Elsewhere

Maybe it’s because we are a frontier people, or maybe it’s our flagrant love affair with cars. At any rate, it seems that a great number of Americans want to be anywhere they are not.

I first discovered this strange phenomenon many years ago via motel room art.

Walking into a New England motel room, I was greeted with pictures of lacy New Orleans scenes. Similarly, southern motel room walls were adorned with desert sunset art. California inns sported pictures of Paris. It’s a delightful relief to find a room where the art on the walls actually matches the scenery outside the door.

The other night I ran into another hilarious variant of this mindset. My husband wanted to stop off at a Sheboygan nursery to pick up some day lilies. I had never been to this nursery before and was speechless when we pulled into the parking lot. I was staring at a life-size saguaro cactus.

Since real saguaros only grow in the Sonoran desert, this Sheboygan saguaro needs some explanation. It was a topiary saguaro. An unlucky evergreen had been wired, clipped, bent and tortured into a replica of the world’s largest cactus. Wouldn’t a topiary bratwurst be more appropriate for Sheboygan? Click here to see this botanical wonder!

Of course, the ultimate “I’m here but I want to be there place” is Las Vegas. Why else would Americans pay big bucks to fly to Vegas so they can visit Paris, Venice or New York, New York?

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Beachglass

I admit to being addicted.

Fortunately, my addiction is not illegal, expensive or fattening. I’m hooked on beachglass.

I discovered the wonders of beachglass at an early age. My parents would take me to one of Milwaukee’s Lake Michigan beaches where I would construct a fiefdom of sand castles and spend hours sorting shells and rocks. And then, to my sheer delight, I discovered bright jewels mixed in with the earth-toned rocks and pebbles.

Showing these priceless gems to my mother, I was informed that they were “just old beer and soda bottles polished by the sand and waves.” I was unabashed; fortunately, I could recognize beauty regardless of its provenance.

Fast forward forty-six years. My husband and I had the incredible luck to move into our new home on Lake Michigan. I found myself living in beachglass heaven.

Each year, from spring until winter when the ice shelves cover the beach, we are beachcombers. A diamond from Tiffany’s couldn’t possibly make me as happy as finding a tiny piece of RED beachglass. My husband scored a huge, elegantly smoothed piece of PURPLE beachglass on his birthday last year.

I would certainly agree with Robert Louis Stevenson, “The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.”

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Swimming

My parents were jocks. They were not into team sports, but they believed in individual fitness.

Muscle building and gymnastic feats were my father’s forte. He could do handsprings and twirl my mom around in the air. My mother was the high diving board champ.

Both of my parents were powerful swimmers. When we visited my aunt’s lake cottage, their idea of a good swim was across the lake.

My mother was also a Red Cross swimming instructor. She taught women who were afraid of water. Her success rate at teaching the terrified to swim was impressive.

And then I came along. What a disappointment my lack of athletic ability must have been to my parents!

My mother began my swimming lessons. The harder I tried to please her, the faster I sank. She had visions of my perfect Australian crawl stroke, but I more closely resembled a mixmaster gone berserk. This sorry state of affairs lasted about three years. Finally, one day, my mother gave up on me. “I’ll teach you the lazy man’s stroke,” she sadly said. There would be no gold swim medals for her daughter.

I’m happy to report that if I fell out of a boat today, I could save myself. The sidestroke may be for us unathletic types, but it certainly does the trick for survival and fun in the water.

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Pyromaniac

One night each year my gentle, soft-spoken, peace-loving husband turns into a total pyromaniac. That night is the Fourth of July.

The preparations start about three weeks ahead of the grand day when we take a 40 mile drive to the fireworks superstore. I admit to enjoying the exuberant, graphic art of the fireworks packaging. Names such as “Tears in Heaven” and “Fishbowl Commotion” are intriguing. But that’s not the real reason I tag along. I go to make sure my spouse doesn’t buy anything he can’t lift.

He’s happy as a cat at a mouse convention making his selections. He’s also serious about getting the most bang for his buck… literally. Wimpy little cherry bombs and sparklers are not on his shopping list.

The size of our purchases always entitles us to a “free” gift or two. That’s how we acquired more beach balls than a Sandals Resort, numerous T-Shirts that say “Light Me Up” and a case of 100 Super-Charged Crackers. (How we disposed of these is a separate story.)

You are all invited to the glorious show. Just bring your folding chairs, blankets and marshmallows down to our beach at dusk on the Fourth.

My husband used to provide one solid hour of non-stop aerial wonders until I gently reminded him that most people might find this a bit much. So he cut back the show to a half hour and tripled the size of the displays.

I can only hope that the garage doesn’t blow-up before the big night.

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Moon

I don’t make a habit of driving my husband crazy. But, occasionally, I cannot resist playing my moon game.

“Hey honey,” I say as we are as we are looking at the moon together, “what’s the moon doing tonight?”

Silence follows. He’s too smart to fall into this trap again. He has no idea what the moon is doing. “That’s OK,” I gently say, “it’s a girl thing… la Luna, monthly, menses. By the way, the moon is waxing (or waning) tonight.”

My husband is a science guy. He is far brainier than I am about astronomy, chemistry and physics. But, I know my moon.

It’s easy ladies:

  1. Look up at the moon.
  2. If the left side is lighted up it’s losing or waning.
  3. If the right side is lighted up it’s waxing or increasing.

Few men believe these rules work, but the system is foolproof! So go ahead, drive your guy crazy. After all, it is our moon.

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