Snow Days

       

        As I sit at my computer today, watching the snow turn my woods into a winter wonderland, I’m reminded of snow days past.

The earliest one that I remember was in the late 1950s. It stands out simply because it occurred in late March or early April, and the day before, I had been sitting on my porch steps in a short-sleeved shirt. That’s Alabama for you.

The next one I recall was in January 1977. In a framed montage on my office wall I have a picture from that one. It shows my late husband, Jack, wrapped in his Navy pea coat, wearing a denim cap and the scarf my first sister-in-law made for him, and striped pants. He’s holding onto a rope attached to what appears to be a garbage can lid upon which my five-year-old daughter, Heather, is seated. She, too is bundled in a hooded coat. I love that father-daughter picture.

How could I forget the Storm of the Century, in 1993, that shut down the entire Birmingham metropolitan area, and then some, for several days? We were without power for at least five of those days, so we had no heat. There were four of us by then, and we slept on quilts in the living room of our Homewood house. Every couple of hours Jack got up and add more wood to the fire in the fireplace. That fireplace had no damper, so most of the heat was escaping through the chimney. Next morning, Jack took a thermometer outside, and discovered only a few degrees difference between our living room and our front yard.

I think that was the same snow that threatened to devour my Yorkshire terrier, T.J. He was so small, and the snow so deep and soft, that he almost disappeared into it every time he went out to wee-wee. I have a video to back that up.

During a big snow a couple of years ago, I messed up a really good cookie sheet using it as a sled. My Ashville driveway is steep, and I just knew I was going to wind up hitting a tree or my pond. As usual, I only stayed outside for half an hour. I love snow best when viewing it from inside the house. 

It’s snowing heavily now, but with the ground so damp, who knows how long it will stick? I’m prepared, though. My propane tank was filled Monday. My horses are wearing blankets and I turned on their stall heat lamps. I bought extra hay yesterday. I also bought gasoline for my portable generator. That generator is the best insurance I’ve ever purchased against a power outage, because there hasn’t been one in the year and a half that I’ve had it. But I bought gasoline, just in case.

There are plenty of leftovers in the fridge, including come crock-pot barbecued ribs and some red beans and rice. I went by Ashville Drugs a little while ago and picked up a prescription. I also went into the Pig for some limes so I won’t get snowed in without a margarita. Somehow, despite the dropping temperature, ice cream managed to find its way into my cart, too.

       Snow or no snow, it’s all the same to me. I’ll be watching through the windows in my office. I’ve got deadlines to meet. So go ahead, Mother Nature, bring it on. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

View from my from porch.

Other Than That, Mrs. Lincoln, How Did You Enjoy The Play?

        Drinking my morning coffee, I watched the mist settle over Lake Martin at Wind Creek State Park.  A small fishing boat glided silently out of the mist. With a fisherman standing at the front, it reminded me of a carving on the prow of an ancient Viking ship.

It was the first full weekend of February, one of the last sunny days before this Siberian storm settled over the Eastern half of the country. Scratching my tick bites, I reflected on the events of the previous day. It had been perfect weather for trail riding. But neither my pony, Jazzy, nor my friend, Betty, were perfect for the treacherous trails we encountered. It had been 16 years since Betty had been on a horse. I doubt that Jazzy had ever been trail riding with other horses. We thought we could whip both into shape with two half-hour spins through my own woods during the week. It took a trip to the emergency room to see the flaws in our thinking.

My OutbackTrail Riders club had scheduled a day ride at Wind Creek, but like many in the club, I have a horse trailer with living quarters and decided to make a weekend of it. Betty came up from Tallahassee, Florida, to join me. 

We left around 1 p.m. Friday so we could set up camp before dark. We easily found the horse camping section that the trail club secretary had mentioned in the newsletter and several emails. We noticed right off, however, that there was only one other horse camper there, the sites weren’t pull-throughs, and there wasn’t much room to park the horses. I had to back my 22-foot gooseneck into position, something I hate, but with Betty directing, I managed. We put up a picket line on uneven ground between two trees, and tied the horses to it.

Saturday morning, I started making phone calls to determine where riders were supposed to meet. It turned out that we were in the wrong camp site. The club secretary had sent out old information, and everyone but me knew it. Others were in the overflow section, which had a big field for picket lines and temporary fencing, and camp sites that you could pull into. We missed the fish fry and fellowship of Friday night because of this misinformation. 

