Sixty plus years of marriage is a lot to celebrate, but once again Bill and I are recalling the “I Do’s” spoken to a justice of the peace so long ago. We wanted to elope but Mom said that would break my father’s heart, so we stayed in town and Dad cried anyway as he predicted Bill would leave me as soon as he graduated from college.
Dad is the one in the background of our wedding picture, hands on hips, predicting doom.
Dad was so wrong.
Because here we are, still together.
And even through self-quarantining for over a year trying to avoid Covid-19, we have still not run out of conversation.
And even through my BigFoot and now arthritic hip, we are still a dedicated pair.
Life has thrown us some curve balls but we stuck together anyway and we still celebrate
the good times and the growing family and the good friends, those who still linger and those who are gone.
It was a day in a lifetime, our wedding day, but it was only
My father was a painting contractor in that long-ago time when houses were done with oil paint. I understand oil is still available but mostly folks use Latex now. Dad taught me to use a brush up and down with quality oil paint and then side to side to avoid visible brush marks! He had his own business, carried his ladders on a truck, and was much like the painters today in our little rural community in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.
I thought I knew it all about how to choose a house painter because talking to them would be like talking to Dad again. I would join the world of estimates, numbers of men on the crew, gallons of paint needed, scheduling, etc. I knew it all.
I wonder though, what Dad would say to this story of trial and error in the selection process.
We would like to get the outside of our house painted/stained ASAP so the question was, “How do we find someone to do a good job and show up when expected?” In other words, we were looking for a professional, trustworthy painter like my Dad.
First we learned over time to go to friends for shared names and experiences. I did that and got two prospect numbers from a trusted friend who had work done a few years ago.
Neither telephone number worked.
Next I went online and got a name and an immediate response! Wow! Impressive. And Wow! We had an appointment with “Ambrose” (fictitious name) to come to our house the next day.
Meanwhile I remembered a company who did some minor painting for us years ago and although the crew were the biggest scariest looking men I have ever met, they had done a stellar job. So I called that number too. Again, a quick response and an appointment for them to come out the next day.
Finally, my son did a little digging and came up with another name we shall call “John”, who was just as responsive as the first two! And we had another appointment for the day after the first day of appointments.
None of this is very scientific but what the hay, this is country living right? They say three is a crowd but in the case of obtaining bids, I figured three was a reasonable number.
APPOINTMENT DAY
Ambrose showed up and was great to talk to and not only said he did painting but he also does handyman work! We were excited. He went around the house, took pictures and measurements and then said he would get an estimate back to us in a week. That was Monday. Bill liked Ambrose. We were both leaning toward Ambrose but needed to see the other two.
John (another fictitious name) was supposed to come Tuesday but arrived on Monday so he was eager. He is a friendly extroverted talker who quickly convinced us he knows what he is doing, but we were still leaning toward Ambrose. Nevertheless, John produced a detailed estimate by email on the same day. We are definitely not used to this level of professionalism in this heavenly place my Mom called “No Man’s Land.”
Finally, the big big guys who had once done some work for us came out and remembered us and our place. We were hopeful and were leaning toward them since we already had a record of their great work in our house. These fine fellows are what people around here call “locals” and of course they, in private, call the rest of us “foreigners” since we were not born here. True locals have a Virginia dialect that is sometimes difficult for us foreigners to understand but we all managed to communicate and they promised to produce an estimate next day.
This they did.
But their quote was twice as high as John’s. Their quote was very very high.
Nix the Big Guysbecause they were just too expensive.
Ambrose waited a whole week to contact us again. He did call in precisely seven days to let us know he had not done an estimate and to announce that he was too booked up to take on this project. Huh?
Nix Ambrosebecause he said he was not available.
And so we are now committed/contracted to have our house painted in late May by John.
We trust John,
we think.
I will keep you posted on this yet-to-be-begun project but at least you know some dubious steps to find a house painter :
Call friends.
Look online.
Remember good workers from the past.
