Blog Makes Friends

Our frog is named Blog. There is no excuse for names; it is just how our mother identified us. That is why some folks are named Adelma and most aren't.

One morning, Blog woke up from his dream of peace and discovered that he could not pronounce "Ribit" any more. When he tried to say "Ribit" all that came out was "Rabbit" ... and that changed the whole meaning of his speeches, which left him wide open to criticism from the media.

He sought help from his friend Babbit the Rabbit, and Babbit said, "Well, it looks to me like you have an 'a' where the 'i' should be, and you have one too many b's in there." (Rabbits know about having too many b's because b stands for babies. They don't need any help along those lines as their babies come naturally and frequently and sometimes it is all a mother rabbit can do to raise them properly and keep them out of trouble. Rabbit was a Democrat.) (Think about Peter Rabbit in the cabbage patch, and Buffalo Bill Rabbit who found himself surrounded by angry Indians, and Killer Rabbit that even wolves avoid if he gets up surly.)

So Blog asked Rabbit, "How do I get rid of the 'a' and one of the 'b's?" and Babbit told him, "I just identify the problems; I have no idea how to fix them."

So Blog told him Goodbye and looked for help elsewhere. It was kind of like calling 1800MEDICARE and having the telephone answer with a busy signal at the other end. Or, kind of like having your 401(k) portfolio suddenly lose 30% of its value, and having the Secretary of the Treasury submit a 3-page solution that will require a 30% increase in your taxes to make it all better.

The next friend that Blog stumbled upon was Belly, the Jellyfish. He got that name because he had no arms, legs, or head. Just that big old stomach with some hangy-downs spewing out of it. They met, luckily for Belly right down by the seashore, because Blog had hopped down there trying to change his luck and luckily there Belly was, trying mightily to roll back into the surf. Blog squatted on Belly's hangy down strings and said, "Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit," --that was all that came out.

But Belly, being a sharp Republican, knew what he meant and he said to Blog, "Go find a Bee's nest and see what you can do about getting rid of one of them," and just about that time the tide started going out and Blog kind of pushed Belly in the right direction and Belly jellied into the surf and was on his way to Cuba where he had to attend a meeting. He waved auf wiedersehn with his strings which means, until we meet again... which was highly unlikely because how many times have you seen a frog and a jellyfish in a conversation by the seashore, Marianne? Not even Uncle Charley has ever seen that.

However, now Blog had a clue and he went in search of a bee's nest. Before he found one, he literally ran into Mr. M. G'em, the lion. Now, running into a lion is not the best way to start a conversation, as you can well imagine. It as with great joy that Blog saw that Mr. M. G'em had just finished lunch and was feeling nice and easy. Blog croaked Rabbit a few times and the lion nodded as though he understood. Sometimes, saying nothing and smiling and nodding is the best of all answers; even better than all of the above.

Mr. M. G'em pointed down the road with his tail, and Blog saw that he was being referred to Mr. Bear whose name was Care (he was the original care bear) and he had a bee's nest in his sticky paws and was just finishing it up.

So. Blog hopped over to Care Bear, and noticed that a bee had fallen from the nest. Blog squished it. Now! That took care of getting rid of one 'b', for good.

He opened his mouth to speak, and he said Rabit, Rabit, just as naturally as if that were what he was supposed to say (even though it missed the mark by a little bit). Care Bear gave him a taste of the honey and kissed him on the mouth, but nothing happened. So Care Bear thought, "Well, you know, the story about kissing a lot of frogs before you find a handsome prince"... that doesn't stop you from trying again and again, whenever you get the chance. That story was originally written by political candidates, I think, but we can't stop this tale just for wondering about what a bear is thinking, now can we?

About this time, Blog looked down the road and spied a centipede, one of those insects that have a hundred legs or so. That's what centipede means, a hundred legs or so, give or take. I don't remember what the centipede's name was (you thought I couldn't get out of this one, eh?) so I can't share that with you, but old hundred legs waved at Blog and Blog went down to see what was happening. 100 legs already knew what Blog's difficulty was because he was photogenic. Like certain political candidates.

