Stratford: Two Magical Afternoons

For forty years, any activity that required more than 20 minutes of steady sitting was agonizing. Until knee replacement surgery, my knees simply couldn't tolerate a long movie, concert, sporting event or play. I was thrilled to experience zero pain last week during Stratford Festival performances of The Sound of Music and Hamlet.

The Sound of Music
This Globe and Mail review does a better job than I of critiquing this joyous, (to me) surprisingly emotional musical. I loved everything about it: the music, dancing, sets, costumes and, of course, the stars and von Trapp children. The dark, ubiquitous presence of the Nazis dims the bubble gummy quality of some of the pieces in the score and serves as a grim reminder of the desperate state of Europe in 1938.

I loved the abbey nuns' Gregorian chant and polyphonic choral pieces, and was interested in what I perceived as a "German" sound to the chorus -- not that pure, open, St. Olaf Choir quality that I tend to prefer. The nuns' voices were exuberant and the music was believable as prayer, rather than performance. The interpretation seemed very right for the circumstances.

Like most others in the theatre, I shed a few tears. A perfect afternoon after the awful previous day.

Hamlet
Unlike most of the people in the audience, I've seen only one or two performances of Hamlet, and at least one of them was on TV, so I didn't have a wealth of personal experience to inform an evaluation of relative merits of this production.

The Globe and Mail's review is one of the few negative commentaries I saw on this year's Hamlet. I guess I found the interpretation interesting rather than "disjointed", and I looked to this National Post review for a little balance. I wasn't sure about the costumes (vaguely contemporary) or the hair (also contemporary; at the end, hairspray sixties styles for the women), and on that afternoon, the sound seemed "blurry" on occasion, least from our excellent seats fairly near the stage.

No matter. What can I say? I like something a little edgy and daring. I appreciated the actors' involvement with the audience, almost inviting us to comment on the events on stage. My sister Marilyn, a veteran psychiatrist and very knowledgeable theatre goer, said Ophelia portrayed the best true-to-life madness she's ever seen in the many productions of Hamlet she's seen. And here's a personal bias: Jonathan Goad is a very good looking Hamlet with a perfect delivery of a brilliant text. I also liked Geraint Wyn Davies' somewhat beefy, dissolute Claudius who reminded me of a Minneapolis Aquatennial commodore.

These two great afternoons were a gift from Marilyn. I was delighted with the entertainment and in awe of the fact that I had no knee pain at all on either afternoon.

Stratford: A Long Day's Journey between Nights

Stratford is just west of Kitchener

Stratford photos.
Anticipation
I'd been looking forward to my visit with sister Marilyn for several months.  I usually fly into Toronto's large Pearson airport, but in a moment of brilliance, I booked a flight to Kitchener via Chicago O'Hare, knowing that Marilyn's home in Stratford is about 30 miles from the airport, thereby knocking off at least an hour of drive time in each direction. I had visions of us enjoying a glass of wine on the patio before I had time to unpack my bag on Thursday afternoon. If only I had known ...
Dark and stormy night
I was a little apprehensive on Thursday when I awoke to continuing rain after a stormy night. Bob drove me to MSP in the early morning darkness and the trip started off well, with short lines at security and an easy hike to the gate. The first sign of potential trouble became evident with a delay n the arrival of the incoming flight from Chicago. So we left MSP late and then unsettled weather delayed our arrival at O'Hare. I began to worry about the 54 minutes I had to make my connection to Kitchener.
No Kitchener flight for me
Problems began immediately after our arrival in Chicago. A power failure resulted in jetway delays, and despite a very efficient and brisk walk to the Kitchener gate I missed getting on the plane. Turns out a massive systems failure at American Airlines had crippled information delivery, and I had no way of knowing just then that the flight would not leave for at least another hour, but the aircraft doors had  been closed, and my seat had (presumably) been sold to some other customer. Surely they could have found a way to get me and one other passenger, a woman from India, on that plane.
Rerouted
As soon as the computer system came back up, I raced to the desk to book another flight. A sour and tired customer service rep wasn't helpful as I struggled briefly to decide between a 3 p.m. departure to Toronto over a late evening flight to Kitchener that wouldn't get me to the airport until after 10:00 p.m. I decided on Toronto and immediately got on the phone with the very pleasant and efficient Shelby at Stratford Airporter, who booked me on a 7:30 p.m. shuttle that would get me to Marilyn's door in Stratford shortly after 9:00 p.m. Everything was looking good.
Phantom 3:00 p.m. flight
Off to from Concourse G  to a new gate in Concourse H. Three o'clock came and went, with occasional "updates" from American. The plane was "in the hangar" and didn't arrive until about 5:00 p.m., by which time a storm had moved over Chicago, with lightning and hail that made departure impossible. We were finally called to board around 6:30, but elation soon turned to dismay when we were told that our flight crew had "timed out", and we would have to wait for a new pilot, on stand-by somewhere. The pilot eventually showed up and we seemed to be ready to go. By now the sun was setting and everyone was tired and hungry, since most of us had missed a couple of meals and some passengers had been travelling since the previous day. A couple of crackers and a drink would have been nice. A woman in front of me thought we should all be given a glass of wine. Ha!
Change in luck
The flight to Toronto was quick and efficient, and we sailed through Customs and Immigration. I followed Shelby's instructions to the ground shuttle desk, though the 9:30 shuttle was long gone. I was told that "Plan B" would get me to the Kitchener Holiday Inn via an Airways shuttle and I'd then hook up with the Stratford Airporter for the final leg. We were underway just before 10:30 and the two shuttles went off without a hitch.
Saints ...
Yesterday was made easier by all the wonderful people I met: the young mother so in love with her three-month-old baby that even all the delays couldn't dampen her happiness; the cheerful woman returning to Toronto from Ontario, California, where she was working with the Affordable Care Act; Brenda, my pleasant and wise seat companion on her way home to Guelph after a business trip in Des Moines, Iowa; everyone at Stratford Airporter and Airways Transport, including the  administrative staff and two friendly, competent drivers. I especially enjoyed conversation with a fellow shuttle rider who, like me, was headed to Stratford.
... and sinners
On the minus side, I found most American Airlines staff unsympathetic and lacking in communication skills. I certainly understand the frustration of trying to muddle through a day of chaos without reliable information systems, but it would have been so easy to make everyone's day a little easier, if only someone had stepped up. No one did.
At Last!
I arrived at Marilyn's by 12:30, sixteen and a half hours and a time zone away from my departure. I was a little taken aback to be told that she was almost expecting a heavy knock from the OPP, instead of my timid little tap on the door. I was, of course, ten hours late. The A beer and some cheese, hummus and crackers as well as a few good laughs concluded the day nicely. I couldn't help thinking about Syrian refugees in some hostile land, with no happy outcome to yet another perilous day.

Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

View from the west edge of our yard.

I've written about the property next door twice, once last fall and again a few weeks ago when maple tree and lilacs were eliminated from the landscape. The project has had a happy ending after all.

I always liked Mister Rogers' Neighborhood and I vividly remember my pre-schooler inviting me to see "my show" when he heard the familiar song Won't You Be My Neighbor on TV. When I saw an unfamiliar woman with a girl of about eight walk up the sidewalk toward the new house, I rushed out to introduce myself. I realized as we talked how long we've been without a next-door neighbor to the east and how lovely it will be to have a family living next to us.

My notions of pollinator and butterfly friendly plantings were well received and, in fact, as J. is an experienced gardener, as well as an expert on butterflies and many other issues of interest to environmentalists. Good news for me, a gardening novice.

 

Lines of the Fred Rogers came into my head: "I've always wanted to have a neighbor just like you. I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you." This is a neighborhood of pleasant people and the new neighbors fit right in.

 

I've added the last photo to the album.

World Lion Day

I know nothing about astrology but I've always enjoyed being a Leo, a big bonus for someone born in the Year of the Tiger, according to the Chinese Zodiac. Lions, of course, have fallen on hard times, with diminishing populations and the recent scandal involving a Minnesota dentist who killed Cecil the Lion.

Using a dead animal for bait, hunting guides lured Cecil to private land from his usual home, Hwange National Park, a preserve in Zimbabwe, where a bow hunter shot and pursued him for 40 hours before killing him off with a rifle shot. Twin Cities news media identified the hunter as a Bloomington dentist, and the story soon went viral. Like most Minnesotans, I was horrified and chagrined that one of our own could murder Cecil and other endangered animals.

I felt a little less disheartened this morning when I read that today is World Lion Day, and I enjoyed looking at these beautiful lion photographs. It is also my 65th birthday, and it seems like a good time to be grateful for all these years of life and the prospect of good days ahead. Today is a milestone of sorts and I have a brand new Medicare card to prove it.

As is almost always the case on August 10, the sun is shining and the weather is beautiful. It's a good day to share with the King of the Jungle.

Demolition Derby - Part II

Removal near the beginning

 Last fall, I wrote about the sadness I felt when demolition equipment arrived to tear down the house of our longtime neighbor to make way for new construction. In the beginning, I posted photos of the process almost every day but haven't posted any new pictures until today. The house sold recently and the new owners are expected to take possession in a few weeks.

New restrictions in the city of St. Paul on such projects came too late for this property, but I actually felt fairly happy with the new house and was told my next-door neighbor that it's beautiful inside. Open floor plan -- what I'd like in my own house. We were delighted to learn that one of the residents will be a girl exactly the same age as the lovely little girl who lives in the house just west of ours.

 

End of the job

This morning sadness crept into my happy little world. A landscaper working on the property told us that my beautiful lilacs are right on the property line and will have to be removed to make way for a retaining wall between the properties. I felt tearful most of the day, but tears gave way to rage when we arrived home this afternoon after being out for several hours. Most of the limbs had already been sawed off the striking maple tree in the yard next door. It will be replaced by a patio in the bit of yard that remains on the lot.

The maple was the prettiest tree in this neighborhood of stately old elms, maples and oaks. Now, it will soon be a memory preserved in many seasons of pictures I've taken over the years. It's a sad evening on the street.

Photo album.

Grandma Maggie's Rocking Chair

The old black color
after last month's test removal

For many years now I've been staring at Grandma Hennessey's  old rocking chair thickly coated with black enamel. It was on the porch for a long time, but it made me feel guilty so I demoted it to the basement, where it has been piled with junk for a couple of decades. I felt reproached every time I did laundry but I had no experience with furniture stripping and knew a refinishing project would be more challenging than rewarding, at least at first.



After removing many layers,
the seat is looking better

About a month ago I was bored and Bob gave me the go-ahead to investigate stripping the chair. He suggested the basement as a workplace and I started some preliminary work on the rocker. The basement was a BAD idea because it was too cold to open a window, but I did just enough work to realize that I had to take the job outside and approach it in phases. Once again, I got away with a stupid choice and neither succumbed to fumes from the stripper nor set the house on fire.

The rocker is very comfortable

This morning I took the rocking chair to the concrete pad near the trash and covered it with an old sheet, a good enough dropcloth. The morning was cool after the debilitating heat of the last few days, and I set myself the modest goal of removing most of the paint from the visible side of the seat. I used only stripper which I removed with a soft cloth rather than the putty knife and steel wool recommended by the instructions.
I was amazed and was surprisingly emotional when I saw the results, after only 90 minutes or so.  I felt channeled and cheered on by Maggie's spirit as the gooey paint came off, revealing the wood and craftsmanship of old. I never met Grandma but now the rocker has bridged time and space to connect us.

