Walmart Wants Comments... Or Do they?

 Every so often I get an email from Walmart asking me to evaluate my recent shopping experience, or sometimes specific products I purchased there. Occasionally they try to bribe me with a "chance" to win a thousand dollars.

Oh Boy! Me and how many millions of other people? Are the odds as good as the ones from Wheel Of Fortune that I could be a lucky winner of the same thing their top contestants won in the days leading up to Christmas? I actually hoped I didn't win Wheel from home after a while, for a couple reasons. First, I hate their vacations. Too much sunburn, too much hiking, too much spa blah, too many bars and too much gambling. That's supposed to be an incentive? A few destinations might tempt me... if I had a passport. And if I could go wherever the heck I wanted to, with easy transportation, a savvy translator,  and my camera. The other reason is I had no way I could find of contacting them and letting them know I moved and where I really am now. You send that trip prize to the old address, somebody would probably use it, leaving me to pay the taxes on it. No thanks!

Anyway, most of my enthusiasm for giving Walmart a piece of my mind has nothing whatsoever to do with winning something. If I do, fine. If not, and we can assume "not", what other reason do I have to respond? Mischief? Hope for honest change?

Ummm, you do know me, right? Kind of, maybe? Willing to learn, perhaps? You are still reading here, you know.

Let's start with them finally changing something which needed it. Take their pharmacy lines. Please!  OK, I know that line has long  been trademarked, just substitute "wife" for "pharmacy lines". But for a while they took out the zig-zag path they created with posts and straps so more of us could stand in line in a small spot instead of way out blocking main aisles. When they asked me about my experience after that change, I complained about not having them and the difficulties with traffic flow. Then when the zig and zag returned, I complimented them on it. I do hope they keep it.

Other times they ask me about a shopping experience giving only the date I was there.  If it was two weeks ago, what the hell did I buy anyway? And how did it go? If you don't show me thumbnail photos of the merch, I have no comment for you. Life has long since moved on. If I order online and go pick it up, generally all goes well. Sometimes something is out of stock, but I long since learned to not allow substitutions because I'm picky, both by taste and by cost. In summer I also pack a cooler with ice. Otherwise ice cream arrives home as a puddle. It used to be tasty.... 

For so many times when I gave them my two cents that their store brand of raisin bread was never stocked, mentioned that I'd gotten none to bad reactions from employees in the store, and nothing changed, I simply stopped buying any brand of it. Other products go through the same phases. Suddenly they stocked General Tso's chicken in single frozen meals. Just as suddenly they stopped. Or everybody else bought it first. Maybe middle America has developed a palate?  I'm still waiting for them to come back with the healthy version of a frozen single meal of lasagna. I don't need 15 servings at a time, and who needs to put that much strain on their budget when one serving is all that's wanted? Their Pad Thai is good as long as it's Amy's and I add more peanuts to it. Their frozen foods section has vastly improved with the addition of foods that aren't just another pasta.

They do have an ongoing procedure that drives me nuts. They keep moving stuff. Perhaps they believe that it means we shoppers discover new things to buy in the old places we automatically steer to. Perhaps it does work with some folks. It annoys the heck out of me, and I have a lot of heck to be annoyed out of. Most days I don't take a battery shopping cart any more, though there is the occasional exception. However my long-trained mindset is still that shopping shouldn't be painful or too much work. Top shelves are impossible, with the next one down merely just completely miserable to have to reach. Guess where the heavy boxes and bottles are kept? Most day's I'll simply not buy it. Very occasionally one of their blue-smocked shoppers, pulling or pushing their stacks of carts to fill with drive-up orders, will be in the aisle and I can request them to please reach me X number of item Ys because I can't reach it or lift it or whatever. Nearly all of them are both pleasant and helpful.  If I wait for an ordinary but tall shopper to come through the aisle so I can request a bit of help, it's usually given but at the cost of annoying other shoppers waiting to clear that aisle. When it doesn't happen, both Walmart and I are disappointed, though my bank doesn't tend to complain at my savings.

If something has moved several aisles over, I have neither the clue as to where, nor the patience to hunt all over in the store's devious hopes I'll find other stuff to buy on my way. One item in point is Propel, a product of Gatorade, a sugarless beverage with electrolytes and actual flavor. It's nice to have in the car for "just because" times. In the last two months it's had three totally different locations in the same store. The first was at floor level two aisles away from sports drinks, the second on a top shelf, and finally where I could reach it. (Who else complained about it? Let me shake your hand!!!!)  I'm more likely to leave with a royal bad attitude - which I've almost perfected now so that it doesn't include swearing, though not guaranteed - and either not buy it at all or just go elsewhere. But they simply must keep moving stuff. And moving more stuff. And moving other stuff besides.