So you know what happened? Since 100 legs had 100 eyes, he popped out one of his i's and gave it to Blog to use instead of the a he was stuck with, and now Blog was restored to his former glory. Now he could say,

Ribit, Ribit, RIBIT!

Just as often as he wanted to, never having to change it ever again.

The end.

A Frog and a Duck

For my grandchildren...

A frog and a duck, a frog and a duck,
Woke up one morning sure out of luck,
Their pond had dried up, their pond had dried up,
Where would they live, with what would they sup?

It was a revolting development to be sure.

Splash, the duck, looked around. What had been their home was gone -- water gone, reeds wilted, insects vanished! All in one night-time. She wondered what to do. She looked around for her friend the frog, Geraldine. All she could see was two eyes peaking out from a lump in the bottom of what had been their home.

Geraldine didn't like to face problems; she most often retreated into the dirt and covered herself up, thinking no one could see her and she wouldn't be called upon to do anything. But Splash knew Geraldine was okay, and up to her old tricks -- they had been friends for a long time.

Splash was not like Geraldine. Her mother had taught her to take wings against a sea of troubles, or even a pond of troubles, and she spied what looked like a sign she had not noticed before, where the pond that was had emptied out onto the meadow.

Splash had taken English as a Second Language when she was a duckling, and she remembered how to sound out small four letter words. She also knew a little Spanish and could say a few phrases like, "Where is the ladies' room? Donde esta la bano? And, How much does this cost? Quantos? And Too much! No mas!" -- so she could manage to get by under ordinary circumstances in border towns.

Let's see, the sign said: The Road Back.

Splash sounded it out. The "The" was easy enough. "Qu-- row- ded -- Qu ack". That sounded pretty close. She was mostly sure about "Road" and everyone knows that roads go somewhere and are traveled by both man and beast, and automobiles and all sorts of vehicles, so that was at least an option.

She waddled back to the lump in the bottom of the pond that was her friend Geraldine and kicked sand in her friend's eyes and said, quite smartly, "Get up! We are leaving. There is a road that will go somewhere, and anywhere is better than here, so let's get going."

Geraldine took directions well and she hopped out, shook herself off, rubbed the sand out of one of her eyes, and she was all packed up and ready to go.

The two friends waddled and hopped out through the slough and found themselves on a dusty path, strewn with boulders and potholes. It was tough making progress until Geraldine, who was closer to the ground, noticed a barditch beside the path, and it had some water in it, enough for Splash to float in if she propelled herself with her orange duck feet. Splash was more at home in the water than she was on land, anyway, and she complimented Geraldine on her acuity and told her to hop onto her back, and away they went going in the proper direction to their new home, wherever that turned out to be.

They traveled the better part of the day. Now, everyone knows that if you are in strange places, it is best to stop before dark and make a shelter, and that is what they did. Splash noticed a tree overlooking the ditch that had an abandoned wood duck nest in it. She was a wood duck herself, a bilingual one at that, so she flapped her wings and was up in that nest: Splutt! Just like that. Left alone, Geraldine found a hollow at the base of the tree and she settled in for the night too.

Before long, it began to rain. Isn't that the truth? Just when you think you have it made for the evening, it starts to rain and everything has to change around. It didn't bother Splash particularly, but the wind began to blow too, and a gust just flipped her out of her nest

and she found herself on the ground beside Geraldine. So Splash did what ducks have always done, she stretched a wing out over Geraldine, tucked her head under her other wing, and settled in.

Now I have spent a lot of time myself, when I was very little, sheltered under a duck's wing. Oh yeah, you say? Well let me tell you -- it is soft under there with the tiny downy feathers under her armpit covering you like a comforter, and the warmth of her body and sound of her beating heart, kerthump, kerthump, lulling you into dreamland, and the strong waterproof flight feathers keeping out the frigid wind and water. You can't find a nicer spot in a five star hotel. Take my word for it. If I had to describe it with one word, it would be Ducky; that's it.

They spent the night warm and cozy and were quite ready for the sunrise. Geraldine found a nest of termites and she breakfasted on them; Splash pulled up some cattails growing beside the barditch and she feasted too. They were ready for whatever that day had in store for them.


