Game of Telephones

Actually, this is a game about telephone numbers. How many telephone numbers do you have committed to memory? And of those numbers you have memorized—how many are still valid? And how many of the numbers you have memorized belong to cell phones? Give your self one point for each valid number and three points for each cell phone number. Now subtract all the non-cell phone number points. Subtract three points for counting your own cell phone number. Seriously—that’s cheating. Subtract all the points you gave yourself for people whose cell phone number and former land line number are very similar or the same.

Anybody have more that 6 points? Because you are my hero.

I still remember my childhood home phone number, my best friend’s home number, the cute boy from high school’s home number, and my neighborhood party-line calling numbers--- but I can’t say I know ANYBODY’S cell phone number, because my cellphone knows all that. Knowing numbers is no longer my job. I have outsourced that to Siri.

Old school phone books--collect the whole set!

Which is a fine plan---until you decide to top off the battery on your cell phone before leaving for an overnight trip that culminates in an early morning airport pick up. Of course, you—and by you, I mean me—you leave your phone on the charger and it’s not until you’re two hours away from home and need to type in a directions request into your absent phone’s map app that you realize just how deep the doo-doo is. 

No phone, no directions to your overnight accommodations, no way to let your dinner companion know there’s a hiccup in the timing, no way to receive updates on your friend’s flight. Spoiler alert: the doo-doo is a least elbow deep.

Also—it is threatening to snow, did I mention that? The LAST thing you want to do is drive back home for two hours so you can start again...What to do, what to do? To be without a cell phone/crutch is like being a babe, lost in the woods. “Pretty,” helpless, and probably going to die before sunup.

Fortunately, this is not the first time I’ve ever done something “pretty,” so I’ve learned to think creatively. I’m pretty, but I can problem solve like a boss. 

Thawed and Confused, Again

 I have a confession to make. I am an incurable optimist. Every year as soon as New Year’s celebrations are completed and the confetti has been swept up, once whatever snow we have had has melted I immediately assume that THIS YEAR we are going to have an early spring. If I’m outside, and a breeze wafts by that doesn’t freeze my nose off my face, I start wondering if I have any gas in my lawn mower, because clearly, I’m going to need to start mowing my grass. Probably as soon as next week!

Over it.
Next!

Reality doesn’t matter. Who cares if it’s still January—I’m pretty sure that’s the sun I see. And if you can see the sun, summer can’t be that far off. And summer means flowers, and gardening, and trips to the beach, and camping, and fireworks, and flip-flops and bees. Did I eat all the s’mores chocolate? Where do you suppose I put the sunblock?

Every year I am convinced that this year is the year. Every year I am surprised—nay, SHOCKED, shocked, I say-- when the snow and bone chilling cold return before I’ve located my lotion. I did not see that coming--who knew January could be so cold? 

I turn my hopes to February. Surely February will herald the return of spring, we’ll probably see the first robin right around Valentine’s Day. I can use my Valentine’s chocolate for s’mores, hooray!

That’s the beauty of optimism, it needn’t be fact based. In fact, if it IS fact based, I’m not sure that it qualifies as optimism—it’s FACT. Optimism is more ethereal, like hope. And as Emily Dickinson once wrote “Hope is a thing with feathers.” I think she meant a robin. Hello Spring!

Expect this in my garden--next week.
Probably. 

How About That Weather?

I swear, the weather forecast for last week was: Weather forecast for the next 24 hours-- 

‘“Uh oh” amounts of rain followed/preceded by “oh crap” amounts of snow, resulting in “really, what did you expect would happen” flooding. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Your elevation may vary.”

We’ve had a LOT of weather lately—and it’s only mid-January. I am reminded that this is the perfect time of year to check in with our neighbors. I saw a post on Facebook recently, a 75-year-old-new-to-Packwood resident needed help with the snow—she needed both driveway plowing and a path way scooped for her puppies. Now, I don’t have a plow, but I can shovel a path for puppies, keep the mailboxes open, shovel a path to the woodshed, etc., pickup items for others when I am out and about. The latter assumes I can get out of my own driveway, however.

One of the things I love best about small town living is the neighbor helping neighbor thing. 

So please—when we have snow/flood/power outages/heat waves—please check on your neighbors. 

I think our hometown is a wonderful source for help—-and I encourage us all to reach out to those around us so they don’t *have* to ask for help. Because some times, asking is HARD.

I encourage us all to be forward thinking in our kindness, and help where we can. 

Good job out there to all those making life “easier“ when the weather gets “harder.” And on a personal note: thanks Neighbors Joe, Joe, and Dene for scooping out the plow-cade—that terrible berm of frozen snow that can form an impenetrable wall if not immediately addressed-- at the bottom of my drive.

 

You are much appreciated!  

Snow Lies

 It started to snow and forgot to stop...so much snow, in the worst of all possible locations: my driveway. 

Day One: It all started, as it often does, with just a little bit of light, easily shoveled snow, a “poof” of snow; snow that is all pristine and picturesque—and for Christmas! How perfect! My grand kiddos are delighted. I am delighted!

Day Two: I may get a little bit weird about people driving on my driveway BEFORE I have a chance to shovel it--actually, don’t even walk on it until I shovel the path first. I shovel far, and wide, opening up lots of room so that when the bigger accumulations come I won’t be hemmed in by snowbanks that are either too narrow, or too high to throw the new snow over. Because this is not my first Snowrodeo, I also have multiple snow shovels. Even though my kids no longer live at home, I keep extra shovels handy in case they return during a snowpocolypse. I am even able to Tom Sawyer Mark into thinking that shoveling snow is “fun.” Things are working out...

Day Three: When I shovel snow, I know how to stop. The snow doesn’t seem to be able to.  We re-shovel in front of the garage and the driveway. We shovel the opening at the end of the drive that the snowplow always closes. I shovel out the mailboxes. And the opening to a neighbors’ driveway, because while the snow is deep, it is still “poof.” Sure, there are 15” of the stuff, but it’s just fluff. No problem. ...

Day Four Hundred and Eight-Seven: the snow is not as light. It is significantly heavier than Day One. And sloppier. No poof, no fluff, just glop. It continues to snow as I shovel. Or maybe that’s not snow, but really wet, sloppy, heavy cement disguised as snow...

I go inside and google “snow-blowers for sale near you.” Of course, there are none in my zip code. I seem to remember I promised myself once before that I would just buy the dang snowblower already. Lies, all lies. Why do I even believe me anymore? I google “signs of cabin fever” and glare at the cats, who glare back, mad that I won’t let them outside to eat birds. I google “Saint Bernard puppies for sale.”