I’ll have to figure out to enlarge this.
Maybe.
Does this hat make my butt look big?
(in case you’re wondering, this was a birthday gift from our esteemed accordion player, Linda/Maggie, who has a secret place in her heart for mariachi music and thought I should leave Johnny Gimble’s Texas fiddlin’ for something more exotic)
Thank you, Linda.
The framed photo is sitting right here in the hall, next to the front door. Where everyone who visits can imagine what I do in the winter.
I know I promised to post the second half of the Art Of Going To The Dump today, but something happened yesterday.
Something good.
Something surprising.
Something that made me want to cry, and at the same time count my blessings.
Are you pregnant?
Uh, far from it, but thank you for asking (and for those of you who think that was a joke, ask me about the pregnancy test I had to take when I was fifty-eight years old).
Yesterday afternoon DMP (Dancing Mandolin Player) gave me a surprise 60th birthday party.
I am not sixty yet, but I am not going to wait until December to be proud and somewhat…older. Not now. Not after the best birthday party ever.
My friends were there. New friends, old friends, a young mother. An adorable baby girl. There was a photo board, where we all looked thin and had dark hair. There were memories, lots of them.
And there were mimosas. Lots of them.
And presents!!! Lots of them, too. As my father used to say, “an embarrassment of riches”. And very funny riches they were, too.
And flowers. And food. So much lovely food brought by everyone.
I will post lots more pictures when I get everyone else’s. But let me share a few dessert pics now.
Ellie’s New York cheesecake and her homegrown berries.
Chocolate caramel brownies. To die for.
Linda’s cute cookies.
Patsy’s lemon pudding pie/cake/yummy thing.
No one left hungry. Or thirsty. I think we finished all of the champagne.
There was lots of catching up to do. Lots of stories. Imagine that!
But there were things I wish I’d said. But they were stuck in my throat, just like the tears. Because on that deck, a place where we’ve partied for so many years, I know we were aware of the friends and loved ones who weren’t with us.
But we talked about them. And looked at their smiling photos. And remembered funny things they said or did. Don Rocque. Om and Barbara. Bill and Kathie. Bob Anderson. They would have beaten us all to the buffet table.
Even if they had to contend with these gals.
More photos and more party info coming soon, but here’s one of a very happy great-grandmother with her granddaughter and her 5 month old baby.
Thank you, everyone, for such a special afternoon.
My good friend, Dancing Mandolin Player, and I go back a long way. A loooonnnnng way. Back to when there were diaper pails in our bathrooms.
No one under the age of 40 remembers diaper pails. I should go into Walmart and see if they still exist. There is now something called a “diaper genie”, which was explained to me recently by three experienced grandmothers at a baby shower and I admit I still don’t understand the concept. Something about diaper “pearls” and Pampers and no mess.
Huh.
Anyway, many years ago Dancing Mandolin Player (let’s call her DMP) and I planned to sell our crafts at a Christmas bazaar at the high school. Said school was 8 miles east, along a winding two-lane road. Along that road was a gravel pull-out with several dumpsters available for the local folks to use.
The original dump had been an open area halfway up a mountain. In the early 1970’s a big night out was to drive up there at dusk, drink beer and watch the black bears rummage through the garbage.
But all that changed, which I’m sure was good for the bears, when the town upgraded to dumpsters.
DMP picked me up very early on a Saturday morning in December and we loaded my bags and boxes of homemade calico objects into her husband’s old blue truck. A few miles down the road she said in a deceptively casual tone, “Oh, by the way, I need to stop at the dumpster for a minute. Drop some stuff off.”
She sounded a little strange, but it was early. And cold. And it looked like snow. I paid no attention, until we stopped and she looked a little guilty. She explained that her husband asked her to get rid of something. I asked if she wanted help. She said yes.
We climbed out of her truck and she handed me one of her husband’s battered leather work gloves. “You’re going to need this.”
I am?
Oh, yes, I was. Because in the back of the truck was a deer carcass. A big one. And our mission was to get it into a dumpster. The carcass was frozen. The blood was frozen. The snow was frozen. Everything was frozen together.
You know, because it was December.
DMP kept muttering, “I’m going to get him for this.” “Him” was her hunter husband, who had uncharacteristically sprung this little chore on her at the last minute, when she’d had no choice but to pile her holiday crafts around a dead animal and head down the hill because (a) her other car wouldn’t start, (b) there was no other car, or (c) she had to use the 4-wheel drive truck that morning because it was December. I am too old now to remember the details. I do remember that her very nice husband was in big trouble.
“I’m going to get him for this,” she said a hundred or so more times.
“It’s okay,” I panted, after heaving my share of Bambi’s mother into the bin. “Thanks for the glove.”
We cleaned our boots in the snow, but we were convinced we smelled like death for the rest of the day.
And that, folks, was how we went to the dump after the old dump was closed and replaced with bearproof dumpsters. Back in the olden days.
It is different now.
(to be continued)
Things I haven’t seen in New England:
1. a large pick up truck parked by the river, the top of its front windshield stenciled in white block letters, “ELKAHOLIC”.
