The Farm Bleat

A couple of years ago, I splurged and bought a year-long pass to the great state parks of Minnesota. I had visions of visiting every one of them — if not throughout the state, at least those right here in southwest Minnesota.

Well, the year went by and I didn’t even drive toward the entrance of such parks as Blue Mounds, Kilen Woods, Split Rock Creek, Camden and LakeShetek. The beautiful state park sticker that adorned a small corner on the windshield of my car was purchased at Tettegouche State Parkand gave Mom and me a free pass to Split Rock Lighthouse during that four-day journey to the North Shore a year and a half ago. It also meant free parking and travel through Itasca State Park when I was there for a leadership conference, but that was it.

I never considered the expense a waste of money — I figure supporting our state parks is always a good idea. Still, I don’t know that I’ll invest in another year-long state park sticker this year.

Instead, I decided to put down some dough for a membership to the Minnesota Historical Society.

In early December, Mom and I stopped at the Minnesota History Center in St. Paul to see the Greatest Generation exhibit. After two years working with the Honor Flight project, I felt I had a good grasp of the events of the 1940s. The exhibit — filled with memorabilia from World War II — was awesome.

We didn’t have time that day to visit all of the exhibits, which is why I invested in the membership.

Last Thursday, after wrapping up another leadership session just down the street from the Minnesota History Center, I decided to stop in and see the 1968 exhibit before it closes Feb. 20.

I must admit, I was a little less knowledgeable about the “year of turmoil.” I could use the excuse that I wasn’t born yet, but then I wasn’t alive during World War II either. I’ve just had the good fortune of interviewing many people who lived through that era.

The 1968 exhibit at theMinnesota History Center features displays about the Vietnam War, and includes a Huey that was rebuilt to serve as the screen for video clips.Worthington native Tim O’Brien is one of the Vietnam veterans who shares his story of the war. (I’m currently reading Tim’s book, “The Things They Carried”).

I also couldn’t help but notice all the 1960s-era furniture in the exhibit — it looked an awful lot like some of the things we had in our house — like the long console stereo system (aka record player), the pea-green colored upholstery and even the decorative clock on the wall.

The exhibit tells the stories of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, both assassinated in the spring of 1968, and the campaign of Hubert H. Humphrey.

It’s an incredible exhibit, but only showing for a limited time. If you’re planning a trip to St. Paul in the next couple of weeks, I would encourage you stop in for a visit. Another option is to take a virtual tour at www.minnesotahistorycenter.org.

I don’t know if too many dogs understand the concept of sharing, but I’m pretty sure my Molly can share among the best of them.

If you’re sitting at the supper table, enjoying a grilled ribeye, she’s perfectly content to sit at your feet, look at you with those beautiful brown eyes and then peek at your plate as if to say, “That’s one for you, now one for me.”

My parents blame me for Molly’s most recent behavior. Apparently the only time my pooch sits at the table and begs for food is when I’m an invited guest — that‘s what they tell me anyway.

Now, I will admit that I may have slipped her a small sample from time to time — but I’ve caught both Mom and Dad doing the same thing. Why, then, is it all my fault?

Come to think of it, why is Molly the pampered pooch who gets to spend her days — and nights — in the house? Boy, when I was growing up, there were absolutely, positively no indoor pets.

With Molly, it all began with brief visits inside the house. Then, whenever Molly wanted attention, she would paw at the garage door as if to say, “Let me in there with you, it’s too cold out here.”

Soon enough there were nights when Mom and Dad forgot to put her out in the garage for the night, and then it grew to the point where Molly didn’t want to go to the garage to sleep.

Before I knew what was happening, Molly’s dog bed became a permanent fixture inside the house.

It’s to the point now that if Mom and Dad go away for a couple of hours, they don’t even make Molly go outside. That’s right — she has complete rule of the house.

And that is perfectly fine with Mom and Dad — oh, and Molly too.

Oh, the stories they can tell about that Molly!

Why, just the other day, Mom had a new one for me. She was sitting in the rocker, holding great-granddaughter Kiera, and feeding her a freshly buttered slice of banana bread.

As Molly watched Kiera take that first tasty bite, she realized maybe this was worth investigating. She got up from her rug, strolled across the living room and rested her chin right on my mom’s lap. She stood there, tail wagging, patiently waiting.

“One for her and one for me.”

Leave it to Mom to give her what she wanted.

