Buffalo Gal

I have spent an awful lot of time in my various gardens since about the middle of April and now is the time of "Glory", especially in the vegetable and fruit gardens.  The multiple flower beds are receding slightly as summer bloomers are done and only the brilliant red, purple, green and yellow zinnias are really showing off at the moment—-oops! I nearly forgot the black eyed Susans and the Coreopsis…they are a flaming yellow and bravely  bloom in the dry hotness we have now.  Oh,but the fruit and veggie patches are glorious…..Yellow Doll watermelons and a northern variety of muskmelon are bulging above the lush foliage showing promise of many juicy sweet mouthfuls in a short time.  The tomatoes are ripening and every trip to the garden requires bringing along some kind of container in which to collect the cherry tomatoes and a few larger ones as well.  I am reminded of picking eggs at my Grandma’s farm, where you had to reach far to get the eggs from under the hens.  At least the tomato plants don’t try to peck you when you pick their fruit but sometimes I find myself nearly standing on my  head trying to reach far into the thick vines to retrieve the ripe ones.  I just hope nobody drives in the driveway when I am in some of my yoga-like postions harvesting ripe "tommy-toes" ( a quote from Ramona Quimby of Beverly Cleary’s wonderful books). I think I look like one of those plywood ladies-bending-over-in-the garden lawn "ornaments".     There is absolutely nothing to compare to biting into a ripe cherry tomato!  Their sweet juiciness is indescribable.     Even the broccoli, which produced huge heads about 4 weeks back, is coming back after plenty of watering and powdering (with organic vegetable dust) to discourage the ever-diligent cabbage moths determined to propagate their offspring by depositing their tiny green eggs on my broccoli plants.  A few small heads of broccoli are the reward of my battle with the cabbage moths.   I have to quit blogging because the ever necessary watering process in the recent dry, hot spell is going on as I word-process.

I have two of my husbands old socks on the end of the hose which is hopefully giving some gentle watering to the tomatoes, green peppers and broccoli.  It is time to move the sock-hose watering device to another part of that glorious August garden.

A few blogs back I related some truths about losing things and making really dumb mistakes(which I usually do not like to reveal) but the blog is making me loose-lipped.  Today I had lunch with a blood-relative and the stories began to be told—about doing really dumb stuff and losing things.  I must not say who this blood-relative is or I will get clobbered with a big stick but……..this person, who is very close to me, had a car "stall" at a busy intersection in Fargo in some time past that doesn’t really matter to the story.  He/She was so undone by this stall, that he/she got out of the car and walked back to his/her office to make a phone call, leaving the stalled vehicle in the middle of the very busy intersection. The call was duly made and more assistance was called for.  He/She walked back to the stalled car to find it surrounded by police (oh what a surprise!!)   The blood relative began to apopogize for leaving the car but explained that the car had stalled and nothing would start it no matter how many times it was tried.  A kindly police woman than said that the car had started up perfectly and they (police) were about to move it.  More apologizing. The called-for help arrives in the form of two other persons, also related.  After not having any charges filed against him/her, he/she suddenly remembered that in the ensuing panic of the stalled vehicle, he/she had tried to start the car again in "drive" rather than "park". One of the related helpers advised:  "Do not tell anyone else about this."

Now if any of the readers are guessing that the blood relative is a woman, shame on you for being so prejudiced against women drivers!!!    I am still not telling!

