Scout Moves

We hosted a shindig Friday evening, quite a nice party with just over 20 people milling around the house. I had hoped to be outside on the patio, but of course, it rained; and just as the first guests began to arrive, it poured. It was still nice and possibly even more intimate inside than if we had been seated around the pool with the birds and the white noise from the highway as distraction. I didn't talk about this party beforehand because it was sort of a mums-the-word affair. The guests were part of a much larger group of associated people with too many for us to accommodate, so we chose just a select few as representatives. Next time, we'll choose a different set and so on, with the intention of being sociable and hospitable with every one. Have you noticed I'm still being sort of secretive about the group? I just don't want to hurt anyone's feelings—I would hate to feel excluded myself, so shhhh. Because the party was larger than our typical dinner party, and

I think Blogville needs some fresh blood, don't you? And I found just the person to step up. Lisa at Oh My Lard write clever bits about illustrations provided by Adrienne, who has her own blog . Both people are smart and funny and worth visiting. Go see, and leave comments.

Let me just start by saying IT’S MY BIRTHDAY. You would think that by the age of 49 this wouldn’t be such a big deal, but I love my birthday. Even if nothing happens, and I receive not a single gift, that’s OK. I don’t need gifts to enjoy my day. I'll make myself happy. I have had some memorable birthdays. When I turned 12, my sister Myra was married, and I was a bride’s maid in a floral dress and white hat. One year, Husband gave me a Kitten, which I named Theodore Roosevelt. Another year, he gave me a French horn, which I did not name. A few years ago, we went to a James Taylor concert, and I had to stop myself from singing all the words because that's annoying to other people in the audience. One year ago today, Eustacia and I landed in Bucharest to begin our volunteer adventure at an orphanage, which probably tops the list as being the most memorable. Today, I’ll be making lime curd in preparation for a party (unrelated to my birthday) I’ll be hosting on Friday; and if it d

A few weeks ago, while my family was scurrying around in my mother's garage preparing for her estate sale, my mother told us there was a stash of old iron skillets under the stove in the kitchen. We were to go look them over and each take one home if we wanted to. They were the kind you hope your new iron skillet becomes, crusted from years of use and so seasoned, you hardly have to add food to make a meal. I'm exaggerating, of course, but we each remembered these old pans from our childhood, and we each took one. There were round skillets of different sizes, and there was one divided into wedge shapes for scone-shaped corn bread—this pan used to belong to our grandmother, and my sister and I remember finding a rat's nest made from snake skin in it when we were visiting once—and there was one with wells shaped like ears of corn. My mother used to make corn sticks with this pan when I was a little girl, and I remember eating them like candy, crispy on the outside and grainy

Note: Photo added after Dive's comment. This is GF Handel's monument at Westminster Abbey. I used this phrase yesterday, “Too fat for my French horn,” and it made me laugh out loud. I know it’s rude to laugh at your own jokes, but I was surprised when the words came out as if someone else had typed them, and I couldn’t help my reaction. I was thinking about how physically sluggish I have become and how I probably need a little exercise. Plus, I have noticed that when playing my French horn, I need to take breaths more often than I used to. My lung capacity doesn’t seem to be what it once was, so I suggested I might be too fat for my French horn. See, even repeating it here makes me giggle. I like the alliteration, and I think the phrase is almost poetic. So, in the interest of poetry: I am too fat for my French horn, too burdened on the lungs to inhale and exhale enough. I breathe just enough but want more, to breathe more. I am too fat for the swings at the park

I often tell you about orchestra concerts—how we performed and how we were received—but I don’t often bother with band concerts. Well, here’s a treat, then. The Big Fat Summer Band performed this past Saturday. We cozy up on a small, outdoor stage, all 75 or so of us, and do the best we can to keep up when the beat is not always evident, when the base line overpowers the melody and when the people in the front row of the audience talk from down beat to cut off. In the park where we play, the 1920 carousel continues to chime and people eat ice cream and birds sing and bugs fly and we play like we’re the center of attention. There are concert programs in which the horn section has not much more than off beats, or we’re doubled up by the trombones who only know one volume—triple forte—but this time, we had some real gems. We actually had the melody now and then, and the director bothered to tell the tubas to back off so we could be heard. Your whole notes are of no consequence,

Sooooo…my mother is visiting for two weeks. The other day, I asked local Facebook friends for suggestions for things we could do to amuse ourselves, and people gave me all kinds of nice ideas. The thing is, none of them seems to be appropriate at this point. Small Town has an outdoor amphitheater with a production of a local-history drama—Indians and massacres and what have you—but the show doesn't start until 8:30 at night, and my mother’s bedtime seems to be 9:30ish. Wooster, Ohio has nice shops and cafes, but it’s a drive, and a return trip would interfere with nap time. Roscoe Village requires lots of walking, and that just won’t do. So, we twiddle our thumbs a little bit, and maybe that’s OK. We’ve made cupcakes and sat outside when the weather allows and had lunch by the pool. We’ve talked and reminisced and pet the cat. Who says we need to stay busy at all times or always need to be about a task? The thing is this: my mother, at 85, has slipped into a level of dem

This is today's column in Small Town Newspaper: The Greek philosopher Democritus said, “Happiness resides not in possessions, and not in gold. Happiness dwells in the soul.” Hogwash. At this moment, I believe happiness resides in my grandmother’s china cabinet. Just six months ago, my family sifted through my mother’s belongings as she moved out of her house and moved in with one of my sisters, and we planned for a yard sale. It was quite an undertaking, and when we finished the sorting, I was determined never to hold onto possessions again. I came straight home from that experience and began cleaning out closets and drawers and throwing out old stuff without sentimentality. Stuff is stuff, I said, and it holds no meaning. Then, I informed my children I was doing this work so they wouldn’t have to in years to come. Well, my family recently gathered again to re-sort my mother’s stash and to host a two-day yard-sale-slash-estate-sale-slash-family-reunion. In the morning when we first

Last week, my sister Karen introduced me to the iPhone app Instragram , and I am completely hooked. I mean I cannot stop playing with this thing that turns ordinary pictures into interesting pictures. It turns plain old snapshots into photographs. Have you noticed people normally reserve the word "photograph" for really great looking pictures, and they use the shortened "pics" for the more pedestrian shots? I take pics, but Instagram turns them into photographs. While walking around my sister's acreage the other day, I took this snapshot (on the left) of her husband's tractor. So, what. But when I ran it through Instragram, I created the image on the right—the dirt miraculously turned into patina. And I snapped a picture of the little log house that used to be a play house for her kids, and with the app, it now looks like the spider-infested creepy thing it really is. She has a lovely house her husband designed—it's modeled after a traditional farm house