The Little Christmas Liar, Part I

People often ask me if I do any “real” writing … “besides your blog, I mean,” they add. 

I do … mostly short stories … most of them tied into my childhood and rural upbringing. This piece was intended for a Memoir Writing Contest, but with all of 2020’s curve balls, I set it aside and didn’t finish it up by the deadline. Somewhat ironic, given this is a year for being locked inside … a perfect formula to force writers into finishing up projects … apparently that formula doesn’t work on me tho’. (Smiley face)

The timing for getting back to this does have the perk of falling into the right season. And it’s been therapeutic right now to compare the rural life I was raised in to the one I’ve recently returned to.

Note: Some names have been changed in this. Also, I’ve decided to divide it into two parts because it’s so large for a regular blog post. Hope you will find your way to Part II (the true meat of the story)when I post it in a couple of days. A two-parter lines up with my childhood experience of listening to radio programs like The Cinnamon Bear at Christmastime … having to check back the next several nights to hear the whole thing. Promise … I won’t drag it out that long … just two parts. Enjoy … I’d love to hear your thoughts and your own memories.

Part I

Grandpa was a lot of things: handsome, a dependable farm worker, an avid hunter, and a binge drinker.  He was both likable and crusty.  When sober, he was respected by all, sought after.  When drunk … well … my Grandmother locked him out of the house

The Christmas morning of these memories, I recall him as a smiling, laughing man.  Uncharacteristically giddy, even.  It was he who burst into the bedroom I shared with my sister and hurried us down the stairs, but not before stopping across the hall to lift my baby brother, stinky diaper and all, out of his crib.  My older brother had much earlier made his way to the fought-over, fat, cushy, purple chair next to our tree. The tree created a great mystery because overnight it birthed a room full of sparkly wrapped packages. Julie Andrews carried on about Three Ships of Christmas morning from the record console in the corner.  My brother grumbled that if “the babies would ever get up, we could get on with presents and the good stuff.

My Grandmother owns part of the memory too. At 5’4, she was a plump little round ball next to Grandpa’s half-a-foot-taller, lean mass. Like Grandpa, she was a mix of many things: a good cook, a fair gardener, fond of quirky riddles, fond of anything sweet, and a bit of a mouse. “Mouse” understates her.  Whenever she was nervous she started sentences with her pet phrase, “Aren’t you afraid?”  “Aren’t you afraid no one will come to the party?” “Aren’t you afraid we’ll run out of money?” “Aren’t you afraid you didn’t study enough?”  “Aren’t you afraid of … well … everything.”

I can think of only a few times that Grandma appeared determined without apologizing.  She insisted that she’d take any piece of chicken except “the one that went over the fence last.” Then, there was the story passed down from my mother where Grandma locked Grandpa out of the house for coming home too late and too tipsy.  He had managed to drag a ladder from their shed and teetered his way to the second floor. There he found an unlocked window and passage into one of the sneezy rooms used only for storing furniture and canning jars. She locked the door to the stairwell too, and he had to bang on it the next morning, mumbling forgiveness before she let him out for his toast and coffee

This Christmas morning was one of Grandma’s “so determined” days.

“Breakfast first.” She stood unmoved at the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand

Grandpa clearly didn’t have breakfast on his agenda.  He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and room full of presents, looking towards the tree with longing eyes. Grandma shifted only to move back on her heels as if they were suddenly nailed into the floor, and she tapped the spoon against her palm.  I’m not sure what that signaled to her husband, but he slumped his shoulders like a pouting boy and told my brother, “Hurry up now. Wash your hands and eat something.

Oatmeal … thankfully heavily doctored with cinnamon and raisins  … I hated oatmeal …and orange rolls dripping with butter frosting … the hungry yeastiness of them filling the room with such ferociousness that we forgot about unopened gifts for a moment … this was the breakfast of Christmas champions.

