7L_A1LcOiBawWH8-jt_PHJ5bLfD-RDKnOZo3c28uNMJe4jRXDeT4E5VvKsbRQZ5l9Sjx9BaWp6J9Q1Jz9UeCZlma-oYjG_XKEfiGKGXYUU8zN/s1600-h/bizzare-graffitti-cars-10.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430816935952301842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKTCfbjYaK0oDkWo71wEPYHIKoKA29NA7L_A1LcOiBawWH8-jt_PHJ5bLfD-RDKnOZo3c28uNMJe4jRXDeT4E5VvKsbRQZ5l9Sjx9BaWp6J9Q1Jz9UeCZlma-oYjG_XKEfiGKGXYUU8zN/s320/bizzare-graffitti-cars-10.jpg" /></a><br /><div><div>Driving home from work today, I had to take the route through downtown Louisville due to heavy traffic on the interstate. Now, I don't mind this so much because you get to see things you might miss from the interstate; as was the case today. As I was on my way home, a parked car caught my eye. It was an old silver VW Rabbit that had been painted to suit the driver's preference. Either that, or it had been left on the street and been the target of a graffiti rampage. (And not a very good one, at that.) It made me wonder what kind of person would be the owner of a car like that? And why that car? Are there certain cars that lend themselves to artistic<em> (and I use that word</em> <em>lightly)</em> expression more than others? I would think, first of all, that it would be a car without much monetary value. I can't really see busting out the old acrylics for a paint job on a 2010 Hummer, if you know what I mean. I also noticed that they tend to be small economy cars...most of them silver. I guess silver is a good background for painting and if you have to buy all of those little bottles of acrylics, you would want a small car. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks...I had actually owned a car like that! We only owned it for a week, but owned it non the less. My husband<em> (at the time)</em> had taken a job delivering the newspaper and needed an economic car to drive the route. Enter the "Beruit-Mobile"! It was a "silver, VW Rabbit" with a paint job (or lack of one) that looked like it had been in a car-bombing. This seemed like just the thing for a stealthy job such as early morning paper delivery. And for $500 how could you lose? It drove great...well, for the first week, anyway. Then the thing just up and died. Well, we called the guy we bought it from and he said he would come and get it and fix it for us.<em> (What a kind, generous soul.) </em>Well that was the last we ever saw of the guy, the car, the money. I like to think that maybe he died in a car-bombing somewhere in the middle east.</div><br /><div>Okay, so I owned a car that looked like it had been in a car-bombing, so what? It's not like it was an artistic rendering of my inner soul. <em>(At least I hope not) </em>Enter "the Tercel". Yes, it was yet another aparition of beauty, <em>(in someone's eyes</em>) those eyes which happened to belong to my free spirited 17 year old daughter. She needed a car. The Tercel was 4-wheel drive<em> (sometimes),</em> had "cool" <em>(her words)</em> navy blue plaid seats<em> (right out of the 80's),</em> and a working radio. But, the real selling point was the sun and moon that was painted across the hood, yes, I said HOOD of the car. In white paint. The car was navy blue. Get the picture? And, as if that wasn't enough, the word NAMASTE was painted, in white paint, across the back of the car. My daughter loved that car and had she not needed something a little more reliable to go to college in, she would probably still be driving it today. We ended up selling it for $700 <em>(original investment plus repairs) </em>to a group of college boys that also thought it was "cool". I think they liked the plaid seats, too. And as they drove out of sight all I could do was wave and say, "Namaste".</div><br /><div></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430815914541408114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3vKlpgA3em_WG19WNhgTFHOovsF4rvOa1MO-6u4sei7u6q8eOuumu64QNdK1_Y6R1fYBLCKf2bh_jre5CjD5ZNNAGJ1hC5C8DY8C8UtcqZFQzAVj4gMU6mg2x3XaAsyJN73mDFIUSdWs/s320/Toyota+1.JPG" /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:180%;"><em>Namaste - "the divine in me salutes the divine in you...I honor the place in you in which the entire universe resides"</em></span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"></div></div>crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-44547125078487772542010-01-24T14:21:00.001-08:002010-01-24T14:23:52.410-08:00Favorite quote of the day:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdgiE0Fd-pY8E5xuyFkA5RGiwmWtib6Ky6hpWeQRUk6Jwol3DS5t_cOU3w4QnsxXSbyHfUGr7r_yW3OEaAVG2CqI7fuXLc5kQWJ5RnjSoedKofWxSZlGrajT05Li1VO2_fLjWlZvu0ESC/s1600-h/cat+eyes.