Hey guys, listen up: Walmart shopping is not my version of sports equipment!

I'd just gone through it with the one thing I needed at a Walmart hours earlier, when I got one of their requests for a "how did it go?" I decided to answer. I'd  needed car oil, 5w20, synthetic, and for high mileage cars. I've been told I should stick with the same brand already in the car if I was just topping it up. Hunting was involved. I'd just bought some a month earlier, wanted more on hand for in case. My car doesn't leak, witnessed by no oil puddles under the car,  but oil does get burned up over time and needs to be topped up before oil change time. So of course I pushed my cart to the exact aisle end cap where it was the last time. It wasn't there, but you already knew that since I'm writing about it.  Now of course those bottles come in a precise color, in a precise shape, and with all their minisculely different varieties stacked together, they take up a lot of shelf space. Of course you have to bend way over and reach way in and pull out each bottle and triple check every precise detail of every bottle. Who knew there's now a ZeroW20 oil? Oops. How did that get in my cart? Or who knew that high mileage oil is somehow different from all-synthetic oil when I use synthetic oil  because my car is high mileage? It won't be the bottle you think you reached for because it was directly behind the one that was correct. At least one of those requirements is bound to be different than the only bottle exactly in front of it was. Somebody else pulled one - or three dozen, who knows? - bottles out, found it wasn't their precise specifications, and simply found a bit of space to set it on before trying the next bottle. 

Who, me? Are you kidding? Of course I'd never tell if it were. But it's not. Or is it?

A store employee came by and asked me what I was looking for. It was a long list of specifications and I'd just located the brand and was combing through individual bottles. She heard part of what I needed and promptly went off, I thought to attend to some other task. Thirty feet down the aisle, well past shouting distance, she grabbed and started loading the huge full plastic bottles into my cart. Each was more than I needed in total. My first reaction was they weren't "X" specification, but before I could get another word in, off she went to return with two more huge ones with that particular specification correct but the next one wrong. She started reaching again into my cart to pull those out and this time I managed to stop her, pointing out I only needed the three small bottles now in my cart. I tried to feel bad for her and grateful for her attempt to be helpful, but this wasn't tee-ball  and she wasn't listening. At least I got to stop her from adding more oil. But where could she have gotten the idea I needed enough oil to fill a barrel?

Of course that's when Walmart sent me the feedback request. 

You must know that they only allow so many characters per answer to each question. I gave it some thought, and finally opted for brief sarcasm, saying things highly improbable, congratulating them for obvious flubs, that I could only hope they were so outrageous that somebody had to get the point. One example was their only relocating product X far enough from its usual location that it only took me half an hour to locate it. Now my granddaughter might have added a wonderful story about a pesky racoon, but I was totally beat by that time. I'll keep it in mind, though....

In hindsight though I'm not so sure. Might I have been too subtle? More to the point, does anybody anywhere read those? Or care?

Two-Showers-A-Day Weather

 This is summer in Minnesota. We live in a geographic anomaly, and have for at least part of every year since 1991, barring one no-travel year for covid before immunizations when we stayed in Arizona. It's the high point of the county here. For whatever reason, weather coming from every direction splits and goes around us.  When the sirens go off, we're more likely to stick out heads out to watch the distant action than go hide in a basement or shelter.

Note that we're having a drought locally. Northern Minnesota and southern Minnesota have been getting nailed with heavy weather. It's not always in time to stop a forest fire, like the ones in the BWCA for example. When the TV announcers claim we're likely to get rain here, we politely snicker. (By politely I mean we're so many miles away they'll never hear it in their fancy studios. Mom would almost approve.) It doesn't mean the air isn't humid. Fogs are common enough:

Where is this weird area? Look at a map of Minnesota and note that it looks like somebody tied a belt around it's waist and cinched it tight, leaving just a little bit of the state to poke out either east or west into a neighboring state. Blame the rivers. My dad grew up near the western bump. We live in or near the eastern bump. When the big rain systems roll in, they tend to slide by north of us or south of us. When the winds are governed more by northerlies or southerlies, rain tends to slide by east or west of us. 