My parents were there, but faded into the pale and cracked plaster-coated kitchen walls.  Mom took over and changed Baby Brother’s diaper, but otherwise let her parents fuss away. Dad sat in the corner, folding and unfolding lanky legs, mindlessly rotating a steaming cup of coffee with one of his hands, waiting for it to cool.  He didn’t drink coffee unless he first watered it down with cold tap water, but he wasn’t going to say anything to my grandfather who had served him without his asking. With his other hand, he toyed with the button on his shirt pocket, wanting to pull out one of his hand-rolled cigarettes – a habit he’d picked up in army days –  but must have figured my mom would scold him. When my grandparents weren’t around, he smoked all day long.

Photo by Olenka Sergienko on Pexels.com

I don’t remember how we got into the living room, but suddenly Grandpa was in charge again and we were there, in front of the crooked pine, hauled down from the nearby Idaho forest back in the days when permits weren’t required.  Plump red and orange and blue and green and yellow bulbs peeped out between the branches, throwing happy shadows of light around a room still gray at the edges from the cloud-frosted morning outside.

Toys. There were so many toys. Dolls. Metal trucks. Coloring books. Water colors. Wooden airplanes that you had to snap together. Handmade doll clothes.  A two story dollhouse, open on one side so that we could reach in and arrange the little painted rooms with little plastic furniture. Building blocks. Stuffed lions and monkeys and bears. Cap guns.

And candy. Candy cane shaped tubes filled with red and green M&Ms. Ribbon shaped suckers. Red and green jellies. Foil wrapped chocolates formed into the likeness of Santa and reindeer. A box of pink peppermint bark … but this was for Grandma alone … to share only if she chose, which she always did.  Round peppermints with red stripes, wrapped individually and destined to be the last candies we would eat in the weeks after the holiday, and only then, if we were desperate for something sweet.  The strong peppermint scent reminded my nose of medicine.

And there were peanuts at the bottoms of our stockings.

And oranges, fat and juicy.

“You’re spoiling them, Daddy.” This was my mom to Grandpa, but the softness of her eyes said it was okay.  My own dad worked hard at two accounting jobs and repairing machinery for various farmers, but money was always scarce  He had talked of a slim Christmas this year, but Grandpa had other ideas.  Dad shifted uncomfortably, like he wanted to say or do something, but he finally slumped back in the square-backed wood rocker and more or less relaxed. He even smiled throughout the morning, especially when he unwrapped a can of fresh tobacco and a new pipe.  He looked pleased, too, when mom ooo-ed and awwww-ed over a terry cloth bath robe and lilac-scented body lotion.

Grandpa glowed like a gas station sign at midnight, arms still folded but a grin on his face. Grandma scurried around the room, crinkling her nose as she reached for the wrapping paper around our feet.  “Sorry, but please, don’t rip the paper … we can use it again.” She then smoothed the rescued pieces into tiny neat squares.  It was a room with three adults who had lived through something they called the Great Depression – this included my dad who was a lot older than my mom. Wasting anything became a personal insult to them.

It’s only as I write, that I realize that there were no presents for Grandpa and only the candy for Grandma, at least that I remember.  Yet they seemed happier than anyone.

My mom with her parents in the earlier 50’s. One of the few pictures of my Grandpa. Grandma looks so tall here, but then, she always said she shrunk a little with each passing year.

But this memory isn’t really about Grandpa or Grandma or those gifts … at least I don’t think it is.  It’s about a little Christmas liar lurking outside of our door and her big, fat, Christmas lie that tried to ruin that wondrous Christmas morning.

To Be Continued … Part II is found here.

Thank you for reading “Small Stuff”.  This is the second of two blogs sites that I keep.  You can find more on my thought&faith blog at rashellbud.wordpress.com. Wishing you a beautiful day full of the Small Stuff that transforms life into BIG STUFF.

A note to my “silent” readers … thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to read my work. I’ve learned that many of you are shy about commenting or hitting the like button, but I want you to know that I appreciate your visits and invite you into the conversations whenever you are ready.

Wishing you peace in all things … Shelly

My Grandma Changed the World with Cookies

My daughter signed me up for a website that asks me to respond to weekly prompts, sharing about my life and memories … thoughts to be passed down to the family. I haven’t been very good about keeping up with it … sorry, Honey … but a couple of the prompts have lined up with things on my mind at the moment.

