Scout Moves

You Are A Fig Tree You are very independent and strong minded.A hard worker when you want to be, you play hard too.You are honest and loyal. You hate contradiction or arguments.You love life, and you live for your friends, children, and animals.A great sense of humor, artistic talent, and intelligence are all gifts you possess. What's" Your Celtic Horoscope?

Your Language Arts Grade: 100% Way to go! You know not to trust the MS Grammar Check and you know "no" from "know." Now, go forth and spread the good word (or at least, the proper use of apostrophes). Are You Gooder at Grammar? Make a Quiz

In honor of Mark Twain's birthday, which is today, here are a few of his quotes with editorials. "All generalizations are false, including this one." So, then...some generalizations are true? Which ones? Yesterday, Rich wrote about how women talk more than men, and studies have shown this to be true, if you believe in generalizations. I know a man who just won't shut up. You greet him in the morning with a simple hello, and somewhere around 2:30 in the afternoon, he finally stops with his continuous string of blabber. Oddly, much of what he says is mindless generalization. He's always nice enough to nudge your shoulder to wake you up because you have once again fallen asleep to the lullaby of his chatter. "Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society." I don't remember why, but during our Thanksgiving dinner, someone mentioned Lady Godiva--it may have been after someone mentioned how much they like Godiva chocolate. No on

Read in my local paper this morning: Don Keating of the Eastern Ohio Bigfoot Investigation Center is asking deer hunters to be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. Specifically, anything 6- to 9-feet tall, bipedal and covered with dark hair. More specifically – Sasquatch, better known as Bigfoot. Keating is hoping that deer hunters somewhere in Ohio spot the elusive Bigfoot and report it to him but urges them to not shoot if they spot it.

What Kind of Reader Are You? Your Result: Literate Good Citizen You read to inform or entertain yourself, but you're not nerdy about it. You've read most major classics (in school) and you have a favorite genre or two. Dedicated Reader Book Snob Obsessive-Compulsive Bookworm Fad Reader Non-Reader What Kind of Reader Are You? Create Your Own Quiz

My daughters used to play a game they devised called This. To play This, one person writes the names of locations around the house on scraps of paper and then places them--a scrap that reads Back of Toilet is placed behind the couch, for example, and then on the back of the toilet, the person places another scrap that might read Piano Bench. On the piano bench goes another scrap, and so on and so on. The other player is handed the first scrap that begins the hunt--the player follows the trail around and around, and at the end is a prize of some kind. They would sometimes play This at our business on Saturday when the place was empty. The scraps would read with the names of the employees and would lead from office to office to office. And the prize would be candy from the vending machine downstairs. When you want to the play the game, you say, "hey, you wanna play This?" Sometimes, real life seems like a rambling goose-chasing game of This, and you run from scrap to scrap foll

This is a short story written by my daughter just this year. As a word of explanation, she is an adult but was able to take the voice of a child, thus the lack of capitalization and punctuation. I offer this explanation only because you don't know her or me really (this is NOT autobiographical). it was raining outside and since you were downstairs watching your soap opera i went into your room. i lay on your unmade bed and ran my hand across the sheets, which must have been clean once. i stared at the carpet for a long time. i looked at your old dresser, the mirror was cracked. and on the dresser there was a hairbrush full of your blonde hair, a picture of me and a picture of daddy, and a glass angel that your mama gave you and she said you were her angel. you were going to the grocery store and i wanted to come with you. i wanted to watch you pick up apples and put them back if they were bruised because you knew i wouldn't eat them. i wanted to hear the tone of your voice when