We were but a short distance from the others, but the park wouldn’t let us ride the roads, so we were to meet them on the trail. I’m directionally challenged, especially in unknown woods, so a nice day rider came and got us. However, his trailer was smaller than what my horses are used to, so it took 30 minutes to load them.

Fortunately, no one was ready to ride out at the usual 9:30, because they had stayed up late partying the night before. We rode out about 10:30, and I could see almost immediately that the trail would be a challenge for Jazzy and Betty. Both were huffing and puffing in just a few minutes of hill climbing. We stopped to rest several times, but I was still worried about Jazzy. She was sweating profusely. I had planned on turning back at lunch, but thought it might be sooner. 

Shortly after lunch we encountered problems. Trees were down in several places, forcing us to climb incredibly steep hills to get around the debris. Then Jazzy got her hind legs caught in some vines, bucked, and Betty came off. She landed with a thud, the breath knocked out of her. A rider radioed friends who were fishing, and they came into the slew at the bottom of the hill and picked her up in their boat. When I got back to camp, a park ranger came by to tell me I owed more money, also the result of misinformation, then offered to call an ambulance. We readily agreed.

Fortunately, the emergency room x-rays showed nothing broken or cracked, and my friend got a prescription for pain killers. After having the Rx filled, we headed back to camp. Even though she urged me to ride the next day, I knew the Saturday day rider wasn’t available to pick me up Sunday and I didn’t trust my GPS skills to find the other riders on the trail. So we stayed in camp. 

We’re planning another trip, once my tick bites heal, the swelling in Betty’s knee goes down and she gets over the pneumonia, which I suspect was a direct result of bruised ribs not allowing her to breathe deeply. Jazzy needs more trail practice, too, and so does Betty. Hers may have to wait until she has that knee operation. Jazzy’s will have to wait until warmer weather.
         All in all, it was still a good weekend.

Making Memories

I had a treehouse built for my grandsons recently. It has a sleeping loft for camping out. The loft was as much for me as for my grandsons, because I’ve always been enchanted with the idea of sleeping on a second floor.

Gabe and I have slept in it twice already.The first time was over Thanksgiving weekend. The treehouse, which is actually a playhouse built on stilts between two trees, wasn’t quite finished then. So we had to put a tarp over an open wall section. We ran an extension cord through a window to operate a small heater.

The ladder to the loft hadn’t been built, but the workmen had left a step-ladder. It was rather unstable, and I fell a few rungs from the bottom. Gabe became very concerned and insisted that I sleep on the main level because he was afraid that I would fall when I got up to use the camping potty during the night. He and his friend, Walker, slept in the loft, and I slept down below. The window we ran the cord through wouldn’t stay closed, and we all nearly froze to death. Despite a two-inch exercise mat under my sleeping bag, the wooden floor beneath me felt like bricks. None of us slept much, but we had fun. Oh, and the boys got up to pee twice during the night, while I didn’t go at all.

Last weekend, I had Matias, who is almost three, Thursday night and Friday. We had a tea party in the treehouse. We sat at a toddler-sized picnic table that had belonged to my 42-year-old daughter when she was about six. We used a pink plastic Fisher-Price tea set that had belonged to Matias’s mom when she wasn’t much older then he is now. Friday afternoon, I swapped the toddler for Gabe, because he and I had riding lessons at my house the next day. So Saturday night, Gabe, Walker and I camped out in the treehouse again. The use of the phrase “camped out” instead of “slept” is intentional.

I cut a hole in the wall beneath a window at floor level, using a drill bit meant for cutting doorknob holes. We ran the heavy-duty extension cord through that and I had the heater blowing on me all night, but it didn’t do much good. I had purchased a new sleeping bag for Gabe and a self-inflating mat to go under my sleeping bag for padding. The latter didn’t inflate, so once again I felt like I was sleeping on concrete.

The boys were determined to stay up all night playing games on my iPad, but they didn’t quite make it. They got up to pee twice, but went out on the porch and used the yard as their toilet. The zipper in my sleeping bag was broken, but I had an extra blanket over the bag, so I wasn’t cold. The boys wound up sleeping together in Gabe’s new sleeping bag because Walker’s wasn’t warm enough. They also had a wool blanket over them, so they were toasty. 

The bottom line, though, is that we still didn’t get much sleep. But that wasn’t the object. We were making memories. We do that a lot. I’ve found that it doesn’t take much to make memories with your grandchildren. Sometimes, it requires a little creativity, but mainly it requires your time. When all is said and done, that’s what they really want anyway. And I believe that spending time together will outlive, or at least outweigh, the memories of  what we actually do.

