Grand Garden Junk Junkie

 

"Lily"

I may have already mentioned that I am a garden junk junkie. I have all sorts of wonderful things tucked into my flower beds: bird houses, found objects, interesting pieces of driftwood, and chunks of marble, fantastic “flowers” -- constructed of China plates and bowls and vases. One of my favorite pieces of “junk” is a scrap metal dinosaur—or maybe it’s a dragon, I can’t really tell---that my oldest son welded together when he was nine years old and went on a “take your son to work day” with dad. The dragon-saurus is wonderful and deserves a name, but somehow has never acquired one. Nevertheless, it faithfully stands guard in my garden, once upon a time I used it to give maundering elk the evil eye.

Shark!!

There are all manner of steppingstones that my kids have made over the years. My favorites are the ones they made in Mr. Westerberg’s 3-4 grade class that include the handprint of the “artist” pressed into the back. It’s hard to believe my towering six-foot sons ever had hands that small, but I have the proof, imprinted in cement.

My gardens also seem to be a repository for forgotten toys. Every so often, when transplanting a seedling, I’ll unearth a long-lost Hot Wheel car or a Match Box bulldozer that was abandoned when the Worst Mother in the World made the construction crew come in and take a bath. And then there are the plastic animal figurines that wander around the edges of my garden. My grandkids enjoy wandering around the garden, helping me water and discover treasures their fathers and uncles have left behind and adding their own bits and pieces to my collection of precious “junk.”

Look what we found, Nana Sugar!

My newest edition, from Mexico

Garden Pests, Adorable Edition

Baby Annie and Baby Abby

 There’s a new pest eating my plants—and the sad thing is, I have only myself to blame. I introduced them into the environment myself. In my defense I will say that they were so cute and helpless and small I never considered that they would grow up and wreak havoc on my gardening efforts.

They started out just doing minor damage—a bent plant here, an up rooted plant there.

Time passes, and I forget that these particular pests are just lying-in-wait, biding their time---and sooner or later I plant the plant they find irresistible, and they absolutely. Will. Not. Stop. Until it is destroyed. Utterly.

That’s right—I tried growing my own catnip.

My cats are big fans of catnip and have developed quite an addict—er, APPRECIATION of the herb. My friend Eileen grows it for her cats and has often gifted my cats cutting or two. I thought it would make a nice change from the usual dried catnip and decided I’d grow some for them.

The first year I planted it, they rolled on the plant and killed it. This year I thought I’d grow it in a pot until it was big enough that they wouldn’t be able to destroy it. But where could I keep it that the cats wouldn’t get to it? The kitchen widow sill? No, too accessible. The top of the fridge? Good, but not enough natural light. I took it outside, looking for a bright, yet inaccessible spot...Aha! the top of the playground slide, they’ll never find it up there...

SUCH BAD CATZ

The Famous Jardines Botanicos de Vallarta

While in Mexico, I had the opportunity to tour the Vallarta Botanical Gardens. There are nearly 80 acres of lush tropical foliage—most of it native-- at 1,300 feet above sea level, located about an hour outside of Puerto Vallarta. The rich diversity of flora and fauna-- most of which I didn’t even come close to recognizing—was mind boggling. And the colors were enough to put Pantone to shame!   

Everything was so lush and exuberant in its growth … it was a shock to recognize things I had only grown as small house plants looking more like “old growth” in their native environment.

Look Ma!  Free-range House Plants!

 And even the zinnias seemed to be on steroids.

The Botanical gardens also serve as a bird sanctuary. We observed hummingbirds and several species of jays feeding among the flowers. There were some spectacularly colored blackbirds with yellow patches on their shoulders, but even more yellow when they unfolded their wings to fly. Unfortunately, they were a bit camera shy and I didn’t get a good photo of them.

The Guinea hens where a different matter. Intent on some sort of mating ritual that seemed to include zigging and zagging around visitor’s legs, the Guinea hens were the opposite of shy. We had to keep from tripping over them.

But you don’t have to travel to the gardens to see spectacular floral displays. This was just a random tree, shading random street parking:

Only the Names Have Been Changed...

 

...To protect the innocent. Or the guilty. Whatever, I don’t judge.

Recently, a friend called and asked if I’d like to go to Puerto Vallarta with him. In July. For a “Dental Tourism.” Of course, I said no. Mexico? In July? With Dentists? (Sorry Dr. LeMert—no offense intended.) I hung up on his nonsense.

