I was having my regular FaceTime chat with my mom yesterday. It’s mostly me chatting, hoping she’s listening on some level. It’s hard for her to engage in conversations now, but if she’s awake and alert, we sometimes have a moment.
I have an old piano songbook of hers called “Favorite Songs of the Nineties.” No, that’s not the 1990’s, it’s the 1890’s. Something made me think of that book, so I dug it out and started going through it with her. I’m a little surprised at how many of those old songs I know – at least the choruses.
“Casey would waltz with a strawberry blonde, And the Band played on, He’d glide cross the floor with the girl he ador’d And the Band played on…”
The interesting thing about that book is that my dad went through it when he was somewhere in the process of his dementia journey. He was a band teacher back in the day, so the pages are filled with his notes, like “Start – in C (one step up) – ready – DONE.” Or “Play in C – OK in cut time?” He circled some of the chord notations and made some changes in the music occasionally. There was hardly a page that had not been touched by his band-teacher pencil.
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do! I’m half crazy, all for the love of you! It won’t be a stylish marriage, I can’t afford a carriage, But you’ll look sweet on the seat Of a bicycle built for two!
I kept singing through the familiar ones and took a stab at the unfamiliar ones. My mom seemed to know most of them. She’d either hum along or she’d clap as I sang, if it was a peppy one. Sometimes we’d come to one at the top of which my dad had written a very commanding “NO.” I always told Mom about these prohibitive comments of his and wondered what it was that made him reject those songs. I came to “Give My Regards to Broadway,” and he’d written “T22 – chorus OK – swing it!” So I swung it.
Give my regards to Broadway, Remember me to Herald Square, Tell all the gang at Forty-Second Street That I will soon be there; Whisper of how I’m yearning, To mingle with the old time throng, Give my regards to old Broadway And say that I’ll be there e’er long.
When I came to “Mary’s A Grand Old Name,” I HAD to sing it for my mom, since her name is Mary. I think sometimes she wished she didn’t have such a common name, and especially one that was associated with the old nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary.” The fact that she was a somewhat contrary person didn’t help. Dad’s notes on that one said “SWING.” All righty then!
For it is Mary, Mary, plain as any name can be; But with propriety, society will say Marie; But it was Mary, Mary, long before the fashion came, And there is something there that sounds so square It’s a grand old name.
We moved on from there to “Meet Me in St. Louis, Louis,” which contains the line about dancing the Hoochee Koochee and being your “tootsie wootsie.” People just don’t talk like that anymore, do they? Imagine sidling up to someone at a dance and saying, “Hey, baby, let’s dance the Hoochee Koochee. I’ll be your tootsie wootsie!” I’m afraid that you’d be left standing by yourself. No, the days of Tootsie Wootsie are gone.
We sang a few more and finished up the concert with a rousing rendition of “Ta-Ra-Ra Boom-De Ay!” If you haven’t sung that before or heard it, you’re really missing out. There are a lot of verses which I skipped (per usual) and the chorus just repeats the title phrase eight times. I remember singing along on that one pretty gustily at home as a child.
I wonder if all these old songs will just fade away into oblivion. It’s not like they’re very high-brow like classical music. But there’s an energy and innocence to them that’s very appealing. By the time we finished, I felt like I’d spent a very pleasant hour with both my Mom and Dad.
I’ll probably just Ta-Ra-Ra Boom-De-Ay this in the morning. If you don’t know what that means, I can’t help you.
Well, at least we won’t be confronted with political ads for awhile. We can all bow our heads in thankfulness for that, right?
Moving along, I came back from our extended time away with a renewed zeal to finish the watercolor painting course that I started in January. I sort of rushed through the last two projects. In fact, for the last one (“Oh, Deer!”) I couldn’t even be bothered to trace the original drawing onto my watercolor paper – I just eyeballed it, did a rough sketch and said to myself, “Good enough for rock and roll!”
