Scout Moves

I've got your snow right here. We aren't inundated like the people who get two feet in one snow fall, but we've got plenty with ice underneath. I left the house twice yesterday, and each time it snowed when I didn't need it to. (click on these for a better view) This is what was going on just as I arrived at the Y. And this is what my windshield looked like an hour later. When I managed to swerve my way back home, I took this picture of a poor summer lawn ornament that was still stuck in a bush. And here is a tiny bird's nest that can hold an amazing amount of snow. Click on this picture to see how all the tiny branches are encased in ice—and I think there are actually two nests in the tree. Later on, I had to drive out on a country road that, I'm not kidding, is called Possom Hollow. I had to take a photo of some people for a newspaper article about their business. I don't think I ever went more than 15 miles an hour on that road because, of course, it was

I went back to the pottery shop yesterday to interview the potter and his wife who is a stained glass artist. I could have stayed all day if it hadn't been so cold. As I mentioned on Monday, the shop is in a one-room school house built in the 1880s, and it's heated by a wood-burning stove. And that's it. Just the stove. After introductions, they pulled a rocking chair next to the stove for me to sit while we talked, and it was all so like another era. The windows were filled with stained glass creations, and hand-thrown pottery rested on every shelf and old trunk or table. I got to sit and talk with two 30-something artists who support themselves with their crafts, although at times it has been a real struggle. After our time together, I bought two things: a ceramic baking dish and spoon for serving baked brie and a bread baking bowl. Both came with a recipe card. This is the bread baking bowl. The recipe for quick bread called for self-rising flour, which I never have, so

Lynn wants pictures, so Lynn gets pictures. I've only took two because snow is snow. Before the snow, we were coated with ice. This is my patio table soon after it started snowing yesterday morning. And this is the view from my front porch. I didn't mind being snowed in. I got a lot done. It's not like I couldn't leave the house, but I didn't have to leave the house, so I left the car keys in my coat pocket and hibernated. I was expecting an important FedX package yesterday but had resigned myself to not getting it until today. So, I was surprised when the FedX guy knocked on the door and handed me the book cover art I was waiting for. That made me think it might be OK to venture out, but when I saw the FedX truck spin its wheels on the road in front of my house and swerve and barely make it up the hill, I thought again. I grew up on the left shore of Lake Michigan, so a few inches of snow don't startle me. I remember being excited about snow days when I was a k

I finished up an interview with a stable owner yesterday, and the woman has a funny horse. The horse stood in her stall and waited for a cat to walk by, and then she picked up a plastic thing I couldn't identify (seriously, I kept saying, "please use non-horse terms), and she threw the thing at the cat. Then the horse picked up a bridle (I DO know what that is) she had thrown on the floor earlier and moved her head in a circle so the bridle would spin around and around and around... The horse does this to amuse herself, the woman said, but I think she does it to get a laugh. I tried to capture it on video, but I was only able to pick up a few seconds. At least you know I'm not making this up. I hope to meet a potter today who has the shop I described the other day, but we are being pelted with ice at the moment and for the rest of the morning. The potter's shop is on a country road with a few hills, and his wife and I are concerned about driving on it until it has been

Last night, my orchestra rehearsed for our next concert, and we played through parts of Mendelssohn's Elijah. We met in the band room of Small Town's middle school, which has a completely different atmosphere than the stage where we perform. The lighting is brighter and sort of institutional, and there are kid things all over the place—stuff they leave behind after school, trash can drums painted like soda cans, newspaper clippings taped to the wall, and inspirational messages their band teacher has tacked up. She is a good friend of mine and always chooses good ones to try to make the kids think beyond what they see in front of their faces. Last night I read this quote by Gershwin: "Music is an emotional science." During rehearsal, I thought it was more of a mathematical plunger, something forcing me to come up with transposed notes on the fly because my part is written in five or six different keys. On one movement, and E is an E, but on the next it might be a C or

I feel like I have found the Lost World— Journey to the Old School House as written by H. G. Wells. For months and months I have been thinking about going to a pottery shop in Small Town, but I wasn't sure where it was. I was at My Favorite Place for Joe one day, and I found a stack of postcards advertising the place and thought it would be fun. But then I never investigated and lost the card. You know how that goes. Good intentions. Now, I have this idea that small micro-businesses like one-man operations or family shops need a boost in the local newspaper. These places don't have much money to advertise, and they are often so obscure and tucked away in corners of the county that no one knows they exist. And because they were usually started based on someone's unexpected passion for something or other—like an accountant building a horse barn—the business owners have stories to tell. So, I thought this potter who lives in town just might have something interesting to say, s

I have a story in the paper today that I think you'll find interesting, if not cleanly written. I actually made mental notes today comparing my original submission to the edited piece, so now I know what not to do next time. Every day is a learning experience, isn't it? Anyway, here 's the story.