Enlist family members to help.
Or you may have figured out that if you live in No Man’s Land, it will be just plain luck if you find a painter as good as my Dad. On the other hand, you may not want to paint your house with oil paint either.
Once upon a very long time ago, when I was but a wee bit of a girl, my parents took me and my little brother to semi-professional ball games at a local park. It was a way to cool off in the evenings since we lived in Florida and had no air-conditioning in those good old days.
To us kids, those parktime excursions were wondrous, not only for the star quality of the young athletes in their dashing uniforms, but for the air of excitement and the vendors who went up and down the stands hawking, “Get your hot dogs here! Get your peanuts here!”
And Dad would buy us each a bag of warm wonderful peanuts. I think they were maybe 10 cents a bag. But what I recall is the delightful aroma.
The memory of those rich fragrant little bags of nuts stayed with me for years until I found out how to make my own replica in my own kitchen. Since then I have been giving tins of them for gifts, offering them up when company comes (before and hopefully after Covid), and keeping batches of them in my freezer.
Now, if you are allergic to peanuts, feel free to burn this page. But if you are not, just follow the recipe for Dor’s Home Roasted Peanuts.
DOR’S HOME ROASTED PEANUTS
INGREDIENTS:
One pound of Raw Blanched Peanuts (I get mine at a local Farm store, but I am sure you can order them online too).
Regular salt and if you have it,
Seasoned salt (usually more powdery than regular salt so it sticks better to the peanuts)
1 1/2 teaspoons butter (I use coconut oil but butter is fine too – it’s just to give the salt something to stick to).
INSTRUCTIONS:
Preheat the oven to 350 F
Pour all the raw peanuts into a rimmed pan. I use the bottom of my broiler pan.
Put the pan full of nuts into the oven and the timer on for 6 minutes.
After 6 minutes, stir them up and move them around for more even baking.
Time them again for 6 minutes. Repeat.
Repeat the 6 minute timing and shuffling for a total of 3 or 4 times.
When the peanuts look golden and brown enough, immediately remove from oven and stir in the butter all around to give the peanuts a light coating (just enough for the salt to stick to). If you use 2 teaspoons of butter it will probably be too much.
Now simply start salting to taste. I start with the stickier Seasoned Salt, generously apply and stir around. Then the regular or sea salt – apply and stir.
Serve warm or serve right out of the freezer. Mostly, ENJOY!
The taste of these peanuts is totally different than anything store bought. They are as close to the Ballgame Peanuts of my childhood as I have ever found.
This gift is another very special thing that must be learned.
And I am tired of learning.
The school room was the place for that along with a younger more receptive mind. And if you learned something well and once, it was good for a lifetime. Well mostly.
When I was 17 I had a job as a gopher (go-fer this and go-fer that) and they told me if I learned to clean and operate an Ozalid machine, I would have some invaluable knowledge for life. Noone I know today has ever heard of an Ozalid machine, have you?
Nowadays, however, if you learn a thing and think you have it stored and always ready to draw upon “you have another think coming.” Nope. If you learn one part of a computer it may be useless in a matter of hours.
Here I am with a shiny new computer I am calling Ogar (short for Ogre) that was given to me for Christmas with great love by my whole family. I am truly grateful since the old object of their affection, which I had partially learned after 5 years of struggling was showing signs of ultimate collapse.
Groan. How can I disparage such a thoughtful wonderful gift?
Well, the process of transferring all the old stuff to the new Ogar may sound easy but HA! Not so. The process is more like a pulling a tooth. You mindlessly explore with the tongue for a ghostly apparition of what might still be there, but in the end all the exploration yields only a gaping empty space.
My sweet family saw this sleek new marvel would not only replace the 5 year old relic, but it would also keep me busy whilst waiting for a Covid-19 vaccine. In addition to proving how warm hearted my family is, there is also an element of logic there.
Ogar is definitely a time guzzler.
And better Ogar than Covid right?
