Disclaimer

This morning I'm sitting reading the online San Francisco Chronicle, and there's an article about a skinhead guy who had his extensive tattoos removed. He belonged to a group called Vinlanders, and they had "Nordic" parties.

I just want to make it very clear that Bob and his friends are NOT skinheads. Friends and relatives know that, but those of you who just stopped by from Blogland may not.

Viking Party

People who went to Waldorf schools when they were kids never do anything the same as the general public. Instead of the typical Halloween, Bob and his friends had a Viking party. The weekend before the party, they got together to make their shields. Waldorf kids know how to do things like that.

I dressed in more typical seasonal garb and took pictures for a while before retreating to the house.

Here are the Vikings and their friends.

Mikaela, Charley, Olivia

John F

John F braided his beard with a chicken bone. Too cool. (It's his own beard, not a fake.)

Brent

OK. So Brent isn't a Waldorf kid. His costume wasn't accurate, but look at that real axe, and his real shield made out of a slice of black walnut wood.

Devin

Travis, Nikki, Jon

John G - Zombie Viking (yes, we have a lot of Johns)

Mitch - not a Viking, costume left over from another party

Discovery - those Viking hats are a gauge of the amount of ale consumed.

Charley

Bob the Fluffy Viking, with his ale.

Bob the Fluffy

Bob's costume shed all over the house. The cleaning ladies are going to think one of the cats exploded.

Bob lights the fire in a traditional Viking ceremony, using BBQ fluid and a lighter.

Let the pillaging begin!

Bob, John F, Brent, Olivia, Mikaela, Charley

More Socializing

I was out and about last week. On Saturday I went to Carlotta's, up in the mountains. She lives smack on the top of a ridge, with a lovely view. She invited a group of old horse friends to dinner.

Before dinner, Carlotta got Jerry (not my brother, another Jerry) to show her how to use her shotgun.

She claims to be a good shot, but didn't know how to put the "bullets" in the gun. And she only had 3 of them. Carlotta claims she needs a gun because there are mountain lions in the area. Her ex-husband loaned her a shotgun, which would probably only make a mountain lion angry. Since his house is across the canyon, though, I can see why she wasn't given a bigger gun. Especially if she really is a good shot.

Dinner was great. I took veggies from the corn stand and Carlotta cooked them with a tri-tip. We all sat at the long, long table in her dining area.

This is Max, taking his seat right in front of the tri-tip.

And this is Anita, Kim, and Carolyn at the other end of the table, digging into the salad.

I went to high school with Anita and Carolyn. Kim is a horse crazy young lady who helps Anita at her stable. She's about the age I was when we were all hanging around Anita's mom's stable.

We all watched a movie later in the evening, then met the next morning for a trip to a walking horse show in Santa Rosa. Max wore this t-shirt.

For those who don't know, Tennessee Walking Horses do not trot, they do a running walk. It's very smooth.

The group at Santa Rosa. Jerry, Anita, Kim, Max, and Carlotta.

Everyone's an Art Critic

Artsy Fartsy

I am quite determined to paint again. All my life I've wanted to paint. But first I had to go to school, then I had to work, then I had a kid to raise. I squeezed some art time into my life along the way, but not enough to get very good at it. I kept thinking, some day I'll be retired, and THEN I can do art.

Well, now I'm retired. And I've been sitting on my butt in front of this computer entirely too long every day.

So, as I reported previously, I went to an art session with my friend Marleen last week, dabbed at a piece of paper for a few hours, then tossed it in the garbage before I came home. I always finish what I start. Throwing something into the garbage, in my opinion, is a valid way to "finish" it.

But I didn't give up. I came home and restarted the painting, planning to take it to the art session this week. Marleen, however, was unavailable. So I stayed home, determined to paint anyway. I just sat down at my table when Bob came home from school. "Will you please read me a chapter from my refrigeration textbook?" he asked. Bob is dyslexic, he's an auditory learner. In a class where most of the material is given in a lecture, he's got it made. If there's technical reading that's not covered in lecture, not so much. Over the years he's learned to get someone else to read the stuff aloud to him, and it's etched in his brain forever.

I thought, okay, I'll read for an hour or so then get back to my painting. Reading history or literature is one thing. Reading doo doo about the theory of refrigeration technology is quite another thing. It pretty much freezes and eliminates all traces of creativity from the brain. So I just went to bed afterwards.

Yesterday while Bob was at school, I sat down to paint again. It was a bad day for the old cat. The new (and very expensive) food I bought for her didn't settle on her stomach well. She threw up several times. I could hear her cacking all over the house (why can't they EVER just stay in one place? preferably not on the carpet?). I had to keep getting up from my painting to clean up cat puke.

Even so, I got this far.

Later in the evening Katherine asked if I'd like to go to her art club. A visiting artist was going to do a critique of members' work. I went, and it was a good experience. The artist, Jan Miskulin, is one of those people who can look at a piece and come up with great ideas to improve it.

Here she is examining a glasswork.

Here, she talks about a painting.