Always Late

It's a big problem that often makes me feel very small.

        "I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date. No time to say hello, goodbye, I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" 

The White Rabbit in Walt Disney’s 1951 animated film, “Alice In Wonderland,” had nothing on me. Some critics say he was normally punctual, and that’s why he was so upset, and that ultimately he arrived at his appointment on time to announce the king and queen. Unlike the rabbit, I’m rarely punctual, and probably would be late meeting the queen herself! Although I wouldn’t  have to worry about her taking off my head, as the rabbit did, I’m sure some of my friends have wanted to do that for her at times.

Whether it’s a doctor’s appointment, professional meeting, church or an interview, I rarely arrive on time. I don’t know why, except that I don’t like to be early and have to sit and wait. Never mind that I keep others waiting due to my being late. Country singer Lefty Frizzell had a hit with a song called, “Always Late,” referring to his girlfriend’s kisses. If I had a boyfriend, I’d probably be late with those too. 

I used to be as much as half an hour late, but I have whittled that down to five or ten minutes. In fact, it’s almost always five or ten minutes. Why, I don’t know, nor do I know why I can’t shave off another five or ten minutes.

I have always been like this. As a teen, I would keep friends waiting in front of department stores or movie theaters. I’d be late for dates, keeping the guy waiting while I took the curlers out of my hair. In college, I was often late with term papers and other assignments, and that habit cost me grade points several times. You’d think once would have taught me a lesson, especially when an English professor said I would have gotten that rare “A” on a freshman term paper had I not turned it in two days late. Even today, I’m sometimes late with a writing assignment. 

My husband used to say that I had no concept of time. I believe he was right. I’ve tried plotting my schedule, working backward from my appointment time. I’ll allow a certain amount of time to get there, which is almost always wrong, because no matter how many times I travel a route, I can’t recall exactly how long it takes. So I’ll plan to leave home at 9 a.m. That means I need to have my shower and start dressing at 8 or 8:15. So I need to eat breakfast at 7:30. It takes me several minutes to wake up, so I have to allow half an hour to drink my coffee. So, I’d need to get up round 7. Oops, almost forgot, I need to feed my horses, llamas, goat and barn cats, so let’s back that arise-and-shine time to 6:30.

Sounds like a good plan, right? Problem is, I can’t seem to stick to it. I’ll watch the morning news while drinking my coffee, then it’s 7:45. After my coffee, I have to have my morning date with the porcelain throne. I keep magazines in my throne room, so there goes another half hour. Then I rush out to feed my critters, rush back in to shower, and decide to check my email. Big mistake. Before I know it, I’ve spent an hour at the computer. And so it goes.

I have come to the conclusion that the primary culprits are procrastination, too much on my plate and the fact that I‘m easily distracted. But knowing the causes and effecting a cure are two different matters.

Enough about my tardiness. I’ve got to pick up my grandson in a couple of hours. I’m sure I won’t be late for that. All I have to do is finish this post, work out at the gym, come home and shower, dress and put on makeup, stop by Publix on the way....hmmm, I’m seeing a pattern here.

Riding More

        When I retired two years ago, I wanted to write more and ride more. I haven't done more of either. Life keeps getting in the way. I spend more time with my grands, which is a good thing, but it’s amazing how quickly I can fill the hours in a day just piddling.

This week has been the exception that I dreamed of when I retired.

It started with the beautiful weather we had over the weekend. I rode Mallory, my TWH mare, about an hour Sunday afternoon. On a Quarter horse, it takes that long to traverse my trails. On Mallory, I have to double back a bit to stretch it to an hour. That’s okay. It’s amazing how different a trail can look riding one direction versus the other.

I also rode Monday afternoon for at least half an hour, then another half hour Wednesday afternoon. Thursday I spent the day with a former barn mate at the Bessemer barn where she still boards. There are miles of trails there, and she knows them by heart. She has been riding them for 20 years, helps keep them trimmed, and helps cut new ones.

While it was a bit chilly, we still enjoyed the ride, just the four of us (I’m counting our horses) and Mother Nature. The sound of horses’ hooves pushing through dry leaves provided a backdrop for our constant chatter. I hadn’t ridden with Pam since spring, so we had some catching up to do. We spent half an hour snacking at the mouth of a small cave beside a brook that didn’t babble near as much as we did. Yet we still managed two and a half hours in the saddle.

