Husking corn

nebraskamotel
Originally uploaded by coralinad

For some, vacationing involves getting to stay in posh hotels with luxurious sheets, fancy soaps and beautiful views. For us, at least twice a year it involves getting to discover a new temporary residence in the middle of that most popular of destinations, central Nebraska. We are spending most of our Christmas Eve here this year.

At one time, this region was rather romantic for us. One of our first times together was spent in Ogallala, NE. I nearly wrote that this was along the shores of Lake McConaughy, but though it should have been and we expected it to, it did not. It occurred along the edge of a sand dune that used to be underwater. Thanks to drought, the reservoir had shrunk such that the edge of the lake was now over a quarter of a mile distant from the lake-edge campsites.

Jack drove from Missouri and I drove from Wyoming. It was Memorial Day weekend and we only had enough time to meet in the middle: Ogallala. It was a lovely weekend during which he cooked breakfast outside on the campfire for me one day and I made him pancakes with homemade applesauce inside the next day while raindrops plopped on the camper. It was perhaps the great moist towelette incident that bonded us forever, but that is a story for another day.

I offer this simply for the context that central Nebraska is, for us, covered with the haze of romantic nostalgia. Or was.

I killed it this Spring.

Today, we’ve risen in North Platte and departed to continue our journey. It is where we begin to get excited about life in the city where we’re headed. For example, there is a Starbucks here. Gingerbread Latte! WOOT!

But last trip, I got up on my 'support local businesses' high horse and used my fancy new Droid to find a nearby non-chain hotel for us to stay the night. I don’t recall the name, but suspect it was something like Fort So-and-So Inn. Sounded good. The directions gave it street cred, sending us past the bloodsucking highway-adjacent concrete cookie cutter hotels and restaurants. We left those lights behind, passed the grain elevator and a then began passing more and more bars before crossing several railroad tracks. No lights now, just shuttered old buildings with aging architecture. No downtown revival here.

Eventually, we arrived. It seemed stripped down but acceptable from the outside, which was fine with us. We are cotton folk, not silk or satin. But as soon as we walked in I knew we should have stuck close to the familiar chains. They might be bloodsuckers, but at least I knew we’d get back on our way with some quality rest-eye behind us.

This place might have been used as a set on CSI. Seedy isn’t the word. Visions of getting caught up in a sting operation and ending up in jail flooded my head. I didn’t answer the surly Indian man who came from behind the bright flowery curtain to inquire what the heck we were doing there.

He seemed astonished we sought a room. He could barely find the various office implements he needed to check us in. While he searched, I looked around. The walls and floors were stained and damaged. The windows looking on to the pool had a kind of permanent scum clouding them. Hand-written signs warned around every corner of things not working as they should. A circa-1983 television with rabbit ears and –I’m not even kidding, aluminum foil- sat on a TV stand. Next to it was a large golden statue of one of the Hindu goddesses. Bright fabric was tacked on the walls, hanging like sheets across the windows in a meth house. Jack got the logistics handled and shuffled me out.

The room was pretty dingy, but we aren’t the type to walk away and go somewhere else. We made do. The main feature was a sagging bed. There was a television, but despite posted signs the only channels were piped in from India. Jack tossed the remote, groaned and got ready for bed. I explored the bathroom. At one time – one I tried to focus on – it would have been charming. I visualized it as sparkly and new, an exciting destination for a family venturing from the farm in their shiny Ford Fairlane.

Those days were long gone. Tiles were missing, rings stained the sink and tub. My showering could wait. I swallowed a few extra sleeping pills and tried to get some sleep.

We got out of there before dawn.

Ever since, we have driven no more than a couple of hundred yards from the highway for our sleeping quarters. Nebraska lost some luster that night. Now, we just hand our money over to the grumbling teenager at the desk of the concrete cookie cutter hotel and dive into our predictable rooms. And drive thru Starbucks in the morning.

He's checking his list

Jack has a collection of cowboy Santas. They are in various poses so they can be identified thus. One rides a palomino horse mid-jump with his arm up in the air (very Wyoming). Another simply plods along like Mary on her donkey (come to think of it...), and one holds a rope about to throw a loop. He hasn't kept many things along his travels, but these always find their way home. This year, they got their own little windowsill tableau complete with lighting and ribbon.



