Miss Frizzle goes ruleless

My inner junior high guidance counselor has finally given up urging me to "make good use of my time" on these snow days.  I just want to sit here in my Van Gogh starry night fleece robe and stare at the freezing precipitation.  I can't psych up to turn on the Weather Channel, even with the remote control, and I sure don't want to iron while I watch tv.  Just paging through the Sudoku book to find a fresh puzzle takes more zip than I can muster.  Thank heaven I don't have to drive a Magic School Bus full of kids on a learning adventure today.  Make the bed?  You must be kidding.  I'm climbing back under the covers and pulling them over my head so as to miss the end of civilization as we know it.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Black ice

Even in my sleep I was listening for the misty rain to turn to freezing drizzle.  This new weather event had been predicted for days, filling the news gap left after the Super Bowl.  First it would rain getting the roads good and wet, THEN the temperature would plummet creating invisible ice.  Maybe after that Mother Nature would send snow and/or sleet.

That invisible ice is called "black ice" in Dallas, while we might have called it "glare ice" in Nebraska.  I call it other things that aren't printable when I discover it.

At six the patio and front walk just looked wet, but most school districts were already closed for the day.  Shortly after that falling frozen ice pellets began alternating with fluffy snowflakes and sideways snow.  It's been a Blue and Gold banquet of weather options by midmorning, all as appealing as the potluck dishes after the nose-picking Cub Scouts have gone through the line first.



© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Color fix with graph paper

During Friday morning's big snow I decided to tromp the six blocks to the grocery store after the lone llama photo shoot.  I'd been reading recipes, always a dangerous activity since I have Chronic Failure to Follow Recipes Otherwise Unspecified.  [I'm not a psychiatrist, but I play one on the Food Network.]:

• Why do they call them red lentils if they are orange? 
• Why do they have to turn gray when cooked?  It's just so gruelly. 
• Why do I think maybe this is the time I will actually like wild rice?  Hah!

I had most of the ingredients for Grandma's baked chop suey, the essential snowstorm food. But I needed soy sauce, as usual. Cocoa mix, celery, and a newspaper would all enhance my "snowed-in" experience. These would fit in one reusable totebag, easy. Plus, I could look for gumballs on my walk to the store. More on that later.


What I really needed was a color fix.  The windows of Calloway's Nursery pulled me like a magnet.  I couldn't get enough of the red, white, and pink cyclamen and the saturated bright colors of the primroses. 

The light coming through the snow on the greenhouse roof gave a sense of fragility and imminent danger.  Condensation on the windows added to the magic exhilaration of stealing this color while no one was watching. 

Once the temperatures rose and the streets became safe on Saturday, I took another color detour off the freeway to Northhaven Gardens on my way to the library. Using a gift card, I got two bright red cyclamen plants to inspire a Valentines art class. The silver markings on the dark green heart-shaped leaves have refueled me. 

I'm working on spatial vocabulary with the little kids--on top, behind, between--and we will arrange and observe the two flower pots. Maybe I'll take some graph paper to add to the backgrounds. It's silly, but the thing that attracted me to this condo was peeking in the window and spying the "graph paper" blue and white wallpaper in the dining area and kitchen.

The reds, greens, pinks, and silver did me way more good than the wild rice or soy sauce.  Oh, and about the gumballs, it might be time for my annual read-aloud of Daniel Pinkwater's Wallpaper from Space.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Knit one purl one vote one poke one

From the drivers seat I couldn't tell if my sister was texting or knitting in the backseat.  We were bringing Dad to Texas in the rental SUV.  She texts faster than I ever did knit.  She knits because just sitting with Dad makes her crazy.  I sit slower than she ever will, but I understand the craziness of just quietly watching Dad go forward and back in his wheelchair.

Knitting needles with no yarn cast on are suspicious in airport security screenings.  My sister was sure to start a knitting project before carrying the knitting needles through TSA security.  This irks me, somehow.  Are women who knit less likely to be terrorists than the nonknitting old ladies TSA wands and xrays daily? 