Then I called him back and said YES—because Mexico, a potentially heavily medicated friend, an opportunity to “pad my 401K”—because blackmail is such an ugly word—beach, pool, margaritas and nonsense? I’m IN!

My new friend 'Rita

 

The Weather in Vallarta was HOT—with an extra helping of humidity. After the first two days we stopped eating in all the cute little sidewalk cafes and started looking for restaurants that had their glass windows closed. Closed windows equal air conditioning—everyone knows that. And air conditioning in 90% humidity is a gift from God, be a shame to refuse it. Which is how we spent 10 days in Mexico eating Swedish food—because air conditioning.

About day eight, the weather was a little cooler, so we decided to mix it up a bit and walk a half mile away to a chic restaurant along the river, and sample their delicious menu—and their A/C. The food was delicious, the service was impeccable, the setting was beautiful. It begins to rain lightly—excellent! That should cool things off for a walk home!

It rained all through dinner. Actually, “rain” is not the correct word—apparently “cyclone warning” is more applicable. (Editior’s note: and THAT’S why you check your weather app, even when you’re on vacation.)  

Singing in the rain...

Any way—long story short, that’s how we came to be wading back to our hotel in the middle of a tropical deluge, belting out “Singing in the Rain” at the top of our lungs and only a hint of Tequila on “somebody’s” breath.

THE END. 

Unless Philip’s check doesn’t clear. Then I’ll have more stories to share.

"Philip"--possibly not his real name.

Unsolicited Advice

 I am one of those rare people who will offer you unsolicited advice. Wait—hear me out. Unsolicited advice is the best advice. 

Often, when we seek advice from others, we give careful consideration to whom we ask. For example, parents usually don’t seek parenting advice from their child-free friends. Although, when I hark back to my child-free days, I had plenty of opinions on proper parenting—it’s just that few people cared to hear them. I’m not saying that stopped me...but my friends with kids didn’t come knocking when they need to know how to deal with little Becky’s biting.

Guess which one of this adorable babies
is *not* my grandchild?
Hint: It's not the little girl...It's cousin
Wes Burbee and he's delicious.

  Anyway, I lost my point. Ah!  Here it is! My point is that unasked for advice is unbiased advice.

When I want to do something—say travel to Mexico-- I ask my adventure-oriented friends if I should go or not. If I were trying to avoid an upcoming trip south of the border, I’d ask my cozy, stay-at-home friends if I should go or just stay home? Staying home would most likely be their advice.

Unsolicited advice, on the other hand, comes to you free of biases. It’s spontaneous, it’s free, and it may contain encouragement you didn’t even know you needed.

Spontaneous advice can be closely related to “Wild Hair” advice, but you really shouldn’t over think either one. When someone approaches you and suggests, “You know what you ought to do...” don’t dismiss them out of hand. Hear them out. It can be good to open your horizons, stretch your wings, and kick over the boundaries fencing you in. Try saying “YES!” Book the trip, go bungee jumping, run with the bulls...

I mean, I’m not going to do that—it sounds dangerous and crazy. But I bet you’d have fun...

If you were wondering what any of these pictures have to do with this post, the answer is NOTHING. They are just bonus content of adorableness...You're welcome!

Past Is Prologue, Part Two

 Memory--both bane and blessing!  When Shane was first lost to me, the times I was impatient, crabby, or unkind came flooding back. In that First Worst Week I stapled the pages of my journal closed so I would be unable to go back into my past and review the times I had been less than my best self. And by “less than my best self” I might be referring to the time I told him he “was just lucky I was such an F-ing saint.” Except I didn’t say it as “F-ing.” And I might have “said” it at top volume—sounding more like a Shakespearean fishwife than a saint. Which, even at that time, the incongruity made me laugh. Do Saints go around proclaiming their Sainthood at top volume? With swearing? Probably not.

I experienced the common compulsion to Deify my lost love. The annoyances fell away. Shane was the Saint, a unicorn, a man above men. When my husband was stripped from my life, any of the imperfections became unimportant—all that mattered was his essence: his love, his humor, his gentle spirit. The fact that he insisted on folding the towels “wrong” no longer mattered.

 

Except—it kind of does. In keeping the memory of those little “quirks” about Shane, he gets to live on—more fully fleshed out than just a saint. The kids and I keep his “Shane-isms” alive in our conversations. We tell stories, we make jokes. We threaten to delay a loved one’s imminent departure by changing the oil or rotating the tires on their car, “real quick, won’t take but a minute.” 

