Separate The Corms From The Mothers, Toss The Mothers

Or we could call this Iris For Dummies. That's certainly how I feel right now and I've raised them for decades. 

Perhaps I need to start over. "Raised" sounds a lot more active than I've been. Sure, I've had them in various gardens, but in they went, and ignored they got. Whatever survived, survived. Over the years some died out. Others cross bred and new color blends arose, particularly among the varieties which grew seed pods each year, mostly ignored except by the chipmunks and possibly a few birds. Maybe mice.

But there's a new garden waiting for plants, and the budget has been stretched more than enough, so with my son's permission, since he owns the house now, it was transplanting time. Mistakes had been made in the initial planting, most of which involved rocks, while the remainder of which mostly involved trees, a whole different story. 

One rock in particular stood out - in fact still stands out in the yard. It's a huge boulder, granite with wide streaks of feldspar, unearthed during the construction of the city's new Public Works Building some years back. It was one of several set way out next to the street awaiting a destination, while the concrete pad was poured. It needed heavy equipment to move it, but it sure would look nice along a corner of the yard as an accent piece, as well as a resting spot when one had worked hard enough for a while and wanted to sit and enjoy the yard. Actually the working part is not a requirement. It is big enough to hold three people, if they're not feuding. I asked the city clerk had anybody spoken for the rock yet? Was there a plan for getting rid of it or being used in landscaping for the building? The answer was the rock appearing in the yard the next day a couple feet from the driveway and just a bit farther from the street. It wasn't the corner I had in mind, but who was I to argue? No chance I'd move it myself! It had been accompanied by three other large rocks, which were movable by the right combination of wheels and muscles. I guess I solved all the rock problems for them at once!

Rock above, close up of feldspar details below.

I decorated the side of the rock nearest the house with pale blue bearded iris. They've thrived there, sort of. So has the grass, baby trees from all kinds of stray seeds, dandelions, violets, Virginia creeper vines, and whatever other opportunistic flora came along. The iris at least kept producing blooms, even if only one stem a year, like this one below, shot after a rain last spring. The area couldn't be mowed, or weed-wacked, or sprayed. They needed a new home and I had just the one to offer.  Offer accepted. After a couple big back-to-back rain storms, it was time to dig. September is right around the corner.

 A friend who loves gardening and gratefully accepted a few corms from me the previous week from a different blue iris, reminded me then that the basic rule for iris transplanting is to remove the corm from the mother and toss the mother. So: definitions needed, as it's not as heartless as it sounds. The corm is the lumpy part with leaves on it that will bloom next year. It is still attached when first dug up to a skinnier lumpy part, the mother, which bloomed previously and shrunk back, just life enough remaining to make one or more new corms for the next year. When blooming isn't happening, a new home is needed.

These had been neglected for a couple decades, were seriously overcrowded themselves, and totally infested with grass and other weeds. The original heavy tan clay they'd been planted into was now rich black loam full of roots. In addition to iris roots and grass roots, the birch trees along the drive had added their roots to the mix. Several baby cherry trees in the mix had grown a foot tall already. Digging was "fun". "Interesting". One big! damn! challenge!

Lucky for me my son had gotten Friday off as an extra long Labor Day weekend. After struggling to get the first clump up and out, I went and rang his bell to see if he was interested in helping. We had talked about doing the job over the 3-day weekend, but the soil was wet and soft right now, so here I was. Now he didn't have to interrupt the rest of his holiday if he was willing to help with the shovel.

He was. I returned home with two pans full of clods of dirt full of a bazillion different roots around corms on mothers. Plus a ton of expressed gratitude. And he can now mow and/or weed-eat around the big rock.

Next stop was my sink. After about an hour, dirt was one pile in a pan including miscellaneous roots and angleworms demonstrating their expertise as escape artists, a dishpan next to it was full of corms, hopefully plucked free of grass roots,  and the corms cut back to 3" green leaf tops were soaking while I grabbed a break for myself. I have found that once all the dirt is gone, which the soaking helps achieve, the iris roots are tan, about a 1/16 inch thick while the grass roots are very thready, black, and tangled. In a while the plantable bits were bagged and put in the fridge, and the dirt with miscellaneous roots was spread over the lawn. It doesn't need to come anywhere within a yard of the garden. That already grows weeds just fine.The mothers and some clumps of roots are in the garbage bag under the sink and can sit there for a week until the bag is full and the garbage can is again empty. They won't stink at least.

 Over the weekend the spot for the bearded iris will be filled with currently bagged black dirt and iris corms, with spaces left for other colors of iris yet to arrive in the mail. It will be a hell of a job, but the weather is supposed to be perfect for it, and I can take a break until the next huge job comes along. Say, planting the ordered lilies, or spring bulbs, or....

I'm hoping for at least another week to recover afterwards, that plus a lot of ibuprofin. My shoulders are still trying to get my attention for a break. November sounds good for that, don't you think?

That Tornado Wasn't Even Close!

We were expecting another line of storms last night, and canceled plans accordingly. Just like the last storm on the 26th, the sirens went off, twice. And just like then, we simply stayed inside. After all, it's the easiest place to watch the radar weather image on a laptop, disconnected from a power cord because we don't fully trust surge protectors, and with a picture large enough to be clear.

So of course, it "broke". Not the laptop, the radar image.

It had been a fast moving vertical bar of red on the screen, and then just sat, about 10 miles away, just on the other side of the freeway. That's when Steve's eldest son called about the tornado. The front wave of wind, rain, and lightning had hit us while the radar image still sat unmoving on the screen. It was time to turn on the TV to the local news, even though it was plugged in. (They are much cheaper to replace if necessary.)

Weather was all the news. The metro's storm was clearing on the west side, as it was a very narrow east-west band, even though vertically it covered most of the state. Across the bottom of the screen was the endless scroll of counties where people still needed to take shelter, and above that a bigger bar for the counties getting the tornado warning. Not watch, warning. We were included.

Oh yeah, their radar showed us in the heart of the weather, just like our windows did. My laptop, not so much. Still a frozen radar image. But we weren't getting the hail the newscaster was warning about, the wind hadn't been as strong, and the tornado warning, while still including our county in it on the screen, was being explained by the announcer as "radar indicated", backing down from "spotted by law enforcement", and had been from the county to the west of the northern tip of our county, and moving to the northeast from there. (We're in the southern part, so never in danger.) Just in case, they diagrammed where it might be in the next 5 minutes, 10 minutes, and on into Wisconsin, if it should ramp up again.

My laptop radar image still just sat, so some part of the system got taken out by the storm's leading edge. Our rain level backed down but continued to fall for about an hour. By then it was dark, I was tired, and bedtime loomed. Tomorrow (now today) we'd be out and about to see what damage may have occurred, though the previous storm days earlier had done very little here that we could see, aside from bringing a single tree down  just outside our park.