I’m trying to get into shape for an equine vacation. A company called Equitours sponsors horseback riding trips all over the world. I’m torn between Ireland, where you can ride Connemara ponies from castle to castle and sleep in those castles each night, and sunny Costa Rica. However, when I read the “fine print” about the tours, I discovered that a rider must be able to post and to stay in the saddle for six hours a day. I can learn to post, but six hours a day in a saddle?  Geez Louise, I normally get fatigued and sore after two.

Thursday was the exception, however. I did fine, and could have ridden another hour or two. I wasn’t terribly sore last night, just comfortably tired and content. I like to think it’s because I’ve been working out at the gym for several months, and because I had ridden three times this week already.

Or did the two hours we spent at a local bar drinking margaritas, eating fried pickles and playing Gin Rummy have something to do with that?

Manicures and Karate Classes

          A few weeks ago,  my manicurist left the Springville hair salon where she had worked for several years and started making house calls. Kathleen has about a dozen customers, and sees half in her home and half in theirs. That’s what she does each weekday morning. In the afternoons, she teaches karate.

Kathleen holds classes after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays at Margaret Elementary and Wednesdays and Fridays at Springville Elementary. She has a second-degree black belt and teaches Yoshukai-style, which is the Japanese version of this martial art. Her husband, 10-year-old son and 15-year-old daughter have black belts, too, and all continue to take lessons at IKF Karate on Center Point Parkway. I’ve watched her enthusiasm for karate grow over the past couple of years, and it’s one reason she stopped working at the hair salon.

I feel so decadent having my nails done in my own home. Sometimes I miss not being able to get my manis and pedis when I get my hair cut, but I really like the relaxed atmosphere of my own Great Room. We can enjoy cookies and all kinds of libations without having to provide enough for a salon full of customers.

During the Christmas holidays, for example, I mixed us a Candy Cane Cocktail. This yummy drink is made with vanilla vodka, peppermint schnapps, white chocolate liqueur  and heavy cream. I like to serve it in my crooked-stemmed margarita glasses with tiny candy canes as garnishes. Directions suggest the option of a drizzle of grenadine for color and/or a dusting of crushed candy canes for fun, but the former turns the pretty white drink red, while the latter just sinks to the bottom of the glass.

This week, I put on a pot of coffee and we enjoyed the Thumbprint Cookies I had made over the weekend. Not as exotic as the cocktails, but still fun.

During the 1980s, there was an all-night gay bar on Birmingham’s Southside called Mabel’s Beauty Salon and Chainsaw Repair. I told Kathleen that if she ever set up shop in a permanent building, she should call her establishment Kathleen’s Nail Salon & Karate Studio. Wouldn’t that be a hoot? On the other hand, it might attract folks looking for something besides polished nails or karate lessons. 

Happy Birthday, Gabe & Jack

     Today is the 8th birthday of my first grandson. It’s the first time his birthday has fallen on a school day, and he was excited about that. What a happy day for him.

     It would have been the 75th birthday of my late husband, Jack, had he not chosen to leave us at the age of 58. I still don’t understand that. After all these years, I still shake my head and wonder, “Why?” I still miss him every day, but especially today.

     I know Jack is in a better place, but he left us in a state of shock, bewilderment and grief beyond compare. He left a big hole in our hearts and lives. He didn’t get to see his youngest daughter graduate from high school or college. He didn’t get to walk either daughter down the aisle on her wedding day. He’ll never know the joy of having grandchildren, but what’s worse, they’ll never know the fun of having their Grandpa toss them a ball or teach them to fish.

      I guess I should have put flowers on his grave today. But I didn’t. I rarely go to the cemetery,  because he’s not there and it just reminds me of my loss. I took Gabe there a few months ago (see photo), because he wanted to know where his Grandpa Jack was buried. His mom and aunt usually change the subject when I bring him up, but Gabe and I talk about Jack often. One day Gabe asked me, “Do you think Grandpa Jack would have liked me?” “Oh honey,” I replied. “He would have adored you.”

     I have a close relationship with my daughters and grandsons, I have many wonderful friends, but on days like today, I feel so alone. I ache to have Jack’s arms around me and to lay my ahead against his big, barrel chest. 

     Happy birthday, Jack. I wish you were here so we could celebrate. Yes, I know we’ll dance together some day when I get to heaven, but I’m not anxious to go. Loretta Lynn put it succinctly when she sang, “Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.”

     I know I’ve rambled, but it’s hard to think coherently with tears streaming down my face. 

     Happy birthday, Gabe. I’ll feel better when I see you tomorrow. You have given me something to celebrate on an otherwise bloody awful day.