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 130px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 98px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430435221696823906" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdgiE0Fd-pY8E5xuyFkA5RGiwmWtib6Ky6hpWeQRUk6Jwol3DS5t_cOU3w4QnsxXSbyHfUGr7r_yW3OEaAVG2CqI7fuXLc5kQWJ5RnjSoedKofWxSZlGrajT05Li1VO2_fLjWlZvu0ESC/s320/cat+eyes.jpg" /></a><br /><div>"No, not the cats. Don't trust them. Their eyes. Their eyes. They know too much."</div>crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-64286329108131664382010-01-23T16:01:00.000-08:002010-01-23T16:13:28.911-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BBXD1_jkvIM5CJ6T_9nxjqCQRfskqFN1imSfhBsdgOzggolIySYS4QIMDZ4KojqPwZ9vuYxp1bgZmLv9x1iqmdUf717phUwJg3mamF1-Kn18150CUZGgGEfq47T52RwAjiZEzsTfZXGL/s1600-h/mole.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 117px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 112px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430092052422738066" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BBXD1_jkvIM5CJ6T_9nxjqCQRfskqFN1imSfhBsdgOzggolIySYS4QIMDZ4KojqPwZ9vuYxp1bgZmLv9x1iqmdUf717phUwJg3mamF1-Kn18150CUZGgGEfq47T52RwAjiZEzsTfZXGL/s320/mole.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Here's one from one of my favorite blogspots, dandyland muse:</div><br /><div>There were three moles going along one after the other in their tunnel to have breakfast - Daddy mole, Mama mole and Baby mole. Daddy mole said, "I smell coffee!" Mama mole said, "I smell bisquits!" And Baby mole said, "I smell molasses!" (teehee)</div>crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-26314720658323953762010-01-23T15:42:00.000-08:002010-01-23T15:56:06.119-08:00Poke Sallat<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJ8AFsHbqzvmIh1Wrfy64TwtHDWcmLJ8bR8WLVicvume298e8DhENOiu5HBFku0vZOVq3bimbt8BGm0vww43JpaY028ONBu6NXwz-QjDU8ZGY0_RFJ-0X8XR1gBUDyWHKR48QcRs8vDew/s1600-h/poke.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430088169281231042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJ8AFsHbqzvmIh1Wrfy64TwtHDWcmLJ8bR8WLVicvume298e8DhENOiu5HBFku0vZOVq3bimbt8BGm0vww43JpaY028ONBu6NXwz-QjDU8ZGY0_RFJ-0X8XR1gBUDyWHKR48QcRs8vDew/s320/poke.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Here's an interesting article I ran across for those lovers of "poke sallat". Some of us were talking at lunch the other day and got me to wondering what the medicinal or tonic properties of eating poke sallat were? Here is one feller's opinion as listed on Old Sparkey's Forum on southern paddler.com:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="http://www.neilbank.com/phpBB3/viewtopic.php?f=7&t=6809">http://www.neilbank.com/phpBB3/viewtopic.php?f=7&t=6809</a></div><br /><div></div>crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-25401981442797373692010-01-10T16:34:00.001-08:002010-01-10T16:50:16.649-08:00New Fast Food<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjirA6QX2J51XI6_lABVqlEIMhLKhQEfwHxf1n_EQDgGwxRNYlRfurVvLLgmhmK2Se46UPRlDTbXjW8k5McrFZOMsthIjuT9NVx73yacGrk8F2zC9BZFsxfCxlqYMsKVJfrTR18bEeb-Z/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 127px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 94px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425277928221141570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjirA6QX2J51XI6_lABVqlEIMhLKhQEfwHxf1n_EQDgGwxRNYlRfurVvLLgmhmK2Se46UPRlDTbXjW8k5McrFZOMsthIjuT9NVx73yacGrk8F2zC9BZFsxfCxlqYMsKVJfrTR18bEeb-Z/s320/images.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I always like to share when I find something that is cheap, tasty AND easy to make. Before I worked at camp, I wasn't a big fan of instant mashed potatoes. But while cooking at camp, Ray perfected the art of making them. He increases the milk and decreases the water for one thing, while cutting back a little on the liquid period. And of course he uses real butter. (I never said they were a diet food!) Anyway, the new product I discovered is Sun-Dried Tomato Instant mashed potatoes. They have a great flavor with little chewy bites of tangy sun-dried tomatoes in them. They are also so easy to make even a....okay, even I could make them!</div>crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-18201483922589168792010-01-08T19:09:00.000-08:002010-01-08T19:35:05.306-08:00Well, it must be January in Kentuckiana. There's snow on the ground, the temperature would have to warm up to freezing, and I have been in the house for four days straight! I was back to work for 1 1/2 days before the snow came. Before that, I had been off for two weeks on Christmas break! Can you say "CABIN FEVER"? Well, at least we did get some things done around the house. I have uploaded some pictures of our projects as well as some random stuff. We built a headboard out of an old solid oak door that we bought at the Habitat Restore for $10. If you have never been to a Restore you have got to go! We find some really cool stuff there that has come out of the houses in Old Louisville. When you have a 100 year old house, it comes in mighty handy. The headboard was fun...we just added some 2x4s, molding, and paint, and voila!