It had been stronger than this one, though with no rotation claimed anywhere, but winds had been clocked at 80 mph in the metro, and two days of news had been showing downed trees and reporting the slow progress of restoring power in the area. The only "damage" from it in our yard was the nuisance value of it having restored life to all the little uprooted weeds in the round raised flower garden after they'd sat, roots in the air, for several days. Guess this time I'll have to actually remove them!

Dang!

One Rose and Two Maples Down....

I think break time should last a bit over a week after that! 

There are reasons. Good ones.We could start with exhaustion... mine of course. I think it was a two hour project. I could have continued to put it off, but the longer it took to start, the more the job bugged me. I'm talking absolutely CRANKY!

It's not that some pruning hasn't been going on already. There was the bit just after we moved in when the rose and the hydrangea tried to take over the sidewalk. The pruning was ugly and not terribly successful. For sure it wasn't lasting. So another pruning followed, plus deadheading the rose hips that were forming, which only encouraged more flowering. That's how it works.

I suppose about this time into the tale I need to start defending my actions. Those two roses bushes were planted with love by the previous owners of this home. I get that. But they're dead. (Sorry if that's too blunt.) So they don't care any more. I never took a liking to these two bushes. First, they're yellow, so-o-o not my color. Second I can't smell them. It's me, not them, I'm told by a daughter whose nose hasn't been made useless by covid. But each blossom is pretty (enough) for a day, then turns very pale and drops petals. They seem healthy enough, though so much dead wood was left unpruned and unremoved it's hard to tell for sure. But their death sentences were issued because they are just totally a pest. The thorns on these are the worst I've encountered since leaving Arizona, reminding me of a foothills palo verde we'd nicknamed "the thorn tree". But these are hard, sharp, and recurved, so once they dig in they DIG IN! I'm used to roses with more thorns, meaning they are thinner, more fuzzy than lethal, and don't interfere with all other activity in the area.

I can understand why the hydrangea was left to grow so wild. It simply couldn't be approached. For the same reason, the maple trees were ignored while growing up inside both bushes, and any winds meant the hydrangea came knocking at the window screens. I did manage to force myself behind it once to do some pruning after the first big storm, but only part way, leaving that job unfinished and waiting for fall and heavy frosts. Ironically that job will allow air access to the AC, long after we need it. But more maple trees will have to get removed before they have a chance to grow taller than the hydrangea next summer... we hope.

I'll also be able at long last to find out whether the bleeding heart which got smothered under the mess survived.  I know they die back mid summer, so I'll have to hunt around among other short weeds which have thrived in that particular habitat. We'll have access to the bird houses and their post, so a decision can be made about their future. Paint? Replace? Remove?

There had been several close calls but my gloves managed to prevent any actual blood loss, though they did not prevent mild stabbing. When I say mild, don't even try to confuse it with painless. I did manage to draw the line at actual impalement. I also kept my clothing mostly intact, though I confess to not bothering with a close inspection. Perhaps tomorrow. If there are major snags in my knit top, it'll simply be cleaned and tucked into my "winter pajama" drawer, where imperfections won't bother anybody, and the long sleeves will be a bonus. It's a very comfortable top, so no point wasting it.

Did you think I was done after the rose branches were cut down? There was cleanup required. The sidewalk was totally blocked with those nasty branches, themselves branching out in all directions over the grass as well. I'd made a serious pile, in more ways than one. So my loppers had to be employed once again in cutting them into much smaller segments so that they fit more or less into our huge garbage can. (Maybe 60 gallon capacity?) Luckily it was emptied that morning. Not so luckily there is a holiday coming up delaying the next pickup. Garbage will back up. There is enough room left between branches and lid once it's fully closed for about four bags of trash to get packed in. In this house, that means the bags that local stores pack your groceries into, like maybe holding 4 cans of baked beans, or two loaves of unsquashed bread, at least up to the point where they are optimistically piled into your shopping card with hopes of them not being under the beans somewhere along the way home. Anyway, since we can't recycle those plastic bags, we use them in wastebaskets as liners, then tie the handles together before they go outside. Why buy bigger bags when you can just squish the trash?

At any rate, cleanup took almost as much time and effort as the cutting down did. The reason it didn't take more was because the really thick bottom stuff only needed to be cut through one time, and that had been done. It took both hands and feet to accomplish that, since my arms are pretty wimpy, but I could use my feet to pin the bottom arm of the loppers in place on the  ground for cutting the thickest part of the plant off the main trunk while using both arms together with my weight behind them to force the top arm down to the ground, thus forcing the cut. 

Amazing how much rotting rose wood can sit there just off the ground without rotting the thorns into harmlessness. In hopes of never having to repeat this job, never ever ever, I painted brush killer on the end of any green stump still connected to the ground. Now that I can see the stump remaining I can keep an eye out for signs of new life and nip them in the bud. I'm not going to bother digging up the roots, and have neither saw nor the ambition to cut the stump back to the ground. At least not until it proves necessary.

I thought about leaving the cleanup part of the job go, but knew it would just mean I'd trip into it at oh-dark-thirty when I headed out to the car for my new job. I'd been stabbed enough, thank you, and only while wearing older clothing. Plus I do tend to occasionally pop out barefoot. No way I wanted to give the rose a chance at revenge on my good wardrobe or skin the next day. So cut. Stack. Toss. Tamp down in the can with an end of the loppers. No need to risk me again. Repeat and repeat and.... finally head into the house for a broom and dustpan for a final cleanup. The people in this park being as fussy as they are, I was far from done yet. Tools had to be put back in the shed. The garbage can had to go back on the side of the shed to spend the next week plus. My chair needed to be folded, returned to the shed, and shed door locked. The broom and dust pan came back in the house with my last dregs of energy, so after collapsing in my chair I asked Steve to please put them away and  bring me some ice water. I did manage to stroll past a pair of granola bars before sitting down, and grabbed a blanket to snuggle under, because suddenly after all that exertion I had nothing left in terms of warming myself up. We didn't even have a house fan on with it being a lovely cool day, but I was near shivering.

Once the garbage pan is emptied next week, it will be time for the other nasty rose bush out front, and the maple tree (trees?) growing up out of that patch of foliage, long ignored for the same reason. After this I cannot guarantee there will only be one maple. Nor do I care to try to check at the moment.

September is soon enough.

Do You Suppose God Got Mad?

I mentioned in an earlier post ("Oxymoron") about a neighbor's sign supposedly for both Jesus and Trump. Hence the title of the post. 