My ex considered knitting a dangerous anti-marriage activity.  It irked him no end when I knit through his viewings of VHS videos with gratuitous sex and violence.  Knitting interferred with the worshipful and cuddly attention he was due, not that I'm a bitter former knitter.

As I've been reading about the early 1900's I imagine my great aunts, Ada and Emma, in some of the female roles.  They could have been daughters of immigrants working in Tiffany's Womens' Glass Studio, and probably would have loved the challenge.  Instead they taught school and made hats for women in northeast Nebraska.  I so wish I could ask Auntie Em about getting the vote, prohibition, and the vintage Valentines I found in the big black trunk.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Snow measure the llama way

On Friday the tallest llama sat under a tree at the farm kittycorner to my condos.  It was neither amused nor perturbed when the forecasted "dusting" of snow piled up around it to over five inches.  It was disinterested in the nutty camera lady walking along the fence.  Where were the other llamas?  I thought I could spy them in a corner by the barn.  Maybe the llama was pretending to be a reindeer, but it's just a broken branch, not antlers. Maybe I was crazy to be out in the snow, but it sure was fun.

By Saturday afternoon, the same llama was back to business as normal, eating, frolicking, and hanging out by the City Council campaign signs.

This llama is nearly six feet tall.  Whatever the weather, I love living across from the llama farm.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

e Downloadable Audio Books

My library just began offering "e downloadable media" through Ingram Digital.  This makes my eyebrow twitch.  We already have e books also known as electronic books or electronic resources available through the TexShare Databases.  They are pdf files for your computer.  None of these items are downloadable to your Kindle, Sony Reader, or Nook, although there are sources for free materials for these eReaders. 

A willing guinea pig, I went online at home and "checked out" a downloadable audio book through the link at my library's website.  After downloading the Ingram software, I downloaded the title, Saving CeeCee Honeycutt.  This material is available on my computer for the seven-day check-out period.  I could transfer the material to an mp3 player, iPod, or SmartPhone if I had one.  After the seven days, the material will somehow self-destruct and vanish.  My library subscribes to Ingram's service to provide these audio book downloads, and the whole thing makes as much sense to me as the 3D tv commercials with karate masters doing flying kicks outside the box.

Be kind to your librarian this Valentines Day.  Send him/her chocolates and flowers.  Your librarian is trying to meet demands for new titles in regular print, large print, audio cd, Playaway, and downloadable audio book, all with a shrinking budget.  Your librarian is probably trying to find a way to provide books for eReaders, too, in a way that conserves tax dollars.

I listened to Saving CeeCee Honeycutt while making Valentine cards for my little students.   A good reader performing all the different voices makes it a pleasant experience.  I like not changing cds.  It's nice being able to use the service without ever physically going to the library, which is perfect in a snowstorm.  And please, no 3D blogging!


© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

PLEZ CNOKE IF AN RNSR IS NOT REQID.

A friend gave me a bottle of homebrew porter, a beer, along with these instructions:

If you want to drink @ room temp. be careful upon opening so you don't lose any.

Alas, I was too busy wondering about porter and trespassers w to be properly careful.  After I cleaned up the little mess, I found the porter to taste sort of like A and W Root Beer.  This reminded me of the time Judy Anderson brought root beer lifesavers for Blue Bird treats when we went on a field trip to Lincoln General Hospital in second grade, except that they weren't really Lifesavers, but some different brand, but we each got a whole roll to eat in the station wagon.  And before I could say "trespassers w" the porter was consumed without making much impression on my tastebuds.