2. a motorcyclist with three stuffed teddy bears in the basket behind his seat.
3. a very large billboard next to a very small cafe announcing, “WEDNESDAY IS MEAT LOAF DAY”.
It’s impossible to take pictures and drive on a mountain road at the same time. I’ve tried it. Better to keep both hands on the wheel. Which is why I have no photos for this blog post.
I love quirky signs. I frequently make Glen pull over to the side of the road so I can take pictures. Here’s one of my Montana favorites:
I’m not sure how the bulldozer, Levis and mini-storage all fit together, but it’s terrific.
And this one was taken in front of the local ACE hardware store. Fortunately I could pull into the parking lot, because my chauffeur was back at the house partying with his siblings.
Doesn’t this make you want a latte?
Tomorrow I will explain the Art Of Going To The Dump. I’ll bet you can’t wait. You may not sleep tonight thinking about it, but please. Try to control your excitement.
i became your mother when you were eight years old.
you celebrated your birthday with Grandpa every July, with a Dunkin Donuts cake.
you serve our country with pride.
but you cry when i beat you at mexican train dominoes.
you are brave enough to jump into cold water.
and kind enough to let me make you a quilt for your bed at the barracks.
we miss you. we love you.
stay safe.
call when you can.
happy birthday.
Here is what I saw at 5:00 this morning.
The mountains were not on fire.
But it was a strange and beautiful sight.
Where the heck is my camera????
I’ve never jumped out of bed so quickly in my life. Especially at sunrise.
Well, except for that Christmas morning when a chipmunk ran out of my youngest son’s sweatpants (while he wore them) and his three sisters screamed as if Santa himself lay dead under the tree.
True meaning of the word “awesome”.
Thanks for looking.
We went to the movies!!!! I’d never heard of this movie–Midnight in Paris–but that’s not hard to imagine. We rarely go to “the show” (do people say that anymore?) in RI, but we always have fun going to the Alama Drafthouse in Austin.
They serve dinner there. And beer and wine. And nachos. There are narrow counters that run in front of the seats and, even though you’d think the arrival of food and drinks would be disruptive, it’s not.
Anyway, back to the Northwest. My friend Janou and her hospitable husband planned to see “Midnight in Paris”, only in town for 3 nights. Would I like to go with them? Absolutely. Don’t care what it’s about, who wrote it or who’s in it. Just want to take off my yoga pants, find some clean clothes, fix my hair and go to town.
I’m not crazy about Woody Allen movies. I often felt that I was too naive or unsophisticated to get the jokes. Or understand the chic appeal of living in NYC. My agent, city born and bred, would arrange wonderful outings for us to entice me to “hop on the train” and head to New York. Over the years we ate at fabulous restaurants (I saw Charles Kuralt eat a salad), gawked at the Christmas window displays on Fifth Avenue, studied a costume display at the Met and drank vodka at the Russian Tea Room.
Once she persuaded me to try out for a writing job with a soap opera. The show wanted new perspective, new talent, new storylines. When I was invited by the producers to come to NY to discuss my ideas for the show, I was in a state of panic. My mother insisted I needed a real suit, so we went to Macy’s and I bought the cheapest “little black dress” with a jacket I could find. No suit. Where would I ever wear it again?
I made the mistake of looking up the “scale” writing wages for head writer on a soap opera. I think it was something around $36,000 a week. I then made the mistake of telling my husband that.
He thought I needed fancy jewelry. I said I didn’t. He thought I should be more nervous. I said I was too busy studying the 29 years of the show’s history and memorizing the characters.
He was already moving us to NY, kids, dogs and all.
The train arrived 3 hours before the meeting, so I went to Saks and bought Bobbie Brown lipstick. Then I just slogged around Rockefeller Center. Oh, and lusted after quilts in an antique quilts & textiles shop before meeting my agent in front of the building where the meeting was to be held.
Unfortunately the meeting went well. Too well. My agent wanted me to take a later train home and go out for celebratory drinks. I didn’t want to celebrate anything. I simply wanted to go home, so I made my excuses and caught a cab to the train station.
I sat in terror for four hours on that damn train. I was in a state of panic. I cried. I sniffled. I bit my fingernails. I stared at my neat, professional folder packed with ideas about character arcs and romantic conflict. I wanted to throw up.
My daughter picked me up at the station (my husband was working late, but was no doubt dreaming of retiring early and walking the dogs in Central Park and putting the kids through college without taking out loans) and I asked her to stop at a liquor store on the way home.
She was fairly shocked. I’m not much of a drinker, as most of you know. But when I got home–finally, home!!!–I put on my oldest flannel nightgown, poured myself some wine, got in bed with my little dog and vowed that I was going nowhere. No matter what my agent said, no matter what Glen said, no matter how much money was at stake, no one could make me leave my plain raised-ranch house in the woods, or my bed or my beloved dog.
Glen was a little disappointed. As was my agent.