Last night a wild thunderstorm went through. Over in our yard some bushes with previous storm damage accumulated a bit more damage. Pruning will be necessary, but no big hurry. They were overgrown and need severe fall cutting back for next year. Perhaps this weekend will do. Or at least waiting till the trash bins are emptied. Across the street, however, the offending sign has disappeared. I've looked out our windows and find no sign of it - no pun intended. Another storm went through this morning, which both radar and the local news confirm, along with Steve's report from being awake at the time, as I slept through it. This morning as I opened the blinds, still no sign was there.

So, I've been busy with morning routines for a while, and just sat down to write a thought which has been entertaining me for a bit. It requires the temporary suspension of disbelief for all who:

    1: do not believe in God

    2: Do not believe in Jesus as the son of God, nor care

    3: find no conflict with the thought of Jesus as their savior while following Trump as a modern religious icon

    4: Do not believe God works small practical wonders today.

Do you suppose God got mad at the blasphemy of the sign and actually got angry enough to make a point about it? Can you just imagine the holy wrath at the besmirching of his only begotten son's name and reputation by anything resembling equating following one with following the other?

I admit to finding the concept entertaining, enough to post about it. It's nearly afternoon, and while the rain has cleared, clouds still cover the sky, and it's still too wet to head out to prune back broken branches, haul dirt to fill holes without becoming totally muddy and tracking it back into the house, and with no sign of the mail truck there's no need to head outside at all yet. 

The lot next door has rebar in the bottom of the spot they worked on so hard yesterday in the high heat and humidity until finding a logical quitting point before somebody became ill. Some of the puddles there have drained out from under the 2-by-12s holding everything in place waiting for a concrete pour, and each time somebody swings by to check on status, I take note and notice what else is happening. Mail delivery? Not yet, though UPS and Amazon drove by. Neighbors out walking? Occasionally. Garbage bins and recycling to the curb? Still too early. Give it a couple more hours, since the early birds seem to be waiting.

Across the street? The offending sign has reappeared. So much for fantasy, right? I can only presume the neighbors went out when the sirens sounded, either the first or second time last night, both before the weather arrived, and rescued their sign from...  (the wrath of...) ...whatever was to come.

But hey, ain't imagination fun?

Another Day, Another Scammer

This time was short and sweet. I noted it said "Nuisance call" rather than "scam likely" under the incoming number. I'm almost curious what that's about.

"Hello?"

"Is this Heather?"

"Yes."

"This is Anderson, with United Screening." (I caught the alleged names this time! Wheeee!)

"What do you want?" (I wasn't using my friendly voice.)

"Well, I..." click.

I predict "Anderson" does not have a long career working for "United Screening". 

Maybe he'll be happier at Mickey D's. The kids are heading back to school soon. They're likely hiring. I bet the fryer fat is an improvement over the taste of dishonesty in your mouth.

Did I Say Two Scamers? Make that Three.

The kitchen was clean, dishes drying in the rack, the mystery of a missing blue tumbler yet to be solved. My new batch of special blend of instant coffee & cocoa was mixed and in its jar with its spoon, ready for a couple more months of morning wake-ups. I'd sat down with a new-to-me Hillerman book, reading, while Steve took an afternoon nap. The phone rang.

I noted the 218 area code, so allegedly northern Minnesota. I have family there so I recognize it, but it's none of them or their names would have popped up. I also get a lot of calls from some group claiming they're raising funds for policemen. Research says they pay themselves a huge majority of what they collect. So I'm wary.

"Hello?"

"Is this Heeether?"

I could have said no right then with such a bad pronunciation of my name. Instead...

"What do you want?"

"Hello, Heeether, this is ______ with (medical sounding name). I'm calling to tell you you have been approved by Medicare to have your genetic testing..."

Click.

Did I mention my parents both lived quite long lives, that Mom wasn't at all shy about sharing medical information, and I know pretty much what kind of messes I inherited?

The book is a really good one.

More Wannabe Medical Scammers

Within 24 hours, two of them called me. I haven't compared phone numbers, but the area codes matched mine. I guess they thought I'd think they were legit, right?

The first was a man, first name only (now totally forgotten, likely fake anyway), and was offering to discuss the "results" of my neurological exam with me so we could decide on next steps.

Maybe DJT needs one, but I don't. Further I've never had one. But I live in a seniors community - they can check these things before they ask your name and you confirm that is indeed you - so I must need one, have had one, or be worrying about why old age is playing games with me, right?

WRONG! 

I was tempted to string the fellow along for a bit. But I just wasn't up to it right then. AGT was on the TV and we both were watching. Plus I know I'd never had one, wasn't worried about one, and had no interest in cheating either myself or Medicare for any costs associated with one. So I sent him on his way, fairly politely.

Afterwords of course I fantasized ways to string him along, pretending to be frantically worried about my alleged results (since I couldn't remember getting such a test, it must obviously mean I have a serious problem, right?) and seeing how far he was willing to go in order the catch this particular fish. Truly, though, AGT was more interesting. Well, parts of it anyway. This one act however....

The next afternoon I got a call, from a woman this time, inquiring whether I was on Medicare. Yes, I am, but it's a bit early yet for the insurance of sub-par "Advantage" plans, or even Supplement plans, to be trying to snag new customers with honeyed words. Give that another couple months. The mail box will be flooded. But the question itself put me on my guard. People who need to know already do know.

Her spiel I've heard before, many times. "I'm _____ with ____________ Medical Services.  (It changes slightly each time.) Our records show you have __________ and __________ pain, is that right?" One of them is always back pain, since so many people have it. I have spent hours over the years in combined  various calls demanding to know where they got my medical records, which (alleged) doctor sent them over, why hadn't my doc let me know about the alleged referral, and so forth. All they ever know is that they have "my records". They're supposedly right there in front of them. Can I just confirm the locations of my pain for them?

Of course not!

This time, so soon after the other scam call, I had no patience at all. I apologize to the rest of the world for my nasty language to her, since I was trained better, but seriously, Mom never had to deal with these crooks. 

"You're full of shit, don't call me again, good-bye!"

In hindsight, I'm kinda amazed I bothered with the "Good-bye"! I guess some of Mom's training actually rubbed off! Hmmmm.....

Oxymoron

Would it be unkind to stress the "moron"?

Political signs sprouted overnight in our neighborhood like weeds. Say, the poison ivy kind of weeds. Every one I've seen is for tRump. (My spelling.) I don't like those but its a free country, right? I wonder that nobody so far has whatever it takes to put up a Democratic yard sign here, for whatever office, at least not yet. Is it because there is a lag after the convention?

