How to make grandmas scramble

Last year's happy begonias.I was at Lowe's the other day to pick up some flowers and such before the mad rush of Memorial Day Weekend cleans out the place. I have a lot of containers in the backyard to fill, so I set about picking up some zinnias, some begonias, some pansies, some geraniums, knowing that was only about one-third of what I need, but it's a start.

Shopping on a Tuesday afternoon, when most folks are working, meant lots of older folks were roaming the aisles, lots of grandmas and grandpas ... some old enough to be my grandma and grandpa. I waited my turn in the checkout line amidst the other grandparents and finally made it to the counter, where the young cashier gal scanned my zinnias, my pansies, my geraniums. Then she got to the big hanging basket of begonias. Naturally, there was no barcode sticker on the basket.

"Let me look it up," the gal says, typing it into the register, then flipping through the cheatsheet notebook beside her. "Nope, it's not in there."

So I asked if she'd like me to run get another basket, as they were pretty close to the door. She said "yes," I ran and got the basket as irritation set in with the older folks waiting in line behind me, a look of sympathy for those irritated folks on the faces of the grandmas and grandpas in the line next to us.

I race back to the counter with the basket, the gal scans it. "What's it ring up as?" I asked. I hadn't even looked for a price when picking up the basket because for the past two years, I've had a cuss of a time finding begonias. Yeah, they're not the most beautiful or fragrant flowers in the world, but they love my backyard. And living in a crazy high-altitude climate such as I do, I've learned that if a plant loves my place, then I love it. So I felt I'd struck gold when I found basket after basket in the garden center at Lowe's and it didn't really matter to me what they cost.

"Well, it says $1.24," the gal said. "But that can't be right."

"No," I told her, "that's certainly not right. Do you want me to get another basket?"

Of course she said "yes," so I grabbed the one, raced off for another, grabbed it and returned as quickly as possible so as to minimize the daggers directed at me by all the other grandmas in line. One grandpa even moved from the line to lean against the racks just beyond the register, so he could act impatient directly in front of me, like it was my fault the cuss begonias didn't have a cussing tag.

"Nope, that one rings up at $1.24, too," the cashier gal said. To which I responded that if that's the case, if it's coded wrong and that's what it's ringing up as, there's nothing the poor girl -- who looked worried because she knew darn well it was a $15 to $20 basket -- then it's not her fault. "But ... if that's what they're ringing up as, I'll take that one, too," I told her.

The grandma in line behind me leaned in and whispered, "What are they going for?" So I told her -- and she nodded to her partner Grandpa and quickly headed to the outdoor display to grab a basket for herself as he held their place in line.

Then the grandpa impatiently reclining on the shelves nearby leaned toward me. "How much?" And I had no choice but to tell him.

Next I heard one grandma behind me say to the next grandma in that second line, "Begonias? For $1.24? I'm getting some." She headed out the door ... just as the first grandma to ask me tapped me on the shoulder and asked just exactly where they're located outside because she'd rushed off not knowing where she was going. I pointed, and another grandma raced to that area. Then another grandma in the second line asked her fellow customers about the price. "If that's what they're charging, I gotta get some," she said.

Murmurs of exclamation moved down both register lines, all the while my poor cashier girl looked concerned as she finished up my transaction. "If that's how they coded it, it's not your fault," I tried to console her.

"Yeah, I'll need to check that right away," she said.

"At this rate, there won't be any left for you to worry about," I said.

We finished up, and I pulled my big ol' cart of garden goodies past the grandmas scrambling for begonias. I felt a bit like a thief as I walked to the truck to load 'em up, pretty sure that at any moment I'd get a tap on the shoulder from a manager who'd proceed to tell my to get my tail back in the store and pay up.

Didn't happen. I was thankful to get such a deal but regretted putting my cashier gal in such an awkward position -- probably fearing for her job -- by sharing that deal with the other grandmas around me.

Most of all, though, I regretted not picking up another basket or two while the getting was good.

Today's question:

What's your most recent great deal, on a purchase or otherwise?

Metamorphosis

My current house is not the family home, the home in which my daughters were raised. We moved into this house two and a half years ago, from the home we lived in for 19 years, the childhood home the girls remember.

