Scout Moves

As I mentioned, there were five dogs in the house where we spent Thanksgiving, and I've got pictures to prove it. Actually, there was one dog I didn't capture—Buster the wheaten terrier. Here is Daughter No. 1 hugging Sha Sha Sha Doo the bernese mountain dog. And here she is hugging Tag the schnauzer/poodle mix. This little guy is Jack, a poodle mix from a puppy mill. His front feet turn outward, and his back legs are odd so he can't sit down completely. He's a sweetie, though. I think the flash startled him. Here is Sha , Tag and Roxie the airedale whose left ear sticks up. They're waiting for some turkey scraps to fall on the floor. And just for good measure, here is a picture of a random sign posted on a door frame. It was never explained to me, but I like that it was there.

I'll be heading back home from Illinois today. So, while I'm cruising through the flattest parts of Indiana looking at cows and fields and fields and cows, watch this. It's a video of a high school dance team, and two of my nieces are performing in it.

I don't have a thing to say today except that I am with the inlaws and outlaws in Illinois until Saturday. There were twenty-five of us for dinner, and we had a great day yesterday with lots of very tasty food—turkey, onion stuffing, roasted garlic mashed potatoes, sautéed green beans with lemon zest, a butternut squash something that I have to make myself someday, and more. And there was champagne. There were also dogs—five of them. There is a wheaton terrier, an airedale, a bernese mountain dog the size of Montana, a little white thing with twisty legs because he's a puppy-mill dog, and a little gray thing that looks part schnauzer. I'll have pictures later. Today will be for yawning and drinking coffee and playing with dogs. In honor of the occasion, here is a link to yesterday's newspaper article. It's similar to a previous post, so skip it if you want.

I'm testing chocolate again. TCHO has sent a test batch of their Fruity chocolate, fruity not because it's been injected with artificial orange or lime but because of the natural characteristics of the beans they use to make it. The website says, "Making chocolate is hard work, but we enjoy (almost) every minute of it, no matter how twisted the journey from pod to palate." The twisted journey for this bean took them to Peru where they met with fair trade and organic cacao bean growers and brought back the perfect bean to make this chocolate something incredible. I feel a little cheated because I wasn't able to test it by biting into an actual bar of chocolate—I think the texture of chocolate is nearly as important as the taste. Instead, I received four small packages of "panned goods," what the industry calls treats drenched in chocolate. But if ever there was someone who was able to chew the chocolate off a macadamia nut... It's a bit like eating t

On Tuesday, I attended the international dinner prepared by the students of the adult literacy class I help with. The students did all the cooking, except for the traditional American stuff the teachers and aides brought in. It was one giant thanksgiving dinner with the biggest kids' table I've ever seen. These are called motongo con carne frita. Plantains, onions, bacon and garlic are mounded on top of seasoned chicken. Yum. These are fried tacos filled with chicken and potatoes. Also yum. At this station, someone was making corn tortillas from scratch. This was Eustacia's plate—she went as my guest. The square thing on the right is a Spanish omelet, and the long green thing is plato tipico. It's a chard leaf stuffed with a corn-meal dough and then boiled. It's served with salsa and pumpkin seeds. We were all given small recipe booklets with recipes for everything on the table, including the American stuff, but who wants that when we all know how to make green bean

Through Facebook, I have reconnected with a friend from college who I haven't seen nor heard from in nearly twenty years. I started searching the names of my old friends from those years, and hers was the only one with any results. Gina and I were opposites in so many ways. I dressed sloppily and simply, especially on days when I just wanted to focus on a school project or when I wanted to buck the dress code at our conservative school. Gina put thought into every Cindy-Lauperlike accessory (it was the early 80s). She was spunky, punky, and popular. I was quiet and artsy-fartsy, or at least that's what people said. Some people like to be guilty of the seven deadly sins. Some people like to break the Ten Commandments. Gina and I liked to break the school rules. We smoked clove cigarettes at the Lincoln Park Zoo while watching the pink flamingos. We smuggled gin and tonic into my dorm room on my 21st birthday. We saw movies in theaters. After she graduated and was no longer allow

