That youngest daughter of mine...

Sent a picture of corn in that Besties chat of ours. Three ears of corn—one not like the other two.

A funny little thread followed. Those girls of mine joking about the mutant corn, the mutant sister, who was who, when one of them said, "But you know what's important—that corn has a great personality and that's all that really matters in life."

And she's not wrong.

Wise words from a girl who knows a thing or two about personality—because she's full of it. Dynamic, bubbly, witty, fun. Kind, caring, with tons of compassion.

Has a spring in her step. A smile on her face. A twinkle in her eye. Leads with strength and humor. Supports with wisdom and grace. Encourages with confidence and positivity.

Has been told on many occasions that she's memorable—VERY memorable, but in a good way.

To know her is to love her.

And so today we celebrate that girl who shines with personality. Who is beautiful both inside and out. Who gives it her all every single day. Who makes a difference. Who brightens any room just by walking through the door.

Happy Birthday, amazing daughter of mine, you are truly one of a kind.
​
And those sisters of yours... agree.

This old gal...

Had an itch. A decorating itch. An itch to try to find a way to put more of her swing glass vases in front of a window.

Love the swung glass vase. Found the first one a few years back at Goodwill for under two bucks. Then the hunt was on, finding them here and there and everywhere.

And they are gorgeous. Specialized glass. Each vase unique. The colors brilliant, creating a stunning kaleidoscope when the morning sun shines through.

Researched shelving units. Nothing worked. Too big, too tall, too deep. Gave up and let it go, until...

Lawn-mowing day. Taking the grass to the compost facility. Didn't realize it didn't open until noon. Had time to kill. Decided to go back to a garage sale we'd passed on the way.

And what to our wondering eyes did we see? A table. A vintage table with the coolest carved legs. A table that was water-damaged because the owner's daughter used it for her fish tank. A table that they parted with for five dollars.

A table that that husband of mine refinished. Brought back to life. A table that fit perfectly in front of the back room window. A table that scratches an old gal's itch.

And so it is... in life. Sometimes you don't know what you're looking for, until you find it. And sometimes Someone answers prayers... you didn't even know you prayed.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees.

This husband and I...

Started to have issues. Toilet issues. Issues with the toilets. Both toilets. One wouldn't flush. One wouldn't stop flushing. Both needing new internals.

Mentioned this to that neighbor of mine. Asked for the name of a plumber, but instead she offered wise advice...

"Do it yourself," she said. "Watch a YouTube video and just do it yourself."

Do it yourself. Do... it... yourself. Did she know who she was talking to? Those neighbors of hers, Ping and Pong, are not exactly handy. Crafty, maybe, but when it comes to fixing things, let's just say the skills are not innate.

Ping and Pong are clumsy. Bumblers. Laurel and Hardy-like. But those words. Those three words, stated kindly and innocently... became a challenge.

And so we did... do it ourselves. Headed to Menards for supplies. Watched videos on toilets. Armed ourselves with tools and tutorials and a magnifying glass to read the instructions—because it truly WAS the blind leading the blind.

And got it done. Not without fumbling. Not without bumbling. Not without the little hose popping off the pump and shooting water everywhere...

But also, not without laughter. Not without joking and certainly not without a little chest-bumping—figuratively—because Ping and Pong surprisingly...

Did it ourselves.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees.

This old gal...

Did it. Decided to make that sandwich spread of the past. That sandwich spread that mother of hers made. That sandwich spread she hasn't eaten in 50 years. That sandwich spread she thought she might enjoy now that she's older.

Because she likes all the ingredients: dried beef, onion, tomatoes, Longhorn cheese—which—thanks to Google—is actually Colby cheese in the half-moon shape (ahhhh, the things you didn't know you didn't know).

Dug the family heirloom out of the cupboard. Set up the grinding station.

And not gonna lie, grinding was fun. Just as fun as back in the day. Pressing the ingredients in. Turning the handle. Watching it ooze out the holes. Took an old gal back—way, way back.

Used instant onion instead of grinding one. It might be 50 years, but one doesn't forget the effects of hand-mushing an onion.