But fortunately, I wasn’t offered the job. They hired someone “in house”, but they did buy ideas from a couple of romance writers. But not from me.
I was so happy.
Okay, where was I? Woody Allen. Movie last night.
Owen Wilson was charming. Paris was beautiful. The movie was adorable and sweet and funny. I will be quoting Hemingway and making myself laugh for at least a week.
Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and 
he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you.
The actor who played him was hilarious.
Go see it if you can find it. Or rent it if you can find it.
You’ll watch it twice. Or thrice!
This is what the sky looks like tonight. It was another cool day, a sweatshirt morning. The sun came out for a while this afternoon, but the clouds returned for the evening.
After a whirlwind day–baking blueberry cakes at 7 AM, loading the crockpot with pork ribs, watching a recorded episode of The Bachelorette at Janou’s, driving up the mountain with Dancing Mandolin Player and rehearsing with the band, then going to town to Walmart and the Peach Man stand—I came home to sad news.
First, a dear friend’s mother is very, very ill. I first met her in 1975, when two of her daughters babysat for my toddler. She and her sweet husband lived in California then, but would come to Montana in the summers to visit some of their grown children. They eventually moved to Montana, which thrilled their kids and gave us more bridge partners. Glen and I were always grateful to be included in the family gatherings. I am so sad for her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And for all of the in-laws, who love her so very much, too.
It was an honor to have known her.
Second, a very special friend of ours in RI collapsed this afternoon.***** We were in high school together, but our friendship really started about 8 years ago. He especially enjoys my karaoke machine (he does all the Frank Sinatra tunes) and loves to laugh at Glen’s eccentricities (of which there are many). He’s the one who insisted we go to the Corn Palace in South Dakota, which we did, and I sent him the promised postcard to prove it.
*****update*****Diagnosed with extreme heat exhaustion, he is home now and doing well!!!!!!!! It was 104 in Rhode Island yesterday, which is very unusual.
So…it’s a sad night. I am going to skip fiddle practice, ignore the exercise bike and just go to bed.
And I will say some prayers and hope that the morning brings good news all around.
Good night.
happy birthday, dear daughter-in-law.
i hear your husband is taking you to see Dwight Yoakum.
i hope you get chocolate, too.
because you’ve had such a busy and exciting year.
you were the happiest pregnant person i’ve ever known, despite carrying around that enormous baby.
so, happy birthday.
your present is in the mail. use it for margaritas with the girls.
love,
your mother-in-law
Last night we practiced at the Hope market. Actually I’m not sure if that’s the right name now or not. It used to be called the “Hi Hopes Market”, but that was a zillion years ago. I remember when the big excitement there was the addition of a video rental room (videos, not dvd’s). That meant we didn’t have to drive to town to rent movies from the auto parts supply store (for a special weekend rate, we could take home a vcr and 3 movies–what a deal).
Now it’s a beautiful art gallery and cafe. The owner lets us practice here. Boy, are we lucky.
Here’s our brass section getting ready to jam:
And here is Retired Mountain Lady behind the keyboard.
Neil & recorder, RML and Bruce on bass.
Linda (accordion), Julie (drum), Anne (mandolin–she’s playing so fast she’s a blur!). We had such a good time.
I missed taking a picture of our Dancing Mandolin Player, but here’s one of the tayberry cobbler she brought for us. It was so good.
People ask me all the time about our songs. What kind of songs we do. How we decide what to play. Do we have special songs for the dump concerts (notice I said concerts).
Last night Mark (blues harmonica, jazz cornet, vocals, guitar) suggested we each come up with a song we wanted to play and then just jam. That worked! We tried some new things and revisited old songs. I’m going to try to list what I remember:
Jambalaya
Hey, Good Lookin’
Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys (we decided we definitely needed alcohol to try this one again)
Tear My Stillhouse Down (I got to pretend to be Gillian Welch…or her mother…or her grandmother? and sing)
I’ll Fly Away Medley
Mercy, Mercy (a cool instrumental)
The Midnight Hour (Motown? I sang Motown? Can I buy sequined bell bottoms now?)
My Bucket’s Got A Hole In It
If I think of the others, I’ll add them to the list.
It was an odd feeling standing there in the remodeled market. My music stand was approximately where the dairy section used to be. One of my very best friends, Barbara, worked in the store for years and treated my children as a grandmother would. The kids and I would go to the store, pick up milk or a movie and visit with her. One day I discovered my four year old daughter had stolen gum from the penny candy display, so I drove her back to the store and made her give it back, apologize, pay for it and grovel.
My daughter cried, but Barbara cried harder. As a mom trying very seriously to teach a lesson about shoplifting, I had no patience for tears and scolded both of them. Barbara fussed about that afternoon for days, alternating between being amused and telling me I had been too strict.
I don’t think my grown-up children would have recognized their strict mother last night. The fiddle strikes them as a bit eccentric, but the singing would freak them out.
Which is a good thing.
Image via Wikipedia
Fourth of July
Glen the Banjo Man
LIVE at the Dump
is there any more pie? 