I've given myself a week or so to finish the job and have stored the rocker in the garage beside our bikes, for easy access to my work. I'm already looking forward to some winter knitting in my new chair.

Bastille Day on Selby Avenue




 

Bastille Day poster in a store window

The morning was nice and cool so an early out seemed in order before the heat of the day set in. I thought about driving to this first ever Bastille Day Block Party on Selby Avenue, but I figured I'd need to park far away so I decided to walk.
I hadn't realized that it would get really hot as fast as it did. By the time I'd covered about three-quarters of a mile, half the distance to my destination, I knew it would be impossibly hot on the way home. My head was already wet and I could feel my hair curling near the roots.

Parking was obviously not going to be a problem so I should probably have turned back to get my car, but common sense isn't my strong suite so I pressed on. Fortunately, I took some good photos along the way, so I told myself I'd done the right thing.

Maybe not. I arrived at the block party before noon. Publicity in Twin Cities media suggested that this would be one hell of a big party, so I was quite disappointed when I saw that it wasn't more than the very local block party promised by the poster.

There may have been a French flag somewhere but I didn't see one. The usual street vendors were absent so I had to rethink my vague plan of lunch at the fair. By this time the sun was beating down on me through the overcast sky and I briefly considered walking across the street for a light lunch and beer at O'Gara's, but instead settled for a macaroon at the Whole Foods tent. It was so good that I got back in line and had one more.

Most of the people milling around were about my own age, some in vintage clothing popular in the   1970s. Some of them looked a little familiar, including a woman who used to ride my 94H bus to Minneapolis back in the late 1980s. Only a few merchants had any merchandise on display, and most of it looked like yard sale material. The whole thing seemed like a half-hearted effort unworthy of the seductive event poster.

Feeling a little disappointed, I walked home on different streets, stopping to take photos of some of the lovely gardens on my route. By the time I reached Grand and Fairview I was only a half mile or so from home, a good thing because the temperature was now approaching 90F and climbing. Enough outdoor activity for the afternoon. Instead, I sat in "air conditioned comfort" and watched the Twins trounce the Tigers 7-1.

Summer pics, including photos from Bastille Day on Selby.

Summer Heat

 



The new boiler

There's something a little disheartening about installing a new furnace in the middle of July, especially on an unseasonably chilly morning when winter doesn't seem impossibly far away.

The old gravity feed boiler -- in the house when Bob moved in 50 years ago -- made me feel a little uneasy, especially when we were away for a month in the winter. In the winter months, our Xcel Energy bills reminded me that the furnace was inefficient and used more gas than our neighbors, even though we keep the house fairly cool. It was time.

The guys from Boehm, an old St. Paul company, arrived early this morning and soon the old furnace and pipes were dumped in a junker's truck, along with scraps left over from last week's window job. The job was done by mid-afternoon and the mysteries of the new device were unveiled to Bob and me in the basement at the end of the day.

84% efficiency

The energy efficiency rating of 84% refers to the boiler's ability to squeeze heat from each therm of gas. That meant absolutely nothing to me without comparing it to the non-existent rating of the previous boiler.

One of the installers estimated that rating to be between 50% and 55%, so a rough calculation suggests that the new furnace is at least 53% "more efficient" than the old, a number I hope to see reflected in gas usage once October ushers in the heating season. However, I suspect the guy picked that number out of nowhere so the impact of a more efficient boiler will be a surprise.

Last week, a few naysayers unhesitatingly told us we should simply have kept the old furnace, since it would have gone one forever and the new one will need replacement in a decade or so. I felt a wave of doubt until I saw the completed conversion and realized we can forget about winter heat until the leaves begin to turn.

The Great Window Project of 2015

Two of the new windows.
The other two reflected in the lower right quadrant will go in the dining room.

Our house will be one hundred years old in 2019, and many of our windows are original. Several times a year I answer a knock and get a new window pitch from a vendor selling window replacements in our older neighborhood.

Until now, we've hesitated: it's a big project after all, and if energy efficiency were not an issue, I would tend to retain rather than replace. However, most are hard to open and some of them have storm windows that make cleaning next to impossible.

Bob is taking a break and admiring his work

A month or so ago we cleaned the aluminum porch windows, which are themselves over fifty years old, and obviously well past their prime. We decided that this year, we would replace four first-story windows and all the porch windows. The four new windows arrived last week and Scott H. began the work earlier this week.

Today Bob started on prepping some of the frames for painting, since the entire porch will need a fresh coat of paint. The old paint is thick and cracked, and Bob decided that he would use a blowtorch to remove the paint. Of course, this is universally considered to be a bad, dangerous idea but common sense didn't prevail in this instance. Perhaps lead paint fumes affect the mind.



The old wood looks pretty good

The fire extinguisher is within reach

Armed with a blowtorch, sander, scraper and fire extinguisher, he began the work a couple of hours ago. I decided to stay inside, in case I need to call 911 for some reason, but he's almost finished now and it looks like he's done fine. The job actually looks quite good, though the scope of the project has been curtailed since the work began. Scott told him jokingly that it would take a year to burn all the paint off ... and that estimate seems fairly accurate. Looks like sanding the wood and painting over it may be "good enough" for all but the boards done today.

We're happy with the look of the new windows. They are very similar to the original ones, and easy to open and close. At about $200 per window, replacing all the old windows seems like a viable plan to execute over the next year.