I finally gave in to Facebook. My kids have it. My husband has it. All the in-laws and out-laws have it ("out-laws" is a term those of us who married the in-laws gave ourselves when they used to dump all the kids on us or leave us with a kitchen full of dirty dishes after an event like Thanksgiving dinner). Anyway, I saw no point in Facebook because I have a blog already and didn't want to have to bother with maintaining another site. It was Daughter No. 1 who finally pushed me into it, saying something about how if I had my own Facebook account, I would know the things about the family that everyone else knows, and I would have access to their pictures. Fine. So, I now have a Facebook account. No. 1 said I wouldn't have to keep it active with status updates or pictures or anything. I could just have it so I can see what other people who allow me to be their friends are up to. But can someone like me who obsesses and ruminates have something like that and not play wit

Big Fat Mike (a cat) went to the vet Friday. He should have gone two years ago, but the poor guy is so neurotic, I kept putting off making an appointment. The last time he went there, he was so disturbed that he peed all over himself while still in the pet crate, so when I pulled him out to meet the doctor, he was drenched and stinky and had to be hosed off before the guy could examine him. This time he did really well. He let the vet man-handle him and weigh him (a whopping 23 pound) and brush out his nasty, matted fur with the Furminator. It's an incredible pet comb everyone with a dog or cat should buy. Mike is a joy to watch. Here he is trying to get Tiger's attention. Mike: I know he knows I'm here. He just pretends to hate me. Tiger: I hate him. Mike: I'll just roll over a little to get his attention. Tiger: I see what you're trying to do, and I still hate you. Mike: He won't be able to resist this, I'm so cute, and I have a yarn ball. Tiger: Touch me

I found this at Gina's (Just Another Day) and couldn't resist. 1. It is your lucky day, so what are you going to do? Because I have the attention span of a butterfly, a very productive butterfly, I would do a whole string of things. I'd write, read, knit, play my horn, drink coffee, nibble chocolate, pet the cats, watch a movie, or two, eat, stop by the coffee shop and chew up the news with whoever, have lunch with a friend, write, read, knit, play my horn... 2. What was the game you played as a child that you almost always or did always win? Tough one. I never won anything, which is why I was tagged with the nickname Wimpy. Come to think of it, I never even won tag. 3. You get to meet anyone from the past or present. Who will it be? I would like to meet Alice Paul and talk to her about what it means to have enough courage to buck every system around her for the sake of civil rights. 4. When you relax, what is it that you do? I watch movies or a favorite TV show like Pushin

It's been nearly a week since I played the Brahms symphony with the orchestra, but there are strains that are still floating in my head. I'll have to learn new music so I can start humming something else, only I don't want to hum something else. At my lesson on Monday, my horn teacher said he'd heard Brahms horn parts described as being like a warm blanket. That's exactly what they are, not just to listen to but to play. You float on the higher notes and slide down into the lower notes and wrap up with the mellow notes in between. It's like when you settle in at the end of the day. The doors are locked, and your coat is hanging in the closet because you don't have to go out again until morning. You're comfortable on the couch or in your favorite chair. You aren't hungry or thirsty. You aren't too cold or too hot. Nothing hurts, and nothing itches. You've got a hot mug of coffee or a full glass of wine, whichever you prefer. You put your feet

I found a recipe in December's issue of Bon Appétit that is worthy of sharing. I'm sure there are more sharable recipes in this issue, but I've only made one so far. It's a plate full of salmon and a vegetable mixture all topped with a great sauce perfect for a chilly night. It's a little complicated, so it probably won't due for a weeknight, but if you prepare ahead and have all the stuff measured and chopped before you start cooking, it goes smoothly and really doesn't take more than 30 or 35 minutes. Yum. You can make some adjustments to simplify because here's what I think—I think if you pass on the salmon and double up on the stuff in the veg pot, you'll have a great meal. You might want to serve the stuff over a bowl of brown rice, or just eat it as is. Don't skip the sauce, though. It's a keeper. Pour it over everything but dessert. Roasted Salmon with Yam, Swiss Chard, Cabbage, and Red Wine Sauce Serves 4 Sauce 2 cups dry red wine (I

I spent a couple of hours with the English class yesterday and was sorry when it was time to go home. My first task was to take the more advanced readers into another room and read through a story about the first Thanksgiving—you know, how some people in England felt persecuted, or as Dive would say weren't allow to do the persecuting, so they hopped aboard the Mayflower with brave Captain Myles Standish and headed to the New World. They timed their trip all wrong so they landed just as winter was about to hit, and they weren't at all prepared. If it weren't for the local Native tribe, they would have all starved to death. Thanks to Squanto, they learned to plant indigenous vegetables and to hunt the local game. Come harvest time, they all got together for a three-day party. "And what a grand time it was." I explained to the readers that "grand" is a formal term that isn't often spoken in casual conversation. It was interesting to work through the vo