Say it! Say it! Say "I lost the nest-egg." Go on, say it! Albert Brooks wrote, directed, and starred in Lost In America, an often overlooked comedy that also stars Julie Haggerty. It's the story of an advertising executive who does not get the promotion he believes he has been groomed for and is sure he deserves. He is so disillusioned that he quits his job completely and convinces his wife to quit her job as well. They sell their home and all of their possessions, buy a Winnebago, and set out to explore America--free spirits, no ties, no worries. They have a nest egg. Their first stop is Las Vegas where they plan to renew their vows, but during their first night, Julie Haggerty's character discovers the intoxicating lure of gambling. While under its spell, she loses the nest egg, all but a few hundred dollars anyway. So, there they are--no home, no jobs, no free spirit. Brooks delivers his best ad-agency sales pitch for the casino owner to convince him to return the

This was a film created by my niece and her husband (Michelle and Erik). I just thought I'd post it here because it's brilliant, and they're brilliant, and I enjoyed their company at Thanksgiving.

2 cups flour 1/2 cup brown sugar 3/4 cup butter 6 Tablespoons cocoa 2 Tablespoons vegetable oil 2 Tablespoons butter 2 cups powdered sugar Water Mix flour, brown sugar, and 3/4 cup butter until crumbly. Spread evenly on a baking sheet to form the crust, and bake at 325 F for 20 minutes. Mix remaining ingredients until smooth and spread over hot crust. Cool and cut into squares.

I have run out of postable paintings and old stories, which came in handy while I was away for Thanksgiving. But now that I am easing back into a weekday routine, I'm left with having to write about something new. The problem is, I don't want to write about something new. I want to write about something old, something with tradition and roots and with strings attached. My husband, daughters, and I spend Thanksgiving with my in-laws in Illinois every year. It's a tradition. College students travel hundreds of miles for this event even if their parents can't make it (the large family is scattered all over the country and even into Brazil). This year we had twenty-four people for dinner and another day of just being together. One of the few old family traditions is Short Bread Squares, simple layers of shortbread topped with melted chocolate. Beyond that, there aren't many dishes or activities the family continues through the generations. This is not a sentimental bunc

My Grandfather's Shed-- the tree is juvenile, but the one below is slightly better. Pretty Tree (I'm being facetious)

As with yesterday's post: A very slight story I wrote a year or two ago, but I thought it would be appropriate for Thanksgiving. Tomorrow, look for another installment in The Gallery. In 1952, the South was officially segregated, baby boomers were being born, and Elvis was a junior in high school. No one had heard of the British Invasion, touch-tone phones, VCRs, CD players, or space shuttles. In 1952, the Canton Summer Band was performing in parks during the summer, and a group of young men, men who were school children during World War II, joined to play their clarinets and trumpets. Fifty years later, when the current Canton Summer Band was assembled on a basketball court in Price Park, the concert announcer said between numbers, “I’d like to know how many of you have been in this band for more than ten years. Please stand up.” A large number of people stood, and the audience applauded. “Remain standing if you’ve been in longer than twenty years. . .Thirty years. . .Forty years

A very slight story I wrote a year or two ago, but I thought it would be appropriate for Thanksgiving. Payday was the first and the fifteenth of each month when I worked the counter at Burger Chef—ruled the counter, reigned as queen of the counter—in my brown double-knit tunic with orange stripes down the sides. I saved most of my income for college, but I set $10 or $15 aside every other week to buy old books at the Train Depot, a quaint store in town that occupied the old train station. At the back of the store was a small book room with dusty copies of Shakespeare and Hardy and boy scout manuals. I was a regular. One week, the day after payday, I was considering the books I had spotted the payday before, but I changed course with a new idea. Instead of books, this time I would buy a wooden soprano recorder. I’m not sure where I got the idea for such a purchase, but I knew I wanted it more than a 1946 copy of Jane Eyre . My mother and I had to drive all the way to Michigan City to fi

Lighthouse Even while traveling...I...will...not...miss...a day. For those who missed the initiation of The Gallery, these are little painting exercises that are a result of my attempt to learn water color.

Apples -- Happy Thanksgiving

Wishful Thinking A link to a quirky story from years and years ago, but on a day when I've got so much to do, not to mention the road trip to Illinois.... Enjoy.

