paper

I signed the paper yesterday.

The Limestone Quarry

Farther up the road , at the top of the 2nd or third hill was a cut off track that led to the pond and the limestone quarry.  I don't remember exactly how to get there because we never walked that far.  It was always a trip in Daddy's dusty blue ford pickup.

The cut off track was really nothing more than a heavily traveled cow trail that ran along the barb wire fence.  The other side of the trail was a slight imprint in the prairie grass.  The gate was barb wire attached to an old tree branch which hooked to the fence.  Often times it was our job to get out and open the gate and then to stand watch so the cows did not get out.
To this day I'm not sure if it was really a job for us or a way to keep us out of trouble.  All I know was we were left all alone with the gate open to make sure the cows did not get out till Daddy came back.  We took that job very seriously and did not budge from our guard duty  while Daddy was off checking the cattle or feeding them.

Sometimes we would choose to walk instead of riding 4 abreast with Daddy in the truck.  We would travel the cattle trail.  The dirt would be fine and soft on our bare feet.  Cow hooves had pounded it to a fine powder that would poof up as we trudged up the hill.  It felt fine on  our feet because there was nary a sand burr, a goats head( ie puncture vine or in kid language a sticker!), cockleburs, buffaloburs, devils claw, prickly pear cactus, sharp pebbles, or fire ants to look out for on the path.

We roamed those pastures and fields on barefoot.  We wore thongs if we could find them.  (and yes we called them thongs not flip flops)  The only other shoes we had were our Sunday church shoes. Those shoes only made an appearance on Sundays! We were very aware of every plant, animal, insect, rock that was out to get us on the farm.  The dirt on the trail felt like velvet to our calloused feet.  We only had to watch for the cow pies.  The fecal dropping of Hereford cows could be fresh, soft and gooey, or dry frisbees.

As soon as we ascended the hill, our crooked bangs plastered to our freckled foreheads, we could see the dip between the hills and the pond.  It was an oasis in the Kansas summer heat.  It must have been another spring because I don't remember the pond ever drying up.  It was flanked on one side by a rusty, tattered windmill that fed into a stock tank.  The windmill would creak and groan as the wind would buffeted it first one way than the other.  On the other side was a grove of cottonwood trees. 


to be continued....

Channeling My Style

I work  with a young colleague who has helped me to get reintroduced to my former style.  She is a beautiful young lady with a quirky sense of style and she pulls it off.  I love it.  She can come to work with a darling top and skirt, and pair it with leggings and sneakers.  She looks fabulous.  I've started taking my cue from her and getting a bit daring with my pairings in my "old age".

Back in my younger days, I am talking the "70's, I was unusual in my school for the clothes I chose to wear.  Before it was cool I was shopping at the DAV(Disabled Veteran's Store) and the Salvation Army.  I picked up funky costume jewelry, Padded shoulder jackets, Pendelton jackets, hats with feathers and veils, dresses and coats from the 40's and 50's.  I even sported one of those ruched swimming suits from the forty's.

Also since I considered myself a "theatre freak" at the time, I  raided the costume department for prom and homecoming dresses.  My college professor gave me some really nice dresses from the costume shop.  I also started receiving clothes from friends who found them in their attics and closets.  I was given a fabulous black cashmere coat with a huge fur ruff.  The mint green wool coat with padded shoulders screamed of the 40's. Another friend gave me furs that were left in storage and never claimed.  (Poor little foxes and ferrets.)  Everyday was an adventure in dressing.  I had characters and symbols named for each outfit.

Then came the reality years:  work, marriage, children and fat.  I no longer had places to wear my costumes.  As I put on weight I became more concerned about finding inexpensive, comfortable clothes, to hide the fat.  Fat clothes are seldom attractive or stylish.  I hated wearing what I considered to be old lady tent clothes for fat people.  It was horrid.  Inside that fat woman was the same fashionista who wanted to wear sparkles, capes, scarves, hats, and bling.

Finally, I started getting my life turned around and losing weight.  I started shopping at the Goodwill because I could not afford to buy new clothes every time I dropped a size. I can no longer find the treasures I used to find but what I can find are name brand clothes that usually cost more than what I want to spend.

So I'm a namedropper now with my J Jills, Chicos. Talbots, Ann Loft, and Coldwater Creek.  I mix and match with the best of them.  I gleefully put outfits together and love the compliments I get on them.  I am having the best time dressing up in my new roles.  I tell everybody I am making up for 25 years of  fashion deprivation!

My only worry has been about "my age".  I am 56 and sometimes I wonder if I am dressing too young for my age or if that is even something I should be concerned about?  It's not like I am dressing racy, but oh I love the bling.  I want to wear feathers in my hair!  I want to wear leggings and bright colors, and scarves with texture.  I want to wear unusual jewelry and skirts above my knees.

I can't wear high heels anymore.  I am afraid I would hurt myself by falling down!  Shoes have to be comfortable so I do invest money in good shoes.  I can't really do thongs, bikinis, or skimpy tops.  I have a difficult time enough wearing sleeveless shirts.  Unless I want to do plastic surgery there are just some items of clothes I can't wear.

I can, though, put together clothes like my colleague and hang the age thing.  I can dress as funky as I want and recreate some roles and symbols.  I just don't want to be frumpy anymore.  I want to have fun!

My colleague assures me I am rocking the look.  Hey she's 28 and I like the way she carries off her style.  So I can be 56 and rock my style and channel the styles I see around me!  I am going to take my youthful influences and mix it with my "old lady" self and have some fun!

The thrift stores are calling me!

The "helpless female"

I admit it.  Sometimes I do play the helpless female, especially when it comes to cars.  I know I should be a self -sufficient woman and be able to put air in my tires, add a can of oil, change my windshield wipers, change a tire, and put in a new lightbulb in my headlight.  But just because I know I should be able to do it doesn't mean I want to do it.

I'm just not into it.  I feel stupid around cars.  I have no interest in knowing anything about cars.  Yet I hate being thought of as a "typical" woman that a male can take advantage of when it comes to fixing a car.  I'm a Pollyanna!  I believe what people tell me.  I hate the feeling that someone is playing me for a sucker when it comes to cars.

Remember the light that came on yesterday?  I know what it means.  It comes on when the tire pressure is low.  I looked at my tires, and I could not tell if any of them is low. I figured I had three choices.   I could take it to the dealer.  (I wonder if they would have charged me to put air in the tires?)  I could take it to Les Schwab, where I bought the tires.  Or I could go to my local Chevron station that I go to every Saturday.  I figure the guys know me, and I could play dumb, and they would fill my tires with air.

The dealership is clear across  town, but  it is my work out day and I needed to walk Queenie first.  Les Schwab is by my apartment, but I still would need to walk Queenie first.  Both could require a long wait.  I figured if the gas station was not busy I could be in and out of there, get home to walk Queenie, and then go work out.

There was hardly anyone at Chevron, and I asked the nice young man if he could show me how to put air in my tires. ( Read : I really don't want to know how, I just want you to put air in my tires.) It was no problem for him.

I found out how much pressure needs to be in each tire. (44).  All the tires were low with the lowest one being at 30.  I observed how to work the air and read the gauge.    I don't know if the next time I will actually try and put the air  in the tires  myself.  I know I should so I can be self reliant.  Sometimes it is just easier to play dumb.

Roar!

the first day back

I actually think the kids missed school.  They were on their best behavior.  I secretly think they miss the structure and routines of school.  I don't think many of them have that structure in their lives.  It's hard to believe we are on our last 9 weeks of school.

Tonight I came home to grade the papers I put off during spring break.  All I could think of was how many parents were going to be wanting to talk to me over grades.  The new report card grades on content and work effort only.  So the  grade in Language arts  will include phonics, phonemic awareness, comprehension, grammar and sight words.  If they fail in one area they fail completely.  It makes for a brutal grade.

We get Wednesday afternoon to do our grades.  It is our normal prep time so it just doubles our work.  I am glad I managed to enter grades through out the grading period.

I still am experiencing some disequilibrium about everything.  I did not hear from the lawyer.  I made a list of things to do and did not do any of them except grade papers.  I need to call the vet to make an appointment for a blood test for Queenie.  I need to call about retirement.  My light came on that says I need air in my tires.  I need to call my dentist and doctor.  It seems the more that is on my list the more I don't want to do it.

There was snow on the hills today.  It doesn't seem to keep the spring birds from singing.  That's what I need right now- the ability to keep the song going.  I need to not dwell on what seems to be all the negativity in my life.

I think I shall dwell more on just writing to be writing.  I want to continue the journey up the road.  The next stop is the limestone quarry.  The quarry that built the farm house, the barn, and the fence posts. It also held the household trash and functioned as the "dump".  It symbolizes more "debris" in my life.

Debris is not always bad I think.  Sometimes it becomes our treasures.

I am remembering last April when I blogged every day.  That is appealing to me right now.  It may not have much content, but it has me.

Should of, would of, could of

I talked  with the lawyer last week,  and we made some adjustments.  I could have rushed home from the ocean to sign the papers but I did not want to give up my time at the coast.  Somehow I will need to find a time next week to go and sign the papers.

I am more disturbed then I thought I would be by this ending.  I think part is pride and part is genuine sadness at the ending of a marriage I thought would last forever.

I have a lot of overwhelming thoughts going on in my head right now and it is just not the the divorce.  

As I drove away from the ocean I thought to myself,

" I need some new memories."

I'm tired of looking at things and being reminded of my husband and my family that don't exist anymore.

Yuck.

Up the Road

The plum bushes were at a dip in the road: a hollow.  Fifty years ago they were the only greenery on the road.  Since then a grove of cottonwood trees has sprung up. It's like they guard "the gate" to the plum bushes.   They dwarf the plum bushes; and if I did not know they were there I would have missed the plums.

After the plums were finished I would hike farther up the road.  The road began a  steady rise in elevation.  Of course, being Kansas, I am not talking about mountains.  The hills rose and rolled from there on.  They appeared as camel humps, a savory green in spring and a dusty gray green in mid summer.  

If this camel were to shake out its hair, out would fall the cactus, devils thorn, wild onions, chokeberries, and dusty tumbleweeds caught on barb wire fences.  The glue would be cow patties in various stages of freshness;  from gooey with the blue-green flies, to dried feather weight saucers.  In the ditches by the road were sunflowers happy as the mid day sun to just be alive. They crowded each other shoulder to shoulder, a choir of joy just begging me to pick.

All this I  could see from the road as I  trudged up the first hill.  I  called it , "the dinosaur hill."  As I ascended, the dirt filled ditches and shoulders began to spot with buff and cream colored spots:  limestone fragments uncovered by  the blade.  I  called it,  "the dinosaur hill" because this is where the treasure hunt began for finding prehistoric fossils embedded in the chunks of limestone buried underneath the prairie loam.

In the stones I could see clam shells and mussel shells.  I always kept my eye open, hoping to find some prehistoric monster sleeping in the stone.  I would pick up rocks to keep, only to discard as I found a new and better one.

At the top of the hill I had a view of the low lying wheat fields. In the other direction the hills, rumpled in grass, flowed like the ancient waves they were made of long ago. Here, I would stop to examine the outcroppings of limestone and catch my breath.  I would load my pockets with the best looking rocks.  I tried to imagine the ancient seas and creatures who lived in the seas.  

Inevitably it would be the low of the cattle and clink-clank of the windmill shifting in a dry wind, that would bring me back to the present and the reality of the chores calling my name.  There were the cows to call home.  With my pockets stuffed I would crawl under the barb wire fence and kris cross cattywampus across the pasture to where the cows huddled by the windmill and stock tank.  I'd call,


"Come Boss.  Come Boss", 

and like the Pied Piper I would lead the cows home to the barn, Daddy, and the milking stool.

That was not the only adventure on that Kansas dirt road.  In my mind the road was always a path to some kind of other world, either in my mind or in reality.  It was just one of many treasured playgrounds on the farm outside of Sylvan Grove, Kansas.