Put the conglomeration in a pan and cooked away, watching it blend together into a recognizable, hideous, mass—somewhat resembling the look of that less-than-delightful potted meat which started this whole sandwich spread adventure off in the first place.

And ended in a tasty lunch. One that husband of mine refused to join. One that was tasty in a way that brought back memories of childhood. Memories of a sandwich spread that was fun to make but tasted gross... and still does.

And so it is... in life. Some things never change, but it was kind of fun to try.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees.

That youngest daughter of mine...

The knitter, the sewer, the sour dough baker, made a coffee cake that last night in DC. A family favorite. Her mother's favorite—buttery, moist, topped with cinnamon sugar and pecans. It's the best, simply the best.

Had a piece right out of the oven, planning on more for breakfast, but in the morning rush forgot to indulge and regretted it later. Like really regretted it. Like sitting at the airport consumed with thoughts of coffee cake regretted it.

Regretted it so much, that she-who-never-bakes-anymore decided to whip one up the very next day after getting home. Surprise that husband of hers...

Who loves cake. Always wants cake. Drops hints about cake. "Cake sounds good. I'm hungry for cake. Do we have any cake?" Which, of course, he knows we don't. Like how would cake suddenly appear on the counter because of a random wish?

Until this day—the coffee cake day. Smelled delicious. Tasted delicious. It could not have been more perfect. Ate on it for days.

And then realized that coffee-cake-lover me was the only one eating it because, apparently, when it comes to coffee cake, He Who Loves Cake isn't crazy about it.

And so it is... as that saying goes, let her eat cake... and she did. All of it. The whole thing.

And there were no regrets.
​
And anyone who's had this coffee cake... would agree.

This old gal...

Was drinking her coffee, watching the morning news, when a segment came on that suddenly hit home.

Well, not exactly home-home, but more like that Texas home. The cabin on the river home. The cabin where all the animals roam: ducks, cats, lizards, deer...

Deer that, at least once a year, get caught in the fencing just outside our kitchen window. Deer that struggle. Deer that panic. Deer that make an old gal and her husband feel helpless while we all wait for animal control to come to the rescue.

And that's what this news story was about. Celebrating the heroes who rescued that sweet, little thing—lifting it gently, twisting it just-so, letting it go, watching it run free.

And that's how it is, sometimes, with the rescues in Texas. Animal rescue comes, wraps the animal in a blanket, moves, adjusts, sets it free. Us on-lookers breathing a sigh of relief.

Except that one time. That one time Animal Control wasn't available. That one time the local police came instead. The local police who weren't invested in the task. The local police who must have had better things to do. The local police who just shot it and left it lay for someone else to pick up later.

It was horrifying.

So bravo, news show, for telling THIS story. This beautiful story of every day heroes going above and beyond, showing kindness and compassion for all things—ALL things—great and small...

Because that's the story... we all should tell.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees.

That mother of mine...

Liked sweets. Baked quite often: brownies, Chewy Bars, Oatmeal Caramel Squares, Rice Krispie Bars, Ranger Cookies, strawberry shortcake. Never had prepackaged snacks or foods, but one of these was always on the counter. Which was nice—unless it was the No Calorie Bar.

Little-me did not like the No Calorie Bar—also referred to as the Seven Layer Bar, which is exactly what it is: seven layers of stuff drenched in sweetened condensed milk and baked. It was sweet. Sweeter than sweet. Too sweet for little-me to eat.

Hadn't thought about them for years. Like years and years and years. And then suddenly there it was—the No Calorie Bar—everywhere. Buffets. Buc-ee's. Taunting. Teasing. Bringing back memories an old gal's mind had tucked away.

Memories of a mother who didn't bake joyfully. A mother who made the simplest things stressful. A mother who could fall apart in the blink of an eye.

And then what shows up in an on-line magazine, right in the midst of the No Calorie Bar haunting? The history of the Seven Layer Bar. Never thought about a bar having a history. But it does, going all the way back to the 1960s, and it made an old gal think...

About life. The past. Our history. How it affects who we are today. How we see the world. How we see our neighbor. How we see those desserts at the buffet.

Your history matters. But what matters more... is what you do with it.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees...

This Ramblings of mine...