I can remember useless information about Blue Bird meetings better than I can remember my own name sometimes.  I grew up under the name of Porter.  The door knocker on our blue front door had P O R T E R engraved on it.  We were the only family in the neighborhood with a door knocker, a point of some pride.  The Porter family was the original owner of the house.  Although, of course, a bank owned the house and the Porters just lived there.  Much as I argued for having a new knocker with our name engraved on it, my parents just left us living under the name of Porter.  Since my family owned the house for fifty-two years, I still believe a new door knocker could have been justified.

 My sister painted this picture.  See the gold door knocker?

It is Owl who has the door knocker* in the 100 Aker Wood, but Piglet who lives under the name Trespassers w.  This is useful information, so I had to look it up, along with the not-Lifesavers root beer candy which was made by Reed's.



Without crossword puzzles, I would remember nothing about beer, other than to pick some up after a rough day at work.  The crossword spaces are usually for three, five, or seven letters:

ale
lager
stout
pilsner 

As a non-native Texan, I know Shiner Bock.  Now with porter, I'm set for four and six letter beer clues.

*  Owl also has a bell-pull that is really Eeyore's tail, so PLES RING IF AN RNSER IS REQUIRD.  I saw Eeyore, the tailless squirrel, down by the creek twice during our ice storm.  My Eeyore father is a little happier today, and I should probably take him some root beer.
© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Sad berries, beauty berries, always berries

Physical/spiritual: 

life is very strange when we forget or are unable to pry them apart.

I will keep this message from my dear friend, along with the memory of our last visit about elephant jokes and bubble bath toys.  Nancy was very tired, worn out from "this dying gig" that had gone on for so very long.  Still, her quirky sense of humor was intact.  So was her skill at noticing the sublime in the ordinary.  Failing physically, her spiritual center was glowing and inspiring her friends.

Our ice storm began just hours after Nancy posted her email.  All day Tuesday I sent whatever it is I send out to wherever it is I send it requesting that Nancy's spiritual might be pried apart peacefully from her physical.  I tromped through the icy park in the howling wind to take some winter berry photos for her, and had the strangest sensation that she was sending me the berries.

I am grateful to Janie for forming and nurturing our little band of three library junky MOBOs all born in '55.  I am grateful to Steph for suggesting Muriel Barbery's Elegance of the Hedgehog, which prepared me to find "the always within the never".

This is the most true and lovely obituary I have ever read, so I include it almost in its entirety and without any permission whatsoever:

  Rush, Nancy Chandler Passed away peacefully on February 1, 2011, after long illness. Nancy was born on March 17, 1955 in Amarillo, Texas, where she graduated from Tascosa High School. She earned a B.A. in Plan II from the University of Texas at Austin and a law degree from the University of Texas School of Law in 1980. Nancy began her career as an Associate with the Dallas firm, Akin, Gump, Strauss, Hauer and Feld, and was among that first generation of brilliant women to enter prestigious law firms in force. She was admitted to partnership in 1991. Married in 1981, Nancy is survived by her husband David S. White, her children, James D. White, Pfc. Michael J. White, and Pfc. John S. White, her parents ... and a large extended family. Nancy was a devoted member of Greenland Hills United Methodist Church, where she served faithfully in the shared work of worship, education, and mission. She enriched the lives of all she knew. Throughout her illness, Nancy never wavered from knowing in her bones that God is good all the time. Her courage and love for her family and friends inspired us all, especially in her final months. A memorial service celebrating this remarkable spirit will be held on Thursday, 10 am, February 10, 2011...

I Google "tascosa", knowing my ever-curious friend would also want to know if her high school name was related to the Aztec word for "cedar brake", "tascotal".  The Handbook of Texas Online indicates the cowboy town of Tascosa, Texas, was named for Atascosa Creek, and that "atascosa" is Spanish for boggy.  Ground in a cedar brake can become boggy when cedar tree's shaggy bark sheds and covers the ground preventing the growth of other species.  This gives rise to a monoculture, as explained by Dr. Geoffrey Stanford in the Texas Native Plant Society News, Vol. 5, No. 2, March/April 1987 .   