I have been practicing my horn in No. 1's bedroom again, the room with the antique music cabinet in the corner that has treasure on its shelves. When I need a break from playing, I rifle through the things in the cabinet to see what there is to see. Just this week I found my report card from the fourth quarter of my seventh grade. I went to Westchester Middle School in Chesterton, Indiana in an era when The Doobie Brothers were huge, Saturday Night Live was brand new but The Partridge Family as on its way out, and the Cold War was raging. I wasn't a very good student, evidently, and I remember being stress-free about it all. Here are my grades: Communications: C+, teacher: Mr. Mitchell Mathematics: C, teacher: Miss Moseley was a formidable woman with wings for upper arms, and she flapped like a pelican when she wrote equations on the chalk board) Science: C, teacher: Mr. Wilson Social Studies: B, teacher: Mrs. Bol. Her husband Mr. Bol had been my 4th grade teacher, and they bot

Part 1 The Tuscarawas Philharmonic performed its first concert of the season over the weekend, and I played second horn. We opened with Copeland's Fanfare for the Common Man and received plenty of "bravas" at the end. Then the strings joined us for Copeland's Lincoln Portrait, a spirited and beautiful tribute to Abraham Lincoln that incorporates a narrator telling basic facts and quotes. Originally, the narrator was to be a local politician who was recently elected, but he couldn't make it. His stand-in was an announcer from a radio station, and the guy was perfect after only one rehearsal. I seriously doubt the other guy would have been as polished and professional at the microphone, and I doubt his voice would have been made of velvet. After the intermission, we performed Brahms' 1st symphony, a bear of a piece in that the music was more like a book. My part was over twelve pages with very few breaks, and I loved every beat of it. The horn section was shuffl

Isn't it? What's fast for some people is slow for others. And what's slow for some is just right for the rest. I remember going on a motorcycle ride a couple of years ago when I had my Honda and was just learning how to run the thing. The leader of the ride decided to go easy because we weren't in any hurry. It was a leisurely ride with no particular destination. I was relieved because I was afraid of curves and hadn't quite gotten the hang of leaning into them. I thought the ride was led at a perfect pace and was even a little fast at times, especially on the downhill curves when I was inclined to ride the brakes or maybe even walk. Afterwards, though, one of the other riders thought the pace was a little slow and dull, especially on those downhill curves. Vroom.

I am aware the verses you're about to read are for children, but I discovered this dopey little poem while reading about Robert Louis Stevenson. The entire A Child's Garden of Verses is available at Project Gutenberg. I took this photo a couple of weeks ago at the lake house when the sun was slipping. My Shadow I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all. He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see; I'd think shame to stick to nursie

Yes, I realize I'm several days late with that statement. Tuesday was actually my mother's 83rd birthday, so I was more interested in making sure I honored that than I was with making a fuss over the veterans. I was one of those kids with older parents, parents who were almost as old as my classmates's grandparents. In social studies, the teacher would say something like, "raise your hand if your grandfather was a soldier in WW2," and I would say, "No, but my father was." My father was 21 when the US entered the war, and he remained overseas for over three years. After going from Scotland through Europe and down through Africa and collecting a lifetime of experiences on the way, his division ended up in Tunis. The military conducted a lottery to determine which soldiers would be sent home, and my father won. He told us stories when we were growing up, but it wasn't until I had an interview assignment for a writing class that he sat down with me at le

Join me in wishing Young Dive a happy birthday today. It's not just any birthday—it's his 50th. I trust Mum and brother Full will help to make it a special day on behalf of all of us too far away to do anything but offer our best wishes. It's also the birthday of Robert Louis Stevenson. He fell in love with an unhappily married woman and pursued her from Europe to California where he nearly died because the journey was such a strain on his already frail health. The woman was divorced by the time he got there, so they married and moved back to Scotland. While playing with his stepson, Stevenson drew a map of an imaginary island and used it as inspiration to write Treasure Island . From Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses , and a wish for Dive's happiness: The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