I had a conversation with a neighbor on my way into the mail shed last week. I was wearing my new hat. She was about to drive off and decided instead to engage me in conversation. She made two points, other than giving me her name and house number. First, she approved of my hat, and second she was a bit leery of advertising her political leanings "around here". While the state as a whole leans "blue", this area leans "red". I'm not sure what the possible consequences in this senior neighborhood are for announcing an opposing point of view, but we pretty much stay inside anyway, and just exchange friendly chit-chat with neighbors we pass. I figure if they "get" the hat, they can figure it out, and likely already know about it. I've found folks who can't get it, even after letting them know the first character is a comma. I don't push it.

The sign across the street offends me, frankly. Its message is a total oxymoron, and I don't think they get it at all. Only the willfully blind, or those drinking an awful lot of the wrong kind of Kool-aid, can find the two statements compatible.

If you believe the first statement, one could presume you have some basic knowledge of his teachings. You know, love thy neighbor. Be kind to those who hurt you. Feed the hungry. Welcome the stranger, judge not, be meek, and a peacemaker, and on and on. One would also easily think you followed those teachings, and not selectively, or with your fingers crossed behind your back.

One might also believe  that you also have taken note of all the things he isn't known to have said. He never came out against abortion, or homosexuality. There was no "prosperity gospel" for that would have been the opposite of his teachings to share, or of  how difficult it would be for the rich person to enter Heaven.

If you are being kind, you might believe, against all evidence including from his own mouth, oft repeated, that tRump also follows those teachings, rather than the polar opposite. But he is vengeful, angry, loves only himself, thinks only of his own popularity rather than anything he can do for any of the rest of us. All who know him soon realize he is a narcissistic psychopath, and further that he is increasingly dropping into dementia. Now Jesus would have us  take pity on his  condition. He wouldn't have us agree with his greed, his deceit, his lies, his unceasing crimes, his hatred of and abuse of women...and on and on.

As a fnal note, tRump is not a President. He was, granted. He lost his election. Multiple judges found no evidence to the contrary, despite the lies presented to them in court, and several lawyers pushing those lies lost their license to practice law.  (I guess they needed more practice, or more law and less tRump, or something.) You may wish him to be one again, but right now he is a multiply-convicted felon and not a President.

In aiming my camera out the window I found something much less offensive to shoot, something to help take the ugliness across the street and its foul taste out of my mouth.

Enjoy the rest of my view.

Testing The New Tool

My round raised garden is growing things, beautifully. About 10% of them are actually what I planted there, or so far, daylilies and a few balloon flower seeds. I expect no balloon flowers from those seeds since the night after scattering them carefully at a very shallow depth as required, we had a royal downpour and they slid into a hollow. Now invisible, they will soon be covered by a couple bags of black dirt to fill that hollow, so bearded iris and daffodil bulbs can go in there.

Oh well, them's the breaks. They promised to be fancy in a variety of colors, not just blue, and some double blossoms. (How on earth does a balloon flower get double blossoms?) I may check a garden center next spring and see if fancy starter plants are available. If not, well, one plant did get transplanted and is thriving so far, just in a different location.

The daylilies are thriving, as daylilies do. A few are just tiny shoots so far, but most are six to eight inches tall, sometimes multiple shoots from a single root clump. I'm not really expecting blossoms next summer, but we'll see. The greenery will fill in wonderfully regardless. That's good because the rain and sun have combined to produce a bounty of weeds.

Some are grass. Some are flat, spreading, and waxy, nothing I can identify. Most, however, are either green or red versions of what we kids used to pluck and bite into, calling it sourgrass.  We loved it, or perhaps loved to hate it, depending on the kid. I suppose if I research it I'll discover whether it indeed is a relative of shamrocks, which it looks like. 

But hey, I'm busy. The weeds need to come out. Like now. While we have a few dry days in a row so they can die before the next expected rainy days.

The bed is raised and larger than I can reach across to the middle of. I don't kneel any more, not since my knee replacements. Kneeling hurts. I'm just not into that kind of pain. So while the plants are still tiny, with matching sized roots, they need to go away. Heaven awaits... for the plants that receive the nutrients that leach into the soil as the weeds decompose. But after pulling up half a dozen, and noticing how many hundreds of them had sneaked into the open spaces, something better had to come along.

Online shopping it is. The garden center shopping season is coming to an end, but all kinds of tools are available from a variety of overstocked locations. I had a lot of choices, including styles of tools I'd never seen before. I know about 5 garden tools, not even getting into those needed for harvest and pruning. There's the shovel, the hoe, the rake, and on the smaller level, the trowel and cultivator. Or as Mom called the last two, the digger and scratcher.  Those names made perfect sense to us kids. I had a trowel, even with a serrated edge on one side. Fancy! I needed some sort of a cultivator. With a long enough handle that I didn't need to either kneel or bend way down for an hour... sort of the same thing as I think about it. I also didn't need to trample the garden, as densely planted as I plan for it to be.

I actually wound up with a thing with an "L" shaped flat hook on the end, sharpened on both sides. It called itself a sidewalk edger. Who needs to edge the sidewalk? But the blade should work either with a push or a pull through the surface dirt, either to pull weeds out or loosen dirt and expose roots to dry. Or both at the same time, actually.

It arrived in a disappointingly short package. Further examination showed two pieces which screwed together into the advertised length, a useful adaption for shipping economically. It sat for a couple days while I got the house ready for a couple batches of company to see. This morning, having put it off as long as I could, I pulled it out and gave it a try.

There is a learning curve. Push-pull is needed, repeated a couple times or more depending on the age/size of the weeds. Established grass needed to be actually removed once the dirt was loosened. The rest could be left on the ground, roots in the air. The tool was perfect for the task, as the spacing between plants at the moment is a bit wider than the blade so I don't hurt the wanted plants. With highs expected from the upper 70s to the upper 80s before we get rain, what's left should be nicely dead by then. The top inch of soil is already dry since the last rain, so good thing the daylily roots go much deeper. 

The iris will need different treatment. As will some of the spring-flowering bulbs arriving sometime next month. The garden's center is low, even with the soil washed down in after the first planting, so bagged black dirt will be needed, and as that goes in and gets patted down, the iris corms will get shallowly planted and everything well watered. So just after the next rains then.  Any early arriving bulbs can go in at the same time. It would be nice to get those fairly soon so I don't have to trample the garden one extra time, right? Right now iris corms are in a sealed bag inside the fridge, having been soaked overnight after being dug out from their old home and their tops cut back. They will be fine for a while. Even iris seeds are in the fridge, per grower's instructions, and need wet ground to germinate in before winter. It's become a juggling act. 

