Just thought we’d remind you . . . not that we don’t feel for Shane . . . but this is THE Sydney, your buddy, the chewer or Doc Marten tongues. Remember when you found the second shoe on the second morning and sighed, “Sydney, I thought I could trust you.”
Don’t be surprised, but the Cafe & Roadhouse seems to teem with GOP folks. And a couple of BullMoosers. We don’t mind folks coming in and speaking their minds and wearing their political buttons and sporting their bumper stickers.
This election, we think something is terribly awry, but then we are not recognized analysts, so we will sit and watch and make sure we get to the polls in November. If Obama comes by and is a bit hungry, we’ll give him a fold over on the house – but we sure hope we don’t see that Biden fellow.
This is Hiram talking to you while AmeliaJake is out on the porch. AJ loathes Joe Biden. Cannot stand him. So we hope no one comes in here wearing a political button with his face on it.
Here, let Jesse and Frank demonstrate: Jesse will play the role of AmeliaJake and Frank is the man on the street.
Frank: Joe Biden.
Jesse: I loathe that man.
Oops, here she comes. Just act natural . . . doo dooo dooo, just sitting here drinking my soda and chomping my double crunchy with grape jelly fold over.
We been sitting here in The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse, looking at pictures of the Obama Speech Stage at Invesco Stadium. Takes your breath away. My goodness.
This is surreal and it’s very scary that it is sure real.
We made six large and one small pizza tonight – and I was doughgirl. You get in a groove and I just kept going until I had quite a stack. We put them in the refrigerator and starting chopping ingredients. Other people put everything together and did the oven work and I grabbed a few little bites here and there. Summer made a pizza she called “Only I know what’s on it” and one where the crust was shaped like an “S” for, she said, snake.
Alison outdid herself with a pizza that was so high it could be measured in inches;
There is no reason for the accounting of this pizza afternoon and evening, but it typed itself out. No, it didn’t – I am being silly. I typed it, but I felt like I was on autopilot; I guess you could say the rendition was not presented with feeling. That is probably because I feel a little fuguey. Sort of, well? What now?
Today while running some films back to Family Video, I started thinking about some of my favorite times. I always liked the moments just before touchdown at Limbergh Field. Walking in the jet way and coming out at the very end of the terminal arm. Seeing the statues in the fountains.
Then riding in the passenger seat as we travelled on the busy roads to Pacific Beach. The knowing that this was the first day there. There is no reason why I loved SD and PB as much as I did. Maybe it was the bougainvillea.
Today I was in the very rural middle of Noble County on narrow roads that grid-systemed their way at right angles through fields. It is not bad scenery. It is fertile; it has trees and hedgerows and old farmhouses. I dread the possibility of not having my village corner in the county just north of here to call home in the future. Corn School on the courthouse square. But, for all this, I cannot be satisfied.
That’s my problem – I always want more.
I don’t know why this is.
So much for autopilot . . . I guess I don’t have a direction.
Yesterday, I started getting a summer cold and by the evening, Summer had informed me that it was her summer cold I was getting. Great.
Today, It is not a bad cold at all, but I ache a little, my head hurts and my nose feels as if it will constantly sneeze . . . but never does.
Tomorrow is my birthday; I will be 60. I understand the logic behind not being 60, but my gosh, to think of AmeliaJake . . . 60. I am obsessed with it and I want to throw a tantrum and hold my breath until I get my way and am younger. There is a real flaw in that thinking – sort of matches one in my personality.
Oh, crap. I guess the best thing to do it just . . . have a damn miracle happen and I become Miss Sunshine of the Eternal Smiling Attitude. Auuuuuugggggggghhhhhhh. No, no. Please don’t slap me into good sense. I don’t need that . . . because it has never worked.
Pouting probably isn’t going to work either.
Now I have to go get the mop and clean up this ridiculous puddle of self-pity.
I am a piece of work.
Oh, yeah, I’ve been married 41 years today. For tomorrow’s activity we have just decided to make a bunch of homemade pizzas in a group endeavor . . . Der Bingle is here and all the grandkids. They do the toppings; I am the crust maker. Alison always makes one that is basically the produce counter . . . and it is soooo good. Cameron goes for the exotic spices – I like his too. We make Colin a hot dog pizza. Summer uses the toppings and creates art . . . then eats the cheese part of her creation. Robert is into double pepperoni. We’ll have a good time.
Just one thing . . . you there, you who are my heart . . . I will be missing you; I love you forever.
Yes, it is August and yes, the temperature is up there, but today circumstances led us to have a fireplace fire. We have been working steam cleaning the basement, having discovered that jerky grandkids had spilled a lot of things. We have attacked yucky gunk on three different days and today was our finale. It was cool down there so we . . . yes, lit a fire. And then we turned on a fan to guide the heat through the room and up “the cement stairs” and into the garage. It smelled so good and helped everything dry.
Now, I have announced I am fining people who make a mess down there. Fine them! Fine them! I say maybe tar and feather them as well.
And outside today the sky is wonderfully blue . . . a meth lab burned down in town today – maybe I breathed in a little too deeply. Yes, wonderfully blue.
UPDATE: 2013
Not very many people read this blog and that’s okay with me because I it’s about me writing and not about me being read. Today I noticed that on Labor Day, 2013 clicks had been recorded on this Pioneer Woman post. It was Memorial Day – maybe there was a marathon of her cooking show or perhaps her name appeared in a newspaper article.