"Tendency for Rumination in Midlife May Decrease Risk for Dementia Decades Later" International Conference on Alzheimer's Disease 2008 I read this statement not long ago and stopped to think about it, to ruminate over it, you could say. The doctors at the conference explained that "rumination" refers to the tendency for repetitive thinking over one's problems, and their studies have shown people who do this are less likely to have dementia in their old age. So, does this mean it's not only OK but preferable to obsess about things? I've always been told to let things go and not hang on to problems. Get over it. Get over yourself. Get a life. Don't sweat the small stuff. Maybe all of that advice might be good for your heart or your blood pressure, but if you're just keeping yourself alive so your brain can rot later on, I think I'll take the pressured heart. I've seen what Alzheimer's does to people, and if that's what lies ahea

I made biscuits, sort of. We spend Thanksgiving with in-laws in another state, so I don't usually contribute much by way of bringing food. We either have an eight-hour drive or a drive-fly trip that makes hauling pie and green-bean bake a problem. This year, I thought about taking biscuits, a dinner variety like rolls but slightly different, which might travel well. I found a recipe for sweet potato biscuits in a Martha Stewart Holiday magazine and decided to give them a practice shot before committing to anything later. Boy, was that ever a good idea. This recipe calls for 1 3/4 pounds of or 3 large sweet potatoes. I didn't weigh the potatoes at the store, but I chose 3 large ones. I think this is where I went wrong. "Large" may be a relative term when it comes to things like potatoes, and it's possible I chose extra-large or even XXL. I boiled them and mashed them as instructed and mixed them with the usual frothy yeast, a little sugar, melted butter, eggs, and

I said something inexcusable over the weekend. We went to Columbus to visit Daughter No 1. and we wandered around the city for a while before having dinner at a great brewery downtown, The Elevator. A word of advice—don't order the beer with a hint of banana. Before dinner, part of our walk took us around the capital building where the lawn is dotted with old canons and monuments to various people important in Ohio's history. There is one impressive monument to the "sons" of Ohio—Ulysses S. Grant, General Sherman, President William McKinley.... At the opposite end of the lawn is a statue of a man wearing a boxy hat and long robes. As I approached it, I wondered about his identity because he was not dressed like anyone who would have lived within the time frame of Ohio's state history, and he was certainly no "son" of Ohio. He was holding a globe, so I asked without thinking, "Who is that? Galileo?" In Night at the Museum , Ben Stiller plays a n

I neglected to include a photo of My Favorite Place for Joe in last week's Small Town tour. I didn't stop there that day, but I did drive by. Here it is on the ground floor of this cool old corner building. It shares the building with a trashy store called That's Phat that bills itself as a premier sexy clothing shop. Click on this picture for a larger view of the "premiere" goods displayed in the window. And people say Small Town isn't diverse.

After all of the twenty-four-hour blabbering about every minute detail of this presidential campaign from anybody and everybody with access to a microphone or a camera or computer, I have wondered what all the politics-obsessed people in the news would talk about and write about and fight about after the election. It seems now they have to examine Obama's transition team and who he chooses for his cabinet. They have to talk about where McCain will fit in the next administration. They have to speculate about Palin's political future and whether she really didn't know Africa was a continent and not a country or if this back-stabbing from McCain's aides is based on lies. They have to ponder the social and historic significance of this election. They have to name the Obama family's new dog. Oh, and now they have to keep talking about this non-story of Obama's joke at Nancy Reagan's expense and how he called her to apologize. Albert Brooks has some interesting ad

Here is a link to an editorial I have written about how I feel about voting. In preparation for this piece, I called my mother and talked to her about what her mother thought about having the right to vote. She explained something that is haunting and makes me cherish my right to vote even more. When the 19th amendment was ratified in 1920, my grandmother was just under the legal voting age at the time, but she would be of voting age before my mother was born five years later. During the first campaign in which she could have voted, though, there was a poll tax. After blacks were given the right to vote with the 15th amendment, some of the southern states like Alabama enacted poll taxes knowing full well the local blacks, Native Americans, and poor whites couldn't afford them. There was an exception to the tax called the "grandfather clause" allowing any male whose father had voted previously to vote for free. Of course, the only men who qualified under the clause were w