<br />The other project was this neat little bird feeder made out of glass vases, bowls and saucers. Just Goop them together. I am a huge believer in the power of GOOP! This slips over a post hammered into the ground in your yard. We'll see how it fares after the birds in one of the other pictures gets through with it!! In that picture the birds are actually eating the dogs' food out of their doghouse...brazen hussies! There were about a hundred more watching and waiting their turn from the powerlines!<br />Hope you enjoy the pictures...keep warm and keep happy!crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-85755254979207021512010-01-08T18:49:00.000-08:002010-01-08T19:40:45.180-08:00<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUREoickRMQx4L3l6ZZMVI5YSvunh3QolhyvtHFeXwcUC-n8NSvCcaAs7w6yUAc8QicTfHRK2iBL2PVCjMaN0fH1Juuc0UPxokgenXe2qUO8G3b9cvb-hvYWdD3wY-QwCiOveufqa38z5u/s1600-h/Sink+Shelf.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424579469417599074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUREoickRMQx4L3l6ZZMVI5YSvunh3QolhyvtHFeXwcUC-n8NSvCcaAs7w6yUAc8QicTfHRK2iBL2PVCjMaN0fH1Juuc0UPxokgenXe2qUO8G3b9cvb-hvYWdD3wY-QwCiOveufqa38z5u/s320/Sink+Shelf.jpg" /></a> New plant shelf over the sink</div><div align="center"><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JCiz3ZQexeiWwmxINz1XVFPM_lzn6kbmilo2yCEntZxZl9ehfecYw1tXieo9Rq2Xb_kZDFgLLdd57FnXAr7NieLMfMffr12iHedp96fPiRtGmdMCOQ6DUXRPzQ1_DPgm69vszSSKxM_-/s1600-h/Headboard.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424577721079769090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0JCiz3ZQexeiWwmxINz1XVFPM_lzn6kbmilo2yCEntZxZl9ehfecYw1tXieo9Rq2Xb_kZDFgLLdd57FnXAr7NieLMfMffr12iHedp96fPiRtGmdMCOQ6DUXRPzQ1_DPgm69vszSSKxM_-/s320/Headboard.jpg" /></a> Headboard</div><div align="center"><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxicayC_54Iv4V8Z8LKKPW-bDMopf5ObSDBufXbW1xTxSugG7FZqjlzq6CdWwqcFmmTj3Son8mnCIuFyou6hr8F1OVsOCiOybiGc4r6GwY9TUKMMpNsPnujyYZaG9K77f_cNcwFFhLVAv/s1600-h/The+Birds.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424576858463636594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxicayC_54Iv4V8Z8LKKPW-bDMopf5ObSDBufXbW1xTxSugG7FZqjlzq6CdWwqcFmmTj3Son8mnCIuFyou6hr8F1OVsOCiOybiGc4r6GwY9TUKMMpNsPnujyYZaG9K77f_cNcwFFhLVAv/s320/The+Birds.jpg" /></a> The Birds...spooky!</div><div align="center"><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbrsixH9EP0UEYoC9J6_c4_TTS_vLsiJI8rfvjVOBf-bOQMl6gH2IhyCHD0h6EXVVKNVQj7was7ONdq0UqdbYLz2O3TLU6N5v_r4G0t4u8HXGZof8HLXeG31FTuQotN_0ryp1uLtzGA8D/s1600-h/Redbird.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 156px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424568014509236770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbrsixH9EP0UEYoC9J6_c4_TTS_vLsiJI8rfvjVOBf-bOQMl6gH2IhyCHD0h6EXVVKNVQj7was7ONdq0UqdbYLz2O3TLU6N5v_r4G0t4u8HXGZof8HLXeG31FTuQotN_0ryp1uLtzGA8D/s320/Redbird.jpg" /></a>Birrrrrrd<br /></div><div align="center"><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdtJfBp4bZ-ehELp1aoqPYIfOltmIpsfY-hRVLGU80PKaTm8pdBrVw2r6xvsvNlsbK6Ifxwcuja1i4K-Alsg3QtAoRRoxKobJ16OKt7Q2cLJtDjM_AKQr89rFdCzPZ3OqlRJFrxLKTjbeD/s1600-h/Edgar.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424568016938474050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdtJfBp4bZ-ehELp1aoqPYIfOltmIpsfY-hRVLGU80PKaTm8pdBrVw2r6xvsvNlsbK6Ifxwcuja1i4K-Alsg3QtAoRRoxKobJ16OKt7Q2cLJtDjM_AKQr89rFdCzPZ3OqlRJFrxLKTjbeD/s320/Edgar.jpg" /></a> It is so cold that Edgar is even shivering!</div><div align="center"><br /> </div><div align="center"><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9LpvCt1O7WZM0xUxel8QGwKXTb2rp-CwDn8MshFGTu9K4bqAEsoUvesFwf90gAMrU8ynkN2MjiVDdU-z-UFvrjymbdt_7iT36cPXwVSHzVYrszkKvTUdXF4WVLOBp6go5sHHK5cfcMJk/s1600-h/Bunde+the+Invisible.