Aunt Ida's Flip-flops

Last week I shopped for shoes in Kerrville and thoroughly enjoyed choosing the skimpiest flip-flops in the store. I couldn't help but think of how much my Aunt Ida would have enjoyed the summer styles I take for granted. In her later years, she was cursed with bad feet misshapen from years of ill-fitting hand-me-down footwear and hard ranch life. Her current shoes were worn enough to have holes of varying shapes and sizes here and there, and the soles were wearing thin.

Aunt Ida was actually my great aunt, sister to my mother’s mother, but she often stepped in as grandmother since she had no children of her own and my actual grandmother died when my mother was only fifteen. One of my childhood summers, I was spending a few days with her and lucky enough to witness the opening of a huge box from Sears, her favorite shopping place (thanks to catalogs) challenged only by Monkey Ward. Included was a pair of sensible black shoes, sturdy cotton hose, a jacket, and some items for Uncle Carl.

Aunt Ida was most interested in the new shoes and quickly tried them on to check the fit. Yep, they would do, and certainly looked better than the ones I had seen her wear all week. After she removed the new pair of shoes, she pulled a knife from her apron pocket and stabbed it into the toe of one of the shoes, sliced off a ribbon of leather, poked another hole on the outside edge, carved out a couple more, and continued in this way with the other shoe. The final result was a strange looking pair suggesting unique sandals but looking vaguely familiar. I glanced over at the old shoes and almost immediately noticed the similarities –- the holes were in the same places for the left shoes and for the right shoes. Of course. Ingenious. Each hole in the new shoes had a purpose: to relieve a sensitive spot on her aging feet.

So, dear Aunt Ida, I bought another pair of flip-flops to honor your memory, and I wish I could give them to you and see the pleased expression on your face. But to get that post between your toes you might have to give up those thick cotton stockings.

Goats Redux

Two weeks have passed, and yesterday I returned to the goat ranch for painting class. The yard gate had a new latch hook. My teacher said that after her son installed it, the young nanny moved to the front yard gate and figured out how to open that one. The son put a different style of latch there and solved the problem. No more goats in the yard.

After class I loaded my paint box and palette into the back of my car and went to get my paint boxes. At my car again, I was surprised (but not really) to see that young brown female trying to climb in while other members of the herd stood around and watched. I'm sure she would have eaten my wet canvases if I had loaded them first. The evidence of sky blue paint would have been all over her quivering hairy lips. Cabrito, anyone?

Driving home I wondered about the kind of nanny she will be someday. What will she do with the kids while on such escapades? Will she be too independent to get involved with any of the males? Will she run around bothering those goats who have chosen normal goat life, even leading some of them astray to her own beat of the drum? Will her penchant for opening gates and going where boundaries say she’s not supposed to be put her in a predicament she can’t resolve successfully? Perhaps always a kid.

Back to School

Today the granddaughters return to school, and I hope their teachers are ready. N is so excited that her assignment will be to write about what she did during spring break. Only in first grade, she has no idea how many times she will confront similar topics in future academia. Her main concern is not having enough time to write when she wants to include everything from the rope swing to the Crystal Cave hike. We lost count of the number of times she exclaimed “This is the life!” during her week in Texas.

K will be ready to celebrate the lifting of any glass, whether juice or milk or water, at her school with the toast she created: “Cheers to our lives!” Then she will want to “clink” the glass of every classmate the same way she does with us and our wine glasses and drink cans. She has been enjoying this routine with us (and sharing it at school) for a couple of years, but I’m not sure if her teachers find it as endearing as we do.

Life around our house is mighty quiet now that they are home again, but June is coming soon.

Gingerless

Someone gave me some crystallized ginger. It tasted like soap fragrance. Not like soap, but just the fragrance of soaps. The outside sugary coating didn’t last long enough to disguise the flavor. Hello, trash can.

I put a couple of cubes in my cup of hot tea, having heard ginger tea described as delightful, and they lay inertly at the bottom of the cup. At least that’s what I thought until I got to the last few sips. Then I found out what they had been doing there -- disgustingly tainting my lovely cup of tea with old soap. Hello, garbage disposal.

After some Googling, I learned that Alton Brown touts a recipe for candied ginger and syrup. His readers are nuts for all things sweet ginger: ice cream, scones, homemade ginger ale, turkey brine, rum cocktails, snacks to nibble, even a sauce for lobster. Fine for them, but my recipes shall remain crystallized gingerless.

Goats Longer

One day a week I drive to a painting class on a goat ranch between Kerrville and Fredericksburg. My teacher lives there in a house containing her gallery and studio. She turns 89 this week, and she and her sons continue to raise a herd of goats, partly for nostalgia, but also for cash. Recently a young female has been appearing at the door of the studio calling and stomping until someone opens the automated gate where the driveway enters the backyard. Then she turns and ambles down the drive and exits the yard. How she gets inside the fenced yard is a mystery. No one has ever seen her enter; she just materializes without notice, often nibbling in the cat food dishes. Sometimes we see her circling the yard, but we never see how she gets there. Various theories have emerged, from jumping over the fence to squeezing under, but we can’t catch her in the act. Just like a kid.

