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... wonders being in quotes because their distinction is relative. What I prize, others might dismiss as unnotable. 1. The Trees . There is a main thoroughfare in my town that is banked by old trees, branches covering the roadway like a tent. In the spring, they bloom with white flowers, and in fall they display every color an aging leaf can produce. I often go out of my way just to drive under these trees. My picture doesn't do it justice. 2. The Bench. My town doesn't really have a town square, but it does have a main crossroads with a park in one corner. In this little park is a bench, and on this bench on a summer evening, you're likely to find a group of elderly gentlemen known as The Old Men on the Bench. Every night, these men gather, either on the bench or in lawn chairs beside it, and they watch the cars go by. They are a landmark, a keepsake of our little town. 3. Quantrill's Head . William Clarke Quantrill was a Confederate guerrilla during the Civil War, ev

This morning while I was flipping channels looking for some news (really looking for some white noise to be the background for my eggs and bacon), I learned that Good Morning America is in the middle of a New Seven Wonders of the World segment. They intend to name seven new wonders. A camera crew went out on the street in New York and asked passers by if they could name the current Seven Wonders. Not a single person could name all seven, and I found that I couldn't name them either. The Grand Canyon was on my list, as I had always thought it was a list of seven Natural wonders. The New Yorkers named manmade places--the Great Wall of China, Mount Rushmore, Big Ben. As I listened to the places they suggested, I wondered if there were different lists--one for manmade, one for natural, one for old, one for new. The idea seemed disturbing to me, having all these years thought there was a set and standard Seven Wonders that could not be changed. Take away Pluto, but don't touch the

We went to Columbus yesterday to watch Daughter #1 row in her first regatta. She's a club-level novice. I've marked her here with the arrow. Not knowing quite where to sit or station ourselves, we parked our chairs by the OSU tent and hunkered down, waiting for the boat to pass by. At the next regatta, we'll know to spend more time at the dock where the activity is. I have no idea how many schools were represented at this series of races, but there were more long boats (they have a name which escapes me at the moment), and more rowers and oars and tents and trailers than I could keep track of. There was also more mud and muck than I could step over, given the weather in Ohio over the last few days. While I'm glad there aren't more regattas to attend this fall, I'm excited that there are more to attend next spring. It's a fascinating sport, and it's satisfying to see #1 so enthusiastic about being a part of it. OH-IO. Now about the subtitle. It was 40 is

My niece Lizabeth has pinned the map, and I didn't even have to beg. Very nice. Yesterday, she left a very nice comment to a post I wrote sometime last month about the way my family celebrates Christmas. I have copied her comment here because I think it's worth reading: Lizabeth said... As I am the child that Sister #1 was expecting, EVERY Christmas for me included The Program. You have no idea what a lucky little girl I was. My auntees would spend inordinate amounts of time making me giggle, my uncle performed magic tricks, and everyone would watch me perform as if I were the most talented child in the Western Hemisphere. I loved Christmas at my Grandma's, not because it was my birthday, and not for all the great presents, but because The Program gave me a chance to join in this amazing group of people that looked and sang and laughed a lot like my mom.My friends think it's a riot, especially since my boyfriend learned to play the piano so he could play carols last ye

Note: I will be away today watching my daughter's first regatta, and I'm excited, although the weather is crappy in Ohio--the whole state is windy and cold and rainy. So while I'm out sitting in the inclement elements, here--have some words. Use them in sentences, or better yet, use them all in one big sentence. Words I Like: Folderol Lackadaisical Blustery Shrill Alabaster Embellish Words I Can't Abide: Squash Data--regardless of how it's pronounced

I love coffee, I love tea I love the java jive and it loves me Coffee and tea and the jivin' and me A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup! Why do I love coffee? What is it about this simple beverage that draws me in at the mere sound of the word, the smell of the brew, the steam from the mug? First, it's not so simple. Besides the growing and harvesting and roasting, packaging and shipping and brewing, if every step in the process of making this black gold is not completed to perfection, the thing is ruined. This brew, this joe, this morning light from the highest angels in the vast heavens, touches every sense that I possess to experience the world around me. I hear the coffee pot perk it up, and I hear the hot liquid being poured into the cup (hot coffee truly does sound different from lukewarm coffee when it's being poured). I see the steam rising from the surface and the blackness of the swirling pool. I smell the distinctive scent of roasted beans--it's a raw and earth

Rich has assembled a list--5 Things That Hold You Back. I suspect these things might be universal and that fear of failure is our biggest obstacle to success in almost everything we attempt. What do you think?