A lot of people like her; a lot don’t. But it was Memorial Day and I’d like for this to be the first thing you see:
Diane Sawyer of CBS News once said that because of all the people who’d told her stories about where they were on Pearl Harbor Day; she sometimes felt that she too could remember that day — even though she hadn’t even been born by December 7, 1941.
Lately, my thoughts have been turning to German POW camps in the spring of 1945. I’ve read a lot about the war and seen film footage, but it was only this year that I talked face to face with a man who had been held captive after being shot down on a strafing run in his P-51.
This year, for the first time, I realize I have a feeling for, rather than just a knowledge of, the shock of captivity and the relief of being freed.
A few months ago, West Chester resident Bill Randolph sat not more than three feet from me and spoke of his experience 48 years ago in Germany.
Right up until the moment he bailed out, being a POW was something his mind would not let him consider.
I’d either survive or I’d be killed. I never once thought I’d be shot down over enemy territory.
The army took pictures of all the airmen to distribute to the French Underground so they could recognize us. And when they took that picture, I wouldn’t let myself think about it.”
But it did happen; and Bill Randolph survived that which he had feared most. He says he thought he was in shock; he thinks he kept himself in that state “so if something were to happen, it wouldn’t be so bad.”
Maybe so, then maybe young Lt. Randolph was just discovering a side of himself he did not know existed.
He was interrogated for five days in Frankfurt by a Luftwaffe officer — one who had a book of information on him as well as copies of what was on the squadron bulletin board back in England.
When was over, he was shipped to a camp. “This was a living hell,” Lt. Randolph states so matter-of-factly that there is no room for doubt.
The prisoners were sent to camp in boxcars. On the way, Americans fliers, unaware of the cargo, strafed the train. The memory of those minutes is clear in the Lt. Randolph’s mind.
There were three waves of them, and by the time the third wave came along I was down on the floor trying to dig into the fibers and saying prayers. Because of this experience, I felt like I had gotten closer to God…it was a spiritual thing.
It was there in that boxcar that I felt like that. I was allowed to go to the edge of disaster and brought back to live my life. I think because of that I’m more tolerant…that I know something I didn’t know before.
As the Allies drew nearer, the prisoners were moved farther from the front lines. It was a “terrible” 8 day march. The new camp was near Munich, about 20 miles from Dauchau.
You spent most of the time not thinking about anything. When you did think it was about food; no romance, all you thought about was food. I wanted a big chocolate sundae.
Then Patton came.
As far as I’m concerned , Patton won the war. He came in the camp and he was about 8 feet from me. We didn’t make eye contact, but I could see his eyes. He was saying, “Men, I’m proud of you.” And he was saying anything he could to make us feel good and he had kind eyes. He was gentle: he was a good man. I was very impressed with him; he could lead me anywhere.
After talking with Bill Randolph, I think I can almost remember it. Somehow he passed on to me a piece of experience..Now when I think of General Patton, I no longer see George C. Scott in front of a flag; I think of a man with kind eyes telling hungry, worn out soldiers that he was proud of them.
The past was in the air that day we talked; and I breathed it in.
This is interesting. Oh, THIS is an article in Working Range magazine about the Drummond Ranch – the place Pioneer Woman calls home. It loads a little oddly, coming up in the middle of the article. The Drummond Brothers are the 76th largest landowners in the US, according to the Land Report. Ted Turner is number one – sort of Turner Classic Ranches.
July 30, 2011
I see that the THIS link no longer worked, so I scrounged around and found another; now I have decided to take screen shots. The link will allow you to enlarge the pages; I have no idea what the screen shots will do.
We groaned in the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse. Groaned, all of us. Joe Biden, oh, please . . . If ever there was a reason to go to the polls and vote, this is a good one. I thought we had learned a lot about Joe Biden in 1988 and in Gail Sheeny’s book: Character: America’s Search for Leadership.
This is going to be some election.
Yes, not too much is going on here tonight. A few people sipping tea, a couple of others with a cola, a pair of cute polar bear cubs tossing back some salmom . . . and an angel of two just sitting and relaxing. Friday (our dog, remember) is stretched out on the plank floor under my leg which rests upon the neighboring chair rung. I can feel his fur soft on my skin. And I guess he feels me.
We still have to do our nightly call checks on a couple of folks, make certain they are tucked in all safe – especially Sarah who pretty much drives us crazy . . . especially when she goes down in the bunker and hears water dripping. She can’t hear anything else too well, but let one drop drip and she’s on alert. In which case she grabs a flashlight and comes to report, her face leaning down close to yours. Just like this Christmas Eve . . . “I think there’s a pinpoint leak in the bunker . . . ”
And now that we’re thinking of her, we are also remembering she always checks her tires before she get cleaned up to go anywhere. Might have a flat, dontcha know. We’d call Sarah on the old Candlestick brass phone because we know she hates its tinny sound and we like to hold the receiver to our ear while we wrap the other hand around the upright part and lift the speaker cone to our lips, but Sprint to Sprint is free.
So it’s speed dial time . . . #6.
There are times when I work and sweat and trigger good little endorphins and when the light of the fading day is cheerful, making me look forward to the next morning’s dawn . . . Heck, maybe it’s the barometric pressure. But anyway, there are times when I can think maybe that most wonderful thing will happen. I delay talking sense to myself because for those few moments of delicious hope and great cheer, I feel so very good. And I am so happy that tears come to my eyes . . . and then I can tell myself, AmeliaJake, that won’t be . . . because those tears in my eyes can also carry away the stress hormones of sadness. So it is an ache, and for a little while, not a bring-you-to-your-knees pain.