In anticipation of Thanksgiving, I feel I must post a recipe with plenty of good old American tradition. The classic Green Bean Bake was invented in 1955 by Dorcas Reilly, a home economist who worked for the Campbell's Soup Company. A study was done determining that 50% of all Americans have eaten the classic Green Bean Bake, and 38% of those believe it is best served during the holidays, mainly Thanksgiving. So, for the other 50% and for those in other countries where this dish may be unfamiliar--my treat: The Classic Green Bean Bake serves 6 to 8 1 can Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup 1/2 cup milk 1 teaspoon soy sauce Dash of fresh pepper 1 20-oz. bag frozen cut green beans, thawed* 1 2.8 oz can French-fried onions -Preheat the oven to 350 F -In a casserole dish, combine the soup, milk, soy sauce and pepper. Stir in the green beans and half of the onions. -Bake until bubbling, about 25 minutes. Top with the remaining onions and bake for 5 more minutes. Serve hot. *Or cook 1

Rich (Vertical Mechanism) wrote such a moving tribute to his grade-school teacher the other day. It was inspiring and made me think of all the positive contributions teachers can make to society beyond sharing their knowledge of any particular subject to a younger generation. They can make a lasting impact. My third-grade teacher, Mrs. Gunderson, was old school. She was an old-school hag, a relic of a long-dead educational system that held up fear and punishment as ideal tools for teaching the young. She wore black orthopedic shoes and scratchy wool suits, and her hair was pulled tightly up in a bun. If she had been an animal, she would have been a hawk with her beaked nose and her caw-like voice, screeching over the room with outstretched wings and prey-hunting talons. Mrs. Gunderson taught the subject matter by the book with no need for creative embellishment. Learn the material, keep your mouths shut, and sit still. In her desk drawer, she kept a hand paddle made of wood which was

Based on an "assignment" from Taihae. (belated) Before my married days, I had a string of boyfriends--some good, some not so good, some just plain slimy, but none notable enough to describe. A boyfriend is a boyfriend is a boyfriend. But there was one who got away. I went to a Christian college for about a year and a half. Part of the curriculum was what was called Practical Christian Ministry. If you claimed a particular belief, then you should be willing to act on it, which makes sense. So, each student was given an assignment--a different ministry each semester. My first assignment was to play the piano at a nursing home every Sunday morning. My second was to man the phone lines of a story program that kids called after school. After the story, if a kid wanted to hang on and chit chat, I was there. Every single one of them hung up. My third was to do something I detested--I was assigned a door-to-door job. Teams of eight would drive to some predetermined neighborhood outsi

My Cat Tiger

This week's subject is Plush . For years I have had this strange longing to bury my face in the mane of a lion--if only I could find a friendly, clean one that hasn't just pulled his head out of the carcass of a water buffalo. Until then, my Tabby cat Tiger will do. His fur is as thick and soft as any known substance, and on a chilly early Saturday, it has the feel of comfort. It's plush. When people stop by my house for a visit, they always make a point to hold Tiger because he literally hugs everyone. People always say, "if everyone had a cat like this to hold onto at the end of the day, there would be no wars."

In my anti-TV post, I forgot one other interest which has been dormant for quite some time. I took a stab at watercolor painting and wouldn't mind trying it again. I didn't get very far in the quest as demonstrated by the best thing I could dig up--generic field grass.