I have a penchant for vintage type things (see: my husband) and a few years ago while trolling a consignment store I found the coolest old stuffed Santa.



Jack didn't agree.

"What was that movie where they had they evil little doll that killed people?"
"Chuckie?"
"Yeah - Chuckie! That's Chuckie's Christmas! Get that thing out of here."

Well, maybe he IS like Chuckie, since he keeps turning up somehow.

My Santa (I lovingly refer to him as "creepy Santa") doesn't stand up well on his own, to I stuck him in a nice supportive corner.

Enter CWC (the feline version, not the one on my paycheck).

By some Christmas miracle, the cat has not bothered the tree or ornaments much at all. We took precautions; we created a restricted zone on the bottom branches for sturdy or squishy ornaments. The top half, tied to the wall, is very shiny. It has all the glass and ceramics. We figured it would stand up to whatever she could throw at it (her body, Sluggo, you know, whatever she could), but she seemed only to appreciate it as a nice place to hide beneath and tease Mater.

Every morning this week, however, I woke up to this:



Poor Santa don't get no respect.
Jack was fine with this, of course.
"Leave him there," was his preference.

But this morning, his beloveds were violated. The regal cowboy Santa had been unceremoniously displaced from his position of honor. Unbroken, but definitely disgraced.

"Listen, cat," Jack addressed Princess Kitty under the tree. "There are Santa's you can mess with and Santa's you can't. Get it straight."

Before and after: the kitchen

Island dreams

Well, yes, I do fantasize about blue seas, warm white sand and brightly colored fish. But the island in question today is the big rectangle in the middle of our kitchen. When we moved here, it was a protrusion between the living room and the pathway to the bedrooms. It had apparently been constructed specifically to disguise the hole that had been the basement stairs prior to the addition.

Jack envisioned it elsewhere. On wheels, to be precise. He sawed it away from the wall, hoisted it up, put heavy-duty casters under it and declared it ready to chase me around. The end that was connected to the wall made perfect bookshelves for my cookbooks. Voila! We suddenly had storage in the kitchen. He drilled a hole into the wall and reran some kind of hose thing (I paid close attention at the time, I swear) so the refrigerator could move over and replace the protrusion.

Instant kitchen expansion! No one who knew this house before can believe the difference. Apparently we are kitchen people. We like 'em big. None of this kitchen/dining room combo for us. All kitchen all the time. We prefer our dining room in our living room.

The island has been the center of the house ever since. But tonight - 18 months later - is the first time he's chased me around it. The cookie dough didn't have a chance!

He inspires poetry

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Originally uploaded by coralinad

A few years ago, our friend singer/songwriter Paul Harris (pictured) wrote a poem about Jack. He came across it this morning and we thought we'd share:

You Don’t Know Jack
I’ve been told before, on occasion
“Son, you don’t know jack”
Usually by some older fellas, when I am the young guy tryin' to explain somethin'

Well….they need to take it back
'Cause Jack is a friend of mine
A good guy to know and a real pard

He’s got a head full of poems
One for any occasion
A real old time bard

He can take a team of Percherons
Make 'em dance the Watusi
Or a slow waltz

Has a voice that could command legions
There is power there when he talks

When you ask him how long he has been somewhere
He’ll tell you by the day not the year

And at the mention of a baby in an apple box
He ain’t afraid to shed a tear

I remember the first time I met him
An outstretched hand and a big wide grin
“I’m Jack” he said
Beneath the fucamoochalati
There across his lip and onto his chin

I’ve never seen a man act so giddy
Or bounce around with glee
Than when his sweetheart would show up to camp and someone would say
“Hey Jack, there’s Cory”

When it comes to biscuits
He’s a chef and a conniseur
Why…he can make 'em rise so high
People could use for card tables
And they’re so wide they wouldn’t fit through the door

He even has a skirt
An oversized wild rag he calls it
And I usually play along
'Till I can’t take it anymore and no end of grief I give him
Though he claims "All the men in Tahiti wear them,
They call it a sarong”

We have wreaked havoc in a restaurant
and a bar or two
But they don’t kick you out for laughin' and jokin'
Even our waitress was joinin' in
before we were through

Yeah, I am pretty sure them fellas are wrong
and now all you folks too from where you stand and sit
We can all look 'em in the eye and say
“I do, too, know Jack Schmidt”

Smart as a box of rocks

A good snapshot stops a moment from running away.
~Eudora Welty

I once stayed with a woman who collected rocks. Boxes and boxes full of rocks. It was astounding. And I tell people one of the reasons I don't have many books is that no one will help you move! I thought she was a bit over the top, but she did love them. Who am I to judge?