But it's nice to get a win, and the odd tool I ordered did its job perfectly, in under half an hour this cool morning. I can look forward to easy weeding again as needed, a repeat in this bed, and in the next bare bed yet to be planted. That one will be mixed asiatic lilies and some hollyhocks. I've sprayed the johnson grass in it... three times now. I figure it'll need more just because it's johnson grass. I'm actually hoping those lily bulbs don't arrive for a few more weeks. Weeding that grass out between those would be a royal pain, whatever fancy new tool I have.

If I get bored, there are a couple nasty rose bushes to deal with... permanently. Not to mention the trees growing up inside their middles because of how nasty they are and how the previous owners valued their own intact skin. 

This owner does too.

Good thing I've had lots of practice with the loppers and brush killer.

Where Are Our Packages?

 We saw the mail truck drop the mail at the mail shed, which holds everybody's mail in locked boxes with their house numbers matching its box numbers. We're given a key to our box when we move in and are warned that having to replace it will cost of $125.00! The shed also has a bulletin board inside on one side where anyone can post a notice, and a drop box for rent checks on the other next to four oversized lock boxes for big packages.

Steve and I were both expecting packages today.

So on our way out to meet friends, I drove up and stopped to pick up the mail. As is usual for large packages, we had a key inside our box to unlock the big box holding our packages. There of course was a problem, because why not? 

The four big boxes are numbered, 1, 2, 3, and 4. Our key was numbered... wait for it... 203.

WTF !?!?!?!?!?!

Now there is a mail box with the number 203 on it. It's just as small as ours, belonging to the people in the  the house with that number. Anything small enough to fit in #203 would also have fit in our otherwise empty box matching our number. So of course I tried the key in it anyway. After all, how can I say it was a crazy idea if I hadn't tried it and our stuff was in there? Logically, of course, it would have been idiotic, but if you don't at least give it a try.... 

Imagine explaining you hadn't tried something because you didn't think they were that stupid and found out that's where it was.

It wouldn't go in. Good thing for the owners of box 203, right?

So, let's try the next stupid things on the list. Try box 2. Nope. Then 3. Nope. What was weird was the key would actually go in each of those box's key slots. It just wouldn't turn either one. Each of the four large boxes were presumably full because none of their keys were in their slots where they go once you've cleaned your mail out, ready for the next use.

I locked the useless key back in our little box and returned to the car to let Steve know what isn't happening.

Time to call the post office and find a polite way to ask them WTF? I always keep the number of our local post office in my phone, wherever we live. It rings. And rings.  Three and a half minutes later (my phone keeps track) it hangs up on me, no answer. I go through the same thing 3 more times, with the same results. Then I give up as we have to go meet these friends at a local restaurant and they should be getting there by now.

Once at the restaurant, I send Steve in while I sit in the car to try the post office again. Maybe somebody was on a double-cigarette break before. Hopefully their break is over. Three more 3 1/2 minute tries and still no answer. This is beyond understanding, but I'm leaving friends waiting. I'll try again tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Hopefully somebody can tell me what key 203 opens, or which key should have been left in my little box instead.

WHERE ARE OUR PACKAGES???????

Retirement? I Have A Job!

I officially retired 10 years ago. For somebody often previously working 60 hours a week, occasionally in three jobs, it's been wonderful. Sure, my sleep patterns were screwed up for some time, once I didn't have to rise at 6AM every morning, and mostly dropped right off at night just to get 6 or 7 hours of sleep. But now I could choose, mostly, when to leave the house, when to stay home, where and when to go once I did head out. Then there was volunteer work, combined with learning/teaching some new skills for a new hobby. And of course there was Steve, so my plans had to consider our plans. It was a new combination of flexibility with responsibility. With very rare exceptions it was all fun.

After moving back north, not having the group setting for hobby work, and mostly working to put the new home in order, I was almost ready to declare that phase of the new life done. Accomplished. Sure, boxes still litter the occasional spaces, but most are unpacked or stored as is, out of traffic patterns. Books were again becoming a big part of my life, from organizing what tiny part of our former library remained and finding spaces for the overflow, to looking at incomplete sets from favorite authors and ordering used books online, to hitting the local library and getting a new card.

There is still a huge project ahead of me before fall closes it down, reorganizing the garden spaces around the house. I hate to say it, as some of you will consider it a kind of garden blasphemy, but rose bushes will become compost before the snow falls. They are too nasty a barrier to accomplishing anything else in their near vicinity, with hard, sharp, curved thorns. Whoever planted them seem to have purposely chosen spaces mingling with other bushes needing a lot of attention, while preventing the needed access. (Trees are growing out of way too many of them!) Lots of bulbs are already in new homes, with many more on their way, some end-of-season pruning NOT rose-adjacent is already under way, and the project will stretch about another two months.

All in all, things had been settling down to the point where we were looking at a nice cozy stay-at-home winter ahead of us.

Then I got asked to take a job. It will be fairly part time, often little notice of hours, and modest pay. There was also two weeks of (unpaid) training, mostly online, with a system not compatible with my laptop. This meant long hours in a very over-air-conditioned office, having to get up frequently to walk into the next office with a "OK, the computer did this, so now what do I do?" The trainer was happy to help and got me through it. (It didn't work with her computer either.) 

I now have three certificates, a new awareness of Minnesota laws specific to the task, and the ability to use the new knowledge and skills in any appropriate setting. I start tomorrow. Yes, Saturday, with the stipulation the weather holds.

I am now officially a PCA, or a personal care assistant. The person who asked me to take the job knows me, was less than thrilled with another person meeting their needs, and asked me to step in. HIPAA rules prohibit me to tell you any more than that. There are certain low levels of care I am now qualified to give, none of which are medical, but assistance is frequently needed. I don't have to do things like haul laundry up/down stairs, or cook. Other people do that. Some of what I do will be offering emotional support, without judging, and with plenty of listening, all of which my 14 years of trained support group facilitating, from way back when I met Steve, have put me in a position to give. Sometimes I will be needed to provide transportation, sometimes with little to no notice, and I can certainly do that, having nearly 30 years as a commercial driver. Other things that arise will be done as needed, often by others with different areas of expertise.

There is a bonus to this job, or at least a potential one. If, in the future. Steve's needs, getting older as we do, require the same kind of services, it is now legal for a relative to be hired to perform them. Trained, of course. And still non-medical stuff. I'd be first in line to apply, of course.

Timely? Who Are They Kidding?

It's the 14th today. Yesterday was Tuesday, and known in Minnesota as Primary Election Day. It's a bit different here than other places, since the primary in August is basically for the Congressional elections, a Senator if one of the 6 year terms is up for renewal, and 8 Representatives. Presidential choices were voted on in March, just before we arrived. It's a single ballot covering both parties, but if you start with one party for one office, you have to stick with that same party. Just saving paper, instead of a whole ballot for each party.