Spending an evening with thoughtful, creative people was much more inspiring than spending it with an urping cat (sorry, Velcro). Today I'm ready to pick up my brush and try again.

Creeps Me Out

I don't criticize companies that support our veterans, but does anyone else think this is a weird thing to put on a ketchup bottle?

Baking Experiment

During their working shifts at the corn stand, the kids at the counter have to answer lots of questions. One is, "Which pumpkin is best for pies?" Everyone has an opinion about that, but Bob, Nick and Anna wanted to find out for themselves.

So, one night after work last week, they baked experimental pies using 3 different kinds of pumpkins and a banana squash.

Nick, Bob and Anna

Bob and Anna prepare pies while Nick cooks dinner for everyone (chicken alfredo with broccoli).

This was dinner.

Chicken Alfredo on Penne Pasta, with Broccoli

This was dessert.

There was definitely a difference between the pies, which used all the same ingredients except for the squash. The one on the right has flecks of pumpkin skin it in, Bob was trying something new. Or maybe he was just lazy, he didn't peel the pumpkin before he steamed it. It's not bad that way, actually, adds a little flavor.

The verdict? The best pie pumpkin is the blue-skinned one.

That's the one on the left. The insides are extremely orange compared to the others. In a taste test of raw chips, the blue one has a very pronounced pumpkin taste.

A couple of the orange-skinned pumpkins seemed anemic in comparison, though they got eaten. All 7 experimental pies were gone in three days.

After they made pies, the 3 cooks went out to the game room and watched the original Star Wars movie because Anna had never seen it. Watching a movie in the game room is pretty much like seeing it in a theatre because the screen takes up an entire wall and the sound is very good. To compliment the movie watching experience, Nick didn't make popcorn, he made sushi.

If you ever find yourself in despair about the younger generation, please come to my house.

Too Many Mealworms

I only have two chicks to spoil. Today there are too many mealworms, tomorrow there will be too many beatles. So I took the box out to the pens and let each chicken pick out a few for dinner. That made me very popular, almost as much as when I give them ears of sweet corn.

I always keep a box of mealworms going in case I need them for a baby bird (a scrub jay can eat 50 a day) or a sick chicken. Last time I bought them at Pet Smart there were only 3 live worms in a container that should have had 50. So I ordered some online. These have been superworms.

I'll bet mealworms are low carb. Maybe I should get online and see if I can find some recipes. Coconut Mealworm Muffins for Halloween, with a couple of black beetles on top for decoration. I'll bring some to the party.

New Generation of Poultry Kids

I was a 4-H poultry project leader for a few years. Looking back, it was a wonderful time of my life. This was my first California state poultry judging team.

1999 California State Poultry Judging Team
Jonathan, Amanda, Tim

These kids were great sports. I'd talked them into competing at the state championships because no one in our county had ever seen an official judging contest. Adult leaders were not allowed to see how the contest was set up (Hello? How were we supposed to learn?), so I figured these older kids would be able to observe and report back to us if they participated.

Surprise! They won. Then they found out they had to go to Kentucky to the national competition. They were pretty upset with me. The honor of winning soon sunk in, though, and they did a good job of studying and fundraising during the summer. We went to Kentucky that November and had a great time. It was the first of four trips for me as a coach.

Jonathan returned to the nationals a couple of years later with this egg prep demonstration, which is sorta like Julia Child, talking and cooking at the same time. Without the wine.

Jonathan is now a techno geek at Apple. The only thing he does with chickens these days is eat them. Someday when he's a senior executive, I'll sell this picture to the Enquirer.

I saw Tim a couple of years ago and he was a poultry leader himself, having a great time teaching the bunch of small kids in his group.

Amanda went back to the nationals a second time, on my first Avian Bowl team. They won second in the nation that year. Then she went to Cal Poly, majoring in ag education and minoring in avian science. Some day she'll be an ag teacher.

In the meantime, she's a busy mom, practicing her teaching skills on the next generation – her own three kids. Amanda and her husband have a 5 year old, a 3 year old, and a baby. Amanda and the kids came to visit this week.

Bob assisted. He caught the fuzzbutt pullet for show and tell.

Caleb examined the chicken. He's a brand new 4-H member. He's quite sharp.

Addie is too young for 4-H, but was determined to do everything her big brother did, only better.

That's a great dynamic, it will keep both kids on their toes. Addie has already mastered the "I'm so cute" routine that her aunt Erin used.

Aunt Erin, 1998?

I'll never forget the first time Erin showed at PPBA. She was barely tall enough to see over the table. While she fidgeted, waiting for her turn, she held onto her chicken's legs and made it do a tap dance (the chicken didn't care). Watching little kids do poultry showmanship is a lot of fun.

Watching Bob learn baby showmanship is fun, too.

Not Hermiting

Lest you get the impression that I'm turning into a hermit, just sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring so I can ignore it, I'll tell you what I've been doing for the past week.

On Saturday morning I drove to Modesto to see the show poultry sale. I was interested because (1) I'd like to buy a good chicken or two, and (2) It might be possible to have a sale like this at the corn stand.