Yet, I’m the one to blame for making Molly a beggar. Go figure!

It has been more than a week since I’ve written a blog and I’m feeling a bit out of practice. I just can’t seem to pinpoint one specific subject to write about.

So, if you’ll bear with me, I’ll write about several.

Since last I blogged, I turned another year older. Pastor Braun asked if I was going to mention it in the paper — he was even willing to help me write something — but birthday No. 41, other than falling on an absolutely gorgeous, record-breaking heat wave of a day, was quiet and enjoyable. There was a birthday lunch, a birthday supper and even a birthday song serenade over the telephone, thanks to the little Buntjers from Fairmont. Best of all, I avoided the birthday spankings — not to mention the pinch to grow an inch and the sock to grow a block — although I’m sure nephews Blake and Reece will do what they can to remedy that the next time they come for a visit. Payback isn’t pleasant!

 My Honor Flight IV scrapbook is coming along, finally. A three-day weekend helped, but I lost valuable time trying to get a few movie rentals to work in my DVD player (I was in need of a little noise in the house by Sunday afternoon). There was one trip to the store for a new battery for the remote, followed by several attempts to make the machine work, and finally, another trip to the store for a new DVD player.

While my weekend movie rentals were a bit disappointing, niece Jessie and I did see a good show at the Northland Cinema a week ago. We’d both wanted to see, “We Bought a Zoo” and we weren’t disappointed.

That said, I’m pretty sure I won’t watch the movie again — it generated a nightmare that caused me to sit up in bed at 3 a.m., thinking there were snakes crawling around my house.

Yes, the zoo movie has snakes in it — and I have a definite phobia of snakes. I didn’t scream out loud inside the theater, but I squirmed in my seat, sheltered my eyes and even squeezed Jessie’s knee. Typical teenager that she is, she rolled her eyes and passed off a look that, I imagine, proclaimed me as her crazy aunt. Even now, just writing about snakes, gives me goosebumps. Yuck!

I’m beginning to think that in order to get my Honor Flight scrapbook complete, I’m going to have to leave my house — no DVD players or nearby movie theaters to distract me, no Facebook statuses to update or games to waste my time, no root beer to spill, no dishes to wash, no floors to mop and no furniture to dust — nothing but me and a stash of pictures, papers, gel pens, markers and tape runners.

I have a couple of options I’m considering — a Scrap-a-thon and Card-o-Rama is being offered in three weeks at the high school. With about 50 people expected, I could certainly get the inspiration and ideas I need to get to work.

Also a possibility is total seclusion in one of those really cool camper cabins up at Lake Shetek State Park (see the story in the Jan. 18 Daily Globe).

Other than 4-H camp when I was about eight or nine years old, and a brief excursion to the hostel at Itasca State Park last spring, I really have never “gone camping.” Visiting Shetek in the middle of winter sounds like quite an adventure with few things to distract me, although I could take a break from my scrapbooking to walk one of the trails, or wrap myself in one of Grandma’s quilts to read a good book.

I’d bring along a batch of beef stew and a crock-pot, a box of Cheerios, milk and water. Roughing it would mean living without my toasted English muffin and peanut butter — and all of the electrical amenities of home, of course, but it would only be for a couple of days.

Oh, what a grand adventure it would be!

My only fear in renting a cabin for myself is hearing the proverbial bump in the night. Snakes aren’t a worry in winter, but what about Bigfoot?

So, anyone out there want to go on a scrapbooking retreat? Your responsibility will be to protect us from Bigfoot … or at least assure me he isn’t real. The tale of the sasquatch is the one summer camp experience I can’t seem to forget.

It all began when a bottle of root beer rolled out of my refrigerator last Saturday noon.

My bologna (weak moment at the grocery store) sandwich with lettuce and Miracle Whip was ready, and my new bag of tasty sweet potato kettle chips was opened for lunch. For whatever reason, I picked the plastic bottle of Diet A&W off the floor and twisted off the cap.

That’s when it happened — the monsoon of syrupy, sticky, foamy liquid sprayed all over my hand, up my arm and across the kitchen floor.

Luckily I was within a foot or so of the kitchen sink, but the damage had been done.

That one little episode with a bottle of root beer cost me an entire weekend of New Year’s relaxation in my upstairs crafting room.

Yes, it truly did.

I was so organized, too, and felt even a bit more creative than usual. I had all of my special papers in one stash, my tape runners were filled and ready for use and the photos had all been printed weeks ago. The entire weekend was supposed to be devoted to reliving my Honor Flight IV memories.