And now here I am, trying to wrestle into submission what my dear husband thinks is an equally ridiculous collection. Apparently, I collect pictures. Thankfully, the days of having to spread them out on the floor are over, but the rest of the chores aren't. I still have to find a safe place to store them, organize them into albums and label them. Good grief it is a job. In 90 minutes I've managed to only sort out a few hundred of the 1,000+ waiting for digital homes.

A couple of months ago we got a new computer so I had to upload all of the pictures from the old one in a hurry. I've had this photo storage account for a year. There are nearly 7,000 pictures saved there already! Y'all, my life ain't that interesting.

I give you:









There is no need for me to have pictures like this. Seriously! It is like keeping a Styrofoam mold that kept a long-broken statue safe in the also long-gone box. Why? Please understand my brain gets this. The rest of me, however, is succumbing to the hoarding impulse. "But, but, it might be croppable into something special. Posterized, maybe. How can I delete something before I know its potential?"

My friend is a wonderful photographer. Her camera is much fancier and therefore every picture she takes consumes loads more file space than mine. I asked her how she handles this issue.

"If I know I'm not going to do anything with it, I delete it."

ACK! A piece of my soul exploded at the waste. So many great photos - lost! Gone! Executed before their time.

I have issues. God, forgive me. And, also, thank you for the unlimited file storage of flickr!

Doggone it

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Originally uploaded by coralinad

Let me introduce our friend, the Colonel. You can't tell very well here, since this photo shows more of his personality than him, per se, but he looks just like Buffalo Bill. At least that is what people from Wyoming say. People from Kentucky say the resemblance is more along the lines of Colonel Sanders. Either way, his signature begins with Col.

Colonel has been staying here with us for a few months between jobs. He has been a great hand around the ranch, especially with Jack recovering from his surgery. He and Jack worked together on the Wagon Train a few years ago and he's come every Spring and Fall since.

This morning was his last here and he was determined to get a picture with his Santa hat on Mater (yellow lab - more, tomes, in fact, to come about him) for a picture. You can see how well that went. Anything soft placed anywhere near the muzzle of this yellow fellow instantly becomes a tug of war toy.

That's Sluggo, the wonder Corgi in the foreground. He may get a mention or two later on here as well.

By the way, I had to ask.

"Colonel, did that trim start out white?"

"No," he said. "That's the best fake mink I could find!"

Recap

His day: "Well, when they run the cows in the chute I put bar behind them so they couldn't back up and then pushed them out when they were done, and then marked them so we knew which ones have been checked. I also got lunch and brought a couple loads of open cows here to go to the sale next week."

Her day: "I talked. A lot. To a lot of different people about how to handle a lot of different issues - grants, committees, funding, hiring, gradeholds, license agreements, etc.. Wrote Christmas cards to our library supporters. Had a thank-you lunch for student employees. Solicited faculty input for library purchases."

His response: "I had my arm up a cow's rear-end all day and I think I had more fun."

Ew.

Their inheritance

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Originally uploaded by coralinad

Some families pass down precious gems, metals, jewelry, works of art. All Jack's kids can hope for is cast iron. Seasoned to perfection and maybe even a bit historical if you count the brief two hundred years we call history out here.

On the left are the skillets, found at garage sales, abandoned in basements and gifted from people unwilling to move the behemoths. We use them every day. Every day. Often multiple skillets multiple times. That Saladmaster purchase was sort of a waste.

On the right are the Dutch ovens. Jack is a Dutch oven cook. He gives classes and even spouts poetry about it (see below). Most people can handle cobbler and beans, but Jack's motto is that anything that can go in a regular oven you can cook outside in a Dutch oven. He's done cheesecake, pizza, apple pie, ice cream, fish fillets and even a turducken.

Jack's afterlife plan is to divide his ashes into the Dutch ovens and give them to the kids. Good news kids - the price of cast iron doubled this summer. Your oven might buy you a new Wii!

Ode to the Dutch Oven (download Jack's recitation)
By Bruce Kiskaddon

Mind that Dutch oven,so greasy and black,
that you put in a wagon or tote in a pack,
the biscuits it makes aren't bad by no means,
and its got the world cheated for cooking up beans.

If you've got a Dutch oven you can always get by
you can bake, you can broil, you can stew, you can fry.
First you take that old oven and its thrown to the heat
while the cook peels some taters and cuts down some meat,
then he throws some fire down into a hole, next goes the oven
on top some more coals.

I'll always remember how old coose did
when he took that old gunchhook and lifted the lid.
He was mighty graceful about doing that trick;
the old greasy sackers, they just used a green stick.

Boy howdy we all made a general attack
when the horse with the oven went to slipping his pack.
We put our old ponies into a long lope
and built a big loop at the end of our rope.

Them old waddies, they knew what to expect:
no biscuits no more if that oven got wrecked.
We didn't know much about praying or loving,
but I reckon we worshiped that greasy old oven.

An old timer smiles as his memory turns back
to that old Dutch oven in wagon or pack.

Onamentation

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Originally uploaded by coralinad

"That is the most beautiful tree I've ever had," he said last night.
"Don't we say that every year?" I asked.
"I don't," he replied.

This tree really is perfect. It actually fits all of our ornaments! Turns out I cannot part with ornaments. They are the ticks and tocks of my life. There is the ice skater and snowman that my grandmother painted with me when I was four. The GO VEGETARIANS collage a friend made for me when I was 16. Evidence of my 4-H craftiness. The rainbow needlepoint my grandfather took to making when he could no longer do much else. And of course, the souvenirs. Two from Iowa State University which was kind enough to hire me out of library school. One from the Shaker village at Sabbath Day lake where my mother and her cousin and I toured last summer.

The best one of all - the one that is front and center on our tree - is the tiny ox yoke Jack bought on our first date at the National Historic Trails Museum. Who could have predicted?

"I didn't know it was going to get me yoked!"

Comparing notes

A lady told me the other day her daughter was married to a man 26 years older than she is.

"She and I need to talk," I said. Jack and I are 28 years apart. "Yes, you do," she said.

We are rather peerless, you see.

Of course every marriage is unique, every relationship a landscape with its own flora, fauna and vistas, but ours mixes creatures not generally found in the same habitat. Few couples out there can relate.

I like to imagine the conversations we could have.
There's the obvious, like health care and retirement planning. Then there's the less obvious, like the cultural references.

"I'd never heard of Gene Simmons before I saw this show," Jack said today as Family Jewels went off the air.

Saturday morning ritual, Christmas style

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Originally uploaded by coralinad

"What can I make for breakfast that isn't the same old thing?" asked Jack, propped against the stove.

The same old thing for him is what most people only get to eat when they go out for breakfast. Hash browns, sausage and two eggs, sunny side up.

I just started piling things on the counter. That's how I like to cook, throwing things together and seeing what happens. I grabbed a green pepper, leftover hash browns from yesterday, an onion, the 99-cent mushrooms, sausage and eggs.

A frittata?

"Ok," said the man who had never heard the word a year ago. He was off. I went back the the table piled with Christmas cards. Last night I abandoned ship on my attempt to rubber stamp them, but by Jeeves, I wasn't going to waste all those blank cards so I painted them. Weak, but honest.

I turned on Pandora's Christmas station and began writing. Breakfast was lovely, especially with the last minute addition of red pepper flakes, which make everything better.

At 8:56 am, he turned on National Public Radio. Our Saturdays are bookended by public broadcasting. In the morning, it is Car Talk and Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me on NPR and the evening ends with As Time Goes By on PBS.

Amid stories of men hiding antique car restorations from their wives and mysterious smells and sounds coming from Isuzus and Subarus, we drafted cards to loved ones. We live hundreds if not thousands of miles from most of the people we love, and are positively rotten about staying in touch. But how to sum up all we feel and all we'd like to share in one greeting card? A few years ago we started writing the summary Christmas letter. Impersonal, perhaps, but informative. Plus, I like to add pictures. Of course.

He wrote to his people and I wrote to mine. I didn't subject any of his people to my handmade cards. They got cute Leanin' Tree cards. The Santa card in the photo was honestly the best one. Sad, I know. My dove looked like an albino goose. The ornament could have passed as a flushed Easter egg. Apologies to all my friends and family. But hopefully they'll love me anyway. I've done weirder things to them, I'm sure.

Retirement planning

We visited Jack's investment banker today. We giggle when we call him that, since the total portfolio is worth less than a month of income, but it sounds good.

We talked about Jack's options with this retirement account and social security.

"Well, I advise people to retire when they are ready, not for the Social Security," said Mr. Broker Man.

Jack explained that there were physical reasons he was thinking about semi-retirement and yada yada yada. "Besides," he said, looking at me.

"She's my retirement plan. You're just the backup."

The sound of sausage in the morning

I don't know what books Jack read in school, but by the time I came to biology we were clear about environmental issues. My sophomore year I had to memorize the contents of book called 50 things we can do to save the environment for some kind of academic quiz contest. The only two I remember are to drive no faster than 55 mph and to save water. Maybe I subconsciously absorbed the rest and shaped my mostly responsible behavior after them, but I really took the water thing to heart. To watch someone leave the faucet running while having a conversation or when someone in the movies leaves the shower going while they answer the door in a towel - ooh, does my blood boil. Such a waste! I growl at the television and alarm the dogs.

But the victim of my insanity is my poor husband. I've barked at him so many times for walking away from running water that even now when I try and bite my tongue he hears my rant anyway and turns it off.

This morning wasn't one of those leisurely conversations over coffee mornings. It was begrudging and whiny. For me. He somehow manages to get up, get dressed and get breakfast on, regardless of the hours of actual sleep he had the night before. I am not so grown up.

So there I was four hours into what was supposed to have been an eight hour night but it was time to get up. He dressed and went out. I pulled the covers over my head. The water started running in the kitchen. I gritted my teeth and chanted "Sleep" over and over again. Our friend Colonel came in for breakfast. The water ran. Sluggo the Corgi came to see what was taking me so long. The water kept going. Whole minutes were going by. Gallons of potable, treated water down the drain.

"I can hear the water from in here, you know," I called from the bedroom to the kitchen. I had to yell over the sound of the whooshing.

"No you can't," he said. "It's sausage."

Oh.

Why is he awake already?

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Originally uploaded by coralinad

It is 4:45 am. Completely dark. Yet I can hear him out there crowing his head off. And instead of waking me up, it is telling me to scoot back to bed for at least a little bit more shut eye before work.

Happy to make your acquaintance

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Originally uploaded by coralinad

That's him, and that's me.

Photo by Jackie Meeker

The Young and the Feckless

Yes, that is what we almost called this blog. It is 3 am, after all. We are both awake for reasons we don't understand. He's reading John McPhee in the recliner next to the Christmas tree. I am in the other recliner with the laptop. The cat is mad because she left his lap for mine, but mine is already occupied. The arm will have to do.

Of course, one of the reasons I'm awake are the nine million to-dos running through my head. Because, as we all know, if one stops, the others will trample it and it will die. Must. keep. running. So I get up and make a stab at productivity. Heck, if I'm going to lie awake thinking about all these things, I might as well knock one or two off the list in the meantime. So, 2am - dishes done. 3am - checkbook updated. Now what? It turns out there is sort of a limit to my capacity at this hour.

"Write!," my self says. Self is always right; I have recently joined a writing group and have little to share with them. I ignore self, however (as usual) and start devouring the archives of the newest blog I've discovered about a woman living on a farm someplace. I'm a connoisseur of them. And then I realize. (Sometimes these realizations are only possible at 3 am). Hey, wait! I am a woman living on a farm someplace. And I should be writing about it. So, heregoes!