This picture is to prove that I was there. Bob and I showed poultry with at least 5 of these people for 10 years. We haven't shown for maybe 4 years, but not one of the folks I know recognized me. After I walked up to the first one with a smile on my face and she looked right past me, I stood around for a while, just observing and listening to the BS. I know how the invisible man felt. It was cool, like working for the CIA.

I didn't find any birds I wanted, so I drove home in time for the Rhodes family picnic. I don't belong to the Rhodes family, but they and my ancestors have been neighbors for 6 generations, so we get invited to their picnic. This is Ellen Rosa.

She has been interested in her family's history for a long time and is one of the few people I know who asked questions of the older generation when she was young. And paid attention to the answers. And remembered them.

We got to hear some old stories, and some arguments about old stories. It's interesting that people hear different interpretations when they're growing up and they accept that as gospel. This inspires me to write my own version and pass it down. In about 20 years, no one will be left to dispute it. Someone will make a documentary, and my descendants will be famous and can sell Bobblehead dolls of their ancestors at local souvenir stands.

On the subject of personal growth, I have been trying to get back into painting. Last night I went to a painting session at an Art Center with my friend Marleen. This is Marleen agonizing over her attempt at a "loose" painting.

These are some of the other folks who were painting last night, each working on whatever project they brought.

As you can see, most of these artists are in my age group. There was a lot of mellowness in the room. The last fellow (above) brought his dog, Molly. Molly was entranced by the sculptor who was eating his dinner.

Molly is an elderly Queensland Heeler that appreciates fine art.

And also fine snacks.

This is the painting I pretended to be working on.

Somehow it doesn't seem as bad this morning as it was last night, when my brains were mush. I didn't remember how to use the brushes (I've mostly only used them to water baby birds for the past 10 years), I couldn't remember how to use the colors, and the more I thought about it the worse it got. I probably should have taken color crayons instead. But I'm determined to get back into this. I've been cleaning around the drawers full of watercolor paints, brushes, and paper for years. I need to either use this stuff or pass it on to someone who will. (Can you tell I've been watching Hoarders?)

My name is NOT Amanda Flores...

and I don't want any Viagra, either.

I don't get many phone calls, and that suits me just fine. Email is my preferred method of communication. A couple of weeks after I bought my iPhone – over 2 years ago – I started getting calls for someone named Amanda Flores. The messages were left by people who doing their best to sound irate. They were all from collection agencies. When I tried to call them back I'd get put on hold for a long, long time and usually give up.

One day I decided to do my own investigation of Amanda. I searched online and found that her dad lived in Stockton. He'd had the same address for 10 years, and his phone number was listed.

So I started picking up calls on the iPhone instead of letting them go to voicemail. This was not easy. By the time I figure out that the barking dog, quacking duck, or antique horn sound coming out of my purse was actually the phone, the call had usually already transferred.

But one day I DID answer the phone in time and got to talk to a collections person in real life. I told him I was not Amanda, that she'd either had the same number before I got it or she was giving a false number. I asked him if he'd tried to find her on the internet. He hadn't. So I gave him her dad's number, asked to have my number deleted from his files, and wished him luck.

I didn't get any calls for Amanda for a year. Now I'm getting them again. Three this week. The calls are automated. If I AM Amanda, I am supposed to press 1. If this is the wrong number, I press 4.

I pressed 4 twice and it obviously did no good. So this morning I pressed 1. I was on hold for 30 minutes. While I was on hold with my iPhone to my ear, I put in a load of laundry. I drank a cup of coffee. I found and removed a small cat poo from the carpet. I practiced what I was going to tell the person who would eventually pick up the phone.

Finally a lady came on the phone. "I'm looking for Amanda Flores," she said.

"I am NOT Amanda...." that's all I got out before she clicked the phone off and went her merry way to harass some other person.

I hate having unused words trapped in my mouth. If it wasn't my beloved iPhone I was holding, I would have pitched it across the room (because that's how I am). So I just cursed roundly, which sent poor Velcro scrambling. She has a guilty conscience about everything (even though she's not the poo cat).

When I turned on my computer, I was faced with 57 more spam messages trying to sell Viagra.

I've said this before, and I'll repeat it. I want a button on my phone and one on my computer. When I get a call or a message that's disgusting or intrusive, I want to just press the button that will connect me to the responsible person on the other end. I'd be happy to simply clear out their ears, but a "destruct" function would be nice, too.

Grandma's Pride

My sister-in-law Tina sent this photo to me this morning and I had to share it.

Anne, Kyna, and Joe

Joe is Bob's younger cousin, Tina's son. (Well, Mike's son too, but Tina sent me the picture.) They were on their first field trip together to Apple Hill. 

Joe is one of those young fellows who tried out every haircut imaginable when he was a teenager. Now he can almost pass for conservative. He's the only "kid" I know who has discovered and read the same books that entranced me in college. He's given me new material to read, too. I've loved having "The Philosopher" around because he's always fun to talk to. 

Now he's even more fun because he has his own little family. Tina is a lucky grandma.