I should explain that saying. We went to a concert years ago at which one of the performers was a guy from the rock band, Petra. He was tuning his guitar and after a moment declared, “Good enough for rock and roll!” I’ve taken that motto on for whenever I don’t feel like I need to strive for absolute perfection on something. In other words, most of the time. I’m more of a corner cutter. Sometimes it works out well, and other times…
“Owl Be Seeing You.” I didn’t name these, by the way. I’m glad you can’t see the original.
“Oh, Deer!” Looking at my rendition, it would really be more aptly titled “Oh Dear!” Something happened to the deer’s back that I can’t explain. And also the trees. But on the positive side, I got the first really good explanation of how to use masking liquid when painting.
Now it’s time to get back to my big project “A Year at Providence Place.” It’s been hard to recover from being gone for three weeks right after the first month.
If this post isn’t good enough for rock ‘n’ roll, I’ll go ahead and delete it in the morning.
Remember Tiddlywinks? It’s an old-fashioned game with a funny name. I had five children over at my house this afternoon and suggested that we play it. They looked at me quizzically – play what? I still have the set that we played with when I was young.
I probably wasn’t the best person to teach them since the only thing I remembered was that you use the big disks to try to pop the little ones (winks) into the pot. I looked it up later and the big ones are called “squidgers,” which makes the whole thing even better. The game has been around since 1888 and became a popular craze in the 1890’s.
The thing that struck me was how refreshingly simple the game was. Have you taken a look at board games lately? Gone are the games that you could learn in five minutes. We gave our son a board game last year called “Wingspan.” It’s a beautiful game, but it was stressful for me to try to learn. The rules were really complicated and hard to remember (I’m sure my age doesn’t help).
In my research I discovered that the modern version of Tiddlywinks uses far more complex rules and high-grade equipment. Bah, humbug. Just give me a squidger and let me try to get the wink into the pot.
I’ll probably squidge this post right into the Tiddlywink pot in the morning.
I went up to visit my friend Sara fairly soon after this and providentially this happened to be over Easter weekend. O, the depths of the riches, both of the wisdom and knowledge of God. She informed me that she’d be attending a sunrise Easter service outside and did I want to come along. Hmm…getting up early – STRIKE ONE. It was going to be somewhat cold out. STRIKE TWO. And the Jesus thing. STRIKE THREE. “Sure, I’ll come,” was what came out of my mouth instead of “No thanks, I’ll just sleep in.”
Easter morning pre-dawn found us clambering up a hillside, grabbing hold of random trees branches for stability, and making our way through brush along the way. I was cold, I was tired and crabby and felt a little bit crazy for being associated with this small group of fanatics. We got to our destination and milled around uncertainly as the sun began to rise. Fortunately, somebody seemed to be in charge, a friendly guy wearing a bandana around his forehead. He read from the Bible, said some earnest things, and then (my memory is somewhat dim on this part) I think people hung things on a tree that had something to do with their faith. It’s possible that an impromptu hymn or chorus of praise was sung. I’m guessing there were prayers. There were proclamations of joy about the resurrected Lord. I didn’t participate, but was strangely moved by this joyous ritual. Suddenly it didn’t seem like I was surrounded by fanatics, but by people who knew something, or Someone, that I didn’t know.
A fresh breeze was blowing that morning – in the air and in my soul. I wasn’t a Christian when I went back down the hill, but I wasn’t the same person who had climbed up that hill, either.
Meanwhile in college, I took a physiology class as part of my major requirements. Learning about the different systems in the body and how intricate and incredible they all were, I marveled that all of this could have come about through evolution. I didn’t doubt evolution, of course, but it no longer seemed like an airtight theory. I was filled with wonder and wrote a poem.
She told me There’s a universe in All of us. Exciting, endless, It self-perpetuates And self-regulates, A feast of complexities. My mind stretches To imagine; to fathom What it does naturally. So fascinating, this Paradoxical search For the invisible pilot.