Above: Kelleys Island Ms. Mac commented on the Lake House post about how much she liked Lake Erie--she visited friends in Ohio recently, and they took her fishing. Yes, Lake Erie is beautiful, now that raw industrial waste is no longer being dumped straight into it, and now that it no longer catches on fire. But I had an experience on Lake Erie a few years ago that will forever brand it on my memory as The Lake of Treachery . Just north of Cleveland and Sandusky is a series of islands--Pelee, Middle Bass, Put-In-Bay, Kelleys Island . Kelleys Island has a state park camp ground on its north shore, not far from the glacial grooves that you can walk around--when the glaciers carved out the Great Lakes 18,000 years ago, they left grooves carved in rocks. So, a few years ago we took our Big-Ass Motorhome , as we called it, up to Sandusky and took the ferry to the island. We found a beautiful spot in the camp ground and settled in for a few days of relaxation and roaming. On our last ni

Some people find Mondays stressful and nothing more than the signal of the beginning of a week of drudgery. Some people try to work up some mid-week enthusiasm on Wednesdays by devoting things to Hump Day--like our local radio station that features a Hump Day Party Tray contest. Be the fifth caller, and you win a lunch tray for your entire office. Some people get itchy on Friday because their work is almost done, and they can't wait for the weekend. For me, the big day is Thursday. Thursday is Garbage Day, and it makes me feel fresh and good. On Garbage Day, I am being handed a clean slate, a fresh start, a mulligan. My family and I spend seven days filling two, sometimes three, assorted cans by the garage with empty fruit snack boxes, chicken bones, butcher paper, salmon skin that can't go into the disposal, used cat litter that is suppose to smell like cedar but really smells like dust and ammonia and poo. Every day I pull an arm load of catalogs from the mailbox and put the

Because I am in fall mode, thinking about squash ( ick ) and warm food in a bowl, crispy piles of leaves, and wearing socks, I thought I'd post a pictorial of the lake house in the fall. These pictures were taken over the weekend where we went to give Daughter #2 a change of scenery for her recovery and to welcome Daughter #1 home for a weekend visit. First, the house as seen from the lake with the pine-needle path banked by ivy. I'm pretty sure unpleasant things live in that ivy, but since I never veer from the pine needles, I don't have to see them or touch them. The house is surrounded by pines, but there are just enough seasonal trees to provide lively color contrast . Some of those pines. The steps leading down from the deck. And the lake with a couple of fishermen.

One of my new favorite dishes from Barefoot Contessa. I have flipped past this mess many times while thumbing through the cookbook, thinking it doesn't look very appetizing and sounds inedible, given that I deteset squash--the texture, the smell, the texture, the sound, oh, and the texture. But I gave it a shot, and I am so excited that I have leftovers for lunch two days in a row. Saffron Risotto with Butternut Squash (serves 4 to 6) 1 butternut squash (2 pounds) 2 tablespoons olive oil Kosher salt Freshly ground black pepper 6 cups chicken stock, preferably homemade 6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter 2 ounces pancetta, diced 1/2 cup minced shallots (2 large) 1 1/2 cups Arborio rice (10 ounces) 1/2 cup dry white wine 1 teaspoon saffron threads 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Peel the butternut squash, remove the seeds, and cut it into 3/4-inch cubes. You should have about 6 cups. Place the squash on a sheet pan and toss it with the oliv

It has occurred to me that you all may have missed the link to Itsy Bitsy Spider in the post below. Don't skip this because it's the best recording I've heard all day.