The smell of burned paint should dissipate soon.

Happy 32nd Anniversary!

Cath and Bob. Newlyweds on June 25, 1983.

On June 25, 1983, Bob Hennessey and I were married on a picture perfect early summer day, thankfully cooler after a very hot and humid week. Although It seems like a very long time ago in both time and space, the decades have passed happily, with the usual challenges.

At 32 I was an "older" bride, beginning to establish my place in the Canadian banking industry. I occasionally sensed an undercurrent of disapproval among those closest to me, particularly since I was leaving Canada for Minnesota, a state I knew mainly from watching the TV coverage of Hubert Humphrey's funeral in 1978. I had no idea that starting over in the US would be so daunting, and I'd misjudged the degree of homesickness I would feel. I sometimes wondered if love was enough.

Mary Hennessey, Sonia Munoz with Angie, Cath & Bob, best man John Hennessey

Marilyn Marshall, Cath, Bob, my mother, Mary Ryan

After the first lonely year, things gradually got better. Minnesota ways were now familiar and I finally got my first half decent job at Midwest Federal Savings and Loan Association. Three years into our marriage I became a mother and took the oath of American citizenship. A little later, I began a 23-year career as an employee of the State of Minnesota and settled into a life that soon included kids' sports and school activities. The Hennesseys -- and there are lots of them -- became my family.

Over the years, Bob and I spent hours in hockey arenas and in baseball field bleachers. We also camped, boated, skied, skated, and traveled all over the country and a little in Europe. About a decade ago, we were suddenly empty nesters and marveled that the children who once played on the sidewalk and in the yard were all grown up, some with families of their own.

I had to look up gifts for a 32nd anniversary. Seems as though some kind of "conveyance" (vehicle, bicycle, skateboard ...) will do the trick, but we already have enough toys that qualify as conveyances, so we'll have to pass on this one and enjoy a good dinner at Pazzaluna instead, using  a Christmas gift card from son Chris.

I've been married to Bob for nearly half my life and I'm glad I took that leap of faith all those years ago. Life has been kind to us; we've laughed a lot and had a hell of a good time. Turns out love was all we needed after all.

Prairie Garden Setback

It was a big year for helicopters

A day or so after our spring planting, including the new shade plants and more ambitious flowers for the prairie garden, a huge wind storm blew across the land and thousands of helicopters (really called samaras, as I learned from this Wikipedia article) dropped into the yard. There were so many that we had to scoop them up when we cut the grass but I had no idea how to get them out of the gardens.



At first, I was happy with all the green

Bob thought we should at least try, but I was afraid of disturbing the little plants that were no doubt preparing to erupt from the ground. Some of the helicopters blew away, but the rest seemed to settle into the earth so all I could do was hope for the best when we left for California.



Then I looked a little more closely ...

After our return, I was pleased to see lots of green in the gardens until I had a closer look yesterday after an all day rain. Much of the foliage looked suspiciously like maple leaves, and I first thought I must be mistaken -- but I'm a Canadian after all and I know a maple when I see one. Sure enough, hundreds of tiny maple trees were sprouting up, crowding the other seedlings.

I think I got a little too confident about my gardening skills after last year's beginner's luck. I've got a lot of weeding to do this weekend.

FlyMo: Different Kind of Mower

 

 

Diagnostics

I mowed my first lawn nearly two years ago and was very proud of my success with a new and unfamiliar task. I didn't mention how exhausted I was after getting the job done -- I would take a shower and then sit quietly in the recliner for several hours, too tired to move.

I've adjusted to frequent sessions of manual labor, most of the year. It's simply part of my routine now, and most of the time I feel quite good. The exception this year was the rock culling exercise in the prairie garden. I nearly gave up after a day or so of digging through layers of rock, thinking that I would never get back to feeling like a human being. However, after a week or so I had stopped hurting, for the most part, and I was eager to begin the mowing season.

Adam testing his dad's work

We use two mowers for the lawn, one a Honda self-propelled machine and the other a light, hovercraft-like mower that floats above the grass. Bob equipped it with ropes so that the bank can be cut by lowering it to the sidewalk easily, without damaging the turf below. As I blogged two years ago, passers-by stop to watch the bank cutting effort, particularly since no one even heard of the FlyMo. Bob was a little worried that parts might not be available if the need arose.

Trouble hit last week when the machine was even more difficult to start than usual. I couldn't keep it running, so Bob took over my bank job and managed to get the bank done while I cut the rest of the grass. Fortunately, John Hennessey agreed to have a look and yesterday we loaded the mower into the Traverse for transport to John's Woodbury driveway.

John had the FlyMo apart in a few minutes and discovered the main problem, a clogged and dirty carburetor and a disintegrating engine filter that was jamming the engine, shred by shred. John cleaned the carburetor and restored the mower to its original bright orange and white colors. Adam took the rejuvenated FlyMo -- which has never sounded so good -- for a test run on the Woodbury Hennesseys' lawn.

The mower is now in our garage, ready for service. See the pics here.

FlyMo as good as new

Hummingbird!

A minute or so too late to capture a shot

 

I enjoyed hummingbirds in my "prairie garden" at the end of the summer and in the early fall, but when I couldn't find a feeder so late in the season. A few weeks ago, I tested the waters with a very inexpensive model on sale at Menard's for about $6.00.
I mixed up a solution from the powdered sugar mix I bought with the feeder but failed on my first attempt to put the pieces together, spilling most of the sugary nectar in the sink. I got it right the second time and hung the feeder, expecting immediate results.