Ah, the search for the invisible pilot. A couple of months later, I wrote in my journal: “I find myself thinking constantly these days. No unusual in itself except that these are not the thoughts of an idle and trivial nature that are common in moments of repose. Instead, I have filled my head with beginnings. For instance, I am beginning to explore the possibilities of God in my life and what that could mean to me. I have many questions, twice as many doubts, and yet the thought persists and presents itself at odd times and issues its challenge to me.”
I should mention that it was sometime in this period that I took the infamous speech class in which one of my classmates gave an introductory speech telling us that the most important thing he could tell us about himself was his faith in Jesus Christ. This revelation made me roll my eyes inwardly, hoping we wouldn’t have to listen to this guy’s religious speeches all quarter long. The story of how I got to know that fellow and later married him has been told elsewhere (God, The Matchmaker), so I won’t belabor the point here, but this, too, was an important part of God’s strategic assault on my stubborn unbelief.
I was remarkably ignorant of the Bible and of Christianity, in spite of having had some church-going in my background. One time I was with a friend who was driving his parents’ car and saw that they had a small plaque adhering to their dash that said, “The King is coming.” I said, “I didn’t know your parents were Elvis fans!” He got a funny look on his face and said, “That’s in reference to Jesus Christ’s second coming.” Oops. Very embarrassing! Well, since he brought up the topic, I asked him a question that had been on my mind: if Jesus was so great, why did the Jews kill him? I could tell the question caught him off guard. Nevertheless, he rallied and gave a pretty good explanation.
I began writing letters to God in an attempt to start some sort of relationship with Him. I didn’t really know who He was yet, but I was yearning for…well, I didn’t know, but something, someone. An early prayer: “Please help me to be the person that you made me to be by keeping my mind open, my heart free, and my deeds good.” There was a place on campus down by the river that I’d go sometimes to pray out loud, feeling rather silly about it, but very earnest. I was reluctant to talk to others about my burgeoning interest in religion, and even more reluctant to talk about Christ. I had a set of ideas about avid followers of Christ, that most of them were “glass-eyed, tunnel-visioned fanatics.” I was afraid of losing credibility in the eyes of those who knew me. I feared losing their respect. Most of all, I feared losing myself. A whimsical poem I wrote as a letter to God expressed both my longings and my doubts.
Dear Deity of dubious gender: Show me your garden of infinite splendor. Tell me truly (between you and me) is being omnipotent all it’s cracked up to be? Give me a sign, not a bush all aflame, send me a breeze that whispers my name. Or maybe tomorrow when I open my eyes, bring me a mood to match the sunrise. You see, O Great One, I don’t lack respect, but without definition, what can you expect? I must also confess, I question with despair – can this nebulous concept even hear my prayers? Well, enough of my queries, but one last request: to the souls I know, please give my best. And if you should happen to pass through my town, I hope you’ll come see me and prove you’re a noun. Best regards, Lynn B.
Summer came, and with it came loneliness and loss. I’d become deeply attached to a close friend of mine and when he finally realized the depths of my feelings, he very kindly let me know that those feelings were never going to be returned, at least not in the way I had hoped. We parted ways and I was heartbroken. The few friends I had were busy with other things. When I wasn’t working, I retreated into more sad poetry and spent a lot of time playing the guitar and singing. In fact, singing had become a central part of my identity – it felt like all I had left of myself with everything else stripped away.
Right on schedule, I lost my voice. I had gotten laryngitis during a busy time at my job that required a lot of talking so I ignored the laryngitis and woke up one morning realizing I had no voice left. Nothing. The doctor I consulted told me that it might take two weeks to get my voice back and in the meantime, no talking, no whispering, no vocalizing whatsoever. As it turned out, it was 3 or 4 weeks before I could speak at all and complete recovery took a lot longer – I was unable to sing for about a year. It was the last brick needed to complete the little house of self-pity and misery that I’d been building. I didn’t see it at the time, but God, this canny God was backing me into a corner right where He wanted me.