I'm not saying we get no weather here. We just get less stormy weather. When the county weather sirens go off, invariably they are sounding for the northern end of our county. We can enjoy watching, maybe trying to capture lightning in photos.( I haven't perfected that yet, but can try for screen grabs of one of my paused videos. Just ignore the extraneous graphics in the lower left corner. The white zig-zag lightning is real. So is the lit cloud around it, though pink wasn't its real color to my eyes. I'll keep working on that technique.)

   Or we can shoot rainbows afterwards, much easier in daylight.

All three of the previous shots are from our main porch - the covered one, thank you  - and over our neighbors roof. Different storms, different times of day.

It's been a particularly dry year here. My grass is turning brown, and "weed" grasses are taking advantage. No, I'm not going to put chemicals down. The lawn is by fiat mowed weekly, need it or not. Anything somebody puts out to kill weeds will kill gardens, and we have the right to refuse them. (Just claim health issues!) 

So when I call this "two showers a day" weather, I'm referring to how fast sweat builds up, requiring two showers a day for the person working outside in the sun and humidity. Of course the option exists to maybe just start the day with one, or end the day that way. My skin insists that salt from my clothes itches unmercifully, does not disappear with indoor fans on, and only changing the wardrobe frequently, paired with rinsing off the skin, can do the trick.

I'm confronting a deadline here. My new plants need homes. Those homes are currently occupied by other plants needing relocation, and occasionally gifting to others. Relocation before frost requires giving them a chance to establish roots in their new homes, as well as plenty of watering in dry hot weather. Watering requires hauling a pair of hoses across the yard and putting them back again, as well as standing around aiming the spray. Even early in the morning, any or all of that work  means I return to the house dripping wet, itchy, and beat.  Mid day it's impossible, and close to sunset hasn't given the muggy air time to cool off. 

I did finally manage to tie the bandana around my head so it actually catches the sweat before it runs in my eyes. That much salt stings! It also coats my glasses lenses. I refuse to look in a mirror until proper showering and grooming have occurred. I'm not saying I'm vain, but really - who needs to see that? Last winter my hair was growing out longer from the previous haircut than I'd let it do for years. The air was dry enough that it didn't frizz. Now just in drying after a shower and being brushed in place after the shirt goes on - emphasis on "after" - it only settles down for half an hour or so. It's supposed to be too short to do that!!!!!

I'm beginning to feel like I'm a toddler again, with that curly hair my mother loved because she could just comb it around a finger, remove the finger, and voila! Ringlets, perfectly formed, all hanging even and in rows around my head. I heard a lot of references to Shirley Temple. Somewhere along the line I decided Mom wished she was raising that perfect little girl instead of me. That's part of why I keep it short enough so many years to just frizz. Even in those spots where it's supposedly too short for frizzing it manages to frizz. I suppose I could try braids, if I had the wherewithal to keep my arms up above my head these days long enough to put them in, but back in those years where I did braid my own hair, mostly twin french braids done either over or under, they still frizzed. Been there, done that, never allowed any photos. 

You're welcome! Really!

When menopause turned my hair white, it also changed the texture of it. Hooray! I thought I was done with the frizz. Those years in Arizona did nothing to disabuse me of that hope. My hair, properly cut, behaved!

Meanwhile, while I typed out this, the ceiling fan has cooled me down enough for me to finally quit sweating. A shower alone wouldn't have done it. My body has to adjust first. So now it's time to go take that first shower of my day.  It's supposed to rain/storm tonight, but we'll see. Either way I'll be out early in the morning again, shovel in hand, digging the last of the iris out, trimming their leaves, setting them in a pail of water to soak wounded roots for a bit. As soon as it's suitable to plant a few of them, in they'll go. The rest I'll pop in the fridge in wet paper towels in a bag. I'm seeing a friend next week who's agreed to plant them in her yard, colors unknown. Meanwhile there will be a space to fill back in with new daylilies, hoping all settle in for winter, living up to their hardy reputation. Winter should bring drier air, straighter hair, and....

      Oh Dammit! Ice and snow! Blast it!

So Why SaveThe Rags?

I'm not talking about the plastic crate on the bathroom floor with old towels and other rags fit only for nasty cleaning jobs, wiping oil off the dip-stick, or slops when painting. Nobody needs to justify keeping and using those, especially when the alternative usually is paper which continuously eats into global resources. (OK, guilty of that too. Not scolding, just trying to conserve when I can.)

What I'm talking about here are the rags I continue to wear, in private and mostly at night. Mostly I hate "official" items designated for sleepwear. Nightgowns don't follow me when I move, so they tug in uncomfortable places, and after several movements could wind up leaving me feeling captive. Did I say "could"?  Try "Do!" Ever been awakened by feelings of being trapped? Anybody try to tell you it must have been something you ate? I can promise you I don't chew on my night clothes!

