Previous: Grave Musings 8 Evergreen

What is a cemetery after all, but a gathering of names etched on stone? And unless you know the names and their stories, you will walk by without understanding. This was my experience on a recent expedition with two friends to hunt for the names from the Sea Wing disaster of 1890.

I’m willing to bet that all of you have heard of the sinking of the Titanic. But did you know about Minnesota’s “Titanic?” I didn’t. Allow me to fill you in.

On a sweltering hot Sunday in July of 1890, Captain David Wethern and his crew boarded a steamer named Sea Wing in Diamond Bluffs, Wisconsin, to take her out for a pleasure cruise to Lake City, Minnesota, picking up passengers along the way. It was the event of the season! She was towing a barge, the Jim Grant, upon which a band would play, adding to the festive atmosphere. The Sea Wing picked up 22 passengers in Trenton and over a hundred in Red Wing. Counting captain, crew, band members and passengers, she was carrying some 200 people, most of whom had been anticipating this pleasure cruise as a way to escape the beastly heat. The only fly in the ointment was a traveling preacher named Georgas who had spent the last couple days traveling about warning people that the Sea Wing would meet with a terrible storm upon the waters and that lives would be lost. A few people were unnerved enough to return their tickets, but the rest either didn’t hear the warning or didn’t believe the man.

The Sea Wing stopped at Lake City around 11:30 a.m. where everyone got off and enjoyed the entertainments provided by the Minnesota National Guard encamped there. In spite of the heavy, sticky weather, the people of Lake City had gone all out with a band, lemonade, popcorn and ice cream stands. The Sea Wing was due to leave Lake City at 6:00 p.m, but stayed later so everyone could finish watching the military exercises which concluded with a parade. However, unbeknownst to the captain, tornados were touching down in northern St. Paul and would be part of a nasty storm system that was making its way to the open waters on Lake Pepin. By 5:00 p.m. in Lake City it was looking like thunderstorms coming from the north. Before long, they experienced a rain squall that sent everyone for shelter in the National Guard encampment. A few young women found refuge in a tent and were in such a merry mood they lost track of the time and by the time they went back out, the Sea Wing had left without them at 8:00 p.m, much to their dismay. The rain had let up and the Captain Wethern believed the storm was largely over, a disastrous miscalculation. Others were quite uneasy, seeing the looming clouds as signs of more bad weather to come.

As the sky grew more ominous, one young man decided he’d better take his fate into his own hands. Charlie Sewall cried out “goodbye, boys!” and jumped off the barge, swimming 300 feet or more to the shore. The Sea Wing continued on her course northward and the oncoming storm began to buffet the boat with strong gusts of wind. The Sea Wing was rolling and swaying causing a lot of strain on the ropes holding the barge to the boat. Due to heavy winds and rain, as well as the rolling of the boat, most of the women and children were led to the cabin on the Sea Wing for shelter, another disastrous decision. Some felt that the barge was making it more difficult for the Sea Wing to stabilize. Others thought that the barge was the only thing keeping the top-heavy Sea Wing from capsizing. Amidst discussions about whether or not to separate the boats, a sudden tremendous squall kicked up, overturning the Sea Wing completely while those on the barge watched in horror. No one made it out of that cabin on the Sea Wing and many more on the boat and the barge lost their lives during the violent storm. Of the 57 female passengers, 50 drowned, and of 156 males (including crew), 48 died in those waters.

The captain was at the wheel in the pilothouse when the boat flipped over and had to break out by pushing the window out. He lived, but faced scathing criticisms for the decisions he made that day, including false accusations that he was drunk when they left Lake City. But Captain Wethern also had a lot at stake: his wife and two young sons were aboard the Sea Wing (one of his sons miraculously survived, having left the cabin shortly before the boat went over and was saved by a crew member). He certainly paid dearly for his miscalculations and lack of judgment. If you want to read an excellent book on this catastrophe to get more details, I commend the book The Sea Wing Disaster, by Frederick L. Johnson.