Lately, when I drive my big fat Pacifica , I've been listening to a CD by Rosie Thomas -- If Songs Could Be Held-- which was a birthday gift from Daughter #1. It gets set aside from time to time when I need to focus on a symphony for a few weeks or when I'm trying to embed Mozart horn concertos directly into my brain cells. But since I'm between orchestra concerts and I've become frustrated with my inability to play Mozart as well as I should, it's all Rosie. Rosie has this ethereal and clear voice that seems to do just what she tells it to do, gliding from word to word and from phrase to phrase with what comes across as pure ease. I have found, though, that as much as I enjoy her, prolonged exposure makes me sad, and I have to switch to something perky to keep from slipping into a real funk. Her songs tend to have a melancholy timbre that, over time, makes me want to slump over the steering wheel and contemplate the passing clouds with lots of sighing. There are so

My site-meter has registered 1000 hits! And the person to reach the magic number was some dope from Glasgow, Scotland who didn't even bother to pin the map, even though he/she read for a few minutes at least (it wasn't Old Knudson). In fact, it's Old Knudson who is here to present the trophy to the winning visitor, whoever he/she is.

My paternal grandparents in their garden in Decatur, Alabama.

I've been wading through my brain trying to dream up a Santa Claus, treading water when necessary to define my ideal grandfather type with endless generosity and no apparent faults. I have images of a cross between Wilford Brimley , Lionel Barrymore, and Mr. Elliker (an elderly man from my church who always has a kind word and is witty, loyal, smart all in one. He used to be a high ranking official of the NSA, which could be creepy, but it hasn't effected his image as a grandpa). Mr. Elliker aside, my own grandfathers and my fading memories of them keep getting in the way. My paternal grandfather, Robert Wells, was a crotchety old man who worked in the shipping yards along the Tennessee River in Alabama. My father often talked about his mother, but I don't recall ever hearing him talk about his father except to say where he worked and that he liked to clog a bit when his boys played their fiddles and banjos. Since the man died when I was only one or so, I never knew him,

Seriously! Do you people not see it over in the side bar? I get all these hits on any given day, and just three loyal webpals have put their pins on it.

...to Joan Fontaine. She was a pure and classic beauty. Favorite films: Rebecca, Suspicion, Jane Eyre.

The best portion of a good man's life - his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love. ~ William Wordsworth Today is Sweetest Day , which isn't saying much. It's not really a holiday even though Hallmark makes cards for it. It's not a day to celebrate even though The Store sells lobster tails and fillet Mignon and chocolate covered strawberries in a special display. Sweetest Day isn't even celebrated around the country, much less the world. So I thought I'd tell you just a little bit about it. Sweetest Day has become something akin to Valentine's Day, a day to give gifts to your sweetest, so to speak. But it's origins are more significant--it began in Cleveland, Ohio in 1922 by a man who worked in a candy shop. He wanted to offer a gesture of hope to orphans and the needy, so on a Saturday in October he passed out candy and little gifts to the overlooked. It became known as a day to pay special attention to those with less, but eventuall

I have discovered a site of memes with various formats and updated topics for each day of the year. The topic for today's photo scavenger hunt is dreaming. When I first saw this photo, I thought it was pretty funny, but when I stop to understand the kid's emotion I can see that he has lost a dream. And he is so distraught and hurt that he is unable to dream up something new. For all of his few years, he has dreamed of a North Pole and jovial elves and endless fun, with Santa Claus in charge of the whole place. When the kid is over his crying jag, he'll be able to dream up a new North Pole, a new kind of elf, and fresh sources for endless fun. And he'll be able to dream up a new kind of Santa, a grandfatherly figure who laughs like a bowl full of jelly and never scolds. Your assignment this weekend is to dream up your own North Pole and your own jolly Santa.

Another TV personality who meant the world to me as a child. Festus from Gunsmoke. I'm sorry there wasn't a doll or stuffed Festus.