This week, the prompt was to write about someone who was a positive influence during my childhood. I started typing without really knowing who I was going to write about … turns out to be Grandma.

Grandparents … and our senior citizens in general … have been taking up a lot of my “thinking time” during this pandemic. It crushes me to think of the elderly isolated and withering away ALONE in their homes or rooms in a senior home … lonely … afraid … sad … scared … alone … alone. (Repetitions intentional.) Some I know have died without their family at their bedside because of restrictions. Awful …

I won’t stray any further into what the pandemic is doing to our elderly… as it’s not what the prompt or my response was about. I’ll just add that all this COVID stuff, especially during the holidays, has made me nostalgic.

Here is my response to the prompt from my daughter with a little more added in.

Who Had the Most Positive Influence on You as a Child?

I feel like I had a lot of good influences as a child.  One that stands out first is Grandma (my mom’s mother).  

It’s funny because as a teen, I think I was pretty hard on Grandma and didn’t see her as a good influence because she had become a hermit and shut herself off from people.  She didn’t like to go places and had stopped driving long before I was born.  I guess I saw her as someone who was very afraid of life and therefore weak. She started a lot of sentences with “Aren’t you afraid” … and by the time she finished asking, I guess I was afraid too.

For her struggles with anxiety and fear, Grandma was an amazing person.  With Mom so busy wrangling four kids and Dad trying to juggle enough work to keep us all fed, Grandma was our extra bright spot.  She had the time to fuss over us, play with us, and make us cookies.  Lots of cookies.  We always said that Grandma pretended she was making the cookies for us, but she was the one with the sweet tooth.

From Grandma I learned that the trick to good cookies was making sure that the butter and sugar were fully creamed.  She made me do this with my hands so that I could feel what it took to melt the ingredients together until I could barely feel the sugar crystals any longer.  Eventually I would  use a wooden spoon and could tell by the color of the mixture when it was truly ready for the next ingredients.

Peanut butter cookies (I loved making the patterns with a fork as we smashed down the dough), snickerdoodle, and ranger cookies (cookies with cereal and nuts in them), and occasionally brownies … filled her little kitchen and its pink plaster walls with scents of love.

Ice cream was another of Grandma’s sweet tooth staples.  Her favorite was Marigold’s Strawberry ice cream with chunky pieces of frozen strawberries imbedded.  She usually had Chocolate Ripple, and Tin Roof Sundae on hand as well. If there was only one serving of Strawberry left we knew what we would be having … it would NOT be the Strawberry. That’s about the one thing I remember Grandma standing resolutely on … the Strawberry was HERS.

For not liking to be in groups of people, Grandma always had other people on her radar.  She was a very loving person, always mindful of others.  She sent birthday cards faithfully, called the little old ladies in town on a regular basis (always referring to them as the “old ladies” as if she wasn’t one of them), and kept up with all the graduations and big events in the lives of her many nieces and nephews and their children.  She made sure there were flowers on all the family graves at Memorial Day, and kept my imagination alive with stories of her childhood and of family memories about people I only knew through photos because they had passed on before I was born. She received more Christmas cards than anyone I knew, probably because she was so faithful about sending them out and including a personal hand-written letter. (She would not be a fan of the modern form letter popular these days.)

If someone was in need, Grandma would have my Mom get money from her bank account and send an anonymous letter with some cash tucked in.  She was very generous with us kids and it was because of her we had a lot of basic things like school clothes and new shoes covered. Because she didn’t like to leave the house, she gave us money at Christmas and birthdays. We never minded, because the older we got the bigger the numbers got on those checks!

Even for all of the fears she battled (probably stemming from a battle she had with a brain tumor in her forties and a challenging marriage to Grandpa, who drank too much sometimes), she had a deep and simple faith in Christ.  We used to sit at her organ and she’d play hymns from the old German hymnals she had.  She didn’t like to go to church any more even though it was a block from her house, but only because it meant being in a crowd. She cherished visits from the Pastor and parishioners who checked in on her regularly. She read her bible often and tucked in notes from the radio preachers who inspired her.