Splash noticed that the barditch grew wider, and deeper, and she no longer had to push with her orange duck feet to glide them along.

As a matter of fact, the current had taken hold of them and they were almost hydroplaning across the top of the water; Splash was horrified to see that the water disappeared into a culvert and she did not see where it resurfaced.

So she used one of her orange duck feet as a rudder, and she spewed herself (with Geraldine hanging on for dear life) out onto the bank just before the culvert swallowed the water up. Boy, that was a close one. They took time to rest before they reconnoitered.

They found that the water hadn't just disappeared, it came out a few yards down the hill and ended up in a waterfall.




Splash walked very carefully up to the head of the water fall, and there -- there was -- a beautiful lake. She heard the croaking of about a hundred frogs, and overhead was a flock of ducks, like herself, circling, circling about.


One of them, a young drake, had spied her, and came down and landed close to them.





"Quack," he said, and Splash thought to herself that she would have to teach him to speak properly, but he looked very dapper and she stopped thinking about language and began to feel a very warm feeling in her heart that she had never felt before.



Geraldine, in the meantime, dove into the cool water of the lake and was busily swimming towards the croaking of her kind. She turned her head and was intent on saying "See You Later,", but she noticed that Splash's attention was directed towards the drake, and understanding beyond her years, Geraldine turned back and continued swimming towards the sound she all of a sudden understood.




There were willow trees, rushes, and flowers.
There were shiners, and worms, and butterflies.
The sun shone in a quiet, warm, neighborhood manner.
There was no conflict.
So this story has ended.

A Duck May Be Somebody's Mother...

There's just something about marching bands, John Philip Sousa, and uniforms that thrill the heck out of me, making me entirely heckless...

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was this little girl (my daughter), who played the flute. I thought, right from the beginning, how proud I would be when my flutist would pick up a piccolo -- that impertinent, feisty instrument whose high notes can clean out your ears -- and play the obligato from the Star Spangled Banner. Pride in one's child, Love of Country, the reveling in music; is there a greater joy anywhere in any combination? (Not if it's your kid, and you love marches.)

Time passed. The seniors' final performance was at hand. The high school band and its leader were all in full uniform. The auditorium was set with fold-up chairs. The end of the concert was at hand. What was the finale?

"Da dah dit da dah, da da da da da dah!" Crash of cymbals! It was! My heart jumped into my mouth. J. Sousa always repeats his themes every so often and the trombones and clarinets all had their turns. The piccolo solo was nigh. This wisp of a girl, my daughter, rose. It was the culmination of 17 years for me.

The piccolo music soared over the gymnasium. The high notes, sharp, urgent, compelling, were hit like nails. The percussion section (I always liked drummers) stood up and waved huge American flags, and can you believe it? Tons of glitter fell on the audience from the ceiling.

Too soon, it was over. There was a moment of silence. Then the school auditorium erupted into applause, whistles, hat waving. Parents, teachers, the principal -- all were one in the celebration of music, our country, our opportunities, our school, our children. We were rural Coloradans, but we were Americans, too. At that moment, there was no pettiness; we were brought together by the genius of music performed by our beginning-to-be-adult children, in a facility paid for by our taxes, in our home town, population 975.

If that's not patriotism, what is?

To My Comrades at the Senior Center:

We must be consoled by the fact that aging is better than the alternative. We have to deal with certain symptoms: there is a squeal in your head that occasionally will change pitch -- you think you've tuned into Conelrad and it's time to hide in the basement. You become extremely interested in all aspects of elimination. Worst of all, there is this total stranger every morning in your bathroom, brushing her teeth (I've accosted her a time or two, and she either snarls back at me or ignores me altogether. It's better if you don't look at her through the mirror; she is downright scary.)

It means you aren't as limber as you remember you used to be. It means you can be conversing intelligently and all of a sudden a common word escapes you; it is just GONE. When it does come back, you try to use it several times just so it won't slip away from you again. Does this happen to Chinese and Russians and Germans? I'd like to know; it must be more difficult for them, they would have to forget the word in a foreign language...