Most of the victims were from Red Wing, Minnesota, and were buried in several cemeteries around town and it was to a few of these cemeteries that we went on July 1, 2021 to find those who had perished on Lake Pepin on July 13, 1890. Alas, I had not read the book ahead of time and so while the three of us went from marker to marker, the names were still only names to me. Teresa had brought a dozen roses and laid them thoughtfully on many of the gravestones that we found, in remembrance of those lives, still not forgotten. Lori and Teresa both had copies of the above book, marked and flagged on pages that contained burial information. Teresa had done some research on the Find-A-Grave website and had printed out copies of names associated with each cemetery for all three of us to use as we walked around. I took photos, but the names didn’t mean for me then what they mean now that I’ve learned their stories.

Join us as we chase the Sea Wing and seek out the names of those who died that day. I’ll offer short context under photos of some of the gravestones.

Our first stop was St. John’s Lutheran Cemetery.

It was a hot, sweltering day, not unlike the day of the Sea Wing disaster in 1890.

Peter Gerken was a 45-year-old saloonkeeper, who went out on the Sea Wing with his wife Maria and all five of their children. The whole family perished.

Sophia Schulenberg, 40 years old, along with children Henry, 11, and Minna, 7 were among those who died. Husband and father Christ Schulenberg lost his wife, 2 young children and an older daughter Johanna Humbert on the Sea Wing. Johanna was 23 years old and had been recently widowed.

Mary Hempftling, 43, perished, along with son Frederick, 19 and daughter Lizzie, 17. Mary’s nephew Herman Hempftling and his wife Mary (24 and 21) were also among the dead.

Fred Hattemer, 25, died on his 25th birthday. He was aboard the Sea Wing with his fiancee Annie Schneider, whose body was found in the Sea Wing’s cabin.

We went on from St. John’s to Calvary Cemetery.

We had a bit of good fortune at Calvary. The man who was mowing the lawn there noticed our wandering and asked if he could help us find anyone. It turned out that he was well acquainted with the story of the Sea Wing and so was able to lead us to each gravesite.

Annie Staiger, 20, and her younger sister Frances, 18, were on board the Sea Wing with gentlemen friends Frank Lampman and Ed Stevens. The Staiger sisters weren’t in the cabin of the boat, but neither could swim. Their boyfriends tried to tow them to safety but could not keep a grip on them in the turbulent water.

Julia Persig, 29, and sister Anna, 26 were on the Sea Wing with their beaus.

Katie Burkhard, 20, was traveling with a friend, Eliza Crawford, 27, who also perished.

Ed Schenach was a 25-year-old stonecutter from Red Wing that also played a big bass viol and was hired to play in the band on the barge, the Jim Grant. He survived the accident, and it’s said that his bass viol saved his life since it kept him afloat while he made his way to shore. What stories he had to tell his children and grandchildren! He lived to be 97 years old.

We left Calvary Cemetery and made our way to Oakwood Cemetery where we enjoyed a nice picnic in the shade.

By the time we finished our lunch, it was getting close to time for me to leave, so I just took a few random photos.

Have I converted any of you yet to become cemetery enthusiasts? I’m indebted to friends Teresa and Lori for doing all the legwork in research before our day in Red Wing.

Thanks for coming along and making it through this very long post!

Next: Grave Musings 10 Denison Cemetery

Start at the beginning: Grave Musings 1 Maple Lawn I

I’ll probably climb aboard the pleasure ship Lynniebeemuseoday for a cruise in the morning – all aboard!

Toscana is what we call Tuscany, a region in central Italy, and this week’s painting is from a photograph taken in that region.

And here is the artists’ painting from that photograph:

Already, I like the way they have lightened it up and made the colors more vivid. I had some trouble the first time around understanding which were the olive trees, but after some thought, decided they must be the stand of largish-looking bushes in the foreground on the left. Here’s how my two attempts turned out:

I’m not going to tell you all the stuff I don’t like about these because that will draw your attention to those features. Best to let you experience it without my overly critical eye casting a pall over it.