The weather turned cold almost immediately. As the liquid level fell in the reservoir,  I figured the nectar was evaporating and wondered if I should have hung the feeder away from my other stations, as the instructions suggested. I left it as is because the feeder view from the dining room is best at the existing location.
This morning, the sun shone brightly and we mowed the lawn but I had a few indoor tasks so I went inside. When I was vacuuming the living-dining area, I saw a flash of green iridescence that reminded me of last winter's excitement over the neighborhood  rufous hummingbird. The bird returned to sip nectar several times in the next few minutes but I was afraid to scare it away by approaching with my camera. I do foresee photo ops in my future.

A Military Burial at Fort Snelling National Cemetery

Fort Snelling National Cemetery

The National Cemetery Administration maintains 131 cemeteries across the country. One of them is Fort Snelling National Cemetery, a few miles from our St. Paul home. I had driven past the cemetery many times but had no reason to go in until recently.

Last Tuesday we attended the visitation and funeral of a U.S. Navy veteran of World War II. Al S. joined the Navy at 17 and saw action in Okinawa, the Philippines and other venues in the Pacific Theater. In her eulogy at his funeral mass, one of Al's eight children mentioned that he had carried a burden of grief from that long ago war and, like many other veterans of his generation, suffered uncomplainingly from PTSD.

The graves at Fort Snelling are in sections, with rows of identical tombstones as far as the eye can see, for the veterans of wars fought by Americans since the mid-1800s.The spring winds blew and the birds sang their songs in this lovely, sacred place. I remembered visits to the national cemeteries in Normandy and Arlington, and felt a mix of emotions: admiration, respect and great sadness for the families affected by the immense loss of children, parents, siblings, so many stolen in the prime of life by war. 

Fort Snelling National Cemetery

 

Burials are scheduled by appointment, and we'd been instructed to arrive at 1:20 p.m. for 1:35p.m.  The mourners gathered at the assigned assembly station and the cortège advanced slowly to the appointed venue.

An honor guard from the Anoka Vietnam Veterans of America guided us through the military part of the service. The history and symbols of the ceremony were explained, and a rifle salute broke the peaceful silence of the spring afternoon. A single trumpeter, a Navy veteran, played the Navy song Anchors Aweigh, America the Beautiful and Taps. Though old, the musician was very fit, and his playing was sweet and flawless, with perfect phrasing.

After the presentation of the flag, the deacon moved quickly through the familiar Catholic burial ritual. We left the cemetery in reverent silence.

Spring Gardens

Prairie garden after back breaking digging

For most of my life, I viewed birders and gardeners with contempt. However, since so many friends and family members love birds and flowers, I kept my mouth shut and only a few suspected that I perceived their hobbies as useless time wasters.

Of course, I've been one of them for some time now. I'm especially enjoying our wonderful spring, when chilly rainy days are followed by warm ones filled with sunshine. On this cold Mother's Day, the trees are in almost full leaf and the ground has just enough moisture to make planting easy. About ten days ago I turned the first shovelful of dirt in what I think of as my prairie garden.

Home Depot
spading fork

The mix for Prairie Garden 2015

It was hard going, rocky and full of mineral dust, made a little easier when my neighbor Gaylord lent me his 4-tine spading fork, a good purchase for me later in the summer before fall cleanup. I finally finished the job yesterday, leaving lots of rocks but ending up with a plot much better than the one I had last year. I worked in a little manure and peat moss and will plant this year's garden in the next day or so, as soon as I'm sure it won't get pelted with hail.

I saw a few green hints of green this weekend

Last week, I persuaded Bob to let me have the little strip of earth on the north side of the garage. The area gets no sun at all and plantings the last two summers have been disappointing, so I've been imagining a little garden populated by shade plants. I dug and turned the soil, and finally sprinkled the mix over the earth and watered it. Yesterday, we planted a border of red and white impatiens, and this morning I noticed the first tentative sprouts of green. Next I'll help Bob with the little strip between the front and back yards, that it's really his  project so I'm just a minor contributor for that one.

Pumpkins in the fall

In addition to the wildflower gardens, I'll plant some pumpkin seeds on the west side of the house where I've had only marginal success with spring flowers, thanks to the energetic squirrels that dug down through wood chips to eat most of the bulbs, especially the crocus and hyacinth that I planted last fall. I'd love to have a nice little pumpkin patch in the autumn, so if the seeds are planted on June 1, I should be taking picture of beautiful pumpkins on September 19, 110 days later.

After the first few days of digging, I ached all over in muscles I didn't know existed. I groaned rolling over in bed and limped downstairs in the morning. I had no idea my butt could hurt so badly just from using that garden fork! I was surprised to feel better by yesterday, ready to dig again and looking forward to modest but exhilarating summer success.

The Price Wasn't Right

My red glasses

I should have replaced my glasses before leaving for Florida, but by the time I thought of it I was too late to do anything. I squinted to see signs, especially in the sun, and new eyewear was on one of the first items on my post-vacation to-do list.

I'd been coveting red glasses for a year or so, but hadn't intended to order everyday, no-line bifocal, transition lenses and sunglasses too. However, I was an easy sell when I saw not one, but two attractive red pairs. I made the purchase at a America's Best, where the price was right and the St. Paul Midway store staff are courteous, cheerful and professional. I didn't get the "deal" (2 pairs for $69.95) but was fine with my higher end glasses, especially when the resident optometrist and optician performed miracles with my new and always difficult prescription.

Bob almost immediately noticed that his own transition lenses -- one of about ten pairs of glasses in active service -- were irreparably scratched and beyond the warranty period. He tried to blame the scratches on me, the self-appointed eyewear cleaner in the family, but at least one optician suggested that he might have done the damage himself by rubbing debris into the lenses while using "unauthorized" cleaning materials, such as his own shirt.