It is easier to Google boggy than to have a good cry celebrating the always within the never of berries.  A coincidence brought me the gift of Nancy's friendship, and I will hold it always in my heart.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Cedar brakes and drum solos

"We're gonna take a little break now, but we'll be right back," announces a member of the band. 

I'm on the Cedar Brake Loop Trail  at the Heard Natural Science Museum and Wildlife Sanctuary, a place where auditory amazement never goes back to the band bus for refreshments during the extended drum solos.  The smallest breeze keeps the branches of the cedars in constant percussive improv. It is Hansel and Gretel meet Mickey Hart. Standing still with eyes closed, I tried to imagine a night in the cedar brake, but it's too scary for a young thing like me.  It could be the set for a Washington Irving ghost story or Saint Saens' "Fossiles".

Wearing two sweatshirts on our third Snow Day it's hard to believe last Saturday families hiking at the Heard wore shorts, sleeveless tops, and sometimes flipflops.  It was over seventy degrees and absolutely perfect except that my camera battery was dead. 

A listening walk it must be.  Animatronic dinosaurs roared robotically to kid shrieks of joy.  Young parents bounced babies in strollers on the boardwalk trails.   Dried grasses rustled and crows dominated the airwaves with some sort of complaint always just beyond the next turn in the trail. 

What is a cedar brake?  It's not a cedar break.  Pulling out the old red dictionary I find definition fifteen for "brake"--An area overgrown with dense brushwood, briers, and undergrowth; a thicket.  (Related to "bracken" ferns, and "canebrake").

Unable to sort through the various cedar types and junipers, I recognize that the center of the Heard's cedar brake is a monoculture--nothing else grows there.  The ground under the trees is mostly mud.  Animals and birds seem scarce. 

Cedar choppers used to travel from brake to brake cutting down the rot-resistant trees for fence material, or converting it to charcoal.  My Snow Day googling has turned up Murray Montgomery's enlightening story of his cedar-chopping family roots. What a hard way to make a living.

Time for "The Other One", an 18:05 track.  There's time to reheat morning coffee in the microwave, stir in hot chocolate mix, and be back in time for "Me and My Uncle".

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Spanish flu, terrorists, and colored glass

Starring out the window at the striped clouds in very cold blue-grays and white, I wonder how Mr. Tiffany would have ordered glass for that sky made.  Would he have used multiple layers, or had the brawny, shirtless workers in the glass factory comb through blue glass with a second color of glass at a different temperature.  The process described in Clara and Mr. Tiffany reminded me of those fudge factories.  Ummmm.  Fudge.  There must be some chocolate somewhere in this condo!  I would have enjoyed Vreeland's more if it had been nonfiction with lots of old photos and color plate illustrations.

My escapist reading for the ice storm is The Death Instinct, by Jed Rubenfeld, set in the same time period as Vreeland's novel about Louis Comfort Tiffany.  Rubenfeld's book is just right for conserving electricity wrapped in a quilt for hours at a time.  I'm going to see New York City eventually when I visit Danger Baby and his lovely bride, and then I will go find Wall Street, the JP Morgan Bank, the Treasury Building, the Flatiron, and many other places in these two books.

My book buddy is reading The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, by Rubenfeld's wife.  Just reading the Wall Street Journal and New York Times reviews of Tiger Mother elevated my blood pressure.  I feel very sorry for Rubenfeld, being married to such a shrew.  But then, maybe he is no prince either.  Sometimes writers are not nice people.

This ramble was meant to be about the coincidence of my recent readings.  Two gifts from my eldest, Last Call and Dennis Lehane's The Given Day, have entwined with the unionizing and suffragettes of Clara, and the Vienna of Death Instinct and The Hare With Amber Eyes.  Very strange to read two descriptions of the items on Sigmund Freud's desk in just one month.


© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Yowling and howling

Day two of our Inclement Weather School Closing, so I knew I could sleep as late as I wanted.  Instead I woke before seven to a horrible howling.  Not the wind like yesterday.  Wolves?  Unlikely, as this isn't a Laura Ingalls Wilder book.  Not even Jack the brindle bulldog alerting me my elderly neighbor had fallen and could not get up. 

What was that horrible sound?  Tires unable to get traction on ice.  Somewhere a driver was seriously stuck.  By the time my way-back prairie memory kicked in, I was wide awake and needed coffee.  That's when the power went out.  Please don't make me twist cornstalks together for fuel like in The Long Winter.  Two days is a long enough winter for me, and my hands are already chapped.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Time to get a new fence

We laughed ourselves silly in last Wednesday's art classes making our elephant joke lunchboxes.  The kids had so much fun imagining pachyderms with PB & J and Spaghetti-Os they didn't realize they were practicing cutting, folding, gluing, stapling, and punching holes for brads. 



Q:  How can you tell if an elephant ate all the carrots in your lunchbox?
A:  By the huge Ranch Dressing footprints leading away from the scene of the crime.

The elementary students liked these art class jokes:

Q: What day is it when an elephant plays Pass the Paint?
A: Wednesday, of course.

Q: Why couldn’t the elephant play Pass the Paint?
A: His head was stuck in the sleeve of his art shirt.

Look for our favorite elephant books at your library:

• Seven Blind Mice, by Ed Young.
• Life-size Zoo: From Tiny Rodents to Gigantic Elephants, an Actual-size Animal Encyclopedia, by Kristin Earhart.
• "Stand Back," Said the Elephant, "I'm Going to Sneeze!", by Patricia Thomas.
• 17 Kings and 42 Elephants, by Margaret Mahy.

Here are some links to elephant jokes online:

• http://www.azkidsnet.com/elephant.htm
• http://www.celtic-catholic-church.org/extras/elephant-jokes.html
• http://scienceblogs.com/pharyngula/2009/07/my_inner_bennett_cerf.php
• http://blindkat.hegewisch.net/other/egy.html

When an elephant sits on the fence it might be time to turn to the "Think and Grin" page of Boys' Life magazine.


© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

"It's gonna be okay, maam," the kind officer said.

O-o-o-ostrich.  O-o-o-onomatopoeia.  O-o-o-o-otter.  Olive!  O-o-o-omelet.  O-o-o-orange.  O-o-o-occupant.  O-o-o-o-o-o-Osterizer.  Octagon!  Opera.....

"Don't worry, folks, she's not choking.  She's not off her rocker.  She's a preschool teacher," said the officer.  "Step back everybody, give her some room.  Make way! Clear a path! Short vowels coming through!"

"The phonetimedics are here, ma'am.  We're gonna start you on an IV drip of initial letter sounds right away.  Get you some oxygen, too."

Thank heaven the emergency phonetimedics made it through the snow and ice.  I survived to live another snow day.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Bioluminescent grocery cart

This post has teeth.  Dad's partial swims in its fleshy pink box.  He can't wear it any more and doesn't care. 

Someone rolled a grocery cart down the creekbank years ago.  Much of the year it is hidden in leaves.  Small trees grow through the crumpled grid.  Its teeth glare at me like a fang fish.  I see no way to extricate it, and don't want to break a leg trying.  In January it looks the most like the angler fish that glows in the pitch blackness of the deep ocean, all jaws and bones and empty stomach.

When Sylvan Goldman invented the grocery cart he couldn't have foreseen the many places his creation would be abandoned.  I hope none of them have reached the deep ocean, but I wouldn't be surprised.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Relaxing in a _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Friday's preschool napper storytime group gave me a good reminder for mental health.  I pass it on to you hangman style.

The kids all knew where the green dog was in Go, Dog, Go, but only one had an idea about the yellow dog.  That dog is reading in a panic.  Been there too much lately.  It's time for a mental health break.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder