Fair Time! (Need I say more?)

August + crickets chirping + cooler evenings + thunderstorms = Somerset County Fair

Last evening, the family, minus Aaron who already had plans, was headed for Meyersdale and the fairgrounds. I hadn't been there for a couple of years and I was a little excited; more for the kids, because I don't really remember ever taking Ryan. He informed me that he couldn't wear flip-flops "in case he goes on rides that flip him upside-down or too fast and his shoes fall off".

I had to decide what to wear. I mean, there is a fair dress code, right?
Jeans, cowboy boots, a t-shirt with some country-western band name emblazoned across the front, and a big ol' clunky belt buckle.
I have jeans.
I guess I'll just have to make up the rest.
I don't even own a belt.

 And we were off to the fair: three fair maidens and their rascal brother.

 We walked into the fairgrounds, paid our fee and got out hands stamped.

I did not take long until I realized I was dressed all wrong, except maybe the jeans.

A familiar sight was the dairy bar. Best milkshakes ever.

Nearby a band, a country/folk band, was playing to a small but appreciative group of fair-goers who needed a break. A break from the rides, not the band.

And there's Ryan, waiting for rides, for food, for something. We were waiting to meet up with good friends of mine and their 10 month old, Levi.

Still waiting, looking longingly at the rides with Amy. I looked, but I did not in any way, shape or form, desire to set one foot onto a ride. Not even the merry-go-round tempted me. Even as a kid, I don't remember ever really liking rides a lot. I rode them with my sisters; my first "roller coaster" was with Roxanne at the Garrett County Fair. The guy running the ride thought we were twins. I think the last ride I ever rode at the fair was "The Round-Up". Three times in a row and I was done for. Forever.

.

 We walked around first to look at the animals and to try to find Leo and Pap, his dad, who were there to look at a cow that Pap had connections too. It just so happened she was Supreme Champion in her class.  Once we found Pap, he was ready to leave. Leo took him out to eat and then home. As for the rest of us, we kept exploring the sights, sounds and smells of the fair.














There was a baby Jersey born just this week,

 pigs for Levi to meet,

 a curious goat checking out his admirers,

 the building with all the flowers,

 and produce,

 canned goods,

 and quilts.

 The long horse barn with sleepy horses and their owners tucking them in for
the night is the barn that always smells the best to me.

 Finally, we checked out the rides. I think they are more fun once it is dark because of the lights. The Merry-Go-Round is classic, but as it started to go around, I wondered if it had always gone that fast. Or am I just getting old? No, don't answer that.

 The Ferris Wheel, originally designed in 1893 for the World's Columbian Expo in Chicago, IL (in case you always wanted to know that), was next. The girls and Ryan clambered aboard and soon were enjoying the views the height afforded.

 Then we had to eat cheesy fries. We often got fries when I was a kid at the fair. We would go the night of the Dairy show and sitting there watching cows with the row of food booths right there was torture. The fries were usually one of the best parts of the fair for me, even better than the rides. Even better than McDonalds. Nothing beats Fair Fries.

 
My friend Tina and Adrienne got Rita's shaved ice. I tried some and promptly got a brain freeze. There is an art to eating iced treats that I have not mastered. I will stick to the fries.

 Amy, who tried valiantly to win a goldfish, lost $5.00 in the process. My friends went while we were eating our fries and came back a short time later. Brad said, "Amy, I'm sorry. I didn't get you one. . . I got you two!" I thought Amy was going to cry tears of joy. The fish are named Brad and Tina.

So, tired and happy, we said our good-byes, got hugs, and walked to the car.
August + Friends + Laughter + Food + Goldfish + Ryan on Rides = Somerset County Fair 2012.
Next year, I'm wearing cowboy boots.

Love,
Dianne

Thoughts While Walking

Pedometer on. . . check.
Sony Walkman in pocket. . . check.
Headphones. . . check.
Assume runner's stance. . . not.

Don't you just hate when you let a perfectly good day, especially a day off work, be wasted in grumpiness? I do. This afternoon, the "grumbly growlies", as I used to call it when Adrienne and Aaron were little, came knocking at the door, and I let them in.

I let them have their way as I made supper, and all through the meal. Then I had enough. I went for a random fast 2.6 mile walk. Here is how the walk went:

-"Grrrr..."
-"It is a pretty evening."
-"There's Leo on the tractor. He looks nice on a tractor."
-"Okay, turn right or left? Ummm, left. I always go left."
-"I hope the Amish aren't out."