His eye appointment was yesterday morning at the University of Minnesota, and the staff there recommended Costco ("no membership required") and Walmart for his glasses. I was stunned and a little dismayed, since Bob had already dismissed discount providers, attributing at least some of his problems to "shoddy goods" in the current rotation.

Bob is not really a discount shopper, or any other kind of shopper for that matter, but he actually found a pair at Costco that he liked, but a $120 membership is indeed required so no purchase was made, particularly since glasses aren't warrantied. We moved on to Walmart, where he found a nice pair, but the price tag was quite high so that deal didn't fly either. Meanwhile, I smugly admired my two new pairs of red glasses.

The Magic Hairbrush

Magic hairbrush selfie

On Easter Sunday I interrupted Sonia M. in mid-sentence to comment on her beautiful hair. She looked as though she'd just come from a high-end salon after a pricey blowout and I couldn't help admiring her new look, with just a hint of suppressed jealousy.

"It's my new hairbrush", she said, and with characteristic generosity, she offered to pick one up for me. Sonia delivered my magic hairbrush on Wednesday afternoon and I couldn't wait to try it out. Sure enough, the ceramic center gets hot and does the job of a curling iron, and the soft bristles add shine to the hair. We're using the Olivia Garden Turbo-Vent Combo Petite.

Because the magic brush worked so well on my post-Florida hair -- too long, fly-away and dry -- I decided to proceed with the plan to grow out my layers for the summer. The hair looks quite a bit shorter, but the only  "real" length was cut off the bottom back layer. The other layers and bangs were simply trimmed by a fraction of an inch.

I dry my hair quickly and use the brush mainly for volume and curl control. No more heated rollers or curling iron, and the shine is quite lovely.

Holiday Deck Lights

Deck lights are on again

Off and on in the 10+ years we've enjoyed our deck we've had small clear lights across the top perimeter. Last summer I replaced them all, with used Christmas lights, and wondered how long it would be before I'd have to do the job again. The answer came when we returned from Florida after leaving the deck lights on 24X7 for the month we were gone.

All three strings were out, two of them completely. No amount of jiggling restored the connection so I removed the lights and did the job again, this time in the chilling cold of an April afternoon instead of the bright warmth of a Minnesota summer morning. One set was old and the other two were brand new "out of the box", bought last November with this specific failure in mind. Bob reminded me that I could have replaced the little battery in each set, but I just didn't feel up to it.

The lights aren't LED. I'm usually in favor of anything energy efficient but I got discouraged several years ago when the squirrels destroyed a half-dozen expensive sets of  LED lights that may have looked a little too much like appetizing fruit. However, I feel guilty and think I'll try LED again next time I have to do deck lighting.

The construction workers next door watched me work with some interest, maybe wondering if I'd lost track of the season. With unusual restraint, I refrained from commenting on my achievement and enjoyed the cheerful brightness when the rain fell in the evening.

Good Friday Devotions

In the ten years or so before I retired, I usually landed at Assumption Church in downtown St. Paul for both Holy Thursday and Good Friday. Always a quick service, starting promptly at 12 noon and over in time for me to be back at work by 1:00 p.m. Last year, Bob and I went to Assumption on Good Friday and yesterday we went to Holy Thursday Mass there. However, Bob is not too keen on the 19th-century pews designed for short German pioneers and he wanted to go to our own Nativity Church this afternoon. We arrived in plenty of time to get a good seat - in our case, the last pew of the first section on the west side of the church.

Shortly before the service started, a seemingly self-appointed usher started stuffing people into pews with fewer than eight occupants. He was still signaling to unseated attendees during the reading of the Passion, and we got an extra deuce in our pew, as well as a young couple with a young child and a newborn. That brought our occupancy to eight plus two kids.

I was actually OK with that, until I moved a little close to my right-hand neighbor. He was definitely not

Back to Reality

84F our first full day back in Minnesota - a record for temperatures dating all the way back to 1882. I still felt so tired from our trip that I didn't enjoy it as much as I should have, but at least I was outside for most of the afternoon.

The prairie garden is covered with last year's leaves, and I knew I'd have to deal with the dried flowers sooner or later. I expected a big job but the garden was  planted on rocky ground and the plants were pulled from the soil much more easily than I had anticipated.

We made our first trip to the compost site late Wednesday afternoon, a few hours ahead of a noisy storm that evening. There wasn't much rain but the daffodils and tulips are growing on the east side of the house, while the new bulbs I planted on the other side are nowhere in evidence. I know that they were too shallow and fear they were either eaten by squirrels or just now growing for some reason.

The sun is shining and the air is quite chilly, more like the early April cold we expected when we got home. Traffic in St. Paul quiet, particularly on this Good Friday afternoon. Feels almost as though we never left home.

Florida 2015

Florida 2015 roadtrip posts.

Minou | April 17, 2002 - February 9, 2015

Minou | 2002-2015

I put in my bid for one of Clark and Shannon’s Russian Blue kittens when TeeCee (Tornado Cat) was pregnant with the latest “batch” in early 2002. Clark insisted on a rigorous vetting process with a wide range of qualifications, including the requirement that his large cat family approve of a prospective adoptive parent.

I must have passed, because I was soon invited to view TeeCee’s litter, a pile of silver beauties supervised by their vigilant mother. I had once read that the pick of the litter is the mother’s favorite kitten, supposedly the one nursing closest to her face. I selected that kitten and put her in the palm of my hand. Her little claws stuck like Velcro when I held her against my shirt, next to my face. I was totally and forever in love.

