It's Alright

           I’d just finished sorting pictures for this week’s letter blog when the alarm on my phone goes off. Beep! Beep! Beep!  It pauses for a quick three-second break then starts again with another round of Beep! Beep! Beep! It’s a really annoying sound and that’s why I chose it. What good is an alarm if it doesn’t make ya wanna slam it against a wall or throw it on the floor and stomp on it?

          The first thing I do, after picking my phone up and dusting it off, is to call my neighbor Sally. The feud between the Kiles and the Lubys may have had its ups and downs, but in the end, I think everyone should have someone who checks on them. I just saw on the news where an old man died and no one knew it. Four ponies and two dogs starved to death.

Sally and Charlie never had children and now with Charlie gone I worry about Sally. If something were to happen and Sally fell and couldn’t get up, it might be days or even longer before anyone missed her. I didn’t want to have to live with that regret. So, I call her. Every morning — except Sunday. I usually see her in church on Sundays. Sometimes we have nice conversations and other times it’s little more than hello goodbye.

          One morning Sally says, “I’m making cornbread today.” And no, she doesn’t know anything about my recent spate of cornbread making. She doesn’t get my letter blogs as far as I know and I never mentioned it to her. “I found the best recipe! It stays so moist and doesn’t get all crumbly like most recipes. It’s the best I ever had!”

          That got my attention. “What recipe do you use?”

          “It’s on the Bob’s Red Mill cornmeal package. You soak the cornmeal in buttermilk for ten minutes.”

          After I got off the phone, I Googled and found Sally’s recipe — or maybe I should say Bob’s Red Mill recipe. I used my homemade yogurt instead of buttermilk and Sally’s right. It is a nice moist recipe.

          That afternoon we hooked up Bondi — oh wait. I have to tell you something. Bondi hates to wear her harness and leash. She sees it and runs away. It’s kinda funny because she likes it once we’re out and walking. The three of us walked down to the Kipps. I wanted to share the cornbread with them and Mike’s trying to walk more.

          “Sally says it’s the best she’s ever had,” I told that handsome Lamar Kipp. “She says it stays moist and doesn’t get all crumbly.”

          Lamar tried a bite. “It is moist, but when you’re putting it in your chili you kinda want it to be crumbly.”

          He had a point.

          “How did your Miss Rosie like it?” you ask.

          She didn’t have any while I was there. She was too busy getting loves from Bondi Girl, that’s what she calls her.

          The next day, for our midday meal, I took a square of cornbread and sliced it as a side to whatever we were having. I don’t remember anymore. Mike and I got up to clear the table and wash dishes, the last piece of bread still on the table. I glance over and see the Blackie was helping himself to it.

          Since I took the time to snap a picture, you can tell I wasn’t too upset about it. At this point, I’m not going to eat it, so he might just as well get his fill.

          Living with ill-mannered critters can be a challenge. You can spend your day yelling at them or you can just learn to live with them.

          “You could get rid of him,” you say.

          Nope. Not an option. We accepted the responsibility for his life and I take that responsibility seriously.

          Saturday morning, I’d just finished sorting pictures when the alarm went off. Sally is fine. She has a funny looking Grackle at her feeder. “One feather is sticking straight up in the air and some of his other feathers are ruffled,” she told me. “I don’t know what happened to him but I feel sorry for him.”

          “At least he got away with his life,” I said.

          “Yep. And he’s flying and eating, so I guess he’ll be okay.”

          The Redwing Blackbirds, one of the first birds we see in the spring, are back, and I’ve even heard people say they’ve seen Robins. I’ve not seen either of those birds but I’ll let you know when I do — and I’ve been hearing geese.

After Sally, I call my Miss Rosie. I love her.

          “Good gray morning,” Miss Rosie answered my call.

          “Good gray morning to you, too!” I returned. After finding out what new news Miss Rosie had, I told her what was on my mind. “I don’t have much to talk about in this week’s letter blog. We didn’t go anyplace and didn’t do anything. With the price of gas, we’ve been staying close to home.” That’s not exactly true. We did make a trip to Tunkhannock but there’s no news to report or new pictures to share.

          “That’s alright,” she mollified. “You’ll just have talk about your critter antiques.”

          For the life of me I couldn’t figure out what critter antiques I had to talk about. “My what?”

          “Critter antics. The antics of your critters,” she clarified.

          That makes more sense.

          It only took me two pages to tell you I don’t have much of anything to talk about this week, however, I do have a critter antique — err, antic or two.

          Bondi!

          Bondi! Bondi! Bondi!

          It was evening and we were watching TV. I don’t need to know where Bondi is every second of the day anymore since all of the litter boxes are up outta her reach. We were watching TV and Bondi started whimpering.

          “Bondi!” I called. She didn’t answer. But she did whimper again. “Bondi! Com’ere!” But Bondi didn’t come here. Finally, I put the game I was playing on my iPad aside and went to investigate. Bondi was on the dining room table and couldn’t get down! That stinker.

          A couple of days later we were at the kitchen table playing cards when I heard her whimpering again. Immediately I knew what was wrong and this time I took the camera with me. There she is. Stuck on the dining room table — again.