Any sleepwear with long sleeves and/or legs winds up bunching up next to my torso, another form of imprisonment and discomfort. Few if any of the above choices actually are made in comfortable fabrics. If you think the alternative is wearing nothing, then all the sweat and miscellaneous dirt winds up on the sheets much faster, and those are usually more strain to peel off the bed, wash and dry without tangling in everything else, impeding both dirt removal and proper drying. Afterwards there's lifting all four corners of a heavy mattress to tuck fitted corners back under. A queen bed adds the experience of guessing which corner of the sheet goes on which corner of the bed. I used to take a black marker and point arrows on the corners so wherever one pointed was the long way of the bed, i.e.,  head or foot. The latest batch of markers aren't so permanent. All in all, the less need for laundering, the better.

Thus we're back to needing something to cover as much of my torso as possible,  suitable for the temperatures, and still comfortable. What's the most comfortable? Well-worn total cotton clothing, no to short sleeves, stretched out everywhere including now wide necks, patterns likely faded and full of holes. You know, stuff I'd never be caught dead wearing out of doors.  Or maybe only caught dead. You know: cotton rags now. But soft ones.

My arms and legs are already tucked under whatever bedding house temperatures require, something between not even a sheet on top to a sheet/blanket/quilt combo. Their very size tends to keep them where they belong, as the unconscious me seems perfectly capable of arm movements moving them to suit temperature regulation. OK, full disclosure, I can wander all over the bed in my sleep, another reason to avoid nightgowns.

When rags are totally suitable for another year or two, why go out and buy an expensive experiment? You don't know how it feels on your body, how much it will entangle you over the course of hours. Those rags must have had enough comfort in them for you to wear long enough to turn them into a rag. Your body already knows how soft they feel. If they aren't, then the crate on the floor beckons. Those scratchy bits can still scrub.

There is one caveat however. Sometimes those seams pick up tiny somethings, or have a non-cotton thread, and become an irritation. Most times they're still just fine worn inside-out, seams on the outside. My only exception to that is a series of summer shirts I bought a dozen years ago, with printed decorations all over the front and bits of fine glitter added. There are so many that they still look great for the most part just for their time between rotations of wardrobe. Traces of  glitter still remain, enough that those I still wear as regular shirts have to be removed before an x-ray! I don't notice them any longer, but the X-ray techs sure do. If they do, my body will likely notice if I'm skin-to-glitter all night. Oh well. They're still good regular shirts, and there are a lot of baggy tees in the wardrobe for sleeping in, or something strappier for summer.

Oversize cotton knit shorts with drawstrings are perfect for the same reasons for the rest of me. With all my pants these days, I'm only buying new knits with drawstrings, except for when I need jeans, because elastic never lasts. I do like my pants to stay up on the way to the bathroom! Decades ago I learned the art of pulling a drawstring through after it got pulled out. It involves a large safety pin (or diaper pin) and then knotting the ends together loosely before putting the pants in the laundry to avoid having to repeat the pull-through part, because frankly it's a bitch!  

At least it's a soft, comfortable bitch.

When The Weather And I Disagree

 My ambition has been peaking. So has my need to dig into a job and get it done for the year. 

When I say "digging", I mean it literally. Perhaps half of my iris have been relocated. There's an easy path out to the rest of them, right through the middle of my round raised garden. I made that when I dug out the first batches of iris to move. It was lumpy and totally unsafe for this set of wobbly legs, trying to find flat spots big enough for a foot at a time, avoiding the raised blocks which weren't doing a good job of being stepping stones due to elevation above dirt level, find a spot to start the shovel going down, hoping to stand on the edge of it to force it further in the dirt than arms alone could manage and do all that without losing my balance and falling. In desperation I managed to grab clumps of the tallest of the daylily leaves to keep myself stable.

They didn't seem appreciative. I decided not to mind, counting on their reputation for hardiness, especially this late in the year, nearly all blooming done.

Despite never really getting injured when falling, I have developed an actual deep dread of doing so. It can take me a minute - an actual minute, not just the expression - to work up to lifting one leg and placing the foot in the next desired spot to get close where I need to dig next. It's complicated by the other plants in the way, which I don't want to step on, even though they are daylilies and virtually indestructible even if I manage to sprawl over the totality of them. Those same impediments assist my safe passage so I consider it an even exchange. They haven't tried to argue where I could hear  it. I do apologize mentally to them. Hey, show me an ear and I'll do it out loud... quietly of course so the neighbors don't think I'm completely crazy.