I don't have any stories to tell today, so I'll show you some pictures. First, this is my side yard in last week's snow. I meant to let you see this then but forgot. It doesn't look much different now since we have been living in the freezer section for over a week now. Second, I went to a horse barn last night to interview some girls on an equestrian team. This is a horse who was making a nuisance of himself with the horse in the next stall. They were playful and pretty, but they scare me a little. I am amazed at how easily the girls handle the horses, though, like their playing with kittens. And speaking of kittens, here are the big boys up to no good. This goes on every day in my house.

OK, so Aretha Franklin wore a funky hat to sing My County Tis of Thee at the inauguration on Tuesday. Some people thought she stunk even though others were moved to tears. I was one of them, one of the ones who was moved to tears. I actually liked her hat—it's Aretha. She can wear whatever she wants. While she sang, what struck me more so than her clothes was the contrast between her circumstances at that moment and the circumstances of Marian Anderson in 1939. Marian Anderson, the world-renowned singer who Toscanini said had a voice "heard once in a hundred years," wanted to sing in Washington, D.C. Constitution Hall was the place to do that at the time, the place where all the well-known classical musicians performed, but she was refused because of her race. The building was operated by the Daughters of the American Revolution, and this racist act led a lot of people to withdraw their membership from the DAR, Eleanor Roosevelt included. Roosevelt arranged for Anderson t

Today is my father's birthday. He would be 89 years old if he were still living. When I was a kid, I always wanted to give my parents gifts for their birthdays, but I never had money until I was of babysitting age. Any change I had in my pockets for trips to Dairy Queen were nickels and dimes I found under the couch cushions. So, I made cards. One summer, all the kids in my neighborhood went to the park for the summer program. It was a day camp run by high school and college kids, and we played every game we could fit into one sunny day—T-ball, kick ball, a weird Americanized cricket. There was a giant ball that was kept in a storage barn, and sometimes one of the leaders would take it out, and we would all lunge at it and strain to lift it off the ground, the ball being larger than any one of us. We worked on organized crafts on most days, and on one particular day, we made candles. The leaders melted crayons and let us choose a color, and then we poured the melted wax into little

Eustacia was home this past weekend because she needed supplies for an art class and needed someone to take her a specific store that was not within walking distance from college. So, we went to Pat Catan's to fill the list. Pat Catan's is a monster craft store where you can pick up some dried flowers, a few skeins of yarn, an action figure of Sojourner Truth, and art supplies all in one trip. This store has some great things in it, but it also has more crap than you can shake a glue stick at. And Eustacia and I filled the cart. Once we got all the art stuff, we picked up some tiny canvases like what I used to paint on. I'll start again now. We found a kit for this weird needle felting thing. I tried it and didn't like it at all, plus I stabbed myself with the stupid needle. Then we found these unfinished wooden boxes meant to hide cube-style tissue boxes. Jackpot. We took our boxes and full cart to the paper aisle and found sheets we liked and trinkets we liked, and we

I'm rushed, so here's this .

Or so I had hoped. Something unfortunate happened yesterday. A good friend of mine was free for coffee in the middle of the morning, which is not usually the case, and since we haven't had a chance to just sit and talk like we like to do—generally in a stream of consciousness—we met at My Favorite Place for Joe. I didn't say this up front, but I only had about an hour because I had two other errands to run and had to get some work done. We hadn't been seated more than five minutes when one of my friend's old pals walked in, and we both waved to say hello. My friend went over to the guy to offer a more generous hello, and and he followed her back to the table. In the past, this man has had trouble remembering my name, so my friend took this opportunity to see if he could come up with it. He did, kind of, by referring to my articles that have been appearing in the paper. I mentioned that someone had written a letter to the editor just the day before in response to my arti

After a week and a half into my renewed attempt to trim down (I've lost three pounds, by the way), I am missing things like cookies and ice cream. So, I found this recipe for a low-carb cheesecake that has no sugar. It's not low in fat, necessarily, but with a low-carb diet, fat isn't the issue. When your body isn't filled with starchy sugary things to process, it can process fat and get rid of it instead of storing it. I wasn't sure about this cake because sometimes stuff like this can taste like a plate full of chemicals or leave the aftertaste of one, but I give this sugar-free dessert my approval. Low Carb Ricotta Cheesecake Serves 12 (per serving: calories, 299; fat, 28 grams; carbs, 7 grams 24 ounces cream cheese, softened 1 cup extra-fine whole milk ricotta cheese (to refine, process in a food processor for 1 minute) 1/2 cup sour cream 1 1/2 cups sugar substitute (recommended: Splenda) 1/3 cup heavy cream 1 tablespoon no sugar added vanilla extract 1 tablespo

I haven't been all too social in the blog neighborhood lately, but I'm not intentionally snubbing any of you. I've just been busy working. The current chore involves designing book covers for romance novels which just eats me up from the inside out. I usually fall asleep fairly well at night, but sometime along 2:00 a.m., I wake up and stay awake for an hour or two with my mind racing through the tasks that need to be done or redone or fretting over the projects that have been rejected or will likely be rejected and how the heck and I going to fix them? It goes on and on. I had the last of a round of photo shoots last Saturday, and I was exhausted after just an hour. There were only two models involved that time, and the first one was a charmer. She made the job easy and took some lovely photos. I don't have any to show you, but here is the little doggie who made my time in the studio a real pleasure. She's the granddog of the photographer and was there with her fam