I just read the article in todays’ FORUM about the 80 year old WW2 Marine Veteran who was one of those questioned for jury duty in the Federal Court yesterday.  Dear God, give us more jurors like this man!!!!  When being questioned by Defense lawyer Richard Ney, the man spoke up about the amount of time taken in jury selection for the upcoming trial of Alfonso Rodriguez by observing that the lawyers "get paid by the hour, don’t you?"  The 80 year old also replied to the questioning by Ney, "I don’t care if you guys don’t want me on the jury, I came here in good faith."    This nation could use a lot more "good faith" jurors like this fellow!   He also asked Judge Erickson why he(the Judge) would not pronounce the final decision on sentencing a convicted criminal and accused the Judge of "passing the buck"    How refreshing can it get???   The prospective juror also reminded the lawyers, the Judge and the assemblage in court that "Justice delayed is justice denied."  He probably declared in those simple words exactly what is wrong with our convoluted and perverted justice system in this nation.   If I would have been in the courtroom, I would have been thrown out about that time because I would have been standing up, applauding, cheering loudly, and calling for the 80 year old man to be given a medal for bravery.

I am glad that Judge Erickson put him into the jury pool in spite of objections from the defense attorneys.  I hope he gets to serve on that jury and bring some much needed wisdom and fairness to bear in this upcoming trial.

Ever since I was a youngster, I have been fascinated by words.  When I was only about 3 or 4 years old, I had a little desk that had the alphabet across the top and I would sit at my desk and copy the letters every day.  When I turned 6 and was learning to read in school,I remember lying on the living room floor of my home and doing my best to sound out words in articles and comic strips in the old Moorhead Daily News.  As soon as I learned to read well, I read everything I could find including the cereal boxes on the table, road signs…especially the Burma Shave ones…. and all the books I could get ahold of which was not easy because we did not have a library in school or in the town….at least til I was older.  Still, I read everything.  It came as no surprise to my parents that I loved Language Arts and English best in grade school and continued to love the written and spoken word while growing into a teenager. Old time radio was a great source of words….I used my considerably wild imagination when I listened to soap operas, Sunday afternoon mysteries, the evening shows like "Fibber McGee and Molly" and all the rest of the programs.  I can still hear "Johnny" shouting "Callllllllll Fooooooooooor Philllllllllip Morrrrrrrrrrrrrr-ees!" or Chester Reilly saying "What a revoltin’ development!"   I also loved the words I heard through the old fashioned floor "register" in my bedroom…..a neat listening post when I was supposed to be in bed, but if my folks had friends over for conversation, I did not want to miss out on those words either.   I learned a lot of stuff listening through that floor register.  I probably fell asleep with my face on it a few times and would be discovered later by my parents…..with waffle designs embedded on my cheek.    When I started first grade,  I heard words I had never heard before and was fascinated by them:  "wraps" (as in "Put on your wraps,boys and girls, we are going out for recess")   We had to get our "wraps" out of the "Cloak-room"(another mysterious set of words I had never heard before.  I was mystified; I had never heard of a "cloak" and probably didn’t know what it was  ’til I read the Penny Parker Mysteries in which I can remember a mysterious Hungarian being described as wearing a "cloak" when he threw the opals into a deep, dark pond.  The cloak-room became even more mysterious after that association and it was always dark too…I do not remember having any lights in there but all the teachers called them cloak- rooms all the way through elementary school. None of my classmates or I had any "cloaks" but we still put our "wraps" in that room.  The other fascinating word was "Pupil".   I soon figured out that  was us—the kids in my class…we were the "pupils".  It is still a very funny-sounding word to me and I don’t ever remember hearing kids called pupils in the last 30 years or more…they became "students".  For some reason that word always reminded me of the "washroom" which was another fascinating mystery word in grade one. Some teachers referred to it as the "lavatory" and I thought we were going into a science room til we got there and it was just the washroom.  At home that place was referred to as the toilet so I had to make some transfers again.  As I advanced, I encountered many more words but 3 of my favorites remain to this day:  "balderdash",  "tommyrot"  and "poppycock".  They are all listed in each other’s definitions in Webster’s Dictionary but they have to be 3 of the best words in the English language.   Once recently, I heard Brit Hume of Fox News use "Balderdash" on a Sunday news program and I wanted to leap up and hug him…but the TV set got in the way.   Anyone who says "Balderdash" today is a definite favorite of mine on national news.   I think Brit and I are of the same generation; maybe he was fascinated by words when he was a little "tad" also…now there’s another good word…"tad"!!!   They are all over the place just waiting to be discovered by funny little kids like I was!