The part of the garden which got dug and trampled and guided me safely to my goal, once the desired plants had been removed and all the broken daylily leaves cut back, is now mostly bare, smooth, and safe. More iris wait at the end of it to get dug, after which new daylilies go in those spaces. I'm itching to get back out there and dig.  Then soak the iris, cut leaves back, and plant them in the area of their new home which had a lovely new layer of top soil spread across it waiting. The next stage should be much easier.

Except...

During those days of the first move it was cool. The air was dry. And I still had salty sweat running down my face. I'd put a folded bandana over my head and knotted it so it would stay put and soak up the sweat. Within two minutes it didn't matter. I pulled some paper towels out of my pocket and wiped my face over and over to clear my vision, keep my eyes from stinging, and myself from being so ungodly uncomfortable. I wanted to keep working, get the job done, pat myself on the back for a mission accomplished after months of planning and shopping and drawing out a layout and researching depth for various species. It was miserable joyous work, and it ended too soon. 

Note I didn't claim it was finished. That's why it ended too soon.

The rest of the job still waits. The new dirt for most of the remainder of the new bed has been spread and broken up from large clods to much smaller ones. I found a way that didn't put too much weight on either shoulder, once my son dug the remaining rhubarb plants out of the bed. I drove one of those to its new home, and he took some fresh topsoil home with him to make his own new rhubarb patch out of the remaining plants. I learned to start planting at one end of the new iris strip, free to walk over the new dirt as I backed over it to make space for the next row, and so forth, never needing to reach across on my knees but bend down from the hips, a much better point of balance for me, until I ran out of dug iris. 

There is an intimidating amount of them left in their original patch, though new space is prepared for them. But the heat and humidity are back, without bringing rain, my energy first thing in the morning when it's pretending to be cool leaves something to be desired, and my hopes still rest with the morning weather report. It's still too warm for me, not too warm for the iris, nor too cool, leaving my dilemma as a weight like concrete shoes keeping me inside the house until it really is too cool in late fall to get them settled in properly.

We just don't want to mention the fear of falling in the garden which still lingers, despite work and logic. Even with some of the the causes removed, there is still that moment when one foot has to be lifted, the other balanced on while the shovel is properly placed for the lifted foot to descend on it with a very decided and well-aimed stomp, then a tilt, a lift, a further stomp to shove more, another tilt to loosen and lift roots... and then the search for that perfect space to lay the shovel down in the garden full of growing plants without damage where it can not only sit while the freed iris are lifted from their clinging dirt, relieved of enough burden from their former rootball that they can be gently tossed outside the bed wall onto the lawn without any further damage until they soak in a pail of water. 

As long as that takes to read is also as long as it takes to do, adding the burden of making sure where the shovel lands is easily reached again to pick it up again for the next dig without losing balance for that either. Remember that where they have dug in for two years is also where the daylilies have surrounded them and grown close and tall, and are meant to give this growing and blooming duty another crack at their job the next year, and the next. There are also new daylilies meant to be planted in some of the spaces now bereft of iris, once the removal is complete, but not until. They are not to be tromped on again, at least not this year. All need some time to get new roots established in roomier soil. 

I bet most of you gardeners out there read all this, think it's not in need of description because for you it's a simple dig-lift-dig-lift-replace kind of job. I also bet you haven't found that fear of falling when another person or two are required to get you up and vertical again without further damage because your own body no longer does it as simply as it used to before replacement parts had to be placed in. Once that uneasiness is installed along with those new parts and several experiences, then that awareness seeps in of just how many chances there are for something wrong to happen. Fear is invasive as weeds, and grows from just as tiny seeds. One finds a reason bigger than the fear to continue, and gradually conquers a bit here and a bit there... or doesn't. The job is more complex in those circumstances.

I can't be sure there is room for all the current iris. I know I bought some spectacular ones when we moved here but they didn't bloom yet. I never marked them when planted, just remember them as if they were a time on the clock face. If north is 12, they were planted between 7 and 10. That whole area waits to be dug. What other kinds are in there? Who can tell? I did manage to make arrangements with a good friend and dedicated gardener to adopt any I couldn't find room for in their new bed. Over half her yard is flowers. I gifted her with a single one last year. It did well, according to the photo she took. They'd be loved there. If I make a mistake and give away the most spectacular of those, I wrote down the name back when I planted them, and they are still on the market. Check out "Grand Canyon Sunset". I can dig out spaces and split where very plain but hardy iris are, or perhaps some just didn't survive being mailed which were new this year. I do wonder about a couple but only time will decide. I know, for example, I have an abundance of plain light blue bearded iris, lovely enough but easily growing into excess where a riot of colors is preferred. I expect more to thrive now without having to compete with daylilies. There are other gardeners in this neighborhood who don't mind free flowers and the care they need.  But all will have adequate new homes in a week or so, or else.  However.......

