You Want Me To WHAT?!?

     When I first married, I was quite surprised to learn that I had married a pioneer.  Oh, yes.  He liked gardening.  I don't mean the kinda' gardening like my mama used to do; roses.  No, we moved around so much that the only gardening I ever recall her doin' was up to three rose bushes.  Naturally, I grew up with a rather slanted view of gardening.

     Then, I got married.  Our apartment was in the midst of several businesses, with a parking lot taking up the bulk of everything in the center; our part of the parking lot, included.  Our asphalt front yard (aka parking lot) was soon transformed by the addition of seemingly tons of rich black dirt and worms; the fishin' kind.  I thought that was interesting because if you had asked me what the makings of a good garden were, I'm sure I woulda' told you Potting Soil.  Who knew that a garden could be started in plain ol' ordinary dirt?  Hmph!  Go figure.

     Anyway, I watched as my good hubby-buddy magically changed the lay of the land from ugly black asphalt to beautiful green and luscious plant life; of course, leaving everyone else's parking areas alone.  But he wasn't done, yet.  Nope!  As time marched forward, he tended that beautiful garden and treated it like one might treat a beloved pet.  No weed was allowed to linger and people from all those businesses; especially, little old ladies from the beauty shop, often stopped by to admire the yield.  Usually, that meant they also went away with bags full of veggies to take home.  Remember this, as I was somehow oblivious to what was going on, myself.

     Then one day, when it seemed to me that the garden had reached its full capacity, my good hubby-buddy got a wild-hair and suggested that we can summa' the food from the garden.  Whoa!  I told you that he had a great imagination!  I could hardly wait to see how he was gonna' put those lids on the cans.

     I waited and watched, but he never even looked at a can.  Nope; he decided to use jars, instead; Mason, Kerr... you've prob'ly even seen some.  Interesting.  I accepted his choice, as he seemed to know what he was doing.  When he was finished we had many jars, all lined up on our shelves in a variety of colors and sizes.  It made me feel very married and quite stable, actually.

     Now, here's where the story takes a decided twist.  One day, about two months after the faux canning incident, I was minding my own business and being a happy little housewife.  Hubby-Buddy evidently felt the need to be funny and said the most ridiculous thing you can imagine.  "Let's eat some of the food we canned."

EAT IT?!?  EAT IT?!?  What... was he crazy?  That stuff was in the DIRT!

     Oh, yeah; I hear what you're thinkin'.  "Where does Yaya think food comes from?"

     Surprisingly, I had even eaten summa' those veggies, but that was different.  That was when they were fresh off the vine or stalk or whatever.  Once they were in the jars and he suggested eating them, it suddenly occurred to me that all that food had been in the dirt.  Dunno' why I didn't think of that, before.

     Well, I guess I had jus' never thought of that, before.  Strangely enough, all the food I had ever seen, eaten or cooked either came from frozen packages, the produce aisle in the grocery store or cans... not jars.  The only exceptions were soda pop and cleaning supplies.  Now, here was the man I had sworn to spend my life with... my ENTIRE life... suggesting that I eat food from dirt.  What was he thinkin'?!?

     You'll be happy to learn that after being educated to the true worth of dirt, and some persuasion from my good hubby-buddy, I did finally try the food we had canned... in jars.  It may just surprise you to learn that he was not the only person confused about the difference between cans and jars.  Apparently, there are thousands of people in the world who still can't tell the difference.

     And I was amazed when I found out that, not only does food grow in dirt... sometimes, with worms, but it can be quite tasty.  I don't know if you've ever considered eating food that was grown in dirt, but if you haven't I surely hope you will ignore that inner voice of distaste and try it.  I think you'll like it.

     Until the next time, keep a hug on.

 ~ Yaya

Two Volcanic Explosions

     When I was in Kindergarten (I sort of hate that word.  It just always feels wrong, somehow, ya' know?), I lived in Alaska, before Alaska was a state.  While I was there, we were blessed with a middle-of-the-day volcano, prompting those in charge to hustle everyone home as quickly as possible.

     There we were, just before noon, and the sky was as black as midnight.  Everywhere, mama's hung out of doors, calling for their offspring.  And children of all sizes ran from this new and frightening terror which we had no previous experience with and no emotion which we could reference for recall.

     After a year or so, we moved away from Alaska, the proud owners of a full jar of volcanic ash.  That was my personal badge of honor; my shining star.  No matter where I lived after that, I was the only person in my next class who had lived in Alaska.  And as my crowning jewel, I had experienced something that no one else in any of my classes could even comprehend; a volcano.

     Its amazing how much mileage I got out of that little jar of Proof.  Volcanic Ash, carried in a jar, creates the most remarkable sense of prestige.  At least, it did in my mind.  I was oh, so important, when I told my story of unbelievable fear and danger.  As far as I was concerned, no one else was as important as I was.