Summer 1978

Seven years ...and love survives at the cellular level. Even as we shed our past, dissolve and transform, we carry the DNA of love into our future. Love is both energy and matter—it never ends, no matter how many years have passed.

Past Is Prologue, Part One

“Outside in the porch swing with my first cup of tea. The morning is cool, as it should be in June, and the swing rocks slowly. It seems a day of infinite possibilities—a day when a boy on a motorcycle might kiss a girl on a horse. A long, glorious summer day that will give way to a short summer night, a night of stars and kisses, whispered promises and scraps of poems.

For me, this is a month loaded with events and memories. Events that are celebrated but missing some of their zest. My birthday. Father’s Day, a bittersweet day--three beautiful young men a testament to our love’s immortality. Shane’s birthday at the end of this month, a day that has been traditionally celebrated with a huge German chocolate cake—his favorite. Memories are both blessing and curse.”  

I wrote that seven years ago, that First Worst June. Seven years—how can that be? Seven years since that January morning when Shane went out for gasoline and never returned. It is both forever ago and just yesterday. 

When I was a kid, I believed the prevailing wisdom that our bodies completely renew themselves every seven years—that all of our cells are gradually replaced over that time and we are a “new” person.  It seems so cruel to me now, to think that none of the surface of my skin bears Shane’s touch, no pat on my shoulder, no warm embrace. There is only the memory of that touch, and the tears spill. 

Time heals—yet seems the cruelest of chrysalises—a carapace that protects as we transform—but we still have to dissolve from who we were. Our future self begins to shape itself inside of the walls of Time. That process is both horrific and beautiful.

Weather Talk

 

Lake Chelan

Last weekend was all birthday shenanigans with friends and we ventured to Lake Chelan in search of the elusive sun.

We were sitting around the fire the first night --an assortment of friends, including a new friend who had recently arrived from Texas. The talk, as it often does, turned to the weather. Texas friend asked when he could expect summer to arrive and without hesitation, the two of the native Pacific North Westerners answered “July fifth!”

 

Unless July fifth falls on a weekend, I added. Then you can expect summer to arrive the following Monday.

I think he thought we were joking, but weather rules are a Thing. Everyone knows that in the Pacific Northwest—specifically eastern Lewis County—summer does not reliably arrive until after the first week in July. Odds are, July 4th will be a bit rainy, but as soon as we get it behinds us—full bloom summer. Unless July 5th falls on a weekend. If it does, the weather could remain rainy, but NO MATTER WHAT-- the sun is guaranteed to come out on the first Monday after the 4th of July holiday. IT’S A RULE. NO RAIN AFTER JULY 5. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.

Oh, sure—sometimes Mother Nature forgets and summer arrives off-schedule. Take last summer, for example, when we experienced a phenomenal heat wave in June, with temperatures over the 110* mark for multiple days. Glaciers melted, rivers raged and ice cubes were the new currency. 

This year, we’ve had MayVember weather—instead of sun and heat, we’ve had rain and more rain--cold rain that made opening day of Gardening Season seem unattainable, and sunshine seem like it was something we don’t do anymore...

But my weather app on my phone promises that by the time you are reading this, summer should actually act like summer. Break out the sunblock!

"Je Suis Prest"

"I am ready" 
(for you non-Outlander fans)

Unintended Consequences

 The other day at lunch break, my co-workers and I were sitting around the table, chatting and chewing, and one of them asked me if I ever had a difficult time coming up with ideas to fill this space. Yes, I said, and swallowed. Because manners.

 I went on to explain that in the beginning, Over My Garden Gate was mostly a place where I could vent my frustration over elk damage, report all the various methods I had employed—and their failure rate. Spoiler alert: it was 100%. Eventually, OMGG became a saga of my desire to build a fence and all the steps it took to achieve it—approximately 862, if memory serves.

Anyway, in June of 2019 I finally achieved a fence! And, with the exception of two “break-ins”, I’ve been “elk free” ever since!

I’ve also been out of easy source material to compla—uh, out of ides of what to write about. The Law of Unintended Consequences has sneaked up behind me and taken a bite out of my hide. According to the internet—who would, of course, never lie to me—"The Law of Unintended Consequences occurs when an impulsive, emotional decision is made that unintentionally creates more problems than it solves. ( -Mark Manson.)

While my decision to build a fence was clearly an emotional one, I disagree that it created MORE problems than it solved. It did, however, help create a deficit of complaints, AKA Garden Gate Topics. Am I in fact, now complaining about not having enough to complain about? Yes, it would appear so.