Tock tock, tick tock, the calendar is running out. Temperatures should be dropping. The task which calls louder daily should be getting easier daily, with cooler dryer air and less sweat in the eyes.  A day here and then a day a week later would almost do it but somehow other needs fill those days. Doctor's appointments and other obligations still fill the calendar. There are mornings where by the time breakfast and getting dressed are accomplished that it's already too muggy and hot for hard work. The sun is still up plenty early, great for the plants but not for the one planting. One night with an inch of rain almost fools you into thinking the drought is over, which you readily conspire in agreeing with, because watering here HAS TO be followed immediately by hose removal and the hose is long enough in itself, not to mention when filled, to take up half an hour by getting itself moved... in the sun. That has to be figured in. Tools went missing for a few weeks, only to be discovered to have been hiding under the blade of the shovel plus a few plastic bags. I now own double sets. Sigh.....

Maybe tomorrow....

Remember The Movie "Pearl Harbor"?

 I'm talking about the one with Ben Afflek and Kate Beckinsale, if it was the love story you watched it for. It's also the movie with Cuba Gooding Jr. for those who watched for for the heroism and war battles. (Both are OK too. Same movie.)

Steve is former Navy, and he watched it at least in part for the naval history. Now, a very true story of exceptional heroism depicted in the movie is being all but obliterated in history, if Trump has his way. If you remember Cuba Gooding Jr's role, he portrayed a very real hero, Doris "Dorie" Miller, a navy cook as well as the ship's boxing champion. And therein lies a story.

Miller was black, and back then that meant he wasn't allowed to fight. He could cook, and did it honorably. He also was respected for his boxing ability (and all the money his shipmates could win betting on his fights). When his ship was bombed in the attack on Pearl Harbor, he was down in the bowels of the ship in the kitchen. He got his fellow sailors and the wounded captain out of harms way first, up to the deck where they could man the guns or jump into the water to escape the fires. 

Did he jump? No, he saw the unmanned .50 caliber machine gun on the deck, and started firing back at the Japanese airplanes attacking them. Remember, he was never allowed to be trained on the ship's weapons. But he quickly figured out how to work it and  fought back. He was the first African American to be awarded the Navy Cross, presented in person by Admiral Chester Nimitz himself. Unfortunately Miller later died in the war when his ship was torpedoed.

So you ask, if he got the Navy Cross, how his heroism is being obliterated? Currently an aircraft carrier is being built, designated to be named after him. Trump thinks it should be named the "Trump". Nevermind Trump's never done anything heroic, never served in the military after his Daddy found a doctor to sign off on alleged bone spurs, and has publicly referred to our military interred in Arlington as "suckers and loosers". Nevermind that Trump currently is mistreating our current military on the USS Abraham Lincoln by overlong deployment and lack of proper food and other supplies. Nevermind that Trump's ego requires stunts which cost lives when he appoints a fawning TV personality to be Secretary of War (now) who has no experience, no training, and no appreciation of our military leading him to understand that their lives matter.

Also nevermind that ships are not named after living people, just like stamps don't bear their likenesses, nor does US currency. Nevermind that Trump's name on anything rapidly devalues it, like he's done and is still doing to the Kennedy Center. And nevermind that Trump's idiocy has been costing this country all its former allies. We stand alone in the world now, not in a good way.

Oh, and let's not forget that Trump is an outspoken racist, which sure can't help anybody persuade him to keep his mitts off the name of a ship honoring a true African American hero!

When Things Go Wrong At Etsy

 I've been using this site for online shopping for years now. I've bought all kinds of things there, starting with craft supplies. I moved around, checking out various vendors, and finally decided my favorite, as well as the one I most wished to support, was Oliverstar, workers in small hand crafted glass beads. I was drawn mostly to their roses, though there are other flowers and other beads there. I made an effort to keep supporting them, since they are in the Ukraine, once Putin invaded. I never had any kind of issue - except a change in my finances - and patiently waited the extra time to receive my packages. They usually popped an extra something in their packages. I only wish I were still in need of their products, though I've gotten more into gardening in our new home.