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424568008368287410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9LpvCt1O7WZM0xUxel8QGwKXTb2rp-CwDn8MshFGTu9K4bqAEsoUvesFwf90gAMrU8ynkN2MjiVDdU-z-UFvrjymbdt_7iT36cPXwVSHzVYrszkKvTUdXF4WVLOBp6go5sHHK5cfcMJk/s320/Bunde+the+Invisible.jpg" /></a>Bunde the Invisible<br /></div><div align="center"><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXogEJzu9cpZG_M_vQhyd-LBCttOpVzQcA80t_-t-SwxNS33OyjnjrmRrDCrnr89_xuIFYCtg2a_PUa6c4EYRHbFZ7fLyXqAnm9TVMhVcNpvuVOOCtIr-oJlNno3Ktk7HGnfS36MqSOZ0/s1600-h/Headboard3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424567619104173538" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXogEJzu9cpZG_M_vQhyd-LBCttOpVzQcA80t_-t-SwxNS33OyjnjrmRrDCrnr89_xuIFYCtg2a_PUa6c4EYRHbFZ7fLyXqAnm9TVMhVcNpvuVOOCtIr-oJlNno3Ktk7HGnfS36MqSOZ0/s320/Headboard3.jpg" /></a> Headboard closeup<br /><div align="center"><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEC2QA2fMDB3SRNTu3au0WsB94JqEWOe9nHMpCHAgxUSwToLR4Hoos6piZn64-dNDB8cqEdUupuICphjT1t0r6cPnpme23LdmAWkTiIVxoJq7lf4-x7k7GSAmbn-4QKTM2FyHAdxEcmIRp/s1600-h/Garden+Feeder.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424567145331499138" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEC2QA2fMDB3SRNTu3au0WsB94JqEWOe9nHMpCHAgxUSwToLR4Hoos6piZn64-dNDB8cqEdUupuICphjT1t0r6cPnpme23LdmAWkTiIVxoJq7lf4-x7k7GSAmbn-4QKTM2FyHAdxEcmIRp/s320/Garden+Feeder.jpg" /></a> Garden Feeder<br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-58135867656397309682009-11-14T07:26:00.000-08:002009-11-14T08:34:38.978-08:00CommunityAs I sit here on, what started as a quiet Saturday morning, I am reflecting on how drastically our times have changed since I was growing up.<br /><br />I live in a neighborhood of older homes in Louisville, Kentucky. It is much like the neighborhood in Springfield, Missouri that I grew up in. It is a mixture of blue collar workers, single 30 somethings, couples just starting out and some retired folks sprinkled in the mix. Generally, a quiet neighborhood on a street without through traffic.<br /><br />Suddenly, my peaceful Saturday morning repose is startled by yelling in the street. I am surprised by the response this brings in me. For a moment, I am tense, all systems alert at a danger that might be passing by. The dogs go crazy barking adding to my angst. I tiptoe to the window to sneak a peek at what mayhem might be happening in my front yard. It is a group of four teenagers walking down the middle of the street talking loudly to each other, cussing, shaking their fists in the air. They look threatening. They are today's youth. They look like a street gang, although they don't dress any differently from many of the youth I see here. They have tattoos, they are only in their teens and they have tattoos. They have body piercings. They have stretched their earlobes to accommodate large metal rings. They will look this way when they are in their 80's.<br /><br />Now I reflect on the youth of my day...the 1970's. We had self-expression, we were rebels in our own right.(I pierced my ears, for Pete's sake, we also used terms like "for Pete's sake" and who the heck is Pete, anyway?) But we also had a little thing called "respect". If there was a group of teenagers walking down the street yelling and cussing, they <em>were</em> something to be worried about. It just didn't happen. I'm not saying that we never cut loose and were loud and obnoxious, but it wasn't in broad daylight in the middle of the street where all of the neighbors could see who we are! They would have been on the phone to our parents before we could have made it to the end of the block. And maybe therein lies the problem. I know my neighbors on each side of me but I don't know anyone else on the street. These kids could live on my street and I wouldn't know it. We have lost some of our feeling of community. I have often thought about having a "get to know your neighbor" party in the front yard on a Friday evening but my fear is, would anyone come? Does anyone really want to know their neighbor? <br /><br />So, I guess we, as a community, have created these kids. They have no fear of repercussions for their actions. Is it self-expression gone wild, or just apathy on the part of the parents. I often wonder how my child would have turned out had she been raised in this environment. It's something to think about...crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-81275104328693736592009-07-12T13:45:00.000-07:002009-07-12T13:51:48.209-07:00Dandylandmuse Blogspothttp://dandylandmuse.blogspot.com/2009/07/haystack-tango.html<br /><br />Very interesting blogspot I stumbled on to...really love his writings. Here is a sample:<br /><br />Haystack Tango:<br /><br />Anyone who loves grazing animals<br />Loves haystacks. In the white glare of midday<br />They cast humped shade on the glowing emerald<br />Of the fields, densities of time spent thatching this way<br />And that, combed like a giant’s shag, stacked by forkfuls<br />To the searing sky, straw flake dust<br />Shimmers gold in a cloud, grasshoppers whir, buzz, and unfold<br />pied wings as they<br />Leap into flight. One’s picked off in a mockingbird sweep. <br />I’m mesmerized by haystacks ~ leaned back<br />Under an oak<br />With a dipper of spring water. I let the coolness<br />Pour down my throat<br />As I swallow.