I confided all my woes to my friend Sara, who by this time was a committed Christian. I was a weepy mess. Imagine my shock when she started laughing instead of coddling and consoling me. “Oh Lynn,” she said, “I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I can see so clearly what God is doing in your life and it makes me happy. He’s taken everything away that you thought you could count on in order to get you to look to Him.” Indeed! I can’t say I shared her mirth, but it took most of the pity out of my pity party and that wasn’t a bad thing. Privately, I thought if this was God’s way of doing business, I wasn’t sure I wanted to sign on the dotted line.
For those of you who have been following my blog for awhile, you’ll have noted a little repetition in this part – stories I’ve told before. But I wanted them to be put in the proper context within this larger story, so thanks for bearing with me.
I’ll probably delete this bad boy in the morning, but of course, the story will live on.
If I told you that the setting sun was a giant pumpkin in the sky, would you have any evidence to the contrary? I suppose you’d regurgitate all sorts of science-y sounding jargon about giant balls of gas. But then you’d be guilty of killing a metaphor. And how would you be able to look yourself in the mirror after that?
This message has been paid for by People for the Ethical Treatment of Metaphors.
If I delete this post, will I have metaphorical blood on my hands?
LaSalle State Recreation Area, the last hike of 2022. There are a few of these State Recreation Areas (SRA’s) in Minnesota that don’t have all the services of a state park, but are still set aside as protected wilderness areas. Most of them don’t have Hiking Club hikes, but this one does, a 2.9 mile trail. LaSalle SRA was established in 2011, so it hasn’t been around long.
It was a cool, overcast morning when we set out. We brought our rain jackets just in case. This was another out-and-back trail, rather than a loop. The advantage to those is that when you turn around to go back, you’ve already seen everything and the pace can pick up. I always tell Kris that I won’t be taking any photos on the way back, and I’m always sincere when I say it, but inevitably, something catches my eye that didn’t catch it before.
There’s a sub-section of the hike that’s enclosed, a Scientific and Natural Area where there’s an effort to cause re-growth of jack pines after a windstorm in 2012 took down most of them. Jack pines are an interesting tree in that the only thing that opens up their pinecones to release the seeds is intense heat, like a forest fire, which serves well to revive forest growth after a devastating fire. The plantings in the SNA are from pinecones which had been forced open by other means. Time will tell whether or not man’s way will be a successful as God’s way.
We got up to the lookout point which was halfway. I need to prepare you for the shocking disclosure that there is NO bench up there to rest your weary bones. We had a nice view of the toddler Mississippi River (if you consider the baby river to be that which leaves from Lake Itasca). Photos were taken and then we left to go back.
I gave the usual assurances that I wouldn’t be stopping to take pictures. At this point I went through some chickadee-filled shrubbery and they were so close that I just had to stop and it took me so long to get a semi-decent photo of one of these cheeky fellows that I had to “run” to catch up with Kris. And by “run,” of course I mean walking at a challengingly fast pace.
After we got back, we enjoyed a late breakfast at a nice outside picnic area. While we were there a park employee came and I was greatly amused to see him using a leaf blower to clear part of an area not far from us. As they say in the South, “Bless his heart!”
Thus ended our 2022 Minnesota State Park hiking season. We have now hiked 54 of our state’s 68 parks and have walked 158.5 miles out of a total of 197. Next year, we hope to finish them up, Lord willing.
Knee Score: 4 out of 10; some up and down equivalent to 6 flights of stairs.
Thank you for “hiking” with us thus far. You are honorary Hiking Club members!
I’ll probably delete this unless I get distracted by a cheeky chickadee in the shrubbery.
Busy season, lots of traveling, changing habits, excuses, excuses…
I used to write a daily blog post, Monday-Friday. Remember those days? Somewhere along the line, it ceased to be a habit – you know how it goes when any routine gets interrupted.