I haven't visited Etsy much recently, though I do look at my daughter's site there, called SkuldsStitches, for those who love scandinavian needlework, every so often. I'm not a customer because she gifts me directly, and I merely have to look in the right direction to see her work.

Birthdays in the family are coming up again - everybody's a fall baby - and I just placed a couple orders for presents, their nature not to be disclosed in this post. But going back there hit a nerve I'd been trying to forget about.

Weeks ago I'd ordered a pair of daylilies, Earlybird Cardinals, red with a thin white rim on the petals. They were expensive, but unique, and appealed to me. I'm pulling the iris out of the daylily bed to a new location, and there will be vacancies to fill. I checked other sources for the plants and only found that name one other place. The picture on the Etsy site was prettier with more clear white rims. I decided to order through Etsy. 

The reply was prompt, just over a week to get what were supposed to be my two bare root plants. Instead it was a small bag of red asiatic lily bulbs. The receipt with them informed me they cost under $15, a small fraction of what I'd paid the vendor. I immediately contacted them, a semi-polite version of WTF?  I offered to return the bulbs since I had no place for them. My asiatec lily bed is full and making more bulbs as you read this. The only thing the order got right aside from my address was the color red. I just don't want red except in tulips (done!) and daylilies (waiting). I asked what they wanted to do to make it right, and should I send the bulbs back?

I was informed I could keep the bulbs. Well, I found a willing neighbor who would plant them in her yard.  Then they informed me they were working on getting the right plants to me.  In a week or so I got a notice that they'd fixed my issue. Seriously? Nothing was in the mail coming my way - I get a notice from the Post Office with a tracking number, and pay strict attention since living plants need TLC as soon as  they get here. I sent comments correcting their  misinformation. After two of those I got a reply acknowledging I was still owed my two plants, and I should have patience.

Is three weeks enough patience? I looked in at their Etsy website which listed the plant as out of stock. I hoped that meant their last plants had been set aside for me. I tried for patience. No further communication came, and I need to get back to the gardens now that it's cooler and I have the proper hose nozzle to spray our gardens to keep things alive. (120 feet of total hose does the job.) 

Today I was again shopping on Etsy for something else and decided to pop over to see if anything was happening. Most of the previous discussions had been erased. I noted the "tab" to hit to contact Etsy directly, and did so. It warned me I had just a few days left if I wished to make a complaint about this order. Boy did I! I was allowed 300 characters, so practiced being very brief  but to the point. My preferred resolution had been the plants, but after this time I changed it to a full refund. I got a quick note that if it were approved, which could take days, a refund should be issued and could take 5 days to reach  where it was initially paid from. Etsy had those records. I didn't need to go dig them out.

By the time I logged off Etsy and went over to my email, I noticed 4 new communications from Etsy. I'd expected one, an acknowledgment that they had noticed my complaint and were starting to investigate it. I continued reading the successive ones, an acknowledgment that I was wronged, an acknowledgment I would be paid as requested, and confirmation of where they were sending it. It could take up to 5 days to land in that account. In total, it took them about five minutes to send all that information to me!

Anybody aside from me think that Etsy has had issues with these guys before? What they showed me is they do stick behind their shoppers and do it well.

Of course I'd still like those daylilies of that particular variety. I might check for some next spring. Or by then find new colors to please me. Or find something else somewhere. Who can tell by then?

Anyway, thanks, Etsy!

(NOTE: the deposit was here first thing the next morning!!!!)

Another Mystery Sighting

It was a day for odd things, or at least out of the usual. The all happened within a short period of time on a day that was itself rare, but very welcomed. Steve got to go fishing again, down on his favorite river bank on the St. Croix, the sandbar that forms in low water levels around the boat ramp called Franconia Landing. I can drive down, turn and park, unload Steve, his fishing gear, his chair and the platform that goes under it preventing his chair from tipping in the loose sand. It had been over a year since he'd gone fishing, and he was finally feeling well enough to go. 

I had promised to take him, but one of his sons with his wife met him there. They usually pick him up from our place but today was a doctor visit with a doc who always takes a long time with each patient, something I appreciate, but which leaves Steve waiting in the lobby long enough that he can get irritated, especially when fishing awaits. I dropped him off afterwards, and left after taking my mandatory pictures. Like a red wild flower perfectly framed in front of a weirdly shaped hollow in a still living tree on the bank.

Sure, it's tilted, but still stood long after all kinds of rain and ice storms that took out more healthy looking trees in all kinds of nearby locations over the last few years.