Grandma filled my childhood with scented memories.  I got to spend a lot of Friday nights at her house.  (Each of us kids took turns having a special night.)  We, of course, baked cookies, and we ate frozen meat pies, heated up in her oven as soon as the cookie making was done, the smells of that pie crust and the meat, vegetables, and gravy tantalizing me. I loved bathing in her oversized claw foot tub, filling the bathroom with the aroma of a rose garden from the bubble bath she kept on hand.

She kept a closet of toys and puzzles for us, took me on walks, read books, taught me to crochet, taught me a lot about gardening, instilled a love of flowers, and of story telling. And most of all … a love of all things sweet.

Although my siblings and I may have been good excuses to bake cookies in excess, those cookies … and every ingredient … and everything else we did together … speak to me of a fully invested love from my Grandmother. Can’t think of a much more positive influence than that.

This was all I wrote for my daughter … but I think a “cookie post” is on it’s way. I recently came across a box of some of Grandma’s treasured recipes and I’ve been thinking especially about her gingerbread cookies.

Stay tuned.

But before I go … what about you … any special memories of a grandparent’s influence? Or someone else in your childhood? Or maybe it’s your turn? Are there any special traditions you have with your family?

Thank you for reading “Small Stuff”.  This is the second of two blogs sites that I keep.  You can find more on my thought&faith blog at rashellbud.wordpress.com. Wishing you a beautiful day full of the Small Stuff that transforms life into BIG STUFF.

A note to my “silent” readers … thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to read my work. I’ve learned that many of you are shy about commenting or hitting the like button, but I want you to know that I appreciate your visits and invite you into the conversations whenever you are ready.

Wishing you peace in all things … Shelly

The Fine Art of Not Having Thanksgiving Traditions

Looking back is sometimes sad, until we realize we’re going to miss this year … even 2020 … too.

November 2020. With a pandemic wreaking havoc on normal life, this is a good year to have the tradition of not having traditions.

I grew up in a family short on grocery money and even shorter on relatives. My mom was an only child and my dad and his siblings drifted apart after a squabble about an inheritance or something along those lines. I don’t think they were the sort to fuss about holidays anyway. A few years ago, I found one of my dad’s childhood journals, started during the Great Depression. No mention of Thanksgiving. Christmas Day was spent resting and fiddling around with his tools, making an end piece on a cabinet for his mother. Dinner meant extra portions of stew. But no gifts … and noted disappointment in Dad’s scrawled remarks … “Phooey! No presents.”

During my childhood, holidays meant just us … mom, dad, my grandmother, and us four kids … a mildly dysfunctional family who wasn’t into church (not during those years, anyway), football, or big gatherings. For us the day was largely about eating.

The success of the intended goal … eating … fell to Mom and Grandma, who collaborated for weeks prior over what dishes would make it to the table that year. An oven roasted turkey, cooked in one of those new fangled “plastic” baking bags … always … at Thanksgiving. Grandma’s sweet potatoes with perfectly toasted marshmallows on top (surely that recipe alone contained a lethal amount of sugar). A lime Jello® and 7-up® salad. Pecan pie … Mom called it Washington Nut Pie. Whole AND jellied cranberries so that nobody could complain. Store-bought potato rolls. And … olives … black olives.

This was the one day in which my younger brother and I, who were usually red-alert-annoyed with each other, would sneak into the kitchen and snitch olives. Mom turned a blind eye as we loaded our fingers and thumbs with the dripping black blobs and then raced to see who could eat theirs the fastest without choking.

Just wait. Next year we’ll be missing THIS year.

Said by one of my parents a long time ago. They didn’t know about 2020.

