This husband and I...

Ate supper at the Irish Cottage Pub...indulged in shepherd's pie and tiny biscuits...enjoyed the live music—the duo playing a variety of 'oldies but goodies'...

And one of us couldn't help but be intrigued by the man behind the trap set...quite a musician...quite a showman...not a drummer but a musical jack-of-all-trades...

His instrument: a cobbled together hodgepodge of all things percussiony... snare drum, bass drum, bongos, shakers, cymbals, one of those big gourd-things. Throw in a ukulele and vocals, and he was moving and shaking—all the while seeming to have the time of his life...

Made mama me think of that daughter of hers...that youngest daughter, who in fourth grade, said she wanted to play drums...flute-player me couldn't imagine it...tried to talk her out of it—failed miserably...

And good thing, too, because Little Drummer Girl loved everything there was about being a drummer girl...band, her band friends, all those percussion instruments...

And so it is...in life...follow your heart...find your passion...and who knows...maybe one day even Little Drummer Girls who live in DC will find themselves on a stage in a pub somewhere...living the musical dream...or at least, like this guy here, having fun trying...
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And that daughter of mine...would agree...

This husband and I...

Checked into the Irish Cottage...noticed patrons sitting in the library, enjoying tea and biscuits...grabbed a snack for the room and headed to the elevator...

And that's when the teasing began...the teasing that happens every time we stay at a hotel...the gentle ribbing...the inside joke that's so lame it should be in one of those Progressive 'turning into your parents' commercials...

The conversation going something like this...

Him...'Did you get us a room by the ice machine? hehe haha
Her...Probably. hehe haha
Him...It never fails. hehe haha
Her...I know, right? hehe haha

The same schtick—referring to the one time our room wasn't just BY the ice machine, but was connected to the ice machine room and it was weirdly loud—like machines running, people talking, ice dropping all night long loud...

And funny thing...joke or no joke...no matter what hotel...no matter what city...no matter if the place is empty or completely booked...the ice machine seems to always be noisily close to that room of ours...

Maybe it's on purpose...they put people by it for easy access...or maybe just coincidence...karma...a cosmic joke of some sorts...but this was the Irish Cottage, the fancy Irish Cottage...what are the odds, the next to the ice machine odds?

Pretty good apparently...hehe haha
​
And that husband of mine...agrees...

This husband and I...

Always stay at the same place when we visit Galena...not because it's nice—it is...not because it's cute—it is...not because it has a fun theme—it does...but because one of us, secretly, chooses it for her own selfish reasons...

Treated those daughters of mine once—One Direction lovers, intrigued with Ireland—to a birthday stay at the Irish Cottage. Brought a little leprechaun. Ate at the pub. Listened to Irish tunes...

It was silly. It was fun—just a goofy girl getaway. Figured it was the next best thing to actually being there, since a trip to Ireland was out of the question...

But what would you know, not long after, that Ireland-loving girl of mine would study abroad in Limerick...and with a little bit of fairy dust and magic, all four goofy girls found themselves in the true land of shamrocks and fairy gardens...

And it was magical. In fact, every grand adventure with those girls of mine has been magical— so magical that an old heart misses it sometimes. MissesTHEM sometimes...

And so, sometimes, she brings them along—in her head...in her heart. Because if those she loves can't be there in person, they might as well be there in spirit...
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And those daughters of mine...agree...

This old gal...

Loves going to Galena...The drive, beautiful. The scenery, stunning. The shops...so many shops. So many shops 'shopping me' doesn't shop at because one of us mumbles the phrase, 'We don't need that,' under his breath as we pass by...

Which is true, perhaps. Do two old folks really NEED anything in the way of cooking gadgets and boutique clothing? That would be, no...

But that doesn't mean we don't need something from the toy shop, or the gag gift shop, or the quirky clothes shop, or the antique shop, or that beloved Piggly Wiggly...

And funny thing...this old gal encourages the Piggly Wiggly Pilgrimage for her own selfish reasons. And that reason...would be coffee...

The best coffee. The tastiest coffee. The only coffee she drinks, but can only order online because no grocery store carries it...Except Piggly Wiggly. THIS Piggly Wiggly...

And so it is...while he walks down the aisles of Mrs. Carmichael memory lane, she stands in front of the Berre's Coffee display like she's struck gold...

And suddenly it's like she's Steve Martin again saying those words: 'I don't need anything here in Galena...except this coffee. This flavor and that flavor, these pods and those pods, this ground and that ground. Just this coffee. I don't need anything but this coffee. And maybe...that thing at the antique shop. Just this coffee and that thing at the antique shop—that tiny mushroom magnet thing. And maybe that beautiful glass dish for that friend of mine. This coffee, that magnet, and that dish. I don't need anything else but that...'

And that shopping partner of mine is more than happy to oblige. Because anyone that would say, 'no' to all the fun things in Galena would just end up looking like a 'Jerk.' And no one...needs that...
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And that husband of mine...agrees...

This old gal...

Has heard the story of Mrs. Carmichael many, many times...because she was kind...because she was special... because she made a difference in a young child's life...

A retired PE teacher...had one grown son...she and her husband owned the Piggly Wiggly store in a small town in Texas—the small town that husband of mine and his family moved after his mother was tragically killed...

He, only three years old, doesn't remember his mother, but remembers Mrs. Carmichael—a woman who gave him motherly affection for only a tidbit of time...but enough time...for her to never be forgotten...

Took him to the carnival...gave him gifts of food and clothes...let him go to the Piggly Wiggly and pick out treats to his little heart's desire...

And so each year, that husband and I make a pilgrimage to Galena...not for the shops...not for the food...but because it's the one place we've found a Piggly Wiggly...