<br /><br />Some hay in a barn, once the work is done –<br />Sometimes men sprawl on it<br />And talk quietly. I remember.<br /><br />The hay, we watch it grow. Spring it’s an <br />Enlivening of color barely emerging – soon long, full<br />Of water and soft, easy to bruise – too much of it<br />Isn’t good for cows to eat ~ they gorge and scour.<br />By summer the stems are long enough to <br />Wave when they bend, the breeze undulates them.<br />When it’s just in bloom, or nearly, that’s the time to cut it.<br />That’s right. The energy is at its peak just then – you watch<br />It close and if the weather’s good and your timing too,<br />The haystacks will be perfect. On a twinkling midsummer eve,<br />Shakespeare’s Bottom would rhapsodize on sweet hay like this, viewing the orange<br />Orb of the full moonshine rise in a sky of black tree shapes and aqua ~<br />Wouldn’t that be something?<br /><br />Lovers may discover it ~ A gypsy lilypad floating in a meadow<br />of nocturnal fiddlers. Fingers linger on a zipper, the hay's perfume, and <br />nearby there’s even an owl, thrumming a steady soft round note.<br />Who doesn’t love this sort of haystack,<br />even if it feels itchy later, gazing into the infinity<br />of pinprickly stars in silence?<br /><br />In the winter you walk by them, crusted with snow,<br />Just as twilight sets their straw aglow<br />And it reminds you of the tumbled hair.<br />And you go back, growing warmer as you go<br />Deeper into the evening. What I wouldn’t give to hold<br />You again. <br /><br />Posted by Dan Duttoncrayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-64052467233546657482009-06-18T17:05:00.000-07:002013-01-07T19:38:15.796-08:00The Sisters' VisitInstallment I<br />
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My husband and I had just bought a new “100 year old” house and my sisters decided to come for a week to help us renovate. I am the youngest of three girls, the baby of the family. So, it just stands to reason that when in need “the sisters” would arrive. We were still renting while in the process of renovating the new/old house. It was decided that for the sake of his sanity, my husband Ray, would stay at the rental while the “Robinson Girls” stayed at the aforementioned new/old house. The plan was that Ray would cook our meals in the evenings, we would go to the rental for supper and then return to our respective houses for sleeping. We did not yet have a functional kitchen at the new/old house. Thankfully, we did have two functional bathrooms…but I digress from the story at hand. We will visit this topic later.<br />
<br />
All went extremely well. We had loads of fun and laughter and even managed to get curtains made and walls painted. We also managed to shop, eat, go to Lowes, shop some more, eat again, go to Hobby Lobby, go to Lowes again… you get the point. There was one trip to Hobby Lobby that we went back in the store three times before we even made it out of the parking lot. This is what happens when you send three women over the age of FIFTY to do anything. We eventually remembered everything we came for, just not necessarily at the same time.<br />
<br />
On one such trip to Lowes, we were on a mission to find…something…who knows what. We always had a list, Linda, the Organizer, never went anywhere without her list. The problem was that Linda, the Organizer, was never anywhere to be found when the list was needed. That left Janet, the Doer, and myself to our own devices. Never a good thing. So, there I am, moseying down the aisle with Janet, the Doer, in tow when it suddenly hits me…really hits me, that I need to pee. Okay, something happens when you turn FIFTY that by the time you realize that you need to pee, it is already too late. All I can do at this point is stop in the aisle and cross my legs, clinch as tight as I can, and hope it will subside. Yeah, right. Janet, the Doer, is behind me and instantaneously knows what this stance means, being that she is somewhat older than myself and familiar with the “clinched-pee-pose”. Seeing this sends her into the identical pose. So, there we are in the middle of the Lowes aisle, both striking “the pose”, when the unthinkable happens. We begin to laugh. Now, any middle aged woman knows that nothing will undo the purpose of “the pose” quicker than laughing. With all of that pressure building up, something is bound to give. And it did. Just