This is Judy the Monkey. She was a gift from my mother when I was six, and I have treasured her all these years, as you can see from her excellent condition. She used to have buttons on her chest and a complete banana in her hand, but when I was a little girl, I ripped off the buttons and chewed up the banana--yes, it was made of plastic. Judging by the incision along her back seam, I'm guessing she used to have a squeaker or something inside, but when I was going through my surgeon phase, I apparently chose her as a patient. There is a line in " Silverado " when Stella the barmaid says to Paden , "There's no telling what you're going to care about." There's no telling what a kid is going to care about. Around the time I got Judy I was a big fan of Daktari , a show about a veterinarian who worked with animals in Africa, along with Clarence the cross-eyed lion and Judy the chimp. No matter what was going on in the show or how impressive it should hav

Pneumonia is a difficult word to spell, the kind you can type a letter for, backspace, type a letter, backspace, on and on until you get what you think looks right. My sister, even as an adult, used to pronounce it Pee-New-Monie, and oddly, we all knew what she meant. This is the same sister who has a similar disdain for certain words that I have and offers substitutes when she hears an objectionable one. If someone were to say they had a zit (cringe) or even a pimple (shudder), she would say, "It's called a blemish." I think the softness of the -ish improves on the other words and makes the actual thing less repulsive. While a person might gasp at the site of a zit (cringe), they would likely just shrug at the site of a blemish. It's not unlike a danish or a radish, and who doesn't like those? This same sister, when her son was a baby, would rename her child's various bodily noises. The poor boy never burped or belched--he bubbled. He didn't fart or even

He vas my boyfriend. Puttin' On The Ritz I was going to make espresso.

Intriguing , I think, this idea of mixing up Mel Brooks with classic literature. What if he were to recreate Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights ? MacBeth or Oliver Twist ? What if Mel Brooks and Gene Wilder were to team up again with a revised version of Of Mice and Men ? Gene Wilder would be George, the smarter caring but cautious friend, and Rick Moranis would be Lenny, constantly asking for stories of rabbits and forever petting dead mice he keeps stock-piled in his pockets. I'm not sure who would be cast in the role of Curly or his wife, who of course would not be killed--send suggestions. And, of course, Lenny would not be shot in the head at the end--he'd end up...hmm...I'm not sure. We'll have to give his future some thought. Or we'll have to leave that to Mel Brooks.

When someone like Mel Brooks gets his hands on a novel by Mary Shelley, and then Gene Wilder writes the screen play , and they hire Peter Boyle, Madeline Kahn, Marty Feldman, Gene Hackman, Cloris Leachman, Teri Garr...you can't help but end up with something so delectable as Young Frankenstein . And since today is Peter Boyle's birthday, I'd like to honor this classic "scary" film. I don't remember when I first saw Young Frankenstein. I have a vague memory of seeing it in a theater when it was first released--the only reason I'm doubting the theater viewing is that I was rarely allowed to see movies in an actual theater, Hollywood being the source of all evil. But I must have seen it in one because I was able to perfect my Peter-Boyle-doing-Puttin'-On-the-Ritz imitation while still in middle school. Many, many years later, when our kids were eager to be exposed to their parents' favorite films--I may be imagining there ever was a time when they wer

This helpful chart was on the inside of the door to the exam room at Stat Care where Daughter #2 and I spent two and a half hours today. I'd rate the pain of sitting in a chair and playing with all the buttons on a cell phone while listening to the local radio station which was piped in over the loud speaker about an eight on the chart. I did answer the trivia question on the morning show correctly, though--when did the Police release their last record?--1983. But why am I complaining? I'm healthy. It's Daughter #2 who should be griping--she has pneumonia, we learned, and will be home from school for at least the rest of the week, if not longer, and will be taking a little collection of pills. After seeing the x-ray of her lungs, she said how much she liked seeing her insides and would now like to have an MRI and a catscan--just to see. Well, off to the pharmacy.