Thankfully, there is still the weather. And this May and June have been the Best Ever. For complaining about. Because seriously, this is getting ridiculous. And I happen to live next to my own Personal Joneses, who don’t believe in letting a little rain stop them from getting work done. So now I have two complaints.

Things will probably work out, even with the Unintended Consequences Thing.

Tool Envy

 

“Work smarter, not harder,” they said, and boy, were they right.

Recently, I decided I needed 10 yards of cedar chips for landscaping and, before I had moved more than a teaspoon or two, I decided I needed 10 MORE yards. The nice people at Packwood Prospecting were cleaning up their materials yard and brought me 12 yards for the same price. Excellent! Now I have 22 yards of cedar chips to move into multiple locations and a teaspoon to do it with. I’m sure everything will proceed smoothly.

Last time I had 10 yards of landscaping materials delivered it was 10 yards of “bark dust” for top dressing my flower beds. I worked out a very clever method of stabbing the top of the bark pile with my four-pronged pitchfork and “cracking” it into the scoop shovel I had thoughtfully positioned below. Stab! Crack! Scoop! Dump it in the cute little tractor wagon--with a dump bed! -- I pull behind my lawnmower. Works like a charm...

...For bark dust, not so much for cedar chips. I was reduced to hand scooping the chips into a five-gallon bucket. It was not as much fun as it sounds. 22 yards of cedar chips suddenly seems like a LOT.

Fortunately, my friend Robin stopped by for a visit and suggested I borrow his 10-tine mulch fork—a tool made specifically for picking up loose materials. 

10 tines! Not four! And ergonomic handle with a D end for easy gripping and enhanced leverage! And it comes in a sunny yellow color! I developed a huge case of tool envy and have been plotting ever since then on procuring one of those 10-tined beauties for myself.

And the mulch fork works really well with the “bark dust” I have left. Because yes, I ordered 22 yards of cedar chips before I had exhausted my pile of “dust.” And I still have most of a 10 yard pile of chips procured from the county a couple of seasons back when they were chipping up downed tree limps.

Clearly, I REALLY NEED A 10-tined mulch fork ...

WANT

 

Goodbye MayVember

 Goodbye to May—which at times seemed more reminiscent of November than of May—and hello June! Goodbye to hail, sleet, and snow—-although to be fair I don’t remember if we actually had sleet/snow in May, but boy, it sure felt like we did.

I finally planted my flowerpots on the 25th of May---the latest ever. Now I am free to battle the slugs for my plants and lament my petunia choices every time it rains. In other words—-business as usual.

 

I have twice relocated my garage toad to the front flower bed. I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t want to live in his little clay Toad House, surrounded by flowers, but apparently he derives some perverse pleasure out of appearing unexpectedly indoors. Yes, that screeching noise came from me.

Garage Toad

Garden Toad

 

My straw bale garden is busily composting away. I have yet to plant any peas, carrots, beans, or anything by seed. My tomato starts are cozily tucked into the bales, and the pepper plants that have survived the slugs are starting to look like they might recover. I don’t have to plant any cilantro or dill as they have both self-propagated—the cilantro at a prolific, nearly noxious-weed rate. This year I have one pumpkin plant—so far—so the neighborhood should be relatively safe. I only planted one hill of zucchini. Time will tell if I can keep the number of drive-by veggie drops to a minimum.

 

As is my way, I have started a new project—before completing my last project. One of my garden sheds from last year is still without its roofing shingles, but I didn’t let that stop me from ordering two loads of cedar chips from Packwood Prospecting and putting in a play area for the grandkids—the landscaping of which will probably be completed in three to five years, or 18 new projects later, whichever comes first.

Welcome Back to Packwood

 Welcome to Packwood! Its that time of year again, so here’s your refresher:

 Memorial Day kicks off Visitors’ Season* in our tiny mountain town, high in the Washington Cascades. Please enjoy your visit. For your elucidation, I have put together a list of guidelines that will make your stay more pleasant--for me.

The Rules Governing Elk

1) Elk don’t follow rules.

 

The Rules Governing Visitors and Elk

1) Elk don’t follow rules.

2) Don’t be like Elk.

3) Please enjoy the spontaneous elk parades that will take place at random intervals. Elk will wander out into the highway so that you can stop and enjoy their majesty. Please do.

4) Please watch for elk that will dash out in front of oncoming vehicles. There is almost always more than one. It is not considered a parade.

5) No, the Elk are not trucked in by the Disney Company. They do not talk.

6) No, you should not try to pet them.