I watch entirely too much television. Desperate Housewives, Lost, Grey's Anatomy, Gilmore Girls, Boston Legal, Studio 60, House, The Office, Ugly Betty, Brothers and Sisters, ER. There are probably more shows that I sit in front of even if I'm not paying attention. You could talk about how so much TV disengages my brain. You could talk about how so much TV makes my ass big. You could talk about how so much TV makes me less social. The other day, my sister and I talked about how so much TV can serve as a pacifier because real life sucks. But my burdensome issue with the amount of TV I watch is that when I'm sitting there in front of the big machine, I'm not doing other things I enjoy doing. My town has a little museum of wood carvings from someone we like to call the World's Master Carver. He had a house full of children and a full-time job, so all of his carving was done in the evenings, and he was prolific. When you tour the museum, the guide makes a point of telli

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Inland North You may think you speak "Standard English straight out of the dictionary" but when you step away from the Great Lakes you get asked annoying questions like "Are you from Wisconsin?" or "Are you from Chicago?" Chances are you call carbonated drinks "pop." The Midland The Northeast Philadelphia The South The West Boston North Central What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes I just took this quiz that I first discovered at Librarian in Training. I don't get it because I'm from Chicago, basically. I spent four years in New Jersey, and I've been in Ohio for 19 years.

Old Knudsen has suggested we write about some of our choice Christmas experiences-- I've already done that . So instead, I will tell you all about a memorable Thanksgiving. My husband and I had been married about five months and were living in New Jersey. We couldn't afford a trip back to the Midwest where the rest of our family would be celebrating, so we decided to stay put. We knew a woman who was exceptionally generous, sometimes just because she wanted something and sometimes just because. She tended to collect strays, you could say, and assembled this bunch for Thanksgiving dinner like I have never seen. I hadn't learned to cook yet, so I was given the job of potato pealing. There we were, two very young newlyweds; the woman and her four children; her Italian- emigrant mother who had the typical Italian/NJ accent; a newly divorced and very fractured woman with her three little children; two Cuban emigrants , a sister who had escaped Cuba via Paris and later retrieve

Cool Hand Luke (1967) is the story of Luke Jackson (Paul Newman), a man with no apparent direction in life and no apparent ambition. He's just settling an old score. After a stint in the US Army in which he was promoted and honored with various medals but then demoted so that he left with the same stripe he went in with, he got drunk, broke the heads off of parking meters, and was sent to a work prison in Florida. This prison is run by Captain, an overseer of sorts played by Strother Martin. More people than I can count have tried imitating Martin in delivering one of the greatest lines in American film history--" What we have here is a failure to communicate "--but they all fail. No one can deliver that line with the same thin Southern drawl--a hint of evil and a hint of feigned benevolence. Luke enters this prison as a man just " passin ' the time." He may bend to authority when necessary, but he can't be broken. There lies the conflict--in order to

taken from Old Knudsen . 1-Do you like the look and the contents of your blog? I like the colors, which I chose because I like them. After a round of visiting the webpals , I sigh with great comfort when I land back on my own page--it's like coming home. Ahh. Addition: I'd like to note here that my colors are the same as Old Knudsen's. I draw no conclusion there. Just pointing out the similarity. 2-Does your family know about your blog? I've told them, but only a couple have stopped by to read. Their loss, I say. 3-Can you tell your friends about your blog? Do you consider it a private thing? I have told my friends, but some of them are computer illiterate. Most of them have busy lives and don't have time for such waste. 4-Do you just read the blogs of those who comment on your blog? or you try to discover new blogs? Sometimes, on those rare occasions when I have nothing else to do, I'll go trolling, but there isn't enough time in the day to poke around and

...but I haven't aged a day. I was rummaging through a local antique store a few days ago looking for an old book to chop up (it's a long story I'll tell later). Our town has this gigantic antique mall--the largest in the state, or maybe even the world. It's in what used to be a K-Mart kind of store that dried up years ago and is now full of old dusty things vendors have hauled out and set up in so many different stalls, the whole place has to be partitioned by streets. I found my book on 12 th Street or something, and on my way to the register, I nearly tripped over an old doll house. I swear it could have been mine when I was a kid. A dollhouse just like this one was handed down to me by some older sisters. It was metal and had all the wall coverings and floor coverings painted right on it, and it had plastic furniture. I particularly remember a blue couch and a pink toilet. The one in the antique mall was priced at $62. I'm sure my parents didn't pay more t