Megan has never lived with us in this house. Andrea lived here less than a year, Brianna a little more than two. So few marks were ever made on the place to remind us of our once hustling, bustling childrearing years watching the girls grow from toddlers to teens to young adults.

But there were a few. And yesterday I removed the very last one.

When we moved into this house, Brianna adorned one of her bedroom walls with the rub-on quotes that are popular home decor of late. Yesterday I removed those letters, one by one peeling away the final trace of any other family members in residence, any occupants other than Jim and myself.

As I picked away at the corner of each letter, prying up an edge of the sticker-backed text then carefully pulling it up and away, I thought again and again about the phrase Brianna so carefully chose to express her frame of mind as she moved into adulthood.

"Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly," it said. And here I was, working from right to left, removing the letters, erasing the sentiment.

As the words disappeared from the wall, they became written upon my heart. With that final purging of the past, I embraced the words, appreciated their significance as well as the significance of my removing them from our home: One by one my babies had become the butterfly, one by one they had moved on.

Now it's my turn to do the same.

Remnants of what once was no longer decorate my cocoon, and I look forward to moving on.

I look forward to the butterfly I will become.

Today's question:

What upcoming change in your life do you look forward to?

Common scents

Seems that White Castle fast-food restaurant chain, the king of mini burgers, has created a steam-grilled-on-a-bed-of-onions-scented candle in honor of its self-proclaimed National Hamburger Month. Crazy, I say. What's even crazier is that the candles sold out in 48 hours -- although the chain thought it had created enough for a two-month supply.

The candles were for a good cause -- to raise money for Autism Speaks -- but I just can't imagine having the scent of fast-food burgers wafting through my house.

I can, though, think of a few other non-traditional candle scents I'd be more than happy to light up.

For example, where some folks may get off on smelling burgers, I would definitely savor a candle that perfectly replicated the scent of garlic sauteeing to savory goodness in preparation for a scrumptious Italian dish. I would enjoy that smell any time, but it would come in particularly handy on those soup-and-sandwich nights, those oh-so-boring meals that stretch the budget but tax the taste buds.

Another food flavor I could savor the scent of would be onions ... yep, just plain ol' freshly cut onions. I love that smell as it brings back memories of young love. Weird, I know. But when Jim and I first started dating, we worked at Sonic -- the OLD Sonic Drive-Ins, not the new ones that sprouted up in the past 10-15 years (often on the same sites of the old Sonics that were torn down decades ago!). He was the manager, I was the car hop. Back in the day, Sonic offered freshly made onion rings, which meant one of the duties of the staff was to slice fresh onions then run the rings through a four-bucket process: water, then flour, then milk, then cornmeal. The battered up rings were then placed on racks for drying a bit while waiting for hungry customers to order them. I can't even count the number of nights Jim and I spent getting to know one another better, conversing as we dipped, dunked and dusted onions. Thirty years later, I still feel the flush of young love each time I slice an onion.

The ultimate food-flavored candle would be one of strong coffee brewing. I love, love, love highly-caffeinated coffee but usually don't touch the stuff after noon or it wreaks havoc on my brain and body come bedtime. But wouldn't it be truly wonderful to light up a coffee-scented candle come mid-afternoon? I think so.

Why stop there, though? No need to focus only on food scents. Already on the market are floral and spice and rain and forest candles, but the one scent I would relish on a regular basis is that of books! I have lots and lots of books, but it's definitely not enough to make me feel like I'm sitting between the shelves at the library, or even the bookstore. A calming sensation comes over me just by writing of such things; imagine the peace I'd find with one of those lit in this room and that. Plus, it'd give a whole new -- positive! -- meaning to burning books.

Last but not least, my candle collection would be made complete with a New Baby-scented candle. You know the smell I'm talking about. The one that envelops little rosy-cheeked bundles of joy, wrapped tightly in their receiving blankets and smelling like pure, unadulterated love, a scent that makes you want to nestle him under your chin, close your eyes and inhale his goodness. That is a candle I can see selling out in 48 hours. That is a candle that would surely help me on the days I really, really, really want to give my Bubby a big ol' grandma bear hug.

Of course, a baby-scented candle would need to be sold in a set, the second candle being that oh-so familiar Poopy Diaper scent. Just to bring me -- and other rapturous grandmas -- back to reality.