I'm not very athletic and never have been. That's how I got the nickname "Wimpy"—the mean boys in the neighborhood mocked me because I always lost in lawn races. So, I don't have running shoes or even sporty shoes other than my cute suede Airwalks. They're gray and comfortable, and I love them. I wear them to the Y because I don't run there—I use weight machines and walk at a comfortable pace. Imagine my dismay the other day when a couple of good friends ridiculed my shoes and strongly suggested I get running shoes for the sake of my feet—blah, blah, blah. Seriously, I recognize their experience and knowledge and strength of opinion on the subject, but it's debatable as far as I'm concerned. I came this close to buying running shoes over the weekend, but I was overwhelmed by the process. I know enough about marketing to know that a wall of running shoes at the store is likely full of shoes that are fine but not necessary no matter what the sign say

This blog doesn't often address current issues because the writer is often ignorant of the details. But Bill Moyers is well informed. Watch this:

somebody noticed my new winter hat.

That's a headline in Small Town Newspaper today. We had some snow and freezing rain last night, although what was to be two inches turned into such a small amount you can still see blades of grass poking through. I hate that. Several years ago, husband and the girls and I were hiding out in our basement TV room. It's got a huge TV and comfy leather furniture with ottomans and cozy throw blankets, and it's where we all go to watch movies. There is a mini-kitchen in that room, as well, so you can make popcorn without having to miss a single scene. On this particular day when we were holed up and watching something kind of scary, like The Others or something like that, we were expecting a big storm. Looking out the window in my adjacent office, you can see down the hill at the town and can see clouds rolling in, so I was occasionally checking for storm progress. I love storms—weather drama, I call it. Slightly tense from the scariness of the movie and the rumbling thunder and

Day two of my workout at the Y, and I like it. I went this morning around 8:00 with a plan. A friend of mine who is experienced with weight training suggested a circuit-style workout—instead of doing three sets of reps on each machine before moving to the next one, the idea is to do one set on each machine in a cycle and then repeat the cycle three times. Moving from one machine to the next with no break in between keep the heart rate up and the metabolism kicked into gear, so that was my intention. The area with leg and hip machines was empty when I arrived, so I started there. While on my third machine, the leg curls, two old women parked themselves on the hip machines and had tea, basically. They might as well have for all the chit-chatting they did and as little muscle movement as they did. I noticed they piled on the weights, but they couldn't have moved their scrawny legs more than a few times with each set. Blab blab blab. I moved to another area and started the upper body c

Yesterday, I actually went to the Y, and not just that—I used muscles, dormant ones that have been napping for a few years. It was my first workout at the Y with my new membership. I walked in feeling a little nervous, but instead of turning around and running back home, I stood in the door with my hands on my hips and scanned the room for some equipment that looked familiar. I spotted the lat bar right away and completed three sets of 10 reps at a moderate weight, but after that all the machines seemed to meld into one big mess of indistinguishable metal and seat cushions. It didn't take long to recognize a friend, though. It's a small town, as I may have mentioned before, so all you have to do is look around, and before you know it, you see your neighbor working on some muscle building thing or other. She was more than happy to direct me to the things I was looking for, and then I was on my way. I spent at least 40 minutes on a series of machines—biceps, triceps, leg curls, l

I'll tell you what I've done. I've joined the Y. It all started with my sister. On New Year's Day, of all days, she emailed my other sisters and me, and she suggested we form a family support group to help each other lose weight. Our plan is to weigh in at the end of every month and report our losses (we'll never have to give our exact weight unless we want to), or we can focus on measurements and report lost inches instead of pounds. At the end of six months, we'll meet up somewhere for a celebratory weekend away. One sister lives near Chicago, and the other two live near Atlanta, so we'll choose a place in the middle...or Maui. So, I am back on track with paying attention to what I eat and drink, and I have joined the Y. My first day there is today, and I am actually about to leave the house for an initial workout. I'm nervous in new situations and am not wild about walking into that big room full of machines and weights and treadmills when I don't

Want to see something weird? This is a turkey I made in grade school as part of a Thanksgiving project with my class. We made turkeys out of food and sticks and things and took them home to our parents. Cute, right? I think so, unless the parents save the turkeys for over 35 years. This one has a prune as the body, a raisin for the neck, gum drops for the head and feet, and a little muffin cup for the tail feathers. He was cute when he was new, but now he's just crusty and icky, not to mention pathetic. You know that standard scary movie story line with the bride who was left at the altar still living in her wedding dress 50 years later, and her moldy wedding cake sits on the table, and cobwebs drape over the banquet tables and champagne glasses? Seeing this old turkey reminds me of that bride a little. My mother has a china cabinet in her living room filled with special dishes and things she has collected over the years. In the early 70s, the Marathon gas station in our tow