7) Or feed them. If you really want to feed elk, I suggest you buy an alfalfa truck and park it, fully loaded, in town. This is the traditional way of feeding elk. Google it.

Saved you the Google search. You're welcome.

 

8) Do not let them have your IPA. Elk are terrible drunks.  

9) Yes, you can take one home with you. In fact, every visitor is allowed to take home six elk, each. Per visit. Did I say allowed? I meant REQUIRED.

10) Please do not allow the elk to drive. Actually, don’t allow them in your vehicle as elk are terrible back seat drivers as well, and have been known to chew on the upholstery.

11) U-Haul trucks are available in town to transport your elk. Yes. That’s why they’re there.

12) Once you take the elk, they are yours. DO NOT TRY TO RETURN YOUR USED ELK.

The Rules Governing Locals, Elk and Visitors 

1) Elk don’t follow rules.

2) Visitors are learning the rules. Please back me up on these rules. Especially the six elk—each, thing. I really think it might work.

3) Deer Season starts early September. Permit required. Limit one.

4) Elk Season starts early November. Permit required. Limit one. Personally, I am campaigning to increase the limit. I’m thinking a half-dozen should be good.

5) Visitors’ Season* starts May 26. Please remember that no permits for visitors will be issued.

Basketball Jones

 The other day, the Sume Family experienced a reunion of epic proportions—we were reunited with a long-lost basketball.

And not just any old basketball— but a Baden Perfection Elite Game Ball. A ball with a pedigree and a lot of happy memories attached. Way back in the day, when Baden joined our happy band, my son’s girlfriend wrote his name on the ball, with his initials and “W.P.” on the top. Today, the girlfriend is now his wife of six years and they have been promoted to the role of parent. Twice.  

The ball traveled a mysterious route on its way back to us...a friend, who works at the local school (shout out to White Pass!) and shall remain nameless (Hi Eileen!) delivered Baden at the request of the Athletic Director (Thank you, Brian Delong!) who inherited Baden from Toledo High Schools athletic program (Go India—er. Uh, I’m not sure what their nickname is now, but at the time Baden was lost they went by—and I say this as respectfully as possible—“Indians.” Go Toledo Representational Mascot!) The point is—Baden went thru a lot of hands to find his way back to our loving embrace. 

When I posted his picture in our family group chat the boys immediately recognized him, wrangled blame assignment over his loss, and filled me in on his back story—when and where he was acquired and for how much. In an interesting side note, the Baden Elite is the same price in Joe Biden’s America that it was in Barack Obama’s America, so invest in sporting goods, they are inflation proof I guess? Either that or Athletes’ Corner (RIP) really saw us coming... I feel like this would be a good time to make a joke about inflation-- and basketball are inflated already-- but I can’t seem to launch one into “She shoots! She Scores!” territory. Clearly, I need to step up my game.

Such a Fun Guy

 You might recall that we experienced that elusive weather phenomenon known as a sunny weekend. So, I set out to do what I had been unable to accomplish so far this year: I mowed my grass. Which in itself is quite an accomplishment. All the necessary criteria were met—I had the proper weather to facilitate mowing AND my schedule allowed for it And my mower had both gas and a fully charged battery. The two previous sunny days we had this season I was far away from my yard or busy with grandchildren. Hooray for me! Mark helped me clear a path to free my mower from the confines of its winter storage, and off I went, earplugs in my ears and a song in my heart.

Since it was the first mow of the season and my grass was moderately overgrown—and by moderately I mean there was no need for the bailer attachment—I was carefully navigating the first pass around the perimeter when an unexpected sight stopped me short. I disengaged the mower blades, dropped the transmission into Park, jumped off of the mower and went tearing around the back of the house to where Mark was quietly enjoying the afternoon.

“Come with me,” I said, and grabbed his hand, towing him out to the abandoned mower. There, just in a head of the front mushroom was a single, baby morel. 

 

We made all the appropriate Ooh-ing and Ahh-ing sounds one makes to a baby mushroom before carefully harvesting it. “Good thing I didn’t run over it,” I said and then blinked. Underneath the mower deck I could see two more mushrooms.

Mark and I froze in our tracks, like two soldiers who had blissfully skipped into the middle of a minefield, only to realize that the next step could mean death and destruction—or at least squishing of the delicious fungi, which would be a gourmand’s tragedy. 

I think it took us about 20 minutes to carefully sweep the area clean of the tender treats before we decided it was safe to move the mower. I returned to my interrupted chore while Mark carefully searched the backyard for more mushrooms.