Other, down-ballot elections - unless more has changed than I'm yet aware of - get put on the ballots during the November general election, in this case the Presidential election. You can still get 4 or 5 people vying for a single spot, but they get only one crack at it. Most of those elections are not by party affiliation.  Back when I was running in our city, we didn't even have to sign up to run until September, but back then that was the primary elections day as well. As far out of local politics as I am, I haven't bothered to find out if that's changed as well. I'll figure out who the people are in a couple more months.

I knew when the Primary was, since it made the news several days ahead of time. Steve and I made a point of heading over to vote in the early afternoon, after the local lunch break voting crowd had cleared out and before people with full day jobs out of town were back for the day and making those long lines after supper. Steve had thought he'd scooter up, but when it was time he decided the car would be easier on his back. That of course meant he'd need to stand for the process, so short lines were a must.

We got our new drivers licenses once we had the new permanent address, and got registered in the process, so that part was done. We got mail confirming our precinct for where it meant we were to vote. I knew where it used to be, meaning like in the last MN town we lived in, city hall. But I checked online before we left just to be sure. Yep, 4 blocks away, in the big room where council meetings and other events were held. I'd been to one there wayyyyyy back in the day, just popping in to visit and see how another town did things compared to ours.  I liked ours better of course. If I hadn't I would have made changes. Mayors get to do that.

What really shocked me was the mail each of us got this morning. It was issued on the 8th, coming out of the county government center, about 3 miles away. It had a huge bunch of information on it for a postcard, giving our Congressional district (national) which was same as for the previous town about 7 miles away, Senate district and House district for state offices, Commissioner district for the county, and soil and water district. Just for that bundle of info alone I'll be keeping this card so I'll know who to research in the fall.

The part of today's card that shocked me, however, was the listing of our polling place, by building  name, address, and directions to get there from the highway. We voted yesterday! Good thing I was proactive, eh? Before setting the card down, I pulled off the little round I VOTED sticker off the paper I'd stuck it on yesterday, and affixed it to this ironically late, wannabe helpful, piece of mail. I'll remember just how useful it might have been if needed next time I pull it out to look at it.

It occurs to me to wonder if anybody actually needing to receive one got theirs on time... LIKE YESTERDAY!

How To Pare Down

Another thing finally accomplished! It's a milestone telling us we are finally moved in... mostly. There are still a couple stacks of boxes, some organizing needed. But most of those things are ones that wouldn't particularly change our lives whether or not they were unpacked and organized, or left for another year or two.

This one mattered. I finally looked at the budget, now that we've disposed of all the old bills, dragged out because of the house sale or misdirected mail, and the new bills, finally settling down now that we're settling in. Necessary furniture is here, things left behind but needed are replaced for the most part, and the pantry room fairly well stocked. Many of the needed decorations are in their new places. Routines are becoming established. 

Even gardening for next year is happening, with additions to the original plans getting forced upon us. The management does yard and outside home inspections here, and one patch of garden I was willing to live with is now getting dug out and replanted. I'd pulled buckets and buckets of weeds from it in early summer. They're back. They will continue to return, unless they get sprayed a couple times, like the oak tree in the middle of an astilbe. I'd tried planting astilbe plants in the Shafer garden decades ago. One still struggles there. This patch of raised bed has five. Management has decreed the weeds MUST GO! But poisoning means the astilbes die too. So Paul will help dig those out  first, and take them back home to his gardens. The bleeding heart has died back until spring, so spraying won't harm it. So tomorrow night, spray, spray, spray!!! I'll have about 3 weeks to kill off everything before bulbs go in, perhaps longer.

In the scheme of things, paring down in this case is relatively easy. Remove the wanted, kill, kill everything else, replant. Of course it's a tiny bit expensive too, But that's also the fun part, picking out with Steve the plants to go in, in this case asiatic lilies in many colors, and peach colored holyhocks in the back.

Today's accomplishment was a combination of paring way-y-y back, packing/unpacking, shopping once the budget said OK, and just plain work. I'm referring to our library.

In Arizona it filled one bedroom, meaning three walls.

The angle you don't see is the room door and a closet converted to an office. The middle of the room managed to fill itself twice over, first with hobby stuff, and again with packing supplies and storage.

Note that once again, I was not the one doing all the work. Paul came down to build, paint, and install all the shelves. I was the one filling them, back before my shoulders rebelled. Like my ideal of a library, all the fiction was filed alphabetically by author. How else do you find anything? The really tall stuff went under the windows.

We knew we'd never have room to move all of them into, much less the need we were sure years ago that we'd have to keep them all with us forever. Choices had to be made. Boxes had to be found, filled, taped, labeled, stacked. There were fairly unsuccessful garage sales, large donations to the library system and some friends. Boxes were taped, stacked, eventually transported, and again stacked. They sat. We talked about doing something.

"Later, please." This from me, needing respite from unpacking. 

"Later, please."Again from me, needing respite from organizing, shopping, more organizing, more shopping.

Talks about doing something with the books became less frequent.

Last week I ordered a shelving unit. Paul came over to put it together. It went where the stack of books had been sitting, having moved those in front of another window. We talked about filling them.

"Later, please," this from me fighting a different fight, this time with my laptop, unsuccessful at downloading some needed training videos, frustrated, and with no earthly idea how all those boxes of books would go in that small shelf unit.

I finally opened one. It held several categories of books, which got placed on four different shelves. This was no way to start! The next box held books from three different authors, all of which had a lot more books somewhere in these boxes. But one of those authors had four series we'd collected, of which we only still liked two. They got sorted, including from more boxes. One series went over on the table, to go elsewhere. One filled a cubby, another overflowed a cubby, the fourth made a new stack on the table. Now what to do? So many more boxes to go, so few more cubbies.

I decided my filing system was wrong. We'd already noted most of the cubbies wouldn't hold anything but shorter paperbacks... vertically. Hardcovers not at all, except in the middle, taller cubbies. While discovering the total scope of the problem, I was creating stacks all over the floor, divided by author. So many series had a shelf and a half of books. Now what?

Some say think out of the box. I decided to rethink staying in the box. Or cubby. Most series contained books in several sizes, so some laid flat in front of shorter vertical ones filling the back. A couple drifted over between adjacent short and tall cubbies, so more or less together so long as your eyes didn't stop at the dividers. Some had two full cubbies, with both filled with a front and a back layer of books. A few books stick out past the bookcase. Some cubies are totally random selections of one or two books per author when they only wrote that many. Or maybe I only collected that many. 