Today is the birthday of Jim Seals of Seals and Crofts fame. I normally wouldn't care enough to pass that information on to anyone, except that Jim Seals is the brother of Dan Seals of England Dan and John Ford Coley fame. And that information is noteworthy. England Dan and John Ford Coley are so long forgotten they don't even have a fan-based website that I could dig up with a google search, but for a couple of passing years in the mid 70s, I was their fan. Growing up outside of Chicago in the 70s, WLS radio was the only station someone with a hankering for the top 20 could listen to--AM--on a transistor radio hooked to your belt or slung from a wrist band. " Superjock " Larry Lujack played each hit twice an hour, so you could hear Sad to Belong, Where Do I Go from Here, and Nights Are Forever Without You ten times a day at least. ( sample them here ) After listening to these samples and pairing them with the very unattractive photo on the album cover pictured he

As promised to Dive (Small Glass Planet), here is my cave, my quarters, my space. My horn is out for easy access because I have a lesson this afternoon and need to play through a few things before I show up for humiliation and degradation. I'm a little concerned about what Mike might be fixated on under my desk. He has uncovered spiders that could eat my chair under there. Here is the other corner.

I've been thinking (if just one person says, "I thought I smelled something burning, I swear, I'll swear just for Old Knusdon)...if you were to change just the last ten minutes of any movie, whether it was based on a novel or not, you could completely change the entire film. So, if you had been watching The Prize Movie with Ione in 1972, and she blabbed on and on so there wasn't enough time to show the last bit of film at the end of the two-hour time slot, you could rewrite the meaning of the entire movie using your own imagination. When Hitchcock first filmed "Suspicion," Cary Grant did actually kill Joan Fontaine , making her suspicions about his character justified, but the preview audience was so appalled at the idea that Cary Grant would commit murder that the ending was rewritten and re-shot. Grant doesn't shove Fontaine out of the car on the cliff but tries to save her from her own paranoia--suddenly the rest of the film makes no sense. That'

A: I have added a guest map (see side bar). It won't provide any amusement for me if you don't add your pin, so get to it. B: I have just finished cleaning up after hosting a dessert buffet for 16 or so people. Chocolate pistachio torte, corn meal pound cake with rosemary syrup, candied pecans, and pumpkin tiramisu. Yes, that's right Italian friend Adair. I said pumpkin. I'm expecting you to wretch at the idea of Americanizing something like tiramisu with something like pumpkin, but it was delightful. At least it wasn't mayonnaise, or ketchup, or smashed up potato chips. Pumpkin Tiramisu Courtesy Bon Appetit Oct. 06 1. Beat 1 1/2 c. chilled whipping cream and 1/4 c. sugar until peaks form. Add one 8-oz container mascarpone, one 15-oz can pure pumpkin, and 3/4 t. pumpkin pie spice. Beat until filling is smooth. 2. Line bottom of 9-inch springform pan with one 3-oz package ladyfingers. Sprinkle with 2 T rum. Spread half of filling over ladyfingers. Repeat with anothe

On this day in history (1977) Bing Crosby died. I don't know why I loved him as much as I did when I was a kid, but losing him was a blow to my sophomore year. For my birthday last year I got the boxed set of Road movies, and it made me very happy.

Words I like: Verdant Ferocious Bramble Wispy Paltry Rigamarole Swell--as in "gee, that's swell." Words I can't abide (I can only think of one today, although I'm sure Old Knudson could think of a few that would make my eyes roll back into my head--post 'em on your own site, if you do, Old Man): Pustule

...Jobs that weren't dreamy but did on occasion inspire nightmares: Burger Chef: counter girl for 9 months. I could close down that salad bar in 5 minutes flat, best record in the joint. There's an entire site devoted to the memory of Burger Chef . McDonald's: Counter girl for 3 months. The 20-year-old evening shift manager was unkind to me because I didn't like to "suggestive sell." I figured if people wanted fries, they would order fries. Unnamed office: Typist for 4 months for a shady undefined business that closed down the day after the president of the teamsters union was assassinated mob-style in Chicago. It was unsettling to type at a desk in a room with cameras in every corner, and the boss worked in an office with bullet-proof glass walls surrounded by a bank of security monitors. My father warned me--when he heard it was connected to the Teamsters, he was sure it was "a mob deal." Cotton Manufacturers Inc: typist for 5 months in a dark