I have to explain that one. I do not like walking when anyone sees me, especially our Amish neighbors. I always feel like I should be wearing a dress, not jeans or shorts. I am always self-conscious and think that they all think that I look ridiculous and that if I worked more, I wouldn't need to walk for exercise. I know, they are probably not thinking anything of the sort and they probably do not care how I look, but somehow I always think about this when I walk. I'd rather sneak through the cornfields.

-"Whew, no one is around. Just walk normally past the houses in case they are all looking at me from behind the curtains. "
-"I wonder if that dog is still alive; I haven't seen it all summer."
-"Oh, there he is, on the porch. Please be tied, please be tied."

That little orange fluff ball of a dog may be small, but his tiny teeth look sharp, and he is never happy when I walk by. Tonight though he was strangely silent as his beady eyes tracked my every move.

-"No houses. Good."
-"Oh, I like this song (Celtic Thunder of course)."

I begin to walk to the rhythm of the song and my arms are pumping. I am feeling fine as I strut down the road. Then to my horror, I hear over the music in my ears, the clip-clop of a horse and buggy. I gradually, so as not to draw attention, bring my arms down to my side, and slow down my pace to a normal walk. Then I smile and wave as they pass me by. As soon as they are past I see the young couple lean into each other, whispering. I would like to think they were whispering sweet nothings to each other, but I am more certain they were commenting about the 40-something year old woman causing the ground to shake.

-"Good, there's the turn around point. "
-"And, oh my, look at all the Amish, including the young couple."
-"Just turn around and keep walking normally."
-"I love the clouds tonight. So pretty. "
-"I wonder what kind of weed that is; it's kind of pretty, for a weed."
-"I wonder if Fluff Ball is still outside. Yes, there he is, watching me."
-"Let's just saunter calmly to the other side of the road just til I am past his boundary."
-"They smell fear, don't they? Walk faster."
-"Still no Neighbors outside. Walk, keep walking. Look straight ahead."
-"Nice chicken coop."
-"I think I could jog down the driveway."
-"Support is so important at times like these."
-"Oh yeah, 2.6 miles in 32 minutes."
-"Why did I wear jeans?"

And now I am at the house, the grumbly-growlies have packed up and gone away. I wish I could say it was for good, but at least there is a remedy.

Love,
Dianne

Don't be like a beheaded chicken

After a crazy busy weekend at work, humiliation in a parking lot, and a baked potato day, I am resting.
Finally.
Just holding still.
Breathing.
Listening to the night sounds.
Thankful.
At peace.

Life is crazy sometimes. (Well, okay, for me, that would be most of the time.) So, life gets crazy and full of running here and there, like a chicken with it's head cut off. Think about that for a second. Just a second, because any more time than that and it just gets gross. Besides, you don't have time for more than a second, right? If you have ever seen a chicken get it's head cut off, it just begins to flop around, kicking at nothing and flapping it's wings but going nowhere. Sounds like me some days.

But tonight, even though I had a busy day sleeping for a couple hours, doing a home visit, then a case management meeting followed by another home visit, and then driving home, I am restful. I am in bed well before 10pm. Just knowing that tomorrow is a day off is making me giddy. Not beheaded chicken giddy, but a kid with a bunch of helium balloons giddy.

God knew what He was doing by giving us a day of rest. When I am running aimlessly, it is my fault that life becomes unglued, not His. I know tomorrow is not the Sabbath, or the day of rest, but it can become that. So, tomorrow, I have normal "stuff" to catch up on, but I think I need to find time to relax.
To do something I enjoy just for the sake of enjoying it.
To finish that week-overdue library book.
To sip, not gulp, my coffee.
To browse Pinterest, guilt-free.
To hold still.
Breathing.
Listening to the day sounds.
Thankful.
At peace.

Goodnight busyness.
Goodnight phone.
Goodnight craziness.
Goodnight hormone.

And on that note, I think my brain is saying to turn out the light. Quickly, before I try another poem.

Love,
Dianne

Parking Lot Lesson in Humility

Can I just say the it is one thing to fall asleep in one's car while in one's own driveway, but that it is quite another to fall asleep in the parking lot of a a busy Starbucks?

This morning, after three 12-hour night shifts, three very long and very busy night shifts I might add, I drove as if on autopilot, to Starbucks. I really didn't even have to drive very far and I was already fighting sleep; this was going to be a rough ride home for sure. I wanted, no, I needed to stop at Starbucks for a coffee. I have a gift card from Adrienne, and what better time to use it than when in a state of desperation.

I pulled Morning Glory, the old Subaru, into a prominent parking spot, thinking I would be quick about this. But nooooo, I turned the car off and sat still for just a moment. . .