When I was in college, I decided to make jogging a habit. I’d see people jogging regularly and it impressed me favorably as something that would be good for my health and get me in good shape. Win, win! So off I went with my Adidas (points for cool shoes) and absolutely no experience. Generally, my attitude about running up until that point had been that I saw no reason for it unless I was trying to catch a bus. I figured I’d start small and work my way upward.
Jogging is a huffing and puffing sport, an awkward, shuffling, sweaty, stitch-in-your-side sport. Why do people do this thing? Those were the prevailing thoughts I had after my first attempt. But I’m no quitter, at least not while I still had the idealistic visions of “Lynn the Athletic Young Woman” running through my brain. I’d never been accused of being athletic before and I really wanted the title. I kept at it, hoping that at some point it would become less agonizing and more rewarding. Well, guess what? It did! After a month or so, I hit my stride, literally and figuratively. “Gonna fly now…flying high now…” I felt like Rocky, except without the disgusting raw egg drinking.
And then I got a nasty cold which put me out of commission for a week. My jogging career derailed just like that. The balloon of my motivation became completely deflated. (I’m rather liking the image of balloons of motivation skimming along over people’s heads, some really buoyant, some losing air, and some like limp rags flopping listlessly on the forehead, obscuring the vision. Just a minute – I need to contact Disney with an animated movie idea!!!! You can see how I get caught up in flights of fancy.)
But I actually like writing, a sport that can be done in the comfort and ease of my plushy chair. So, there may come a day when I give up writing this blog, but IT WILL NOT BE THIS DAY!
I’ll have to see if I can get back up to the speed of 5 posts per week. I’ll start small and work my way upward. Oy – I’ve got a stitch in my side!
I’ll probably delete this post in the morning in an attempt to return to the basics.
Everyone knows that Lake Itasca is the headwaters of the Mississippi. Back in the day, many an explorer sought to find the origin of that river because that’s what explorers do. Of course, the Ojibwe people knew it all along. When Henry Schoolcraft came along in 1832, Chief Ozawindib kindly guided him to it, the lake they called “Omushkos,” which means Elk Lake. Schoolcraft apparently didn’t think that name was sufficient, so he put his scholarly mind to the matter and decided that since the lake was the “true head” of the Mississippi, he would use the Latin version of that phrase, “veritas caput,” and cobbled the name “Itasca,” from the end of the first word and the beginning of the second one. I bet his children had interesting names.
We had been to Itasca State Park about 10 years ago with our two youngest children, but we hadn’t done any hiking there. We went to the actual headwaters and took pictures of each other there. Because that’s what tourists do. We were looking forward to seeing more of the park this time.
We stayed at the Douglas Lodge and were mystified to see trees growing out of the roof of the building behind it, Nicollet Court. It reminded me of the Mrs. Piggle Wiggle story about the boy who hated bathing and cleaning himself. Mrs. P.W. advised the parents just to let him experience the consequences of being dirty instead of constantly nagging him to take a bath. He was overjoyed with his freedom at first, but then the dirt layer on his skin became a nice place where seeds could grow and when plants began to emerge, he gave up his commitment to filth. Ha ha! I loved those stories! Well, Nicollet Court had been given over to itself, that’s for sure. Kris talked to a park employee later and found out that when it became clear that Nicollet Court needed some major repairs and that it would cost 20 million dollars to do it right, the park officials decided to let it go the way of the world: death and decay. Ah, there but for the grace of God go I.
The description of the Hiking Club trail included the word “hilly,” which is always a red flag for me. In spite of that I opted out of the hiking poles, which are nice, but an encumbrance when I want to take photos (i.e. frequently). I had my trusty knee huggers on and they would have to suffice. It was 49 degrees and sunny when we started out around 9:00 a.m., picking up the beginning of the 3.5 mile trail right by Douglas Lodge.