Ogar is certainly keeping me busy too, creating a roadmap of wrinkles upon my brow. Thankfully I call upon my son to guide me through all the myriad options chasing an insane cursor through a maze of intricate maneuvers over an increasingly insane canvas. And only my son really knows where the mercurial sensor is going or why.
“You see that thing that looks like a cog?” he asks in his effort to guide me through all the symbols.
A cog?
How do I know what a cog looks like?
Where on this page of icons, symbols and totems is there a cog?
The whole world has been shut down to deal with an unknown virus that has seemingly taken over entire lives.
And even though it is happening slowly, the world is trying to regress back to the good times when people could hug and talk and sing and shout from less than six feet away
We yearn for those Good Old Days too, but being among the Vulnerables, our world still stays shut.
And some days are tougher than others. Today was such a day.
Bill came in from a trip to Lowes and announced he is convinced the virus will never go away because so many people refuse to wear masks. His conviction and disillusion made me feel sad.
Then a big rain storm came to add to the gloom.
And of course Elsa was convinced the sky was falling again.
I spent some of the gloomy day catching up on news, and of course there was nothing very uplifting to report.
As always, in midday Bill went for our mail. But this time he came home with a package from Janet, our dear old friend in Arizona.
The box contained a greeting card that reminded us to celebrate Christmas in July!
And under the card was one of Janet’s homemade famous English fruitcakes complete with a marzipan icing and a red ribbon to celebrate the holiday.
In addition there were two boxes of Terry’s Chocolate Oranges, an English favorite and mine too. You may have guessed that Janet is originally from England.
But talk about smiling!
Imagine our delight at receiving such a happy thoughtful gift. And the timing was perfect!
I was driving to Staunton, Virginia (pronounced “Standtin” by the locals) on what was once a major north-south highway now displaced by the Interstate.
This stretch of U.S. Route 11 (known as Lee Highway here) is a country road now that slows for thriving little towns and interesting stops along the way, with farms and barns and majestic mountain views.
But what I love most is to see the remnants of a bygone era – abandoned gas stations, diners, pre-chain motels, and other businesses I actually recall as they were in their “haydays” in the 1950’s.
There are crumbling buildings as timeworn as I sometimes feel.
Surely they have stories to tell of lives and lifetimes.
Would that we could get close enough
and remain still long enough to hear the echoes of the past.
This Christmas has come and gone but it doesn’t feel quite gone.
Our pretty little tree still glows in its place of honor.
And no matter how I resist, the peanutbutter fudge calls my name.
And so do the truffles along with those scrumptious European style Christmas cookies.
And don’t forget the peanut brittle and banana bread with chocolate chips!
All the treats combined are a symphony calling, calling, and designed to lure me into a sugar high.
A “Santa’s Fave” night shirt is still under the tree waiting.
There is a brand new portable MANUAL typewriter waiting for me to experiment with “the old way” to type. I wonder if these old fingers are strong enough. I have been groaning about computer keyboards for years but will have to find some other modern thing to complain about now. (No intention of giving up the computer however. A manual typer is like going back to the horse and buggy – a delightful visit to the past but one needs to return to the future).
Other Merry Moment reminders of the picturesque past have come unbidden this Christmas:
I almost forgot to put the bacon bits on top of the green beans and that reminded me of my Mom who served peas for dessert one year long ago. We are still laughing over that.
And I was as surprised as anyone that this Christmas dinner was actually palatable. It made me recall Dad saying, “That was delicious if I do say so myself.”
This year our Christmas was quiet and missing the noise and chaos of yesteryear. Family and close friends are scattered to points west.
Still this was a good kind of quiet with a new little dog to make us laugh and play, and good friends sharing dinner.
Now it is time to wish you, my cyberspace friends, a Happy New Year and wishing yoy your own Merry Moments that live on and on.
I glued them in a haphazard way on top of a big old ugly $15 dime store print that once hung over our couch.
Even now I think it was a great idea and I remember pasting away and thinking, “How artistic if I do say so myself!”
I loved it so much that I eventually had the collage framed and was assured the priceless photographs were safely under protective glass.
“This collage of family and friends will live on through generations,” I thought.
And yes, that inventive impressive self indulgent collage is over the desk in Bill’s “office.”
And every now and then I look once again at a dimming past.
Literally!
Some of the photos are not only dimming,
they are disappearing!
Many of those faded fotos in my collage were taken with an early Polaroid camera in the 1960’s or maybe even earlier. The miracle was that the camera itself would process a picture and spit it out for at you. Then you waved it in the air and blew on it to “set” things – or at least I did.
I suppose being under glass and exposed to sunlight would “unset” or affect images. Or maybe I shouldn’t have shaken the photo to hurry things along.
Is there a Polaroid camera now with a re-set button?
I want to hit RE-SET!
The fading fotos from yesteryear are following my life cycle and we will all fade away together.
Are you watching your life fade away too?
If you are wondering if they even make Polaroid cameras anymore, the answer is Yes! Instant film is coming back into popularity!
From Polaroid’s Comeback, by Mark Rogers, Photographer: “Polaroid cameras haverecently been coming out of storage. …With instant film so popular, there are now once again hundreds of these small, square-shaped photographs around — and your favorites should be preserved and displayed the right way. Just like standard photographs and prints, instant film can suffer the same damage as standard film. However, a little more care should be taken when handling the still-developing film — according to Polaroid, the more closely the photographer followed the instructions, the longer the photo will last. Tip: Shaking the photo does not help a Polaroid develop faster. In fact, it could actually damage the developing photograph!…Standard photography preservation practices apply: keep the photos away from light, heat and moisture; most organizations maintain that Polaroids will fade in as just as much time as conventional photographs…”
It is shortness of breath when faced with too many choices like shopping in cluttered overstocked stores or having to decide between zillions of television channels
When we were young and living in “remote areas of California” I was happy to do all the shopping at one local general store.
And we didn’t even own a t.v. or a computer or a cell phone.
But there is no accounting for progress.
We moved to the Virginia countryside where life promised to remain simple and uncluttered. There were only three restaurants, no department stores, and no big box stores.
We put an antenna in the attic to get two clear television channels and one fuzzy station and decided we were living in Paradise.
And time marched on.
And suddenly there was a bigger, wider, more enticing world of satellite television with a zillion optional programs.
We were among the first 20,000 people in the United States to have Direct TV. There were no installers then (at least in rural Virginia) so Bill installed everything himself. Imagine the joy in surfing around with a remote thing! And imagine being given a whole menu of options! I could feel my breathing phobia kicking in.
And time marched on.
There is no accounting for progress.
I recently learned how to record t.v. programs for later viewing. For those of you who are still novices like I was, you just push a button that says REC on your remote. I have gone a little balistic with this new power (but symptoms of my short-of-breath-phobia are emerging too).
I have R E C’d enough programs to keep me recliner-chair-bound for the winter.
TheYoung Pope is mesmerizing.
But then Mercy Street is enticing.
And Victoria is a must.
I like the History channels.
And nature things.
And all those recommendations we get from friends.
And we currently also have three Netflix discs on standby.
And I want to get back into blogging.
And there is so much to do in cyberspace anyway.
Progress? I call it “overkill” and there is simply not enough time in a day anymore.
Do I want to go back to three channels on the t.v.? No.
Well maybe 10 or 20 options max?
As for shopping I sometimes yearn for the good old days.
A visit to Ernie’s General Store in Hayfork, California sounds good, simple, easy. I could get paint, gifts, clothing, hardware, and maybe even a television set – all in one place. Those were the days when we rented a trailer from Ernie and it was in his back yard! That was when we were young and living in the wilder more remote places of California. It is now many decades later and there is no accounting for progress. I recently heard Ernie’s store was for sale. I wonder if it is still there.
Virginia Views 