...or it can make you sick. I have cleaned out my half of our walk-in closet. I noticed my cold-weather clothes were getting all tangled up with my warm-weather clothes, so I decided it was time to store the summer stuff and move the stored sweaters to the handy shelves in my closet. Turns out it wasn't enough just to move things around. There was too much to store and too much to keep handy. That's where the purging came in—I took some big leaf bags to the shelves and drawers and started pulling out things I no longer wanted. I found things I haven't worn in a couple of years and things that haven't fit in a couple of years and things that didn't fit the day they arrived in the mail. That's always a problem when you order clothes from a catalog, but you're supposed to return or exchange the things that don't fit. What I have done instead is keep the stuff because some day it just might fit. Who am I kidding? During this cleaning exercise, I decided to b

Because I like to be organized about certain things, even though I'm haphazard about others, I like to group errands into one outing. And I make each stop in order so I am not criss-crossing through town. I did that yesterday morning, so please come with me on my trip. First, I voted. This is my voting sticker. While I waited in line to vote, I met some neighbors and an acquaintance who told me about how he was bullied when he was in 6th grade until he belted the kid, and he was never bullied again. This was in response to an article I wrote for the paper months ago about school-yard bullying. Then I went to the post office to mail the baby hats to the hospital. Then I went to the ATM for carrying-around money. The other day I was talking with my dry cleaning friend about how we like to carry cash in our wallets because we both remember times when there was no cash to carry, and we had to scrounge just to buy necessities. This ATM is encrusted with bug carcasses and spider webs, an

Lynn is expecting a congratulatory post with some "whooping," so here it is. WHOOP! In January, we'll inaugurate a new president, President Barack Obama. 52% of the voters are excited and eager and hopeful. 46% of them aren't. John McCain acknowledged the historical milestone we have just witnessed and said this is something African-Americans should be proud of. I think this is something 100% of us should be proud of. In a nation built on slavery and tainted by intense racism, we have hired on a black man to run the country for four years. People across racial and cultural lines voted like mad this time around—blacks and whites alike cast their ballot for a man who one hundred years ago would himself have been kept from the polls by Jim Crow laws. President Obama and the rest of us have a tough road ahead. Obama knows this, and in his victory speech said: There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won't agree with every decision or policy I make a

All last week, I set out to knit a baby hat a day. It may seem an odd goal, especially since I don't know any babies, but I like to knit. In the evenings, when the chores are done, mostly, and it's time for sitting with your feet up in front of the TV or relaxing in your favorite chair, making something simple and quick like a baby hat is just the ticket. I have a pattern memorized, and I have tons of yarn squirreled away, so all I had to do was get to work. After I finished these hats, I began an online search for a charity looking for knitted baby hats. I found charities that wanted money and charities that wanted ball caps autographed by celebrities, but it took me a while to find the group I was looking for. I will be sending this collection of hats in unconventional colors to the Akron Children's Hospital. With the goal reached, I'm inclined to keep going. Why not, I ask myself. The last thing this house needs is another scarf, and I don't have the attention sp

Quite often, the editor of Small Town Newspaper will break his Sunday commentary into several topics instead of focusing on just one for the day. That seems a great way to express the things you want to say all at once, so today's post will be a Hodge Podge. Item No. 1 I'm sitting here minding my own business and flipping through a magazine that arrived just two days before. It's the November/December 2008 issue of the MENSA Bulletin. I don't often read it, but I always skim. So, I'm turning pages, and I see a title that looks familiar, "I Write Like a Child...but So Did John Bunyan." What the...? Then I see my name at the top of the page and discover an article I submitted a couple of months ago based on a blog post I did that you can find here. Because the editor didn't respond when I emailed the story, I had no idea it had been accepted. Yee-Ha! Just the other day I was exchanging emails with Lynn who was encouraging me to submit articles to local

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The articles I write for Small Town Newspaper have a word limit of 700. This series includes pieces I have written using 700 words but have not submitted to the newspaper. This particular article was submitted but was preempted by the president election. So it doesn't go to waste, I'll post it here. October is Diversity Awareness Month. This sort of marginal event can be easy to ignore when you live in an area that is ninety-seven percent white, but our valley hamlet in Ohio is part of a nation that is only sixty-seven percent white, a percentage that is decreasing each year as our society transforms. Trends in birth rates and immigration are reshaping our society and remolding our culture, a transition not so easy to ignore. While some of us may be alarmed by this change in our population, it’s important to remember that our society began its evolution the day the first settlers landed on Plymouth Rock, shaking up the world of the people already living here. Those first coloni