The trail was quite ferny, and we also saw some of our old friends, like Meadow Rue, Large Leaved Aster and Smooth Blue Aster. It feels good to know their names now. My husband’s educational background was in plant breeding and therefore, he knows a goodly amount of botany. I received a little instruction along the way about the difference between dioecious and monoecious plants and I now pass it on to you, dear readers. Dioecious plants, like meadow rue, have their male and female parts on separate plants, rather than on different parts of the same plant. Corn, on the other hand, is monoecious, containing both male and female parts, the tassel/pollen being the male and the ear being the female. This has been the plant sex education portion of this blog.
Meadow Rue: “Call me Dioecious”
I had a eureka moment on this trail. I noticed some interesting icons on trail signs. I’d seen them before but wasn’t sure what they meant. I finally looked at the legend on one of the maps on the trail and saw that these were cross-country ski trails in the winter and the icons meant “easy,” “difficult” and “more difficult.” In other words, these were comparable to my knee scores! Very nice to know.
More Difficult (uh-oh!)
The colors of the natural world are a continual source of joy. Thank you, Lord.
The trail would not be taking us anywhere near Lake Itasca, actually. Instead we would be seeing some of the smaller lakes in the park, like Mary Lake and Myrtle Lake, Itasca’s forgotten little sisters.
We’re assuming Mary Lake is named after Mary Gibbs, who was appointed as park superintendent at age 24 when her father, the current superintendent died. We read a few things about Mary Gibbs and it was like reading a script from a movie. At one point she came up against a local lumber company that built a dam to facilitate logging operations, but which might cause flooding that could kill the park’s old pine forest. Gibbs and a local sheriff brought a warrant to open the dam’s lift and the lumber boss threatened to shoot the hand off of anyone who put their hands on those levers. The sheriff backed off, but Mary Gibbs was made of stronger stuff. She said, “I will put my hand there, and you will not shoot it off, either.” The lumber boss knew when he was beat. He ordered the gates opened and was eventually jailed. Gutsy lady!
We passed by a few more lakes, probably the most lake-intensive hike we’ve been on so far. For me, lakes are all about the reflections in them, so that’s what I captured as we went along.
But I also saw a couple geese on Deer Park Lake.
Fallstad Lake was a frenzy of fish feeding activity. You could see places all over the lake where the fish were touching the surface as they were feeding. It was like watching stars twinkling in the night sky. I tried to get a photo, but it’s hard to capture.
It turns out that the Toilet Family has a tiny dwelling in the park. We passed by their humble abode but decided not to pay a visit.
We’ve seen several different species of goldenrod this time of year, the most attractive of which is called zig-zag goldenrod. I have nicknamed it ZZ Gold. But let’s play the Henry Schoolcraft game and take it one step further. The Latin words are “obliquum aurum,” so the HS technique would render it “quumaur.” I guess not. ZZ Gold it is!
The last lake we passed was Coffee Break Lake. Who gets to name all of these lakes anyway? I know a lot of coffee drinkers who would appreciate that one.
We finished the hike in just under 2 hours and due to the cooler weather, it was a lot easier on the weaker vessel.
Knee score: 6 on a scale of 1-10 (equivalent of 14 flights of stairs).
But that’s not the end, no sir. You don’t think we’d come all this way and NOT go to the actual headwaters again. We put our tourist hats on and got ‘er done. From this little trickle of water, a mighty river is born.
If you can tell me where the Blog Headwaters are, I’ll take a photo and delete this post.
After visiting one set of the family progeny, we prepared to head northward to spend some time with the others who have settled out West. It was hard to say goodbye to everyone, especially to my little exercising buddy who also sat by me on the couch every day singing Bible songs with me. I did my best to kiss an extra layer of skin off of the faces of our grandchildren before leaving, and to keep the tears out of my eyes. We drove away but left part of our hearts behind.