Occasionally we discovered two identical books from the same author, and once that we'd done that three times! Of course that made sense, considering the author was Steve's father! Those books are getting harder to find, despite the fact that at least one was on the NYT Best Selling list. Steve is very proud of those books. His father, Clyde Brundy, spent many years traveling through the western states while employed as a  bookkeeper for a highway construction company.  He became familiar with the geography of the places he wound up writing about, and in his process of writing, did all kinds of research. His facts are correct. His characters and their situations and attitudes are realistic. He wrote strong women characters. If you happen to like westerns with some realism in them, something more complex than sheriff vs. bad guy, try to find some while they still exist. I personally recommend that you start with High Empire, the same way I did, and the book Steve named his own blog after, in case you want to check out some of Steve's stories. He will swear to "at least most of them" are true. Neither of us have read them through recently enough to be positive, but if you run into him performing with Satchmo, or putting a ghost to rest, or taking a special girl to a dance in an empty ballroom, they're factual.

Back to the shelves now, you notice books are in them every which way. They may look disorganized, but they're not. One cubby remains to be filled. We think of it as room for the future. Do we add Anne Hillerman's books to her father's collection? Do we collect more of a different author or discover a brand new one? Even with an empty space, one collection of books isn't there. All the Native American ones, whether aimed at adults or children, whether stories or histories, including stacks of those devoted to pueblo pottery art/artists, have been moved from the Arizona living room to my Minnesota bedroom. Same cabinets as before, just different contents, mostly, and taking more shelves, along with the pottery some of them talk about. Like all our books, if you wish to read one and will take good care and return it, you are welcomed to do so.

It better go back in the right place!

Guess What Came In The Mail?

There are windy days. Bad hair days. Worse hair days. Need a haircut days. Just had a (cough cough) "haircut" days. In short, many reasons to avoid showing off my coif. 

In hot summer days, working outside in the yard, I tend to go for a folded bandana around my head to keep the sweat from dripping in my eyes. Often it gets me another half hour of work before I MUST stop. Anybody objecting to what I look like at those times get what they deserve. 

Hey, I'm retired. Get over yourselves.

Some days I try to fix the damage to my image. But more and more I give up and just stuff a ball cap on my head. My usual one is a Kartchner Caverns one, from an Arizona park I loved to see and show to visitors when we were there. It's not particularly attractive - the cap that is, the park is amazing - but it does its job.

Recently I found one online that I decided to buy. I figure most of you would "get it". Steve helped me get a shot of me wearing it. Well, about 8, of which I chose one.

'Nuff said?

If you like similar caps, ETSY has a large selection, FYI.

Unique To Snail Mail

 I know people who  just don't send mail any more. I understand why, say, bill paying is much easier online, or by ACH payments directly from your bank or credit union. But call me a (proud) Geezer, I won't mind, but I still believe in sending snail mail... some times.

Yes, even after all the problems we had in the last few months.

I had to send out a letter today, which contained one notarized copy of a document and two plain copies for reference once the notarized copy got sent further on to serve its use. I actually managed to find one* envelope in all the stuff still jumbled up in odd locations after the move, awaiting more energy for organizing stuff.** A return address label would have been nice, but it's one of those things we just hadn't gotten around to yet. It's a task which might have waited till long enough to make our holiday cards wait until into the next year before getting sent. 

So today was just a timely reminder.

At least I still have an abundance of stamps. I tend to buy a lot for the annual big mailing, and maybe use one or two in between. Today's stamp was an otter sliding down the snow. Don't ask what year those were printed. Forever is forever. I still have more recent ones as well. We'll see if those combined are enough to get us through this holiday. A bunch of them can still be hand delivered when I know I'll see people then.

After consultation with Steve, it was decided to print out address labels with both our names on them, so either of us can use them. Being the main shopper, I set out to find something. I've bought labels many times, usually with checks, but after forgetting with whom, eBay was my starting place. They are generously stocked with rolls and sheets of blank stick-on print-your-own labels, requiring software I don't possess. Nor do I want to. Steve and I both had the idea in our minds of the ones we used to love, having several national parks as background scenes for the printing already in place upon delivery of the labels.

It finally dawned on me that I ordered those with matching checks, and googled check printers. Eureka! Checks Unlimited! DUH! How do you forget them? (OK, I know, old age, stress, ye-e-e-ears since the last order....) They even still have the same labels, Hooray! A bit of trial and error showed we were limited to three lines, so I combined data differently, and got it all into the space allotted.  Not necessarily keen to have to repeat this process, I put in a double order, for 400 of them. If necessary in years to come, I'm sure we'll get periodic reminders of who they are and what they offer, now that they have our new address.

It might take as long as 4 weeks to get the new labels. Plenty of time for the holiday cards! Heck, unlike most years we don't even have the photos picked out for this years cards. Most years I pick it out the minute I see it, no matter what time of year. Now Steve has been picking some out as well. Some time this fall we'll start that process. Getting the cards printed out is a whole 'nother nightmare, best postponed as long as possible. The stores change the software in their machines every single year!

At least stamps and labels will be plentiful.

*Note to self: buy envelopes!

** Note to self #2: Store them some place you'll remember!

Yet Another FBI Check

This makes four now. This time it's a requirement of a job I'm applying for. Yes, I know I'm retired. Funny as it may seem, the new job will involve driving too, me and my own car. It will also be part time, and on an irregular schedule. Did I mention the pay is lousy? 

And yet....

I'm enduring training right now. I put it that way because it's very frustrating. It's done online. I have to access a website for it, log in as me plus a special password, and wait... and wait... and wait... and give up in frustration.

I can't just go take a paper test, after listening to somebody for half an hour or more for each segment, and test for comprehension. Except that's what the training is, just done via videos so everybody gets the same information, then check off the correct answer(s) to the questions to prove you were awake. Some are true-false, some multiple choice and pick the best one, others offer lots of choices and you check all that apply. If I can ever get to the video part, I'm golden. The problem is locating the video. Everything is a link about 45 characters long, starting each try from an email they send you, which takes you to an explanation of what your task is next, just click on the embedded link for the video. If I read the broad view instructions correctly, there's an expectation the total takes 8 hours.You just have to wait to complete the link. And wait.

You get a white screen with three dancing black dots, letting you know you haven't gotten access yet. You are told it takes 90 seconds to connect. I usually give up after 15 minutes. It got so bad that I decided it must be because my laptop is too crowded with stuff, just like it was a year ago, preventing me from upgrading my software for a couple years. Really. So I attacked it two ways. First, I went in last night and spent a couple hours deleting bad photos. It needed to be done anyway, just a bit labor intensive at a time when I wanted to get through another couple sections of the videos. About 400 were deleted. Lots of room.