One of the joys of summertime is going to Perham, Minnesota, that community to the east of Detroit Lakes.  It is an interesting small town in that it is far enough away from Fargo-Moorhead that it has a thriving main street and lots of small town businesses.  It is also a resort and lakes town in the summer so there is an abundance of interesting shops and eating places and the town is usually full of "summer people" on any given day.  A good friend and I love to "Perambulate to Perham" (our own appellation) and have been doing it for the past 10 years or so.  The first stop is usually "The Goose" shop….I can never remember if it is the "Wild Goose" or the "Blue Goose".  Once I called it the "Spruce Goose" but then remembered that was the name of one of Howard Hughes’ early airplanes.  The Goose place has wonderful coffee, lattes, and such and that coffee gets you going if you are not yet fully awake.  The shop also has lots of beautiful objects in it plus unique toys and great greeting cards.  Finally, we are ready to move on..perhaps to Jean’s Plant Place to admire the hostas, the day lilies, and other annuals on display in the yard of a former house…very unique and always interesting.  Up the block is an antique shop that takes you into your past life….dishes you remember seeing in your own home, collections of old coffee tins, glass milk bottles, original Fiesta dishes, plus all kinds of bargain-basement dishes you remember seeing or having at home.  There is furniture, old textiles, old appliances, clocks, paintings….everything under the sun in a huge building that is air-conditioned and comfortable.  By now at least 2-3 hours have passed on your perambulation and it is time to go "downtown".   The "Secondhand Rose" store is a must-check-out place as there may be something that fits you and is totally unexpected and fun to try on—maybe even buy it if your closet is not too crowded already with such treasures.   Then you cross the street and take in the new antique store, and other places that may have just opened this summer.  The Gathering Grounds with its unique lunch room awaits and by this time you are hungry enough to order too much from the generous menu there.  More delicious coffee…..by this time you have to be scraped off the ceiling due to high doses of caffeinated coffee.  The Pines is on the corner from The Gathering Grounds and must be entered and searched.  Now you have finally made it to Main Street where there is a great womens’ clothing store (Nadines), a quilt emporium, a locally-owned shoe store, more gift shops and Ma’s Little Red Barn….one of the truly most interesting of places.  It has a floral shop, there is a hat department, lots of gift items, cards and wrappings, and now a little French bistro-type cafe.  If you are already a member, you could even go into the "Curves" rooms and shape up a bit.  All of this is done in amazingly creative decor that causes you to wonder who can be so clever.  If you are not totally foot-weary and tired from the exertions of morning shopping and cafe-hopping, you can follow the north side of Main Street to the local candy-makers shop and if you have not eaten enough already, the Station House is always open.  They serve great High Teas if you make reservations.  I have been to two of them and they are delicious, well-planned and feature an array of the most beautiful antique teapots you could ever hope to see.  Scones, clotted cream, cucumber sandwiches and lemon curd are signature High Tea foods and Betty at the Station House knows what she is doing!  You can find a bit of Olde England on mainstreet Perham, Minnesota.  The old homes in Perham are beautiful and a walk in the neighborhoods near downtown is a great thing to do also; many of the early homes are brick structures and it makes one wonder why when so many of the small towns in the area have wood-built homes only.  Perham is unique…lots of brick work.  The old school is close to the downtown also.   There are many beautiful gardens probably the influence of Jean’s Plant Place.   The Perham Historical Society is housed in an old stone church building north of downtown.  The new Perham Library is also built of stone-masonry- old world construction.  My friend and I have tried to find what is known as the "Angel Garden" in north Perham but have been unable to locate it so far; this time we may have to stop in a neighborhood and knock on someone’s door and get directions.    It is always a full and satisfying day when you Perambulate To Perham.