I keep a list now of when younger people forgot things. I consult it every time I get that look ("she's getting forgetful"). This database is written in pencil on a 69 cent pocket tablet, alphabetized, chronologically organized the old-fashioned way, sorted by perpetrator...so that I can whip it out and say, yes, but remember when you forgot to...and they can't remember...

It means that when you go to the auto parts store to replace the windshield wiper you broke when you were shoveling your car out of a snowbank, the parts man says, "I've given you the senior discount and it comes to $9.33" and your arm, acting entirely out of its own, reaches out over the counter and grabs him by the T-shirt and pulls him halfway to you so that you are eyeball to eyeball, and you sweetly murmur, "Thank you," and put him back down again before he can get his wits about him and call for the shop foreman. Hmm.

It's a mixed feeling. I'd rather pay retail.

I am aware, too, that the older citizenry drives more carefully, and carefully means 35 miles per hour in the fast lane. I don't drive that slowly but slower reflexes may account for the fact that I can, I have, hit every deer that comes across my path on the highway. I am famous in my role as The Deerslayer. Wildlife officers ask for my autograph. It is good to be known for something that involves cars and hunting, a little Redneck-ish, something I've always aspired to.

And yet, and yet -- it's not over. It is pretty amazing to still be able to become excited and invigorated. The possibilities are literally endless. It was not so difficult to give up the privilege and potential of childbearing, was it? Nor should we feel hesitant about taking on new challenges, certainly most are less demanding that what we have already accomplished. The reservoir of the past supports and enhances the new arenas of interest for the future. History is full of late bloomers.

So here's my summation, to my comrades at the Senior Center:

1. Eat lots of fiber, and "take thou a little wine for the sake of they digestion" (Note the temperance qualifier...)
2. Put a 15 watt light bulb in the bathroom.
3. Walk as much as you can, while you still can.
4. Take the senior discount and say thank you. Period.
5. Find something interesting to do. It keeps you alive.

Plan Ahead

“When I went on my safari in Africa, someone forgot the corkscrew.
For several days, we had to live on nothing but food and water.” (W.C. Fields)

“Just do it” may sell tennis shoes, but it is chancy to try it for a lifestyle unless you have little accountability for, or interest in, the outcome.

In the real world, we have business plans, battle plans, financial plans, political plans, get-rich-quick plans, life plans, burial plans and planned parenthood. It is difficult, however, in the case of planned parenthood, to tell by looking just which one of us was planned, and which ones were delightful surprises. In this particular instance, planning didn’t affect the outcome, as what was done, was done. Do you see the difference? Me neither.

The planning process has many aspects. You need to have some idea of the results you want to achieve or problem you want to solve to be able to plan effectively. Then the method of operations must be formulated. Many times, a factor called unexpected results crops up and hopefully, these blips are positive, but don’t count on it. Expect the unexpected, and always have a Plan B, even if Plan B is to fall back and punt.

To regroup and fine tune may be all you need. As long as there is a tomorrow and you wake up in it, you have another chance “to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them”–the beginning of Plan B.

Thanks, Prince Hamlet. Sweet dreams.

Lep Cake

My mother, born to German immigrants, made it her passion to be Americanized in every facet of her life. Occasionally, however, an Old Country custom would steal into her life. Such was the baking of what she called “Lep Cake” at Christmas. There was dark Lep Cake, chocolate with a hard white sugar frosting, and light Lep Cake that had a thin crust on top and was chewy in the middle. The batter for each version was poured into shallow pans, and cut into squares about an inch long on each side when cooled. Then the cakes, cookies now, were placed in crocks and doled out frugally every night from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Daddy and Mama got one piece of each kind, along with a glass of port wine. I would get my choice of either kind and I usually chose the light ones. Wonders of all! I too had a thimble sized tiny glass of the port wine. I thought I must be growing up at last to be allowed even a smidgeon of such adult behavior.

This custom always happened after dinner, when the dishes were washed and put away. Daddy would set a fire in the fireplace, the refreshments were served, and he and Mama would talk about things that had happened that day and their plans for Christmas. Children in those days never interrupted their parents, so I listened quietly and was happy that we were all together in our pleasant, warm, peaceful living room.