Spring turned to summer, and shortly after the Fourth of July when the kittens in the litter were about  12 weeks old, Clark summoned me to come and pick up my cat. I brought the tiny creature home on a warm evening after stopping at son Chris’ workplace to show her off. My fear of Bob’s reaction was soon realized;  he stormed out of the house and didn't return for several hours, silent and fuming. Our tabby Fritz, dark-eyed with hostility, stationed himself outside the bedroom where I had sequestered the new kitten.

The next morning, Bob was still angry so I had to take a vacation day to stay home with the new baby, whose beautiful blue eyes were already beginning to turn the striking emerald green of the adult Russian Blue. The next morning, I went to work, full of anxiety, worried that the kitten would never find a place for herself in this hostile environment.

When I walked in the door at the end of the day, Bob excitedly demanded the video camera. The kitten was perched on his lap, looking adorable and content. From that moment on, Minou was Bob's adored baby and he was "her" preferred person.  I decided to name her “Minou”, a generic name – "Kitty” in French -- but uncommon here in Minnesota. I dutifully registered her with the Cat Fanciers Association under her full pretentious name, Princess Katya Minou.

As the years passed, Fritz tolerated Minou and especially appreciated her begging skills. When the shared dish of dry food was empty, Fritz would get Minou to persuade me to fill it. Fritz and Minou shared an interest in birds and other backyard wildlife, and they both loved to hate the outdoor cats that appeared regularly at the front door or under the bird feeder. They had hours of entertainment watching Alpha, the little betta fish that lived on the kitchen counter for a couple of years.

Minou was always a “self petter”, but she snuggled her way into Fritz and Bob’s “daily rub” routine. When Fritz wouldn't allow Minou on the bed where he enjoyed a vigorous rub every morning, she got Bob to give her “the rub” on the stairwell landing, while Fritz glared menacingly from above.

After Fritz died, Minou became much more affectionate and, in the last few years, she loved to sit between Bob’s legs or stretch out on Chris’ chest.  She ran like a little wildcat and jumped to great heights in one easy leap, up to the top of the buffet or the shower in the basement, her landing pad for "walking the pipes". She peered at us from the kitchen cabinets and refused to come down until she was good and ready.

We were heartbroken when it seemed last fall that Minou might have cancer, and were so happy when she rallied after treatment with antibiotics. Unfortunately, respite was short lived, and last week, we realized that her health was declining rapidly. Over the weekend, we were alarmed to see that she could barely eat or do anything but sleep.

Our wonderful Dr. Whitman and the compassionate staff at Animal Medical Medical Clinic helped Minou die peacefully, and we are relieved that she is finally at rest on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge.  We loved her so much and were fortunate to enjoy her in our family for nearly thirteen years. The house feels so empty without her!

More about Animal Medical Clinic's care http://www.twincities.com/opinion/ci_27568680/best-pets-and-their-humans.

Don't say "yes" when you mean "no"

Last week Bob bought a new Garmin GPS. He will need it when his OnStar subscription expires, and this seemed like a good time to get used to the new model, with its large, easy-to-read display and lifetime map support.

In order to keep maps up-to-date, I thought I'd install Garmin Express software on my laptop computer. I was a little distracted when I was doing so, and somehow I made the mistake of installing bundled adware along with the Garmin software. I've always preached the need to say "no" to installation choices, unless you're absolutely sure you mean "yes". I could hardly believe I got caught myself, and was somewhat surprised my Norton antivirus software to kick in when I really needed it.

The adware kicked in immediately, slowing down my computer and offering me the opportunity to buy a wide variety of products and services, including anti-adware software and services (!), upgrade Windows drivers or talk to a tech for immediate help. The usable real estate on my desktop diminished to a few square inches. Too bad I didn't read this item before I installed Garmin Express.

I spent several hours over the weekend trying to uninstall the adware. Norton was very involved this time around, and I thought -- more than once -- that the adware was gone. I think I got most of it uninstalled, but I'm fairly sure both IE11 and Chrome browsers were hijacked with adware add-ons and I just didn't have the skill or the tools to fix the problem.

Finally, I did things the old fashioned way and restored Windows (8.1) to its pre-Garmin state. PC and Windows are running fine now, and I feel lucky that I got only a slap on the hand for my carelessness.

Breadmaking 101: F

The bread maker

My mother, Mary Ryan, never considered herself an expert in the kitchen but she was a good cook and very competent baker. She followed recipe instructions to the letter and knew the value of accurate measurements, especially for certain ingredients like baking powder, salt and vanilla.

I remember Maman's baked goods, produced with predictable results and few, if any, failures. Many years ago during a visit, she was horrified to see me throw out a baking sheet caked with some baking disaster that I was too lazy to clean up. She would have laughed at my recent bread making adventures.

I'd been thinking about getting a bread maker for several years, sure that the methodology would be foolproof and even enjoyable. I imagined myself throwing together a batch of bread before leaving for work in the morning and arriving home to the tantalizing aroma of fresh baked bread. Add soup and voilà, a delicious meal.

As I researched the subject over a period of at least 7-8 years, I decided that the best approach might be to borrow a bread maker from a friend. However, anyone I asked had long ago sold the machine at a garage sale or donated it to charity. Finally, Meggan K. came to the rescue with an almost new machine that she graciously borrowed to me.

I made my first bread last Wednesday, a one-pound loaf of plain white bread. The instructions were easy and soon my bread was being mixed and kneaded, allowed to rise several times, and baked in the machine. My husband and I sampled the bread as soon as we could, while it was still warm. We tried it cold too, and as toast. It tasked fine, but really "just OK". I ended up throwing out most of it, determined to try again.