Here’s a question I was pondering today: What makes someone an “artist?” If anyone asked me if I’m an artist, I would not give a straightforward “yes,” but I’m not sure why. It seems like there should be more involved in claiming that title than merely doing artwork, but I also don’t think it means necessarily that an artist is one who gets paid for their work. I just checked in with Professor Google and this is what he says: “Artist: a person who practices or is skilled in an art, especially painting, drawing or sculpture; a person who displays in his work qualities required in art, such as sensibility and imagination.” Well, I’m not sure about that last part, but there you have it.

I’ll probably delete this with artistic flourish in the morning.

We were in Italy for a few days some years ago – a grand adventure! We were walking around Genoa one day near the port and I sought rest and shade under a tree while Kris was investigating something. When he rejoined me, he mentioned that some guy had tried to give him a little carved item, which he had to refuse several times. That seemed mystifying and we joked about how it was probably some sort of hidden drug cache that he’d track to our home town to reclaim.

We walked farther on down the port and while Kris went over to look at a large reproduction of an old ship, he was approached by another man trying to give away a little carved item. Kris refused a few times but this guy was more persistent and managed to find out that Kris spoke English. Kris was making his getaway to return to where I was when the fatal mistake occurred: the man turned around and saw me.

“Oh, is that your wife?” He said cheerily, and you could almost see the thought bubble forming over his head, saying “I have found the weak link!” He came over and pressed a small wooden elephant in my palm, saying “This is a gift for you – I am just giving it away today. I am from Kenya and we are here raising money for our country, but today is our last day and I am just going to give this to you.” I was a little dumbfounded, but said thank you, uncertainly.

He then pressed a small wooden turtle into Kris’s palm with the same speech. We were trying to make the best of an awkward situation, but didn’t really want to take these “gifts.” He asked where we were from and when we told him the United States, he beamed with pleasure. “Oh, I love America! I live in New York and love it there!” He was all smiles and pleasantness. “Yesterday I was selling these for 35 euro each, but today because it is our last day, I give them to you free. No charge. Do you have children?”

This was an abrupt change of topic, but we said yes, and this sent him into another frenzy of activity with little decorative strings that he tied around our wrists with a strange ritual involving each of us blowing on the string, kissing each other and then him tying it on. Awkward! How do we get out of here? He reassured us many, many times that all of this largesse was absolutely no charge, just out of the kindness of his heart. We were getting restless and trying to move away when the other shoe dropped.

He got out a third carved item and said, “And now I give you this last item, no charge, but if you could give us something, anything, to help our country we would appreciate it. It doesn’t matter how much – anything will help.”

I was desperate to get out of his clutches at this point and began to open my purse, thinking it would be easiest to give him 5 euros as a fee for letting us go. But Kris stepped in firmly, taking the harder but better route of refusal, stating that we weren’t going to take the items since it now obligated us to give, rather than making our giving be something we chose to do freely. He was nonplussed and continued to look cheerful, saying, “Don’t be vexed with me – these are gifts, no charge, no obligation. Just give whatever you want, no matter how much!” Kris eventually took all three carved items and placed them carefully in the man’s palm. The man looked at me, as if to say, “Are you really going to let him do this?” but we broke free at last. That guy was a master of his trade!

We were to discover that peddlers trying to sell things to tourists were everywhere in this fair country. A couple days later we were on the beach in Bordighera, our one time to sit at a beach and relax. Naturally, as soon as we got situated, an endless parade of beach vendors added us to their route. They were selling things like jewelry, towels, mats or books. In an hour and a half, I had five of them stop by. Here’s how a typical interaction with them went:

Man: *many Italian words* spoken while showing his wares.
Me: (they never approached Kris, of course): No, grazie.
Man: *more Italian words.*
Me: No, grazie.
Man: *many more Italian words* as if the words, “No grazie,” were to be interpreted as “please continue.”
Me: No, grazie.