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz. . .

I suddenly awoke, knowing I was being looked at through my car window. Yes, there they were. Three well-dressed mocha cappuccino sippers were pointing, and when I looked at them, they, as one unit, breathed a sigh of relief. I could see it on their faces. "Oh thank goodness, she's alive."

I tried to smile as I opened my door.
" I work night shift," I hastily explained.
They responded with "Oh, we were trying to see if you were breathing. A doctor just went inside and we were going to get him." 
 I reassured them that I was fine. Really, I was. Now if they could please just go away.

They did and I was so tired, so mortified at the picture I must have presented to them that I started crying. Not a lot, but enough. The idea of me sitting in my car, mouth gaping open, drool in the corner, eyes probably half-open (or is it half-closed). . . I shudder to think about it.

After the paparazzi  left me, I dried my tears and ventured into Starbucks. After all, I was here and I was awake now. As I went to reach for the door, the doctor, resplendent in his gray suit and wide-awakeness, stopped me and said with a chuckle, "I am glad you were only sleeping. We were taking bets." I'll just bet they were. Really, I wanted to sarcastically say, "Thanks soooo much for caring,", but instead I chuckled my most pleasant chuckle and said, "I must have looked like an idiot. Ha ha hee hee."

Then I went inside and ordered a Mocha Coconut Frappucchino. 
And a slice of Lemon Poundcake. 
You know, because now I really needed it. Not just to stay awake, but to soothe my wounded pride. 
It felt like all the preppie coffee drinkers in there were looking at me with my disheveled hair and lines on my face. Much to my relief, no one else said anything, but I am sure they thought it. 

Even now, writing this, I feel a little humiliated. I may never go back to that same Starbucks again.
Of course, I could wear a disguise, because that Mocha Coconut was really good. 

Love,
Dianne

A Baked Potato Day

A friend of mine once had a horrible day. You know, the kind of day where everything felt like it went wrong, and everything made her mad or got completely on her last nerve. The kids were loud. The house was a mess. She felt unorganized and crazy, even a little possessed.

Then, as the day was drawing to a close, finally, she thought, she made herself a baked potato. She made it just the way she liked it, and as she went to sit on the couch to eat it, she dropped the plate. Baked potato went everywhere in a soft, steamy splat. I don't remember if she screamed or not, but I would have at that point. I do know that she got on the floor, scooped up that potato and ate it anyway.

We always joked around after that day, calling any really bad day a "baked potato day".
Today was a baked potato day.

I apologize to any gentleman readers, but I am going to mention that "time of the month." It's real and it's annoying. Before I even checked out a calendar, I knew, I just knew. Everything made me want to either scream, curse or cry. Sometimes all three. I did a lot of mumbling under my breath. Every time I tried to pin a smile on, it just kept falling off. Thankfully, this accursed time period (no pun intended) only lasts a day for me, but it is a baked potato day for sure.

Whether it was the girls watching television when the dishes needed done, Ryan on the computer checking out his virtual horse ranch (no matter that the real ones need fed too), the refrigerator needing defrosted,  the large (and I do mean large!) spider hanging outside my front door, the cats laying in my garden outside the front door repeatedly, or the fact that I work all weekend, I just felt like a porcupine giving birth to a breech porcupine baby.

Just take a moment to imagine that. You'll understand.

I am not proud of days like today.
I want to go back to bed and start all over.
But I can't.
I can however try to work on this totally rotten attitude of mine.

Positive things about today:
Leo came home earlier than expected. I met him with a kiss. Sigh.
Amy did help with the dishes and the kitchen floor.
Heather helped with supper.
The rain held off and I got some laundry on the line.
I have a job that pays the bills.
The policeman didn't pull me over in Salisbury.

I didn't say it was much, but hey, I'm trying.
And we are not having baked potatoes for supper.

Love,
Dianne :)

Coffee Bean Conundrum

Chocolate-Covered Expresso Beans.
I took one, a little morsel covered in white chocolate flecked with something dark-a vanilla bean perhaps?-and bit into it expectantly. I was rewarded with a strong coffee flavor as I chewed an actual coffee bean, tempered by the creamy chocolate. I had eaten these in the past and I knew I was getting into. But what if I hadn't?

Taking a handful of what looked to be chocolate-covered, coffee-flavored jelly beans, she put a few in her mouth. Starting to chew, she wondered a little about the crunch, but continued to chew, even as the chocolate covering melted away. Without warning, her mouth was suddenly full of coffee grounds; she really didn't think she could swallow it. Her mouth felt dry as she tried to spit. She liked expresso, she really did, but only when in liquid form in a dainty cup. This, this was like eating expresso flavored sand. Rinsing out her mouth sufficiently, or at least she thought she did, she returned to work. Not until a few hours later, when she finally got a bathroom break, did she notice her teeth in the mirror's reflection. 