North we went through steep valleys with mountains hovering over us for a long time, alongside a stream that was a times a brook, at other times a full-fledged river. There are rumors of salmons in those parts, but we never saw any. Eventually we left most of that behind, coming into the beautiful rolling hills of the Palouse and to the town nestled in the midst of those hills where the rest of our Western children live (we still have one son and his wife living in our town in Minnesota). It’s been a few years now since we’ve had to arrange for paid lodging. We have children in both Western locations who roll out the red carpet for us, letting us use a room in their homes. This is an extra heap of blessing for us on many levels.
The week filled up quickly. Our daughter and son-in-law hosted family meals at their home – much good conversation and laughter ensued. Kris got involved in re-upholstering their kitchen table chairs. This was a project that none of us had even the slightest experience doing, but by the end of the week, all four of us had invested some sweat equity in finishing them. I love how they turned out!
I have failed to mention the presence of Fred and Velma at our daughter’s home. You may be thinking of Scooby Doo, and you wouldn’t be far off, since the names probably came from that cartoon. These are the Large Cats in Residence. I call Fred, “Fatty Freddy.” It doesn’t bother him one bit, nor should it bother you. Picking Freddy up is a wonderful experience – his girth fills your arms and it’s like hugging a big cuddly pillow. Velma is a little smaller but very personable. When we came out of our room every morning, Fatty…er Freddy was always lounging just outside the door, ready for some attention.
I also got to try using some Virtual Reality (VR) equipment for the first time at my oldest son’s place (the newlyweds!). It’s a unique, mind-bending experience, like being in a 3-D theater that wraps around your mind. Later on, a few of our other kids got to try it for the first time as well.
On Sunday, we all gathered at the church to worship. I love being back in church with our children (in both locations!) speaking the liturgy, singing psalms and hymns, and taking communion together. Ah, how sweet it is.
Not unto us, LORD, no, not us, But to your name above, Bring glory for Your faithfulness And for Your steadfast love.
One last gathering for a Chinese food supper, one group photo, and the next round of goodbyes began. “Goodbye! Goodbye! Have a good trip! It was good seeing you!” And in the morning, the last goodbye to our wonderful hosts. I choked off a swelling of emotion as we turned our faces toward the Midwest and set off for home.
That’s the rest of the story.
Good night. I’ll most likely delete this in the morning.
Dear friends, we have returned after a journey of 4000 miles and oh, what wondrous wanderings we’ve had. We met our newest grandson, Baby “Odipher,” as his 2 1/2-year old big sister calls him. I am often tempted to sing the song from the musical “Oliver” when I see him. Sometimes I give in to the temptation: “Oliver, Oliver, never before has a boy asked for more…” We were blessed to be present at his baptism, at which he was perfectly composed and mellow. Not all infant baptisms go like that.
The Beloved Lucy and I developed a daily exercise routine in which she faithfully worked through the song “Chicken Fat” with me, as well as another video exercise routine I was trying out. How many of you remember the song “Chicken Fat,” sung by Robert Preston? I was explaining to my daughter-in-law that this was used in our elementary school as exercise music and decided to go ahead and play it, and as it played, I figured I might as well go through the motions. Little did I know that Lucy would be such a good sport about doing the exercises with me.
Touch down every morning – ten times! Not just now and then Give that chicken fat back to the chicken And don’t be chicken again No, don’t be chicken again.
Those of you who know the song are singing along and I approve. It’s actually a pretty good workout, especially for this older lady. My “sit-ups” were more on the order of “roll-ups,” and my “push-ups” were of the wimpy kind, but I think my jumping jacks were as good as when I was a sprightly young lass. Lucy’s attempts to follow along were unspeakably adorable. I’m not sure her parents appreciate me adding the phrase “chicken fat” to her vocabulary, though.
We went to a zoo and a YUGE corn maze while we were in that part of the country. I’m not good at mazes, so my strategy is to make sure I don’t get separated from people who know where they’re going. But for that, I’d still be lost in that maze somewhere and you wouldn’t be reading this blog post.
I’ll tell more about our adventures in the next post.
If this doesn’t get lost in the Great Maze of Blog Posts, I’ll probably delete it in the morning.
Lynniebeemuseoday 