about that time Linda, the Organizer, comes down the aisle facing us, sees us both in “pee-pose” stance and promptly makes a U turn as quickly as she can and heads for the bathroom. Being the eldest, she has had much more experience and knows what to do in an emergency situation. Janet, the Doer, sees this as our deliverance and says, “Okay, we are going to follow Linda to the bathroom”, to which I reply, “I can’t, if I move, I will pee”. What a conundrum. “Should I stay or should I go, now? If I stay it will be trouble, if I go there’ll be a puddle”. Those aren’t really the lyrics but once again, I digress. So Janet, the Doer makes a break for it. The herd instinct takes over and I follow. Fight or flight? Well, it was not pretty. Just as I moved, the dam broke… down my leg, into my shoes, spreading across my pants like a tidal wave. Finally, I made it to restroom and into the last remaining stall. Of course, by that time the damage was done. Now I was faced with another dilemma…restroom to car… car to home… with pee-soaked pants. It was at that moment when I saw my salvation hanging on the wall of the women’s restroom at Lowes, a gift from God… the hand dryer. I had always wondered why the spout pointed down and now I know. Oh, come on, you've thought about it too, admit it. I turned that baby on, sidled right up to it and let it blow. Just about that time, Janet, the Doer, and Linda, the Organizer, come out of their stalls to a sight to behold. There stands baby sister, blow dryin’ her crotch in the women’s restroom at Lowes. Back into the stalls they went…<br />
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Left to Right: Ronda, the Instigator, Linda, the Organizer and Janet, the Doer<br />
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Coming attractions: <br />
Installment II, Who’s in the Bed with Janet?<br />
Installment III, The Case of the Missing Embroidery<br />
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crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-19256213413864570882009-06-18T14:55:00.000-07:002009-06-18T15:09:14.531-07:00City vs. CountryI have lived in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains for the past 18 years. In the country. I am accustomed to the sounds of the country. Birds, frogs, crickets, katydids, rain on a tin roof, a babbling creek, the occasional chainsaw, tractor or 4-wheeler. The view outside of my window was of a beautiful pine forest nestled in the valley between two hazy, blue, mountains. My road was a dirt road, winding its way up the side of a mountain. Living in the mountains, the temperature during the summer months was always 10 degrees cooler due to the elevation. <br /><br />Now? I live in the city.<br /><br />It’s early morning, summer, hot. I am waiting for the library to open. I stay in my car because it is already sweltering outside. As I sit in the middle of metro Louisville, surrounded by tall buildings and skyscrapers, I listen to the sounds of the city. I see an interstate highway out of the driver side window. It is morning rush hour. The sound is deafening. Out of the passenger window, there is a construction site. Cranes, jackhammers, air-nailers. Noise. The city.<br /><br />There are apartment buildings across the parking lot. People eating, sleeping, brushing their teeth, having their morning coffee. Do they sit by the window and look out on what I am seeing and think, “What a beautiful view”? There are television shows that spotlight people buying apartments or “condos”, just another word for “<em>expensive</em> apartment”. If you share a wall with someone, I <em>am</em> sorry, but you live in an apartment. I am constantly amazed when they look out of the window of an apartment in a city like Paris or New York, overlooking miles and miles of busy streets and concrete structures and proclaim, “Oh, what a fabulous view”! What do they see? Are the buildings their mountains, the streetlights their trees and the storm drains their creeks? Are the lights atop of the tall buildings their stars? Is this their “country”?<br /><br />Who is to say which is better? It seems that many people who have grown up in the country can’t wait to leave and live in the city; and people that have grown up in the city, want to live in the country and get “back to the earth”. Is it our search for a new perspective that incites us to desire that which we have not yet experienced?<br /><br />My husband <strong>HATES</strong> the city. Is hate too strong a word? Not in his case. I don’t think that there is anything that he finds enticing about living in the city. In his words, he doesn’t want to live any place that you can’t “pee off the porch” without the neighbors seeing. He grew up in Cleveland. Point proven.