They say mirrors don't lie, but she desperately hoped they were wrong, for there speckling her teeth were the remnants of the chocolate expresso beans. Not only on the surface of her teeth, but in-between each one as well. She may as well have been chewing tobacco, the way it looked. 

Forcing her face into a smile, she looked in the mirror again. Oooohhh, that looked impressive. She hoped again, desperately and sincerely hoped that she had not smiled much the last few hours. What a way to make an impression. 

Now, that scenario may have just happened to me the first time I tried this delicacy. Maybe. That's beside the point, right?

What I have learned is that you need to enjoy the beans, one at a time, chewing to blend the chocolate and coffee bean together and swallowing quickly. There is a method, and once mastered, the beans are enjoyable.

I would recommend however, that a mirror, or trusted friend be consulted prior to facing your intended audience. Strongly recommend.

Espresso Mix is filled with a diverse taste and flavor.

Not sure which flavored espresso bean you like? Try them all, including dark chocolate, milk chocolate, cappuccino, twist, and then some! Just like New York, NY

As far as getting a coffee jolt? Nah, they didn't do a thing for me, and I still had to take a nap before driving home from work. Do you think it's because some of them just got the chocolate sucked off and the bean uneaten? 

On a scale of 1-10, I'd give them an 8. 

Love, 
Dianne 

Sometimes It Starts With A Hat

On Saturday, Amy was helping with a household auction being held up at the neighbor's buildings. She called me around 11:00 and said:

"Mom, you have to come up here! There's hats! Old hats and you have to see them! Don't walk! Drive so you don't miss them! Click.

I changed my clothes in a matter of seconds (Superman would've been proud), asked Heather is she wanted to go, and off we went in a blur of red Subaru.

With a squeal of a tire as we parked in a field, I then gracefully rolled out of the car, walked, jogged in, got my auction number, and promptly bought two Mason jars of buttons. I love buttons, especially old buttons.

 Then I reminded myself that I was here for hats. Hats. Hats. Hats. Ignore the rest of the treasures. 

And so, heart pounding, I gleefully bid on the hats. 

I got first pick of the lot. 

Amy and Heather helped me pick just a few. . . 

Button jars are for more than holding buttons. 

And my favorite, the PIÈCE DE RÉSISTANCE

And Amy, ma chère, modeling the piece de resistance. 

I thought we were done, but they kept bringing up items to the table that looked intriguing. I decided to hang around a little while longer.  Then before I barely had a chance to blink, my hand was involuntarily going up and bidding on this lovely little number. How could I let this pass me by? As a writer, I could do no less than to bid. 

                                           

I was thrilled with my purchases so far. Now, I really should pack up and go home. 

But then, they were selling books. Old books. My brother-in-law was there and he bought books and he let me pick some that I wanted. How could I resist? I mean, The Bobbsey Twins were calling out to me. I had to respond. It would have been rude otherwise. 

Then, as I flipped through one of the books, I found some old school photos. 

Berlin High School 1938-39. 

No names, just faces from the past, sepia and a little sad. 

Forgotten in a book, but even though I don't know them, I'll cherish them. 

They are people with a story, perhaps untold, but I like that they make me wonder about them. 

This time I really did think I was done. Then my helpful brother-in-law pointed out, clear across the warehouse, another typewriter. (Can you hear the music?) This one would look great in the Steampunk Basement Room Reno. I couldn't leave yet. I thought they'd get to it soon, but instead, in a maddening move, they moved it to the front instead of selling it along with the other things that were right beside it, selling at that very moment. 

So I waited, talking to other eager auction treasure seekers. Two people told me that if I wanted something they would not bid against me. I was impressed. Was I that unselfish or just a woman on a mission? I better watch myself. 

In the meantime, as I waited for the typewriter to come up on the auction block, I bid on a box full of junk (no, really it was junk) just to get these two Currier & Ives plates for my collection. Don't worry, I only paid $1.00. Does anyone want a crocheted potholder doll with a really creepy face? 

 I also paid $1.00 for these two chairs while I waited. I have plans for this pair. The chairs, not the cats.

 Finally, the typewriter, an old Underwood Typewriter, in all its glory. 

I think I'm in love.

 1918.

How cool is that?

 And to think, it all started with a phone call about hats. 

Just hats.

Going once, going twice. . . SOLD!

Love,

Dianne