But that didn't do it. So I did much the same thing with You Tube TV. I've built up a huge library of shows, and it suddenly went totally out of control with Olympics. Take Gymnastics. About 30 hours of stuff just for the women: team, individual all around, individual per apparatus. Same for men. Then they put trampoline in there, men's and women's. For all I know there are other sub-categories for trampoline but I got bored quickly. Then they put the performances in extended viewing formats for prime time, single out medal winning performances into their own segment which can each somehow stretch into 7 minutes for 45 seconds of muscle and grace. Oh, and don't forget the back stories. How many tines do you need to know Suni Lee came back after two, count 'em two, kidney diseases, and see the same clips of her struggling and falling off the bar? Sure, she's a hero and amazing. But really, how many times? I bet she's sick of it by now too.

In a week, even after selecting what I wished to watch and deleting things I didn't, my library sat with almost 600 events in it. There's a whole 'nother week coming. I'd delete something and next time I turned  my laptop on, the same thing would be busy downloading again, sometimes 4 selections at the exact time, along with teaser reruns of favorite regular programs which never managed to show up in my library to see later unless I picked one to watch live, and even then it vanished as soon as I watched it.

So, lots of work to clear out my data load, and still impossible to access the video I really needed to view and interact with. Or the next, or next. Yesterday's introductory training sessions were no problem for some unknown reason. This morning I managed to access one in this section... at 4 AM. Yes, I was up, and totally flabbergasted when it worked. Of course, as soon as I  finished that one, and tried to load the next one... black dancing dots again. AAARRRRGGGHHHH!!!

I finally stopped in at the office which is in charge of the training and hiring, on my way home from my fingerprinting appointment. That was also weird  because no ink pad was used, but a screen they rolled my digits over and got smeared fingerprint results because the guy rolling my fingers always managed to lift them off the screen with a bit of motion. Three copies each of thumb, 4 fingers together, single fingers in sequence, then other hand. Then repeat because the screen didn't like the results.  Another three tries of all of it.

The office was on my way back. I popped in and had a discussion with the woman who is in charge of things like seeing that we do our tests and go through the rest of the job requirements. I explained my issues. She insisted it wasn't that my data capacity was over full. According to her, I was using the wrong browser. They don't tell you at any time during your training, but it works if you use the "right" browser. Firefox isn't it. Safari is worse. One must use the browser it was designed for: Google Chrome.

I'm thinking about using it. Not sure I want it on my laptop. Don't know exactly how to get it there, but I expect if I googled Google Chrome I'd find out. But will they tell me how to remove it? You know, after training's done? If I don't like it or want more privacy (how do I tell?) or something? Or do I go into this office, or the library, neither of which use Apple, and go through hours of "Oh, it's so easy you won't know it's not an Apple," when I've had the experience that lets me know better?

I'm thinking.....

I expect you want to know what all this is in aid of. Why go back to work? I have been asked to. The position is a PCA, or Personal Care Attendant. Much of what I will be doing is taking this person to doctor's appointments or to other places they cannot get to, and other times just keeping this person company, checking in if you will. I already do some of that, especially the driving to appointments. I've been asked to do it on a more formal basis, and by going through the training I can get paid enough to more than cover the cost of the gas.

There's just this training thing.......

Spoiler Alert: The Presents Are....

This afternoon will be a family get-together down in the cities.  Not all the family, just one sizeable branch of it. Too big a group to hold it in their house, which would have too many stairs in it anyway. But there's a nice park nearby, with pavilions, picnic tables, a pool, a ball field... in short, almost all you need to keep the kids  busy and out of mischief. We might even stroll over to the splash park bit of it, since it'll be 90 and muggy this afternoon.

As for us two geezers, I'm making the assumption about bathrooms, and besides cold drinks and potato salad, we're bringing our own sturdy folding chairs. We have the kind with steel frames and good quality canvas, a lift-up tray folding out from a side, or at least a pocket to hold a beverage. They are sturdy and keep us high enough off the ground that we both can get out of them using the side bars. Long gone are the days of total indifference to whatever position we've gotten ourselves into, as muscles and joints no longer tolerate such silliness. For those of you who are curious but too polite to ask, yes, we are both losing weight, albeit slowly, but still never expect those halcyon days to return.

Parts of this family we haven't seen since last year. Or when we have, we've been busy with moving and all that entailed. So while there are no special birthdays or holidays involved in this little party, there will be a pack of gifts hauled down with us. The oldest adults will get a pair of sleeping bags. Sure, they've been used... once. Even then we were realizing we were too old for camping. They aren't. But the best part of these is, for this happy couple, the two zip together. (Steve hasn't mentioned this little detail yet. I'll make sure he does.)

Then there are two adult children. They're getting very small but nice souvenirs of foreign travels, handed down from a vanished and wealthier generation. One is more masculine, the other more feminine, suitable for this brother and sister. Like the pair of presents for the youngest two, they take up very little space... unlike their wrapping.

Nope, no wrapping paper or bows this time around. No name tags, just names written directly from a Sharpie on the big balls of bubblewrap, each one's tiny last corner held in place just long enough to arrive still securely wrapped by a short piece of cellophane tape. Because, of course, the gift for each of them really is the bubble wrap. 

SHHHHHHH! Not a whisper from you! Not one word! You hear? The two little ones get rocks inside theirs. Small ones for rocks, but large ones for Minnesota agates with lots of stripes.

The Mom will likely have to keep track of the two stones, but she's getting her own gift, again well wrapped in bubblewrap inside something a bit more sturdy, since hers is fragile. I'm not telling what it is, since there's just a tiny chance she'll read this. 

And of course, the best gift of all is for me. I'm getting rid of a nice pile of bubblewrap, and I'll get pictures today of people enjoying popping it. My gift will keep on giving back to me, not so much immediately, since the huge box of it left over from the move will still barely have a dent in it's supply. But I'm getting the hope that it will all eventually be gone, and hope can be a rare thing. Best of all is I'll have the memories to keep and to share for many years to come.

How does it get better than this?

*FREE BEER *

So proclaimed large black letters on a bright pink sign, full caps. We passed it to our right as we approached the stop light by the Dairy Queen. Our aim was neither the beer nor some ice cream, but some shopping a few miles up the road for regular groceries, and pharmacy stops for each of us.

Still, as intended, it caught our attention. There were more lines on the sign. Who was proffering free beer? The next line said in equally large letters, YARD SALE! An address followed, and finally, on the bottom row:  *SORRY, NO BEER*

It left me wondering. Did it attract customers as well as attention? Or did it disappoint possible customers, annoyed at the lack of beer they'd thought they were promised?

I didn't head over to ask. I wasn't interested in the beer either way, free or not. 

 But then again, ice cream....