It usually took about four or five “No grazies” to bring about an end to the conversation. One man had set out two or three of his beautiful mats in front of me and when he’d finally accepted the idea that I wasn’t going to be buying them, he spent 5 minutes at the foot of my chair slowly and carefully folding them up and putting them back over his shoulder in silent reproach, perhaps in a last attempt to get a sympathy purchase. I have to say, I admired their persistence.

This has been Tuesday True Stories brought to you by Lynniebeemuseoday.

I’ll probably sell this to you in the morning. What’s that you say? “No grazie?”

The 2021 Hiking Club season continues! We have been wanting to conquer the four state parks up on the St. Croix River: William O’Brien (WOB), Interstate, Wild River and St. Croix. We made tentative plans to hike Interstate on an afternoon, camp at WOB that night and tackle the 6-mile hike at WOB early the next morning. The afternoon we chose turned out to have a high of 95 degrees. No thank you! So we scrapped the hike at Interstate, but went on to camp at WOB that evening because the next day was going to be cooler.

We had a nice campsite at WOB. Our next-door neighbors had a cute little boy who threw a few loud temper tantrums, but he settled down nicely at mid-evening and it appeared all systems were “go” for a good night’s sleep (you can detect the ominous foreshadowing in those words, can’t you?).

Well, we never heard another peep from the little boy, but a woman at a campsite near to ours decided that 11:00 p.m. was a perfect time for a nice long gab with someone on the phone and she did not keep her voice down either. Kris had dropped off already, so I was the only one being kept awake. Every once in a while, she’d say, “Well, I should get going now…” and I’d think “At last! She’s getting off the phone!” But it turned out to be a Minnesota goodbye and the conversation continued.

Finally, I got up and stalked over there and said, “Could you PLEASE keep it quiet?!” Ha ha – of course I did no such thing. I entertained the idea quite a few times, but I could never see it ending well, so I tried to ignore our chatty camper (unsuccessfully). Eventually, her prelude to saying goodbye actually came to fruition and the phone conversation ended. Ahh…sweet silence. For about 2 minutes. And then she struck up a loud conversation with a fellow camper. As Charlie Brown would say, “AUGHHHHH!” I’m not one to suffer in silence, am I? I’m finding a strange pleasure in making you go through this with me. Even Chatty Camper couldn’t keep it up all night and I managed to get some sleep after all.

William O’Brien was what used to be called a “lumber baron,” which I think just means he was in the lumber business and not the one of the ones laboring at cutting down trees. When the lumber companies had cut down most of the white pines in the area, he bought up a lot of that land for his personal estate. In 1945, his daughter Alice donated 180 acres along the riverfront to the state and that became WOB State Park. That’s enough of the history lesson. On with the hike.

The hike description contained the words “a spectacular view of the St. Croix River Valley [is] your reward for making it to the top of the hill,” which I took to be a sign that my hiking poles would be required equipment on this hike. Our weather apps told us that some rain might be coming mid-morning, so we set a goal of leaving at 6:30 a.m. and made it onto the trail by 6:50. Not bad.

I had brought my camera, but forgot the harness so I decided to leave the camera behind and just use my phone for taking photos. I was 30% sad about that and 70% glad not to have to carry the camera on such a long hike in humid weather where we might encounter rain.

The hiking club trail at WOB was wide and well-groomed for the whole six miles, so they get a big thumbs up for that. Also, they had very good signage, another feature that not all parks share.

In spite of the cool 69 degrees, it was an extra special kind of humid that morning, the kind that feels like an invisible heaviness in the air. We started off at a pretty fast pace, motivated in part by the desire not to get caught in a downpour. The other motivation was the devil nipping at our heels in the form of some kind of flies that kept up a steady swarm around us. Kris was inspired to make up a Latin-like name for them: flyus annoyus. They seemed particularly interested in the back of Kris’s sweaty neck, so he took to calling them “sweat flies.” After one bit me on the hand, I broke down and gave myself a little DEET shower to keep them away. Kris took longer to break down, but he got there eventually. When we stopped to get a good look at them we realized they were deer flies, which no doubt were with the mosquitos on Satan’s back as he entered the Garden of Eden.