There used to be this show on WLS in Chicago called The Prize Movie with Ione . Every day, Ione would sit on the set and host a movie, and by "host," I mean she would introduce the film, and then with each commercial break she would completely break the train of thought with chit chat about no particular subject with people who called in. Sometimes callers would talk about the movie and sometimes they would talk about anything but. Sometimes Ione would do exercises on a mat with this fluffy, white immovable dog beside her. And sometimes a man in an ape suit would rush the stage pretending to be her husband. And if there was too much talking or too many crunches or too much ape and not enough time to show the full film, they would just not show the end--you could miss the last ten minutes if time ran out. During the summers, my sister and I never missed a morning with Ione . I think I was twelve before I ever saw a movie straight through without commercials--it was Gone Wi

It's funny--we mock John Denver for so many reasons, but everyone has a favorite. Here is the first half of Grandma's Feather Bed , which I always liked because I had a similar experience sitting around and listening as the "old folks would spit and chew," literally. And I loved hearing their old stories, sitting in Granddaddy's kitchen with the june bugs on the screen door and hounds in the back looking for biscuits. When I was a little bitty boy, just up off a floor, we used to go down to Grandma's house every month end or so. We'd have chicken pie and country ham, homemade butter on the bread. But the best darn thing about Grandma's house was her great big feather bed. It was nine feet wide, and six feet high, soft as a downy chick It was made from the feathers of forty-eleven geese, took a whole bolt of cloth for the tick. It'd hold eight kids and four hound dogs and a piggy we stole from the shed. We didn't get much sleep but we had a lot

Today in history (1997) John Denver died while flying his homemade plane. I used to have a couple of albums that were stolen for me (I mean, given to me) by a boyfriend in highschool. I wasn't supposed to notice they were marked with the initials of another girl. Sunshine on my shoulder. In this picture he looks amazingly like a trombone player I know.

The house I grew up in before we painted it brown, and before the trees grew large enough to hide in. Well, since Tuesday the 10 th was Kitty Quigley's birthday, then that means today must be Linda Armstrong's birthday. I remember that piece of relatively useless information because even though Linda and I were two grades ahead of Kitty in school, we were only one year ahead in age, and for two days in October, Kitty and Linda were the same age. It caused contention, age often being the source of pride and fuel for dominance in children. Linda moved next door to us when I was seven, just before our second grade. Her father had taken a job as a social studies teacher at our high school--he had been a principal in another town, which meant he approached education with discipline and a military haircut. From my frightened young perspective, he was truly an imposing figure in front of that chalkboard and overhead projector. One day in the fifth grade, after we had come home from

Edgar Allan Poe: "Why, why, oh why must you haunt my waking nightmares with your presence? I shall go mad. Madness! It consumes me!"

Happy birthday to Eleanor Roosevelt, who was actually born Anna Eleanor Roosevelt. Franklin was her fifth cousin once removed--after their wedding, Theodore said to Franklin, "...there's nothing like keeping the name in the family." I was raised to hold the Roosevelts up in high esteem, my parents being straight-ticket , yellow-dog democrats. As the phrase goes, they'd rather vote for a yellow dog than a republican, and they longed for the old days of the "solid south." Jimmy Carter ran for his second term when I was 18, so I drove myself to the polling station to be counted and stood at the back of a very long line. One of the poll workers asked if anyone was registered as a democrat--I proudly spoke up, the only one evidently, so I got to pass everyone else and vote first, a lot of good that did. But back to Eleanor Roosevelt. She was every bit as much presidential material as her husband. Here are a few quotes that are a good representation of her charac

Can we finally be done with the baby hats? My obsessive/compulsive knitting-fiend hands have created eleven hats here for the hospital in Mali. The oddness of the number does bother me, but I'm thinking I've got one more tucked away in a drawer somewhere to make it an even dozen. If not, then of course I'll have to make another one to round it out. But can I stop here? For Pete's sake! It must be a relaxing life--this life I've heard of when a person can create just one thing, enjoy just one activity, accept an odd number of something, eat M&Ms straight out of the bag without sorting them by color first. Mike seems to like (er, tolerate) his hat (that or I woke him up to take his picture, and he's too groggy to run away and hide under the dining room table). If he were to keep his hat, then I'd have ten, but that would be ridiculous. Cats hate clothes. Others Who Might Enjoy a Hat