     Then came the day when my bubble burst.  Fifth grade and I was the new kid.  Being the new kid was something of a way of life for me.  Ours was a military family and that's the way things were; transfers.  Since I was almost always the new kid, I had grown rather accustomed to the notoriety of my position.  That is, until that awful day when it all started to come down around my ears.

     Just two days earlier, wearing my brother's hand-me-down blue jeans, I had given a report which included the horrors of surviving a volcano, as told by a very creative fifth-grader.  I was in my element.  Other students still viewed me as the new kid and I had the added benefit of being very nearly as famous and brave as Superman, himself.  Yep!  My very active imagination had created a real super-hero.

     Then came a knock at the classroom door and the school principal walked in.  With him was one of the prettiest, prissiest, blonde-haired girls I had ever seen.  She wore many crinolines under her showcase skirt and the way she held her arms, bent at the elbows, with her hands hanging limp, told me she wouldn't know what to do if someone handed her a bucket and told her to play in the dirt.

     Did I mention that I had blonde hair at that age?  Yeah, that was previous to the red hair that started showing up about a year later.  And as if that wasn't enough, she was being introduced as the new girl.  But the nightmare didn't end there.  Nope!  It just kept getting better all the time.
     My traitorous teacher, whom I had adored only moments earlier, was introducing this intruder with MY NAME.  My WHOLE name.  How dare she!  And wouldn't you know it?  She was coming to us from that beautiful land up north... Alaska.

     What I found interesting was that the teacher kept looking at me and smiling, as though she thought this was wonderful news.  She seemed to feel that I should be charmed by this total intrusion into my world.  What was she... NUTS?!?

     Just as the volcano had erupted, years earlier, so began my temper.  By recess, there was a full-blown explosion.

     You'll be proud to learn that in my entire school career, I was never in a fight with anyone.  Well, except for that one time when a very pretty, prissy girl moved into MY school, using MY name and stealing MY personal Land of Fame.  I don't think I have ever gotten over that treacherous act.  I wonder what ever became of that girl?

     Until the next time, keep a hug on.

 ~ Yaya

That's One Amazing Log!

     Its Spring!  Well, almost, anyway.  The snow is almost gone and I can see dirt.  Dirt, dirt, dirt.  I never thought I'd be so happy to see dirt.  We are s'posed to have rain tonight, turning to snow.  I'm thrilled.  NOT!  Ah, well.  Maybe this is the last-ditch effort of Mother Nature for this year's winter blast, ya' think?  I surely hope so.  I love winter, but I am waaaaaaaaay tired of struggling to get out of my driveway.

     Wanna' hear somethin' funny?  We have a woodburning stove.  We've been very thankful for it, since this is how we've kept warm, this winter.  Well, its still kinda' chilly, so of course, we're still burning wood.  Running dangerously low, so I really hope we will get to stop soon.  I mean, we will get to stop burning wood on accounta' we're about to run out.  But I mean, I hope the weather cooperates so we can stop burning wood 'cause we wanna' and not because we hafta', ya' know?

     Anyway, the night before last we put the largest piece of wood we could into the stove.  Its one of those old-fashioned cookstoves with the little shelf.  To load the wood, we lift two little round parts and a center piece, all of which keep the fire from letting smoke into the room.  So we loaded this piece of wood, about a foot and a half long and a little bigger around than a large coffee can.  Since there were coals left-over from the previous sticks of wood, it wasn't necessary to go through the steps of starting a fire under the new wood... we thought.

     Naturally, we did add a little bit of extra paper to the coals, just to be sure.  After we were sure the fire was going good, we went upstairs; each to our own office to write.  That's what we enjoy doing, writing.  In about an hour, we heard the sound of treats and drinks, calling our names.  Back downstairs and, as long as we were there, anyway, we checked the stove to see if more wood was needed.  More wood was NOT necessary because that one log was just setting there.  NOT burning.

     Now, I could stretch this story out for forty years and forty nights, giving you every little detail during my long and ridiculous night-fight with the woodstove.  I don't wanna' do that, though, on accounta' you might get bored and just up and leave.  So I'm gonna' give you the shorter version.

     Eight times, throughout the night, I poked and prodded, stabbed and fed that woodstove with everything I could think of to get that fire going.  I am not one to use ugly names, but I can tell you, I was sorely tempted to give that stove and/or that log a whole new vocabulary.  When my good hubby-buddy woke up, it was his turn to play at keeping the stove lit.

     So, here's the short version (finally?).  Thirty-one hours ago, we started burning that log.  It burned so slowly (yes, it actually burned the whole night and day) that there are still, now, embers from that same log.  I have never seen a log burn that slowly.  If you ask me, that's something of a miracle.  After all, we're running out of wood and tonight its gonna' snow.  Wouldn't you say that's a miracle?  Stay warm and 'til the next time, keep a hug on.

Yaya