I googled Lep Cake, but I didn’t find any recipes that matched ours. Maybe there is someone out there with the same memories who would like to regain this past custom for their family. Every year I think that I will make it. Each year I fail to do so. I must change my ways.

Here it is:
German Lep Cake (White)

6 egg whites, slightly beaten
2 cups granulated sugar
1 cup pecans
1 ½ cups citron
1 t cinnamon
2 ½ cups flour
1 t baking powder

Mix dry ingredients and add slightly beaten egg whites.
Pour into square or rectangular pans.
Bake in 350 degree oven until light brown.
Cut into 1" squares when cool.

German Lep Cake (Dark)

2 whole eggs
6 egg yolks
1 1/4 cups sugar
1 cup molasses
3 ½ cups flour
½ pound chocolate
1 cup pecans
1/4 pound citron
2 t baking powder
2 t allspice
2 t cinnamon

Mix in bowl eggs, sugar, molasses.
Sift flour, baking powder, spices. Then sift over pecans and citron.
Add to egg mixture and stir. Pour into rectangular or square baking pans–spread very thin.
Bake at 350 F for about 15 minutes. Remove from oven when still soft and slightly brown.
When cool, ice with confectionery sugar frosting.

The Necessity Bag

Besides their rifle, ax, horse, and grub, early mountain men carried what they called a “necessity bag.” In it they would keep herbal medicines, flint and steel, small tools, a spare bandana–anything they might need to keep handy and survive. It was such a good idea, that if you google Necessity Bags you will find all types of modern applications–the diaper bag, the fanny pack, the back pack, the book pack, the overnight bag, the cosmetic bag. The idea was born of “necessity” and still applies to our modern way of life, except the pioneer was intent on surviving in the wilderness and we are using them to accommodate ourselves in our civilization–no doubt the same circumstance, updated.

If you live near a National Park or Forest and if you like to explore and hike, it is a great idea to have one of these bags hanging by your door, all ready to go, so you can pick it up and run on a moment’s notice. Depending on where you live, the contents will vary. There is not much sense to have fishing gear if you are planning on a desert trip. But even experienced woodsmen sometimes get lost in the woods, and a fanny pack can hold a lot of stuff to make living through the ordeal easier.

My loaded fanny pack weighs a sturdy 5 pounds. In it, I have: folded up plastic trash bags, enough for a ground cloth and a shelter in case of (horrid thought!) a sleepover. There are usually 3 compartments in a fanny pack–the outermost and smallest contains a compass and a whistle; and a tiny penlight dangles from the zipper. The second compartment contains band-aids, cough drops, Neosporin, a pocket knife, mosquito repellant, vitamins, Tylenol, a Chapstick and a small mirror. The large compartment has enough dried food to last 24 hours, maybe longer if this trip is for real, an extra flashlight with spare batteries, fire making equipment, hand sanitizer, small soap, candles, cord, fishing line, bait, sinkers, hooks, instant coffee, tea bags, mac ‘n cheese, oatmeal, and
a plastic spoon, a clean bandana. There is also a tin cup or can with which to heat water–providing you can start a tiny fire. And a tiny pair of scissors. The trash bags can be cut to use as ponchos if it rains, and if it gets cold at night, which you can probably count on, you can cut holes in one, take off your shirt, don the plastic and put your shirt back on again. I am told this will keep your body heat right next to your body and make a big difference for your comfort.

If you have menfolk who hunt, this loaded bag is a welcome surprise gift at Christmas, and may even be gratefully employed in keeping them safe when they get lost. That is, if they remembered to bring it along.

I’m not a city person, but I suppose a city person’s necessity bag would include fifty dollars in small bills, a charge card with limited credit and a couple of Hershey bars, plus a cellphone. Looks to me like it could be a lot smaller than five pounds worth of necessaries. Come to think of it, a cellphone isn’t a bad idea for the country bag, either.

A Song of Six Pence...

Sing a song of six pence, a pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie,
When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing,
Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?