No photo needed for that one, right?

Today's question:

What scent would you love to have in a candle?

Sad story - a re-posting

Last Friday, a mourning dove bashed into my dining room window so hard it killed it, pine needle for the nest it was building still in its mouth as it lay dying on the ground beneath the window. It was very, very sad.

It made me think of a post I wrote about this time last year for my other blog, a personal blog I now rarely (if ever) post to. Rather than rehashing that post, I'll just go ahead and copy and paste it for ya here. Beware, it's kind of sad ... hence the title.

Sad Story

For several weeks, I've watched from my window as two mourning doves (my favorite birds) created a home in the juniper bush outside my study. I've seen the evolution of their nest, from a few pine needles to a full-blown home. The nest quickly became the full-time residence of what I first thought was a dedicated mama bird, never leaving the spot in the name of her soon-to-come (or maybe they were already there) eggs. Dad would stop by occasionally to see how things were going ... and feed her, I hoped.

Then one day I witnessed a shift change. It was TWO dedicated parents, not one! It was a true co-parenting deal, with each bird taking a turn keeping up the home front while the other grabbed a snack. No slacker dad here ... he shared the duties willingly and just as efficiently as his partner.

Day in and day out, one of them was there. I appreciated their presence while I typed away at the computer, finding solace in the fact that although I faced rough times and what seemed to be an imminent death in the family, hope springs eternal as new life begins (or would soon, just outside my window).

The mourning doves' dedication to their nest was fierce. Snowstorms, high winds, dark nights didn't phase them. Someone walking by to take out the trash, come and go from the car or take pictures (yeah, I did that right next to them!) didn't scare them off. But then the neighbor's lawnmower did - and when the parents left, I saw the precious babies they'd been diligently protecting. I snapped as many pictures as possible before Mom (or was it Dad) returned.

Then I waited ... and waited ... and waited. For days on end, I'd give updates to the family and call them over now and then to see how Mom/Dad stayed no matter the weather - even when the snow had weighed down the branch above the nest so that it nearly touched the head of the parent on duty. I even e-mailed updates to my mom, who happened to be here the day the nest building began and was just as impressed with my front-row seat.

I was anxiously awaiting the day the shells cracked, little chirps would be heard, and Mama bird would drop goodies into the wide-open beaks of her hungry babies. I'd catch it all on my camera, documenting the growth of the chicks through my study window.

Then yesterday, a day not any colder than many we've had during the nesting phase, Mom and Dad were nowhere to be found. All day I wondered if I'd just been missing them, if birds take off when it's time for the babies to emerge so as not to squish them yet keep watch from afar.

But time stretched on and it became clear Mom and Dad would not be returning - and no babies would be emerging from the shells. For whatever reason - and I have to assume it's natural, not that Mom and Dad just decided they weren't cut out for parenting and headed off to sunnier days and carefree lives - the eggs would not be hatching.

And I would not be witnessing a precious rite of spring from my window. Nope, now I just stare sadly at the two lone - and likely hard and cold - baby eggs outside my window, wondering what to do with them ... or if I should do anything with them at all.

Today's question:

How many bird feeders do you have in your yard?

My answer: Three feeders, one birdbath and one house, plus one hummingbird feeder we've not yet put out because it's still too early in the season.

The Saturday Post

Today is the day Brianna finally makes the official move into her new home!

We think it's a pretty good one, as I wrote about here. It seems structurally sound, she got it for a good price, and there have been no horror stories as of yet.

But when purchasing a new (old) home, you really just never know ...

(Ignore the subtitles; it's in English but the only clips I could find of this specific scene were uploaded by folks in other countries.)

(SORRY... THIS VIDEO LOST IN BLOG MAKEOVER)

Congratulations and best wishes on owning your very first home, Brianna! Here's to hoping you never, ever, EVER experience any scenes even remotely similar to the one above!

Today's question from the Zobmondo "Would You Rather?" board game:

Would you rather have your grandmother's first name -- OR -- her haircut? (If she's passed away, think of the haircut you most remember her having.)

Basing this on my maternal grandmother, I'd rather have her first name, Mae. She always wore a wig, as far back as I can remember, so if she so desired to cover up her natural look, I don't really think it's one I want to sport.