While I was digging through my Old Stories folder looking for the horn thing, I found this story I wrote about an experience I had in high school. I can't vouch for its quality as it was written over a year ago and possibly under the spell of some bitter reminiscing, but here you go anyway: A Full Bowl

In keeping with today's French Horn theme, here is an article I wrote a couple of years ago for Triad, the trade journal for the Ohio Music Educator's Association. They were doing a piece on adults who went back to their roots in music. “Why do I do this to myself?” after an hour of practicing, I laid my horn back into its case as if it were delicate crystal. What I wanted to do instead was throw it through the window. It would break the glass, push out the screen, and spin like a ballerina, slowly twirling through space with the air humming through its pipes until it smashed violently on the stone retaining wall below. And during the entire execution, I would watch from my upstairs window, arms folded, lips stretched into a sadistic and satisfied grin. My husband had given the horn to me for my birthday the summer before, and at the age of thirty-eight, I was trying to relearn the instrument. I had begun taking horn lessons from the band teacher at the local high school who wa

Today is horn lesson day. Technically , every Monday is horn lesson day, but over this past year, which has been...well...hell for my family with one thing after another, I have had to cancel so many that my teacher now greets me this way: "Well, hello stranger. You haven't been here in so long, I can hardly remember when you were here last." It's a shame because as gruelling as these lessons can be, I do love them. It's similar to beating your head with a two by four and asking for more. And paying for it. Having a teacher keeps me on track. Having a teacher holds me accountable. Having a teacher assures that I will play more than little ditties from 5 th -grade etude books that may be fun and easy but do absolutely nothing for my musical development. My poor teacher, who is an instructor at at least two colleges within sixty or so miles from here, is forced to repeat himself, not because I can't hear, but because my head is full of forty years of plaque and

In a comment yesterday, Old Knusdon suggested that I have a "well-hidden wicked side." Well, I suppose I do have a wicked side, and I suppose everyone does. Some are just conditioned differently as to whether or not it needs to be hidden. This morning, I heard a discussion on this very subject, and the teacher (OK, Old Knudson, I was in Sunday school--this place is like church, isn't it?) Anyway, the teacher gave us this quote from Mark Twain: Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody. from Following the Equator, Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar If we all have a dark side, then we must all have a brighter side. That's the side I prefer to focus on, not for the sake of glossing over the rot and the ugly, but for the sake of catching a good deep breath, and for the sake of allowing everyone else around me to catch the same good deep breath. There's plenty of unpleasantness on the globe, especially these days, and it won't d

Grace Kelly, a classic beauty. This is a still from Rear Window, which is quite likely my favorite Hitchcock film. It makes up for the disaster of High Society. Why would anyone remake The Philadephia Story to begin with, much less with Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra? Once Katherine Hepburn delivers a script's worth of lines, no one else can reproduce it.

So I've heard anyway. At least my site seems to give that impression to at least two people who have used that word. This person has written a lovely little complimentary post about my site, and I'd like to quote it (this line made me chuckle, being a simple soul who won't swear to Old K's satisfaction. Sorry Old Knudson, you know you're always welcome here, and I won't sensor you, because I don't believe in sensoring.) If you stop over, say something nice. Don't wreck the place.

The Photo Scavenger Hunt topic this week is growth. This shot is of moss growing inbetween the tumbled pavers that make up my patio, now strewn with drying leaves. Draw conclusions about thriving in the midst of adversity if you want.