But enough about that! We went through a wetlands area, followed by trails surrounded by hardwoods, and eventually got to the prairie lands on a loop trail that led us to the top of Wedge Hill where we could indeed be rewarded with a little sit-down to enjoy the view. I took some notes for this post and also took advantage of the moment to throw some water on my sweaty face.

There was a fair amount of up and down while coming down the hill and finishing the loop. I took a short break to catch my breath.

Shortly after we got off the loop, it started to rain, but not heavily. It felt good, actually.

We saw a lot of bluebird houses, most of which were facing the fields. At some point, we began seeing them facing the trail instead. These were undoubtedly for the more extroverted birds, who could be counted upon (when home) to come out and chat us up a bit, while encouraging us along the way (“not much longer now!”). None of them were home, unfortunately.

We were back in the wetlands now and saw evidence that beavers were amongst us. Not long after that, we saw their lodge, an architectural masterpiece. The architects did not make an appearance.

When we saw the visitor center, we knew we were close to the end.

That’s where the hike normally starts and ends, but our campsite was very near the trail, so we just started from there. I saw a map at the visitor center that claimed that the Hiking Club trail was only 5.3 miles instead of the 6 miles that it says in our Hiking Club book. Perhaps that’s true, but I wrote 6 miles in the book. I won’t tell if you won’t tell.

The hiking poles performed well.

Knee score: 7 out of 10. Long hike, nice trails, but a fair amount of up and down. My phone says it was the equivalent of 14 flights of stairs.

I should mention that WOB has a nice swimming beach on Lake Alice, should you decide you want to make a trip there. Bring your swimming suit!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, wishing that deer flies weren’t a part of this world.

Next hike: Interstate State Park

Here’s another story I started quite awhile ago – it’s an enigma to me and I’m not exactly sure where I was going with it. I didn’t get very far – only a short prologue and two sentences of Chapter One. This would get a failing grade in a creative writing class, but maybe typing it out here will get me thinking more deeply about it. Or I might shove it into the nearest abyss and say, “Good riddance!”

PROLOGUE

Why must I always be destined to see the Gravel before anyone else does? Some people say it is a gift, but I think it is more of a curse. The sky is so full of beautiful lankness; Gravel is dark and gritty and ruinous. When did I begin to notice it? When did the nightmares start?

My mother says that I could always see what others could not. But how does she know? My life is a question. He who formed me knows the answer, but I find that He usually does not make it easy for me to find.

I do know that mirrors and reflective surfaces have been like secret watchers. I don’t remember a time when that wasn’t so. In fact, I used to run past them to avoid their intruding stare. If I can see myself in that strange shininess, then someone else must be looking at me too.

Is it any wonder that I long to be normal?

My life is a question.

CHAPTER ONE

He called me early on. It seems that there was never a time when I did not hear His voice.

What on earth was I thinking when I made up the word “lankness?” So, be honest with me. Is there potential or is this a non-starter?

I’ll probably either tuck this one away for the future or cast it away as far as the east is from the west. Oh, and this will happen in the morning, as usual.

What can one basket contain?
So little, so much.
First fruits, a small harvest
Until you see the unseen bounty –
The promise of more to come
Warming in the sun,
Feel-good greens and shout-for-joy reds,
All full of crunch, sass and sparkle.

We planted, we watered,
But God gave the increase-
Grace upon grace upon grace.

I’ll probably delete this verse when the sun gives up shining and the seeds no longer burst out of their armor to show you the magic of conjuring up fruit from almost nothing which they learned from the One who made everything ex nihilo.

Lesson 15 of the Watercolor Travel to Italy book is hot off the press. I finished the second one only moments ago and it’s still taped down to my table. Venice is the capital of northern Italy’s Veneto region and as you probably know, there are no roads, only canals. Have any of you ever been there? Although we went to Italy in 2016, we didn’t get to Venice, so this painting is my closest experience with the place.