What do they say about the best laid plans?

Now, with little to show for that so-called weekend of scrapbooking, I realize that perhaps I should spend the money and actually attend one of those scrapbooker’s get-aways like my sister-in-law treats herself to. Had I spilled a pop there, I’m sure I wouldn’t have felt compelled to go on a cleaning binge.

Anyway, I suppose I could have taken the easy way out and just wiped up the spill with a wet paper towel. Actually, I did attempt that — it didn’t work.

So, I stooped to the level my mom takes — scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees with a rag and a mixture of warm water and Pine-Sol. Since I was going to take such drastic measures, I figured I may as well scrub the whole floor.

And, since I was going to scrub the whole floor, it was probably time for the rag rugs to be shaken out and shoved in the washing machine. Heck, the bathroom rug could be thrown in too and, while that is being washed, I may as well get more use out of the cleaning solution and mop that floor as well.

How does one spilled bottle of pop lead to so much work?

By the end of the day, the rugs were dangling over stuff in the basement to dry, the kitchen and bathroom floors smelled of fresh pine, every single load of clothes was washed, dried and put away, the mattress was flipped, the closet and the dresser were cleaned out, the bed made, the bathroom sparkled as much as can be expected, I’d finished a book (I needed to take a couple of breaks) and a glass of chocolate wine was swirling in my tummy. The only things I didn’t accomplish were taking the Swiffer over the hardwoods, running the vacuum over the area rugs and dusting the furniture.

All week long a little voice in my head has been telling me to get those things done so I can enjoy a cleaning-free scrapbooking retreat this weekend. I may just try to hold out until that voice is a scream — or until I spill another bottle of root beer.

Up from the basement he arose quietly, bearing gifts that were labeled for the Buntjer family.

His red suit sagged where a round belly should be, his white beard was bushy and his spectacles clean.

Reece chats with Santa.

He boasted “Ho, Ho, Ho” as he walked through the kitchen, sending kids flailing in all different directions.

There was Reece who was anxious to greet the big guy — a John Deere combine he hoped Santa would buy.

Alayna grew wide-eyed and leaped into my arms. She buried her face and whimpered in alarm.

“It’s Santa,” I said. “You can’t be afraid.”

I tried to peel her away, for photos I must take; but she wouldn’t let go … oh, for goodness sake!

Niece Katie was timid, just really not sure. Then she sided with Alayna and hid behind her.

Niece Alayna is scared of Santa.

Adrianna was brave as she reached Santa’s lap. She looked in his eyes as he fumbled in his sack. Her request was a present — it was that easy — and a fluffy snowman would do … nothing too cheesy.

Emily accepted her snowman just fine, there was no whimper, no screamin’ or cryin’.

That was for Kiera, the 16-month-old. She screamed and she hollered, she kicked and she flailed. This big man in red could not hold her, she wailed.

And just as she had everyone’s attention, there sat the Brod-man … he must be mentioned.

For in my photos of that Christmas Eve Day, as Kiera was screaming our little Brody was gleaming.

Kiera wails while Brody raises his hand.

He wanted to sit with this Santa in red, so eager his hand rose above his head.

“Pick me, Santa, pick me,” this 13-month-old thought. “I’m a brave little boy and I’m loved a whole lot. What’s in your sack, Santa, what have you brought?”

So Brody was placed in big Santa’s lap. He stared at the beard, the glasses and cap.

As he accepted his snowman with nary a smile, his daddy was awestruck by his brave little child.

Santa’s sack was now empty, he must be going. Lots of work was awaiting, at least it wasn’t snowing!

With a wave and a “See ya,” our Santa disappeared … no signs of a sleigh or a herd of reindeer.

Great-nephew Brody is awed by Santa.

That didn’t matter, the kids didn’t see — they were too busy, their eyes filled with glee.

Later that night, as stars brightly shone, the families packed up and they headed for home.

“But wait,” nephew Reece said before he could leave. He needed some reindeer poop to give Santa a treat.

He went to Aunt Connie’s platter of candy and plucked off a dropping to place in a baggie.

Santa can have his milk and his cookies, but reindeer poop, well, that’s one-of-a-kind. Just ask this little Buntjer boy, he knows the big guy won’t mind.

(Dear readers, I apologize for the cheesy creativity. I hope you all had a memorable Christmas!)