I've been loosely following a story in the local paper. Not too long ago, four teenage boys came up with a plan--if you can say they had a plan. I get the impression that when teenage boys get together, they can sometimes stop thinking all together and act solely on impulse. Anyway, these boys went to the local park and stole two American flags. They painted vulgar things on them and then burned them. There was no anti-American sentiment involved, no attempt to demonstrate free speech (flag burning is an occasional hot button here in the States). They were just up to no good (see the Richard Burton post below). They were caught because there was a witness (further proof of the impulse notion), were quickly charged with criminal trespassing and criminal damaging and were sent before the juvenile court judge. Each was sentenced to 60 hours of community service, two days in a veterans hospital, and they had to write an apology that would be delivered at the upcoming Veteran's Day

...go to Richard Burton. I have nothing to say about him, actually. When I hear the name, I can only think about the Richard Burton I knew in middle school. I was twelve, and he was thirteen. He was part of the bad boy crowd, the crowd that would grow up to be the pot smokers who wasted away hours sitting on the picnic tables at the park. Up to no good, they were. But in middle school Richard Burton was just a budding pothead. He also seemed to have a crush on me and would walk me from class to class, as if I needed an escort. We had pleasant conversations in the halls of that school, but I could never understand his attraction to me. He never asked me out, the way middle schools kids "go out," but for months he was like a loyal puppy, always at my side. Then one day, while standing in front of my health class room, he said, "Robyn, I wish you'd grow." That was what was holding him back, evidently. I was quite flat chested as a twelve year old.

Inspiring quotes about the moon: When I admire the wonders of a sunset or the beauty of the moon, my soul expands in the worship of the creator. Mohandas Gandhi If the Sun and Moon should ever doubt, they'd immediately go out. William Blake You moon the wrong person at an office party and suddenly you're not "professional" any more. Jeff Foxworthy

...or The Day I Behaved Badly This season, what some might call the Season of Rot and Decay but I prefer to call The Season of Harvesting and Sentimental Reminiscing, puts me in mind of an evening when I was twelve. I had a friend in school named Susan. Susan lived in the country, about fifteen minutes outside of our little town in Indiana. In the fall, townspeople would go to the country to visit the pumpkin patches and apple orchards. It was an annual event to take a trip out to the apple orchard and select the best apples and the best cider, eat a cake donut, smell the leaves, and relish the changing of the seasons. I loved the fall. Susan, being a country girl, belonged to some kind of club like 4-H, and every fall, the mothers of the club kids put on a big shindig in an old barn with hay rides, donuts, hot chocolate, and a haunted house. The year I turned twelve, I was Susan's guest to this big harvest party. My mother drove me out to Susan's house where I had been for ove

The copy on the packaging for Joe Versus the Volcano describes this Spielberg film as a comedy, a " laughquake ." I have a new rule that does not allow me to watch a movie described as a laughquake , but I'm pretty sure the copy writer never watched this movie. There are some comic elements, some funny lines, Abe Vigoda as a tribal chief, but there is so much more. It opens in a colorless parking lot of a factory--home of the rectal probe--and hundreds of employees are trudging through mud, muck, and trash to get to their jobs where they will spend the day being sucked up by bad lighting and stale air. While Joe is making the zig - zag trek from his car to the monolithic factory, he trips on something and rips the sole from his shoe. He reaches the office, and the secretary (Meg Ryan) asks, "What's wrong with your shoe?" And Joe replies, "I'm losing my soul." That single line sets up the film. Joe is losing his soul. He is being sucked up b

I've got a recipe for cranberry chutney that is so magnificent, so delectable, that when I make a batch, I'm not above standing at the stove and eating the stuff directly from the pan with a big wooden spoon. But I'll get to that in a minute. I found this recipe in one of my cookbooks, Thanksgiving 101 by Rick Rodgers. It's a wonder I ever found it given that I have a large collection of cookbooks. On a shelf the width of my washer and dryer combined and in two cabinets I have 97 cookbooks. Does that seem extreme? Does that seem excessive? Do you wonder why anyone would need more than a few basic books, enough to cover meat loaf, lasagna, beef stew, and a good mac and cheese? Barefoot Contessa makes a mean mac and cheese, distinct from but not quite as smooth as the mac and cheese found in The Best of Gourmet Magazine 2005 which uses mascarpone and cherry tomatoes. Barefoot Contessa also makes a rib-sticking lasagna and a turkey meat loaf that is so good you want it