<br /><br />I don’t mind the city so much. I find that beauty can be found in unexpected places, if you are willing to search it out. Is the intricate beauty of Victorian architecture not a rival to the delicacy of Queen Anne’s Lace growing in a field; Or the dazzling colors of the flowers and trees of a well landscaped yard comparative to the pink beds of mountain laurel in the springtime?<br /><br />There are things that I miss about living in the country, but there are also things that I don’t miss. The seclusion, a thirty minute drive to get <em>anywhere</em>, dirt roads, wood soot, no plays, music or art.<br />A friend told me once, “It takes all kinds of people to make up the world”. I think that can be said for places, as well.<br /><br />City vs. Country…you tell me?crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-62213338744280357152009-06-17T15:33:00.000-07:002009-06-17T15:33:47.168-07:00Official Google Blog: Free webinar: Google Apps Education Edition<a href="http://googleblog.blogspot.com/2009/06/free-webinar-google-apps-education.html">Official Google Blog: Free webinar: Google Apps Education Edition</a>crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-51824437689838480282009-06-14T10:00:00.000-07:002009-06-19T17:17:08.620-07:00Recycling - Not a New ThingIn this age of going green and recycling, it makes me chuckle sometimes when new-age groups act as though these are concepts that they invented. I recall when I was a small child growing up in Springfield, Missouri during the late 60's to early 70's. It was not a time when the "green" concept was very popular, but my parents and grandparents had grown up in a time of depression. I think that living through this time made them more aware of how precious each morsel of food and household luxury was.<br />My grandparents lived on a small two-acre mini-farm outside of town. They had a milk cow, several chickens and a half-acre vegetable garden. These few organic elements kept the two of them and our family of five in dairy products and vegetables for the year.<br />One of the things that as a child, I thought to be astonishing, was that even though they had indoor plumbing that functioned perfectly well, they still insisted on having an outhouse on the property. I guess today it would be called a "composting toilet". This was used whenever they were outdoors in the warm months. It conserved water, energy and wear and tear on the well pump. This was not something that they did to "save the planet". This was how they had been raised. Conserve, preserve and reuse.<br />What I remember so clearly, is that nothing went to waste on their little parcel of land. Many days each summer were spent under a shade tree in the back yard stringing and breaking beans, shucking corn or cleaning potatoes. Nothing went to waste. Any of the cast-offs from the vegetables were thrown into the chicken pen to add to their diet. If there was organic waste that the chickens couldn't eat, it was put back into the garden. (These days they call it "composting") The cow was milked daily and I remember many evenings spent churning cream from the milk into butter. The cream was placed in a mason jar and we would take turns rocking the jar back and forth until it began to make butter. (That was how we learned muscular dexterity instead of playing video games!) As kids, we spent our summer days off from school, helping our mom can corn and green beans. In the spring we would pick strawberries and make jam. Anytime that friends offered vegetables or berries free for the picking, we were there, baskets in hand. Every fall my grandparents would harvest walnuts and lay them out on feedsacks in the garage to dry. Cold winter months would be spent cracking nuts and picking out the flesh. Another treat was the peanuts that they would grow in the garden. A great winter treat was when my grandma would "roast peanuts". They were a great smoky, salty treat! I was so incredibly lucky to grow up eating homegrown foods with no preservatives.<br />When my grandfather passed away, we were called out to the farm to help get it ready for a sale. This was when I was truly amazed at the frugal nature of these people. Their garage was a wonderland. For years, they had bought their dry goods in bags. These were called "feedsack" bags but they were hardly what we would think of these days as "feedsacks". They were a muslin material with flowers and small prints printed on them. My grandma still had dresses that she had made of these when she died at the age of 96 in 2002. There were balls of string that she had kept from painstakingly taking the sacks apart so that they could be sown into clothes. There were buckets of nails. When a nail was pulled from a piece of wood it wasn't disgarded, it was saved to be used again. There was much, much more but it would take pages to recall all of the ways in which they recycled.