Has gained some new followers recently. Not gonna lie, in this old gal's world, that's kind of exciting. It's wonderful having new friends join the club. It's wonderful to ponder, to connect, to share our story...

So I'll start. Here's mine.

Little me had four goals growing up—be a teacher, be a mommy, be a wife, and write a book.

Graduated with a degree in Elementary Education and another degree in Vocal Music Performance. Always wanted to teach an elementary homeroom class but was destined for different things. Was offered a job teaching Title I Reading in the old hometown, and the adventure began. Went on to get a Master's Degree in Reading Development and Learning Disabilities and strived to be the best Reading Intervention Specialist one could be. And for 36 years, did just that.

Cannot imagine having done anything else. Loved the kids. Loved the classroom. Loved being a teacher.

Was blessed with three amazing daughters. Always imagined having boys, but God had other plans. Their lives growing up were filled with love, laughter, and—what those daughters and I like to call—grand adventures. Flown and grown, they are kind, compassionate, and making the world a better place. We will forever think of ourselves as The Ladies.

And now we come to marriage—that little girl goal of being a wife. Got married right out of college; it didn't work out. Got married again awhile after and, 22 years later, found myself single again. Didn't necessarily fail as a wife but certainly failed at marriage—and that's where today comes in.

Nine years ago today, lucky-me became a wife again. Met online—THAT grand adventure not for the faint of heart, but that's a whole 'nother story—and clicked immediately.

He's the ping to my pong, the yin to my yang, the tic to my tac. The two of us could not be more different, yet could not be more alike. And it's worked, with a comfort level in a relationship neither of us has felt before.

So, Happy Anniversary to that husband of mine who has helped a little girl's heart achieve a longed-for dream.

And as for that book... It's almost done. Just needs a few more pages and a print job.

Welcome friends! Here's to another year of being married and another year of Retirement Ramblings.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees.

This old gal...

Walked down memory lane—the memory lane of tastebuds. Decided to look through recipes. Old recipes. Old recipes in that recipe file of that mother of mine.

Reminisced over some of the tried and true. The ones she made often. The ones at every holiday table: oyster stew, tomato soup, the lime jello with cottage cheese—that apparently needed four recipe cards.

Came across an interesting one. One that little-me didn't particularly like to eat, but loved to help make because she got to run the meat grinder. So much fun shoving ingredients in the top, turning the wooden handle, watching stuff ooze out of the holes—creating yet another member of the gross meats club...

AKA: The Dried Beef Sandwich Spread.

Grind dried beef, longhorn cheese, and onion. Boil with eggs, butter, and a can of tomatoes. Let set until hard, then spread on bread with lettuce and mayo. Can picture it now—for sure a close second to that can of potted meat.

But that mother of mine loved it, and now one of us wonders if—with age and wisdom—she might like it better than she used to. Maybe she should buy the ingredients, resurrect that old meat grinder, and give it whirl—just for fun...

And walk down memory lane one more time... the tastebud way.
​
And that husband of mine... agrees.

This old gal...

Really shouldn't be throwing stones—poking fun at that potted meat and that potted-meat-eating man of mine. Mocking the ingredients, the smell, the look. Acting shocked that anyone would ingest such a foul-looking beast, seemingly ignoring the foods of her younger years.

Spent summers with those grandparents of mine—those Czech grandparents of mine. A little cabin on the Cedar River. The knotty pine bedroom. Czech Polka Party on the radio. Grandma Em in the kitchen making homemade chicken rice soup, cherry kolaches, freshly cased wienies, and for breakfast...

Scrambled eggs and jaternice.

Little-me loved jaternice. Always pronounced it "inthenitsy." Had it every morning for breakfast. Would bring some home when the stay was over to eat later. It was unique, tasty, and now, comparing ingredients, almost worse than the potted meat. Definitely uglier. A gray chunky mass of all things left over after butchering a hog, with some filler and a few spices thrown in.

Haven't had it in years. Used to buy it at the butcher shop in Czech Village, but it's closed. Perhaps a little jaternice-search grand adventure is in order—but now that one of us actually THINKS about how it's made... perhaps not.

And so it is... in life. When it comes to eating gross meats, someone who lives in a glass house... should just mind her own business...
​
And that husband of mine... agrees...