And so it is...in life...be kind...show compassion...make a difference... change someone's life for good...be a Mrs. Carmichael...
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And that husband of mine...agrees...

This husband of mine...

Only has one photo of himself as a child–probably six years old or so...none as a baby...none with his mother...a few as a teen...none with his brother—the one who used to read him bedtime stories, the one who passed away at the age of 18...

Little him moved to the Midwest from Texas. Papo working in the fields in Illinois picking tomatoes. Tomatoes they hauled to the Heinz plant here in River City...

Lived in a house on the Illinois side. His brother and his wife lived just up the road. One day they stopped by on the way to town to get groceries. On a whim, the whole family decided to go along...

Crossed the river to Iowa. Shopped a bit, then noticed something in the sky...in the sky across the river...smoke...plumes of smoke...smoke as far as the eye could see...

Smoke, they would soon find out, coming from their home. Or what was left of their home. That being nothing. Nothing but a giant, steaming, gaping hole...

Caused by an explosion...an explosion that leveled the place...an explosion that took everything they owned...an explosion they avoided because of a spur of the moment decision to spend time with family...

And so it is...in life...sometimes it's the little things—baby photos, childhood photos, family photos—you take for granted until they're gone...

But then, sometimes it's the little things...like a drive to town for groceries...that might actually be a big thing...orchestrated by Someone Somewhere...Someone who's got your back...

And for that...we are so very thankful...
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And that husband of mine...agrees...

This old gal...

Loves to hear the words, 'I remember one time...' which means a story is coming...a story from the past...

Something about the morning news these days seems to trigger a story—a story about life, life growing up, life when one of us lived down by the beautiful river....

Stories about the buildings that were there: apartments, bars, pool halls, girlie clubs...Woolworths, the hardware store, the toll booth at the old bridge...the courthouse, the donut shop, the original home of the Maid-Rite sandwich...

Stories about friends and family, first loves and broken hearts, what life was like for a teenage boy in the 1960s...

Stories laced with humor and fun...regret and remorse...stories that make the past come alive...make that historic downtown part of something bigger...

And this wife of his listens intently while the words come pouring out...she who grew up so differently...she who has unique stories of her own...

And so it is...in life...who are we but a collection of stories?...stories that help us learn about each other...stories that help us understand each other... stories that make morning coffee come alive with those words:

'I remember one time...'
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And that husband of mine...agrees...

This husband of mine...

Is drawn to the hummingbird...so tiny...so fast...so cute...

Bought a feeder...put it in the back yard...filled it with hummingbird nectar...and waited...and waited...and waited...

Nothing...nary a bird...not one single bird humming around that feeder...

Did his research and read that they like certain flowers...hunted some down...planted them near the feeder...filled the feeder with a different version of nectar...and waited...and waited...and waited...

Nothing...nary a bird...not one single bird humming around that feeder...

Weeks passed...walked into the back yard and, what to my wondering eyes do I see, on a wire not far from the feeder, perched facing the glass rainbow bulb?

Called that hummingbird lover over...the two of us watching excitedly as tiny wings start fluttering faster and faster...that pretty little thing lifting off the wire beginning to move forward...

When all of a sudden a predator bird swooped...a giant predator bird swooped...a giant predator bird we'd never seen in the back yard before, swooped...

And that pretty little hummingbird...was gone...

And so it is...sometimes in life you have those hummingbird moments...those hummingbird moments you have no control over...those hummingbird moments that break your heart...

Know that you are not alone...
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And that husband of mine...agrees...

We've got trouble, folks...

Right here in River City...with a capital T that rhymes with C that stands for collapse...chaos...calamity...community.

This new town of mine has the loveliest downtown...beautiful, brick storefronts overlooking the mighty Mississippi...the bridge visible in the distance...the water glistening in the sun...

Take daily walks that way...think about the history of the place...the stories those buildings tell...admire the quaint vintage feel of the streets...

Until tragedy struck...a tragedy of grand proportion...a domino tragedy of sorts...one building on the end pulling away...set to be demolished, which caused the next to collapse, and the rest of the block—and then some—to be deemed unsafe...

Businesses and tenants given little notice...told to evacuate—had two days in pouring rain...and that's when community stepped up...pleas on social media sites...groups organizing support...people helping people pack, move, relocate...

The fate of those 20 buildings still in the air...the fate of those 36 renters and 18 business still unknown...but a renewed faith in good...a renewed faith in love...a renewed faith in community...restored...

And this old gal is proud to be here...
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And that husband of mine...

This old gal...

Noticed a woman walking into Hy-Vee...a classy woman...a gorgeous woman...a woman, a little older than yours truly, who had the prettiest hair...

Shoulder length...soft curls...white and flowy like a little cloud halo...baby-fine-mousy-gray-flathead-me couldn't help but be a little envious...

And told her so when seeing her again in the organic egg section...and there we stood...chatting and laughing and chatting some more like we'd been friends forever, that husband of mine wandering off as if to say, 'Well here we go again."

And it's nothing new...looking through the yearbooks not long ago...the high school yearbooks...the yearbooks from the 1970s...pictures of young-me popping up on a few pages...and there she was, doing that one thing she seems to do best—talking...

Sitting in study hall—talking...sitting in class—talking...sitting at prom—talking...sitting at prom—STILL talking...

Not sure if it's a blessing or a curse (probably is a matter of opinion) but chatty-me...couldn't change it if she wanted to...

And so it is...in life...we all have a gift...gardening...woodworking...the gift of gab...use it for good...spread the love...
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And that husband of mine...agrees...