Maybe next time we can "Frolic to… 1. Frazee 2. Fergus Falls or  3. Fertile.   "Vamoosing to Vergas" also sounds like a good day trip or "Pouncing To Pelican "(Rapids)    Visiting small towns is a great way to spend a summer day and I can hardly wait for morning when I will be doing just that.  It is truly a day to enjoy a Mainstreet, USA.

T

Part of the reason I blog is to leave some remembrances for my kids and grandkids.  It is a nice short way to produce a future "family book" I think.  So I now must revisit my Tomboy Days which I remember with fondness.     I grew up in a  small-town neighborhood that had more boys than girls—in fact for a while, I was the only girl my age and my natural playmates were the 5 boys who lived next door, across the street, or behind my home in the block we lived on.  Those boys were my best friends, my best buddies, my confidantes, and my daily playmates.  I did not play dolls, "house" or "dress up" with girls..only on rare occasions when a girl would visit my home from some other neighborhood.  My daily routine with my 5 best boy-friends was playing "war", playing "Cowboys and Indians", "Tarzan" and pretending we were farming.  My dad dug out a huge pile of clay from our unfinished basement and it made a perfect "fox-hole" for our war adventures.  We dug a foxhold on that mound of clay and attacked the Germans and the "Japs" from that outpost nearly every day in our imaginations; WW 2 was in its final stages and we were "soldiers" in that cause.  Later we would build "forts" out of cardboard boxes we collected from stores downtown.  These were magnificent, creative, many-roomed forts that lasted until it rained and then we had to start all over again.  The next door neighbors had an arbor that made a great place for a Tarzan house.  It is a wonder that none of us ever broke a bone climbing on that structure.  The neighbor boy had a "playhouse" in once end of their garage and we turned it into a "spookhouse" at least once a summer creating elaborate mazes and scarey sounds and sights, charging the kids who came a nickel for entrance.  Our greatest pride and joy is that we made some of the out-of-neighborhood kids cry and scream with our scary, spook-house Rube Goldberg inventions. I am still amazed at our ability to create such frightening devices….most of them with our own voices, rigged- up costumes and the judicious use of flashlights under our chins. Most of us could do the best Lamont Cranston "yeeeehahahahahah" scary laughs and that always terrified the younger kids who had paid their nickels to be scared silly.  They got their money’s worth.  Later the Lystad family moved into our neighborhood and I had one girl to play with in addition to another boy.  It was about that time that we began to have funerals and weddings.  Sonja Lystad was always the officiating pastor at the weddings in which my 3- year old sister  was always the bride and one of the gang of my 5 best boyfriends was the groom.  The rest of us were the attendants and the ushers and we always sent the bridal pair on a honeymoon trip on Denny’s big trike.  The honeymoon was a trike ride around the entire block with all of us chasing them after hanging cans and shoes and streamers on that trike.  They must have "gotten married" at least thirty times in 3 years.  The funerals were for dead birds we found.  We made a little graveyard that is now under a concrete pad for an extra room on my old home.  I suppose their little bones are in the ground somewhere under that concrete.  May they rest in peace.  We sang hymns, prayed over the birds and laid them to rest in little coffins we had made out of tissue boxes or candy boxes.  We were very reverent.  By the time we were getting to be 11 or 12 years old we switched to strenuous sports activites like bare-handed baseball, tackle- football, "horse" and roller skating on steel clamp-on skates that required a key; the key had to be around the neck on a very dirty shoelace but if you lost your key you were sunk.  I still have multiple scars on both my knees from skating crashes and collisions on concrete sidewalks and stony driveways.  We roller skated everywhere in the spring months, especially to school where we would spend recess careening around the square of sidewalk that was in the front of our school building.  It is no wonder that none of us had an ounce of fat on our bodies.  We were constantly imitating whirling dervishes in all we did.  Learning to ride a bike was accomplished on one of the boys’ bikes…he happened to have a girls’ model so the boys decided to teach me to ride it.  I am still grateful to Gary and Byron for holding me steady while I learned to balance and ride it on my own.    