<br />Recently, as my parents were downsizing, I was at their house helping them get ready for a sale to recycle some of their belongings. Fortunately, I was able to recycle some of it myself. One of my most treasured finds was the nail keg that I remember my grandma sitting on as we sat out under that tree in the back yard. It had a little ruffled pad made out of feedsack on the top of it for comfort. Just seeing it brings me back to hot summer days drinking lemonade while shucking corn under the big shade tree.<br />I seem to have inherited their knack for recycling. When I need to buy something, my first thought is, "is this something that I can buy used"? I peruse the thrift stores and flea markets on a regular basis to find things that I need that have previously been "broken in"! One of my favorite activities is to find items and repurpose them into something useful.<br />I like to think that my grandparents would be proud that I am carrying on the family tradition.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4negpVHVX6OF6pyVdQsOUOJ-MtJlnhGxbuuA8Mg29bFeHUyXDD7Kl1SYIkhSI3pZxexzn4wNYIs6IUE56wBXSVB-4aP0s2OsJRv86J5PEHimDN2Ik7b9pShGfZuHCcJ1dU_kGnyU3koe/s1600-h/ROBINSON+FAM70009.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4negpVHVX6OF6pyVdQsOUOJ-MtJlnhGxbuuA8Mg29bFeHUyXDD7Kl1SYIkhSI3pZxexzn4wNYIs6IUE56wBXSVB-4aP0s2OsJRv86J5PEHimDN2Ik7b9pShGfZuHCcJ1dU_kGnyU3koe/s320/ROBINSON+FAM70009.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349195578567598114" /></a><br />Shuckin' corn down on the farm.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQpyd7sp6MZhpWs5C13RpBF0lUnF8Zc979_l8Eh8YUvblSrFxVXyqBXpaXiBY5XSlbJPg49yO7IZiCeS5dGra2OF-OpmIpAFe_aPEseRtZj5ZUx9vtgXvBFrUPxSmI-EXSKuqTtpw7Y8Rf/s1600-h/ROBINSON%2520FAM40017%5B1%5D.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQpyd7sp6MZhpWs5C13RpBF0lUnF8Zc979_l8Eh8YUvblSrFxVXyqBXpaXiBY5XSlbJPg49yO7IZiCeS5dGra2OF-OpmIpAFe_aPEseRtZj5ZUx9vtgXvBFrUPxSmI-EXSKuqTtpw7Y8Rf/s320/ROBINSON%2520FAM40017%5B1%5D.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349191400826802866" /></a><br />Crackin' nuts and diggin' out the meat! Notice Linda is using a dart to dig the nut out of it's shell... what ingenuity! Janet, on the left is the "cracker", Linda, on the right, is the "digger", I guess mama, in the middle must be the "eater"!crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6411932478812488938.post-42104772767955946392009-06-10T14:16:00.000-07:002009-06-10T14:48:57.371-07:00Mirrors LieHow do you know what you look like? Your reflection, right? How do you see your reflection? Through a mirror. What if there were no mirrors or no reflection of our bodies? What if our idea of how we looked was determined by how we feel? That is a scary concept. Especially, as you get older. Those days when you wake up feeling like a cat slept in your mouth and an elephant slept on your body...how would we imagine ourselves?<br />Every morning before going out for the day, (like most other women in the universe) I look at my finished self in the mirror to see what the world is going to see today. One day it dawned on me that what if this mirror is lying? How do you know if a mirror is telling the truth? How naive we are just to accept as truth what is reflected in a $10? $20? fabricated piece of metallicized cardboard!<br />I reflect (no pun intended) on last weekend's marathon shopping day: Throughout the day I tried on clothes at several stores. One thing that I noticed is that most of the stores had nice, muted lighting and what I like to call "skinny" mirrors. I looked really, and I mean, REALLY good in those mirrors. So of course, I bought the clothes. Then there were the stores whose lighting and mirrors were less flattering...I did NOT buy clothes at those stores because, obviously, their mirrors lied.<br />So, last night as I am fixing to go out on the town, I put on a top that was purchased on the aforementioned shopping spree. As I checked out my look in the mirror, did it look like it did in the store?<br />Looks like I am going to have to buy myself a new mirror...Mine is definitely a liar! (So, is a $20 mirror more flattering than a $10 mirror? Hmmmm...)<br /><br /><em>This blog could also be called "Jean Sizes Lie". Same concept...</em>crayzmadrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09262958111347011913noreply@blogger.com1