Last week after class I took my canvases and materials to my car parked outside the fence. With Miss Goat’s usual curiosity, she came over to nose around and to check out what I was putting in the car. Since goats have a reputation for eating almost anything, I quickly closed the back end of the car and started back to the house for goodbyes. She beat me to the side gate, nuzzled the latch until it popped up, and used her nose to open the gate for both of us. Mystery solved! When I opened the door to the studio, her rush to enter first was thwarted by my teacher’s quick hand on the remote control. The sound of the driveway gate slowly creaking open caused Miss Goat to switch direction, see the clear escape route, exit the yard, and pause to start the whole pattern over again. Such a kid!

I have never thought too highly of goats, rarely thought of goats at all, but always enjoyed seeing the newborns during the spring season. This unusually talented goat has yet to become involved with a male, knows nothing of young babies tugging at her undersides and following her every move, has a burro for a bodyguard, remains ignorant of dangers lurking, moves nimbly wearing a sleek and shiny coat, and will never leave the ranch for any good reason. Kid.

In a few days I’ll return to the goat ranch art studio, and I’m already looking forward to seeing how much the little ones have grown. The nannies will echo their babies’ calls when I scatter them by driving up the ranch road. I will creep along and roll down the windows to inspect what spring vegetation attracts them. My teacher will call some of them by name but declare that she no longer feels attachments to them. We’re kids, too.

Goats

The title is a teaser because the hour is too late to actually compose a post.  This abbreviated entry is merely a reminder of a topic inspired by my friend S. who wrote about cows.  I'll get the full version blogged very soon.  Maybe not very, but soon. 

Courthouse Suits

Yesterday I had lunch at the Tea Room in the antique mall across from the courthouse square. About 12:15 two women and one man, all dressed like lawyer stereotypes, came in and sat at a table. About five minutes later five more people dressed like lawyers came in and sat at another table. I thought of my friend MG who was selected to be on the jury, and the whole time I ate my lunch I wanted to tell those suits to hurry up with the trial so my friend could come back to exercise class. And they better not make her late for catfish at Neal's tonight. Oh-h-h, I wonder if they have heard about Neal's and will be there, too!!!

Choir in Good Standing

Tonight's choir practice leaves us with only two remaining before our big day.  For the first time ever, our church will present an Easter Cantata.  The performance will take place on Palm Sunday because Easter Sunday is too packed with our Sonrise Service.  The fact that the cantata lasts forty-eight minutes without a break might also have something to do with the decision to sing a week early. 

When we choir members learned how long we would be singing in front of the church, some gingerly reminded our director of the advanced ages of most of us (she's fifty, we're not), stressing that such a long time to be on our feet might affect our "joyful noise."  Not to worry.  Those concerned can have stools behind them for resting.  As if anyone wants to be the first to plop.  In true Survivor tradition, no one will want to be the first to go, to be the worst at outstand, outsing, outlast.  Neither do we want to be Pelosi popcorn, if you remember her antics during Obama's State of the Union speech.  (She must have conditioned with a trampoline at home.) 

So . . . what to do.  Pray.  Choose some confortable shoes (I take mine off during practice but probably not a recommended action at the front of the church).  Remember not to lock our knees (Fainting can be a major interruptive distraction).  Pray.  I'll let you know how it all turns out.  Or you are certainly welcome to attend and see for yourself.

Early Spring Weekend

What a weekend! We ate at Neal's Friday night when they opened for the season, danced to Gary P. Nunn at House Pasture Saturday night, and celebrated a full church Sunday. Now the sun is coming out to start a week of spring weather. Life is good on the Frio! Hope your spot is showing some spring, too!

Romance

My Visa bill was due on Valentine’s Day. Where is the romance in that? I paid it early just to avoid thinking about it during Cupid’s time.

This year our celebration will be on February 13. Where is the romance in that unlucky number? Just because Saturday night is more convenient, dinner and wine will happen early.

I’ve already seen and read my card. Where is the romance in that? My card is actually “my” card because I don’t have the card in my possession. Spouse and I drove to Wal-Mart, went our separate ways in the greeting card section, selected a card for each other, presented and read them, kissed and hugged right there in the store, and then returned the cards to their places. Mine for him cost almost $5.00, but I didn’t look on the back of the one he selected for me because I didn’t want to be impolite. We plan to use the money we saved on a couple of glasses of wine when we go out tomorrow night. I’ll probably wear red, not only for Valentine’s but also because that’s the color of the wine I’ll drink.