And that’s the story of how I went mushroom hunting over the weekend, accidently, unintentionally-- but quite successfully. 

They Tell Me It’s Spring

 
It’s spring—or at least that’s what my calendar says. We’ve had rainsnowhailrainsnowhailrainrain 80degreeweather, followed by more rainsnowhail. I, for one, am in favor of unplugging Mother Nature and then plugging her back in to see if that helps.

Snow Skittles

Usually by this time of year I will have already visited a couple of my favorite dealers—I mean local nurseries—for inspiration and supplies. I would have quite the happy little collection of baby plants sitting in the shelter of my back deck, waiting for the first week of May, so they can be safely tucked into their summer homes. My straw bale garden would have been properly conditioned and ready to go.

Alas, spring this year has been super “F”—as in super fickle. I have my straw bales (SBG) in place—conveniently delivered from Overby Hay & Grain by my co-worker Haze and her husband Guy, and currently being watered by the aforementioned Mother Nature. I only have to remember to go out about every other day and sprinkle a half-cup of nitrogen fertilizer on them.

Unfortunately, “Mom” is handling the watering requirements to her specifications and not according to the needs of my SBG. The SBG book clearly states that the bales should ideally be watered with “warm” or “day old” water—water that has been sitting around in buckets. I’m pretty sure they didn’t have water with a top coating of ice in mind when they wrote the book.

At the end of winter this year I thought I’d get a jump on the growing season by starting seeds indoors. I planted green beans, snow peas, and sweet basil. Then I promptly embarked for a three-week trip and left my little sprouts in the loving care of my cat sitter (Hi Eileen!)

Kitchen Table Harvest?

When I came home, not only my cats but my plants had thrived under her green thumb care—to the surprising extent that my green beans were bearing fruit! With the way the weather has been acting, indoor gardening might be my new hobby... 

About Time

I’ve been thinking about time lately—the tick and the tock of it. Sixty seconds turn into a minute, sixty minutes into an hour, sixty hours into a ...pauses to count rapidly...a long weekend? And would you please stop saying sixty already, I’m feeling that personally.

When I was parenting young children, the laws of time seemed more like serving suggestions than anything resembling actual laws. Someone told me that when it comes to parenting “the days are long, but the years are short” and that resonated.

Time flies---and it must fly like a mosquito because it seems we are always trying to kill it. If we think of time as a law of nature, Spring arrives on this day, at that hour. Summer will arrive at her appointed time as well. Then somebody mentions Leap Year and time seems more of a social construct than anything else; a community agreement we’ve all agreed to. 

Take Daylight Savings Time for example—except Arizona opted out of that one. “Nope,” they said, “Just not feeling it. Social contract, smocial contract. Sorry, not sorry, do not agree.”

 

Recently, I traveled across several time zones and back over a three-week period. Living on the edge—as I am wont to do—I made my journey on the eve of daylight savings time. I felt it was a good way to “share the jetlag”—sure, I was now four-instead-of-three hours behind everybody in the Big City, but my thinking was they would all be so blurry-eyed over “springing forward” the next morning that my exhaustion would seem “normal.”

 

During that three-week stretch I went from PST to EST—followed immediately by EDT. Eventually, I

This is NOT my cousin's farmhouse
Her's is livable. But you have to admit
that's a pretty cool house.

ended up in MDT—only to spend the next week dancing back and forth between Mountain Time and Central Time because Kansas is a hot mess when it comes to time. The counties that border Colorado are MT, the rest are CT. We stayed in my cousin’s family farmhouse in Cheyenne County—Mom! Colorado is touching me! —and driving down one of the gravel roads you could experience 5pm on the left-hand side of the car and 4 pm on the right-hand side of the car. 

Thus, proving the old adage it’s always five o’clock somewhere –and that’s undoubtably why the chicken crossed the road.

Bonus Content:

Big City, NYC

Bird City, Kansas

City Food (Peruvian) from Pio Pio

Back: Lomo Saltado Back: Filet mignon strips, stir-fried with soy sauce, spices, red onions, cilantro, tomatoes, served over french fries with white rice.

Front: Ceviche Limeño (Spicy) A Classic Peruvian Seafood Dish (raw) Tossed with a Citrus Juice Marinade. Diced corvina, lime juice, red onions, cilantro, rocoto pepper.

Kansas Food from Big Ed's
where the steak is apparently served by the pound

Kansas: Sunrise in the FlatLands

Mid day in Colorado Springs, looking at Pike's Peak