I always thought this was a nonsense poem, such as Humpty Dumpty. Like a multitude of similar times, I was wrong. The pioneer mother of Laura Ingalls Wilder (of Little House on the Prairie fame), baked blackbird pie and served it partly in self defense, and partly because of revenge, because the pesky blackbirds were eating everything in their corn patch -– the corn which they
depended on dried, to sustain them during the coming winter.

If you ever find yourself in this predicament, here is the recipe for blackbird pie:
12 starlings, plucked and dressed
1 medium yellow onion
2 whole cloves
2 T browned flour
Salt and pepper
Sour milk biscuit dough

Cut the cleaned birds in half along breastbone and backbone. Put birds, giblets, onion and cloves in a saucepan with 2 cups of water and simmer covered about 2 hours until tender. Preheat oven to 400F. Remove starlings from broth and place in baking dish. Discard onion and cloves. Stir browned flour into broth, season with salt and pepper, add to starlings and cover with biscuit
dough. Bake for 10 minutes, lower heat to 350F and bake 10 minutes more, or until crust is cooked through. (Barbara M. Walker, The Little House Cookbook)

It gets us back to the “Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without” philosophy that was so life-saving during the Depression days, or in other hard times. I’m not suggesting that today’s homemakers go out and trap sparrows and eat them -– not much meat there -– but cheaper cuts of meat, braised into
exquisite tenderness, day-old bread, toasted, or home gardens, all come to mind, as well as refurbishing yesterday’s apparel, taking fewer auto trips, saving change, and “doing without” to make the paycheck last until the next one arrives …that’s due diligence.

Of course there is more than one way “to skin a cat,” as evidenced by that pile of naked felines outside my cabin door. It’s just an idea. Run with it, or not.

P. S. Ask me for my recipe for Haggis...you will need a sheep’s stomach.

Back to School...

“Personally I’m always ready to learn,
But I do not always like being taught.” (Winston Churchill)

There was a time when one hundred dollars was more than enough to buy school clothes and supplies for one or two students to start school–now it takes almost that much money to buy tennis shoes for gym class. The nickel Baby Ruth candy bar was as large as the ninety-nine cent bar is today.

There weren’t any TVs, or calculators, or computers. We had to learn how to read and cipher the old fashioned way, in our empty heads.

We lived in fear about being sent to the principal’s office, and today a teacher can’t lay a hand on an obstreperous student for fear of dismissal. (Remember how we learned to spell “principal”? PAL, they would say, the principal is your pal.) Yes he was.

If a female teacher married, she was no longer employed. Girls began to wear make up in high school. Only boys smoked. In the forties, high school was cut to 11 years so the “boys” could enlist in the military. There was a war on. Everyone had a draft number. Our country was at stake. Many of our high school graduates didn’t wait for “their number to come up,” but joined the service on their own.

Mothers didn’t work outside of the home as a general rule. This meant Mom was there when you arrived home from school. Dad came home at a regular hour, because he only needed one job to care for his family. There was an aunt or a grandmother nearby. There were chores to do before you went out to play. You played marbles, or jacks, or if you had a knife, mumbly peg, or you skipped rope. We didn’t realize we were deprived.

The childhood diseases that we suffered through then we are vaccinated against now. We had telephones, but we hardly ever used them to call each other. The phones were for the grownups, along with many other things we used to reserve for adulthood. Maybe that’s what is different.

Youngsters are older now.

That's Profound!

1. The worst home grown tomatoes taste better’n the best store bought.

2. A burned bridge will not allow a round trip.

3. Learn to swim. A 6 foot man can drown in a lake with an average depth of 3 feet.

4. On December 15, take a $5 bill and break it into ones. Place them in a special place in your purse. Then, whenever you see a Salvation Army bell-ringer, put one of them into the pot until the stash runs out. You’ll have a better Christmas.

5. Always keep something in reserve. Remember your Grandma’s cookie jar containing the egg money? Whether you are a Grandmother, or an Army General, always keep something in reserve.

6. Never trespass into the carnival through the lion’s cage just to save admission money.

7. It won’t improve your fishing prowess to change seats in the boat.

8. Of course, spend less than you earn. What you do with the rest will determine how successful you will be.

9. Do you really want for better or worse, for sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death? Get a dog.

10. Never plant more than two zucchini seeds.