This time I found a recipe online that went against the instructions that came with the bread maker -- "Forget everything you thought you knew about using your bread machine!". The recipe promised fabulous results, so I thought it would be good to come home from church to fresh baked bread. Early on in the process, something seemed to be amiss. The mixture didn't knead properly and a layer of flour covered the top of the "loaf". The yeast mixture bubbled up along the sides of the pan. Oh oh. This development did not bode well.

Home made bread!

I decided to let the cycle terminate naturally. The alert sounded after baking was complete, so I eagerly opened the bread maker.  The gooey mixture was caked with flour and the "bread" seemed like dumplings squashed together, with a bit of caulk added in for texture: another candidate for the garbage. Mercifully, Bob did not laugh, but thought that he himself would be able to do a better job if he tried. I can see this might very well be true.

This is not my first culinary catastrophe, and I must have matured a little over the years because I didn't have a temper tantrum or try to hide the evidence of my failure. It helps that retirement has given me more time, and I didn't need to feel that I had wasted precious weekend time on bread making.

I still have bread flour and yeast left.

I'm going to try making bread one more time, the traditional way.

Winter Wedding

Cousins Michele Hennessey and Bob Hennessey with Rich Fortman and Kerry Hennessey

There's nothing like a winter wedding to break the monotony of cold and ice. Yesterday we were at Hamline Church United Methodist for the marriage of Kerry Hennessey and Richard Fortman. Kerry is the beautiful daughter of Bob's first cousin, Tommy Hennessey and his wife Cindy.

I felt a little anxious before the wedding because of a "formal attire" notation on the invitation. I have not formal clothes and fretted off an on about what I'd wear, but in the end I was fine in my seldom worn velvet jacket and black fake silk pants. Bob was very dapper in his dress clothes, including the custom made shirt that was a birthday gift from Chris last spring.

The  ceremony was a mix of traditional and modern, with a few laughs that relaxed the wedding party and the guests. In his nervousness, the groom forgot one of the phrases in the "repeat after me" segment of the exchange of consent and he had to ask the officiating minister for help. Very endearing.

We were a little concerned about getting to the reception in downtown Saint Paul at A'bulae, right Saint Paul Winter Carnival Vulcan Victory Torchlight Parade. We did have to wait for a few minutes to get into the parking ramp but really didn't face any difficulty at all.
where the

The reception venue was beautiful and upscale. To my surprise, the bridal party arrived at the reception with everyone else. Timing was perfect, with just enough time for a pleasant mix of appetizers and cocktails. My red wine was so delicious that I know I need to know the name.

The bride and groom visited our table as they were making their rounds and I was happy to snap a good shot of cousins Michele Hennessey and Bob Hennessey, with the bride and groom. Our companions at Table 4 were pleasant and interesting. The evening was full of fun and joy.

Father of the bride Tom Hennessey (seoond from left) with ousins Mary, Michele, and Bob. I'm second from the right.

Surprised by Real Customer Service

Just before the New Year the carbon dioxide that powers my Genesis SodaStream ran out of gas and I returned the empty canister to Walmart for a refill. At a cost of $14.95, the process was simple and cheap, at least $10 less than the cost at Target, where I used to replace my canisters.

However, my SodaStream machine didn't work when I tried it out with the new CO2. Bob thought that I'd received an empty cylinder, but that seemed so unlikely that I called SodaStream's customer service on New Year's Eve. After spending ten minutes on the phone with me, the customer service rep determined that my machine was defective and would be replaced under the terms of the three-year warranty. She emailed a UPS label and I returned my SodaStream for free.

Today the new machine arrived but it didn't work. Once again, Bob figured the CO2 canister was empty, so I returned it to Walmart for a replacement. Although the customer service people had trouble with the return of their first "defective" cylinder, they were cheerful and stayed with the problem until it was solved ten or fifteen minutes later.

I screwed the canister into the new SodaStream and carbonated two bottles of water with my new appliance. I'm amazed that I dealt with two customer service teams that were determined to please me, the customer.

Well, I'm both happy and surprised with SodaStream and Walmart. Time for a celebratory glass of refreshing carbonated water.

First World Woes

Me in my diamond earrings. Summer 2014.

I have a number of beautiful pairs of earrings, mostly gifts from my husband or my sister, or purchased by me in an extravagant moment. This is my only "girlie" indulgence.

My all-time favorite earrings originated as diamond studs, a 25th anniversary gift. I was always afraid I'd lose the studs, so I rarely wore them. until Bob "upgraded" the diamonds for our 30th anniversary and changed the setting to a drop earring, with a solid clasp. I've worn them regularly for the last two years and they always made me feel elegant, even in my jeans and sweatshirt.

Yesterday I attended a going away luncheon with former work colleagues. I stayed behind after our delicious lunch at Christos to take a few photos at Union Depot in downtown Saint Paul, and stopped for a few things at Walgreens before heading home. I noticed my left earring was gone a little later, when I was ready to take off my jewelry. I probably dislodged it when I was putting on my jacket, which I did several time during the afternoon.

Phone calls to Union, Depot and Walgreens yielded sympathy but no earring. Our insurance agent said there is a chance that the earrings are insured under our Homeowners policy, less a $1,000 deductible. I'm embarrassed that I didn't insure my few items of valuable jewelry under a "scheduled" policy that would require a new appraisal of covered items every 24 months. The policy is cheap, not more than $30-$100 per year, depending on the value of the insured items.

I cried off and on during the evening and finally went to bed, thoroughly sad and exhausted, a little smarter and wiser. In the grand scheme of things, this incident is a minor inconvenience, but I loved those earrings so much!

Saturday, January 17: This is a happy footnote. I found the earring this morning when I was washing the kitchen floor. It must have come off when I came in from shoveling the garage floor on Tuesday afternoon, and took off my jacket at the kitchen table. I'm tearful, happy and wiser.