          “Peg, what’s that flat rate postal box sitting there?” you wanna know.

          That, my dears, is our grandson Andrew’s Easter box.

          “Peg! Easter’s more than a month away!” you say.

          I know, right! I’ve got it ready early this year.

          Since Bondi is a pro at getting squeakers outta toys, Mike and I have gotten in the habit of picking her up a new toy whenever we go shopping.

          “How about this one?” Mike asked showing me a frog.

          I gave it a squeak. “I don’t know. It’s pretty hard plastic.”

          “That’s why I picked it. Maybe she won’t get the squeaker out.”

          Unpacking groceries, Mike squeaked it and Bondi came running and jumping for her new toy. I tossed it, she went after, and came back without it. “I don’t think she likes it,” I told Mike.

          Towards evening I’m walking through the house and stop to pick up whatever this stuff is. “What is it?” I showed Mike.

          “I don’t know.”

          It wasn’t until later, when I picked up the frog, that I found out what it was. Bondi had chewed the foot off the frog. She didn’t get the squeaker out but nonetheless it doesn’t squeak anymore.

          “You could hot glue it so it’ll squeak again,” Mike suggested.

          “I don’t know. Will it hurt Bondi?” I haven’t researched it yet. Even so, she’ll probably just chew his other foot off.

          That Bondi and Blackie are still working together, that’s for sure. One of my ink pens now has doggie teeth marks in the rubber barrel grip. Blackie, who really isn’t allowed on the table, knocked it down and Bondi got it. And that’s not all. I was working on a commissioned book box and using my silicone molds. To keep the clay from sticking, I have a paint brush I use to dust the molds with baby powder. I try to keep things put away but Blackie batted it out from between the work light and napkin holder where I had it hidden and Bondi remodeled it for me.

          “A new book box?” you say.

          Yep. But I can’t show it to you yet. I’m really liking how it’s coming along and I don’t want to jinx it. You’ll see it when it’s done.

          Speaking of which, Trish, my oldest and most beautifulest friend in West Virginia, got the box I made for her. Sweet Dreams is to be a gift for her sister’s birthday.

“I got my package!  Sweet Dreams is SOOOOOO beautiful!!  She is gonna love it. It's gonna be hard to keep it till her birthday,” Trish told me. “And it’s wayyyy more beautiful than the picture shows.”

I talked with another beautiful gal this week.

“Who would that be?” you ask.

My younger sister Phyllis. I’m making her Love Birds, a stained-glass piece. I was working on her project when she called. “I was just thinking about you!” I told her, then had to tell her why. We got to talking and she was telling me about the antiques— err, antics of her dog, Luna, a husky mix.

“She chewed the corners off the bench seat and the corners of the table, too!” Phyllis told me.

The ladies in my family are super crafty and ingenious. Phyllis found a board at the home improvement center, brought it home, took apart the old bench, and reassembled it with a new bench seat.

“And here I was upset about losing my paint brush!” I told her. “Truth be known, if Bondi was a larger dog, she’d probably chew the corners off my table, too!”

 

I like happy endings and I cannot lie. (I know you sung that)

We watched a couple of movies this week. One of them was the 1980 version of Tom Horn with Steve McQueen and Linda Evens. Have you seen it?

It’s based on the real-life story of a real-life man.

Tom was born in Missouri in 1860. He was the fifth of twelve children and had an abusive father. His only companion as a child was a dog named Shedrick. The dog was tragically killed when the young Tom got into a fight with two boys who beat him and shot his dog.

Tom left home at sixteen and at various times was an American scout, cowboy, soldier, range detective, and Pinkerton agent. It’s believed he committed seventeen killings as a hired gunman throughout the West. In 1902 he was convicted of the murder of fourteen-year-old Willie Nickell. Willie’s parents were sheep ranchers and in a feud with the cattle rancher Tom worked for. On the day before his forty-third birthday, Tom was executed by hanging.

It's been debated whether or not Tom was guilty of Willie’s murder but they figured since he was guilty of other murders that his hanging was justified.

In the movie, Tom didn’t even try to defend himself. He had it in his head that they were going to hang him no matter what.

Right up until the end I was hoping for him and the schoolmarm to go riding off into the sunset.

It’s interesting, at least to me, to note that no one wanted to pull the lever to hang Tom so he was one of the few people in the wild west to have been executed using the Julian gallows.

“What’s that?” you wanna know — or maybe you don’t.

James P. Julian designed a trap door connected to a lever that pulled the plug out of a barrel of water. This would cause a counterweight to rise, springing the trapdoor and hanging Tom.

While in prison, Tom wrote his memoirs. I found it on a free library site but when I download to read it, the pages are mostly blank. I don’t know what’s going on with that but I read somewhere that even in his book he neither confirms nor denies that he killed the boy.

Then we watched another movie called Heist with Robert DeNiro. A good guy (basically) robs a bad guy in order to pay for treatments for his sick daughter. Things went really wrong really fast but it had a happy ending.

I do like happy endings, no matter how cliché that sounds.

 

Speaking of endings…

Let’s end this one.

Done!