I decided to quit posting the entire page of the artists’ instructions – seemed like it was probably a violation of some sort of copyright, or at the very least giving away something they are trying to sell. I’ve been going back and deleting the ones I’ve already posted.

These are definitely getting harder, but I’m also getting a little more loose with the whole process and less likely to worry if my attempts don’t rise to the original. It’s really valuable experience just to try it.

I decided to try for bolder and darker colors on the second attempt. Also, you can see the tape on this one. I use fancy washi tape just because I like it. It has no special properties for use with watercolors.

I peeked ahead and noticed that the very last lesson in the instruction book has NO instructions! It will feel like a final exam. Hope I’m ready!

I’ll probably washi tape this in the morning.

Sometime during my senior year of high school I decided to take a bus downtown by myself to watch a Woody Allen movie – I think it was “Sleeper.” I was trying out my sense of independence, flapping my wings a little. Being somewhat thrifty, I brought only enough money for the bus trip and the movie. When I got on the bus, I mishandled my coins and accidentally threw in part of the money for the return trip as well. I wasn’t going to let this ruin my Grand Day Out, so throwing caution to the wind, I went to the movie anyway, thinking that I’d figure it all out afterward.

What a colossally stupid decision that was.

I hated the movie and spent the whole time obsessing about how I was going to get back home. I had gotten my senior photos taken at a studio that wasn’t too far from the movie theater, so I concocted a little plan in which I would go to the studio, capitalize on my having been there recently, and ask for some change. This all made perfect sense in the darkness of the movie theater, but in the cold light of day outside the theater after the movie was over, it was ludicrous. There was absolutely NO WAY I was going to go over there and ask for money.

However, the alternative was even worse. I realized with a sickening feeling in my stomach that I’d have to ask people at the bus stop for money. All I needed was a quarter, but it seemed like I’d be asking for the moon. So there I was at a busy bus stop on Hennepin Avenue, eyeing the crowd to see if there was anybody I wouldn’t be afraid to approach. I saw a middle-aged woman who looked harmless, so I approached her with my sad story. She moved away uncomfortably as I started to speak and I knew the quarter would not be coming from her. I asked someone else who responded in the negative. Oh dear. By this time, I was feeling as if I were a leper.

I spotted a fellow who looked rather down-and-out himself, but figured I had nothing to lose. “Excuse me, but I don’t have enough money for the bus ride home. Could I borrow a quarter?” He gave me a sardonic smile and said, “Oh, are you planning to pay me back?” Shamefacedly, I admitted that I would not be able to do so. He fished a quarter out of his pockets and gave it to me and I was so grateful I could have kissed him on the cheek! I thanked him profusely and was on my merry way. It was a profoundly humbling experience, having to beg for money and it was not lost on me that the person who seemed least likely to have money to give away was the one who helped me out.

That’s the truth!

This has been True Stories with Lynniebeemuseoday.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning unless I don’t have the money for it. May I borrow a quarter?

There was an old ditty that went:
Birds do it, bees do it
Even educated fleas do it.
Let’s do it – let’s fall in love!

We can certainly add Japanese beetles to the refrain. They have returned to our domain and seem to be always paired together, attached at the hip, so to speak.

• 

• 

• 

I don’t like the idea of them working so hard on making more of themselves to bedevil us and our apple trees. It’s almost worse that they’re such beautiful bugs. I’m reminded of the movie “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,” in which Howard Keel (as Adam) breaks into joyful song as he considers going into town to find a bride. He sings, “Bless her beautiful hide, wherever she may be.” Well, the Japanese beetles definitely have a beautiful hide, but the song I’m singing is a little different: “Curse their beautiful hides, upon our apple tree.”

But even as I write that, I am chastened to think of cursing that which the good Lord has put in our yard for a purpose. I read a beautiful poem recently that had a repeated refrain of “Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them…” Corrie Ten Boom used to tell the story of when she and her sister Betsie were in the German concentration camps. Their barracks was plagued with lice and Corrie complained about them bitterly. But Betsie was made of better stuff and insisted that they should thank God for the lice, for He has a purpose in everything. Sure enough, the guards hated the lice too and refused to go into their barracks, leaving them free to have Bible studies, makeshift church services and freedom from harassment.