Fish were biting well, enough that a second trip had to be taken for live bait later. While I was there however, the fish were already biting. Steve's son was getting ready to toss this one back in.

It's all catch-and-release. Much as the family loves fishing, nobody cares for cleaning. And while I was there, nothing worth eating was caught anyway. Later I heard tales of bigger fish, because of course, and this shot is included  even though the topic is about odd things. These are not odd. Nor are the smallmouth bass and red horse suckers which started biting later. But hey, bragging rights, right? Some days any fish is worth noting.

For the neighborhood, these are not unknown, but I scratch my head at anybody who lets their chickens run wild where cars, dogs, or foxes could eliminate their flock. They did have interesting colors however.

Uphill on the same road coming downhill from the highway, a farmer occasionally has horses out in their field. Previously, if we saw any, there were only two, a white and a brown. Recently we saw either one horse or none at all. Today there were four, close to the road and making a good horse shot impossible. None of these are unidentifiable, or even much worthy of a photo if the day hadn't been so ho-hum so far. I had no idea what was to come.

Meanwhile I headed home to wait for the phone call informing us that Steve's new prescription was ready. I promised to drop back on my way to pick it up, along with some groceries,  and leave the second house key with Steve. While his fishing supplies were in the car before we left for the doc's, the thought he might need to get back in before I did was nowhere in our thoughts.  Eventually the call came, I ran all my errands, and headed home. So of course, because that's how it happens, I was on a busy highway, no opportunity to pull out the camera, when my mystery critters ran across the road.

I slowed a bit when the first ran out from the shoulder. I slowed more when the next one followed, then the next, and I realized I had no idea exactly what they were. I just kept watching, noting details. And while doing that, I did what one does, I suppose: I counted them.

My view had the late afternoon sun on the opposite side, so all I saw was black shapes. My first impression, with their backs arched up in a perfect curve, was they were toys. I've seen toy wooden cars with that shape. I presumed that was wrong, that these were living. I saw no fur spikes, but again, assumed they most likely had some. They weren't fish, nor birds, nor any appearance of any reptile I've ever seen. Think of taking a circle and cutting it in half, with a straight flat cut across for the belly, then adding tiny feet front and back. No bend indicated any knees. There was nothing except direction of travel to indicate head, the curve was so perfect. I made the assumption that they were presumably mammals, were going in the direction their (also presumed) heads were pointed at. Tiny sets of feet, one set on each end perfectly continuing the curve down to the road on both sides, were taking rapid fire steps without spoiling those lines, occasionally enough distance between the feet as to show light between, indicating their speed. They also served to elevate the totally straight horizontal body about two inches above the pavement. The body lines didn't change a bit the whole time, same back arch to the pavement, same flat stomach.They didn't bounce with those rapid steps, just seemed to glide across, maintaining the illusion of toys the entire time.

Right behind the first, possibly two feet back or a bit more, was number two. Everything identical: shape, size, speed. Next came number three, again everything identical, but add noting that the distance between two and three matched that of one and two. Same between three and four, then between four and five, and finally between five and six.  I recalled my initial idea of toys: these could easily have been pull toys with identical - but invisible - strings. By the time number six was running on the highway inside the right shoulder paint strip, number one was just hitting the left shoulder paint strip, then down into the ditch and hiding. Each followed in military precision.The parade took perhaps half a minute, possible a few seconds more. No other cars, in either direction, were close.

One other thing bothered me. Shouldn't they have had tails? I was busy looking at every detail I could note while they crossed, and could not see one tail. Not a stub, not a paddle, nothing pointing away from that smooth curve except tiny running feet. Not up. Not back. Not tucked under. I mused about "what-the-hell?" on the way home, then got busy hauling groceries. That image returned several times, but other things were happening, until it was bedtime.

The image of the parade of six returned in the morning, a clear silhouette. When time allowed, I started hunting online, working out key words to describe what they looked like and how they weren't like other animals.

Eventually I put in North American mammal, back arched when running. I figured wrong answers would point me to better narrowing it down. I was right. It gave me a mouse. I gave it back foot long. It was a start anyway. I couldn't define it more perfectly since I never got that close and only had highway to estimate measurements  by.

This time it came up with muskrat. Hmmm, OK, I know we have those in the area, but usually in the local lakes, a couple miles further west of my location. I had more questions, of course. Do they stray that far from water? Do they move in groups like that? Can they hide their tails that well? I'm going to defer to family members who might have those answers AND read this.

And thanks in advance!