Those neighbor boys are still my friends even tho I don’t see them that often.  They have moved away but the best friend I had introduced me to one of his relatives at his Mom’s funeral as "the girl who was  like a sister to me".   That brought tears to my eyes….we were such good friends.  Being the neighborhood Tomboy had its advantages; I learned a lot about how boys think and act and I learned to converse with them when we sat for hours in a sandbox building little sand buildings and making roads, talking all the time about things that were interesting, funny, puzzling, or just plain mystifying to us.  We always got along with each other and would decide democratically every morning what we would be playing that day.   Sometimes it was as simple as pounding "caps" with a hammer on a sidewalk.  I can still smell the odor of the gunpowder.  We made "rubber guns" out of plywood scraps, old inner tubes and snap clothespins and then had "wars" with each other, divided into teams.  I got one of the worst stings in my life when I reached for one of the rubber bands in a hedge and stuck my hand in a wasp nest.  We also had some great green plum wars and I remember how much a green plum could hurt when it was properly thrown with great arm power.  Once in the early fall, we figured out how to shoot rotten tomatoes at each other with a board launcher and some of us were chosen to be the "bonzai" attack troops running right at the tomato launcher.  We were a terrible mess and none of our mothers would let us in until we had taken our clothes off outside the back doors.  I got a mouthful of dirt when I advanced,  shreiking "bonzai!" with my mouth wide open.   Once while helping ourselves to a neighbor’s crab apple crop in the dark of night, the neighbor lady sent her dog after us. "Sonny" and I tried to jump out of the tree but we both wound up falling several feet with a resounding thud on the ground and the dog on our heels as we ran in sheer terror. We never went back to THAT particular crab tree again.  While playing baseball in the Methodist Church Yard (our daily playground) one of the five boys sent a fly ball through the window with a lighted cross in it.  We were all sure we were going straight to Hell, but the Slugger swore us all to secrecy….we were not to tell anyone who did it.   We all slunk home with guilt weighing us down.  Then the Slugger ran home to his dad, confessed, and left the rest of us in our heavy guilt trip all night long before he confessed to us that he had already "told".  His dad paid for a new window.  I can stilll hear and see the shattering crash of that window with the cross in it.  I have even dreamed about it many times in the course of my lifetime.  I always wake up in a sweat of anxiety. Being the Tomboy in our block prepared me well for my later career as the mother fo 3 sons and no daughters.  I was always way ahead of my boys because I knew very well what boys were capable of doing.  I knew that they would think of sticking a live frog in a girls’ sock when she took off her shoes and socks while playing in freshly cut grass.  I knew they could tie someone to a tree while playing "cowboys" and threaten to burn you at the stake.  I knew they would want to build tents out of blankets on the clotheslines and sleep out til the mosquitoes drove them inside.  I knew they would put firecrackers in dead fish’s mouths and blow them to Kingdom-Come.  I knew they would skid their bikes in the gravel driveway til the tires almost wore out.  I knew they could be both tough and tender and that they were the best friends in the whole world.   I am forever grateful that I was a Tomboy.  It prepared me for life and its ups and downs and taught me that nothing could really get you down…not even going to school the first day with a big bruise on your face from falling on a boys’ knuckles while you were playing tackle football.   It made me a very tough teacher who did not let anyone pull the wool over her eyes in a classroom.  Boys are the best of teachers in one’s early childhood.     I had to learn to be a lady when I got to be in my later teens, but the old Tomboy is still very much a part of my life.  I still love to play games with grandkids and take pride that I went sledding on my last birthday…..which is in the sixth decade of my life.  I can still throw snowballs and build snow forts with the grandkids.  I can stay in the water of a lake or pool for hours without getting a chill. And if I just could get a pair of those old clamp-on roller skates, I know I could skate freely and gracefully for hours…..well maybe for a few minutes anyway.