So perhaps I don’t need to complain about these beetles and curse them, but there’s still such a thing as taking dominion. The battle lines have been drawn and we will still defend our homeland. My husband put out a little competing pheromone to entice the beetles away from their lovers, as well as spraying the little devils on our leaves.

The war has begun.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning after checking the battle statistics of the day.

From the journal of Beulah Bartimaeus

I got a phone message from Bella today. She reminded me that Mom’s birthday is coming up. She and Birdy are planning a party and want me to be there. I know I should call her back, but the whole idea fills me with trepidation, so I’m resorting to avoidance, as usual. And now I feel guilty, too. It’s a delightful combination. I thought I’d never get out of that house and I’m in no hurry to go back. Bella and Birdy don’t really know what it was like all those years after Dad died, since they were both in college when it happened. I wish she hadn’t called. I wish they’d leave me alone. I wish, I wish, I wish… That kind of sums it all up – useless wishings and bottomless guilt. Sigh.

On a more interesting note, I’ve been keeping an eye on “Mr. Smirk” since the time management seminar last week. I was irritated that he asked that question about the squirrels on the poster, but afterwards I realized that he might know something about the mysterious BOII. He seems like a very smart man, too smart to ask stupid questions. It turns out that it’s not very easy to watch someone surreptitiously. I’ve been casually sauntering into the accounting department with some little copy jobs to do so I can sneak a look at his desk and Every Single Time, he’s caught me glancing his way. I’m horrified that he might think I have a crush on him, but I’ve been hoping to come in at a time when he’s away from his desk so I can go over there and snoop around a little. After it happened three times, I gave up – too obvious. I waited around after work a couple days ago and went to his desk after he left, but that sneaky, suspicious man keeps his desk locked up and leaves nothing out. It might be time for a more direct approach. Tomorrow I’m just going to request that he stop in at HR and then I’ll ask him why he was interested in the clip art on the poster. It’s time to wipe that smirk off his face and put it on mine. Ha ha ha! – that’s my villainous laugh since I’m feeling very diabolical.

Mr. Peabody sent around one his tiresome company emails with the usual corporate speak about what a great company we have, the importance of the work we do, blah, blah, blah. The worst part was that he’s planning to have another one of his “bidness” meetings next week – attendance compulsory by everyone as usual. He actually pronounces the word “business” like that – it’s hard to keep a straight face. Anyway, these meetings are STATBO and one comes out of them with a crushing sense that it was a colossal waste of time. At least he only does it once a quarter or so. He’s not on site very often and he really must be good at managing the company, but you sure can’t tell by the way he runs meetings.

Side note: I think Dad would be pleased to know that I still use one of the acronyms that he made up: STATBO (So Tedious As To Be Offensive). It was his personal best, I think.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I know it’s been awhile since I continued The Martin Chronicles (of which Beulah’s Journal is a part), but I’ve been doing some work on writing plot elements and thinking through the story. It’s a good discipline for me, since I tend to prefer writing short pieces that don’t require a lot of planning or research. If you haven’t read previous installments, there might be some links below this blog post that bring you to them.

I’ll probably delete this…but really, it’s none of your bidness whether I do or not!

There’s a competition in the garden
The catwalk of the flowers
They lift their colorful showy heads
As they while away the hours

The Iris thinks she has the best dress
The Poppies blush bright orange
The Pansies call out “Look at me!”
And the Dahlias rearrange

But the lowly little potato flowers
Are of the humbler kind
You may just walk right by them,
As they murmur, “never mind”

While the popular flowers are preening
and showing off their stuff
The potato is doing some very deep work
Starchy, dirty and rough

When the iris’s dress is all dried up
And the poppy’s blush has died,
The potatoes rise up in victory
For lo, they become french fried!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, my sweet potato flowers. ❤️