The menu of my childhood was traditional, but that was about it. We might pull out Monopoly or play Kings in the Corner like our neighbor had taught us, but it usually resulted in a squabble, so didn’t last long. We weren’t the family that sat and watched the Macy’s parade (not with much interest any way), gathered with others to play touch football, went on a hike, went to a church service, or anything like that. I knew families who couldn’t wait for the yearly gathering to play killer games of Spoons or who drove to “town” to watch the latest movie. (We went to one movie in my childhood … a drive in showing of Cinderella when I was six.)

We just weren’t traditional in any of these ways. We had hard working, practical parents who saw this as a day of rest (well … only for Mom, in that she made us kids do the dishes after all that cooking).

We ate … we rested … and we talked … listening to Grandma’s stories and witty puns … none of which I can recall … I just know that she always had us rolling with her unexpected dry humor … she was otherwise a little on the mousy side. Sometimes Dad would surprise us with a story about the animals he had as a kid and other childhood stories.

I liked hearing about the mule they had. “Jack Ass,” my mom would smile. “Your Dad was named after him.”

“Hey, now,” Dad … Jack … didn’t let her get away with the joke. “I was born first. The mule was named after me.”

“Is that any better?!”

I loved it when they teased like this.

Thanksgivings past with our grown up kids. Even though My Guy has the same jacket on, these are from different years.

Then … we ate … again. Mom and Dad said nothing if we went back for a second or even third piece of pumpkin or pecan pie. By the time bedtime showed on the clock, the lone pie left on the counter was mincemeat with only the tiniest slivers missing. No one wanted to hurt Grandma’s feelings, but she never seemed to get the message about that mincemeat.

By the time I got married I was thrilled with the idea that Thanksgiving and fresh traditions were wide open territory. My Guy and I could make it whatever we wanted it to be. However, once I discovered that he lacked fondness for Mom’s 7-UP® salad and that I was never going to live up to his mother’s version of sweet potato casserole, I knew we needed to set an entirely new course.

The problem for me was figuring out what traditions we should adapt … while My Guy can eat the same foods over and over … why mess up a sure bet, he always says … I am the great experimenter when it comes to holidays.

Our turkeys over the year have come to the table via being roasted in a brown paper bag, smoked on the grill (never make gravy from this method!), soaked in apple cider brine, simply roasted with butter and stuffed with gloves of garlic, stuffed with stuffing, sans stuffing … pretty much whatever method was popular in the latest “home living” magazine I’d come across. (These days it’s Pinterest.)

We’ve had green salads garnished with cranberries and apples as an appetizer. One year we warmed up our appetites with pumpkin soup cooked in the pumpkin shell itself. (My Guy wasn’t a fan … so that remained a one hit wonder.)

Desserts have ranged from pecan pies, Costco’s pumpkin pies (why fight it when they do it better than me), pumpkin cheese cake, apple crisps, chocolate … lots of chocolate.

Relish trays and sausage rolls (introduced to us by a friend).

Candy turkeys made from candy corn, round crackers, and chocolate kisses. Apparently THESE ARE a tradition. I saw them in one of those many magazines and gave them a try when our kids were small. We made the sticky creatures several years running … frosting everywhere … always scrounging to find candy corn after Halloween. (Quick Stops at gas stations. THEY always have them!) Then, when the girls were in high school, I decided to save some money (these little treats get spendy) and didn’t gather up the supplies.

“Wait …,” one of the girls said. “You mean we aren’t doing turkeys this year?”

“I figured you guys were too old to want to make them.”

“But, Mom … they’re tradition.”

Okay … we have one stayed tradition.

It’s taking time to find God’s blessings, even between rain clouds.

But …

It’s not the food.

It’s the people and the memories.

And … again … there’s been nothing traditional.

Some years we entertained a household of nearly strangers … anyone who didn’t have home to go to.

Sometimes it was extended family … other years … many years … we traveled to where we live now … to visit my mom … and ate at the local restaurant who put on a magnificent yearly feast. (Sadly, that ended this year … with COVID restrictions ringing a death knell to this 14 year old business).

More Thanksgivings past. Two things to note: the cat is pretending we can’t see him as we search for Christmas decorations in the storeroom. AND, I can’t believe I couldn’t find a picture of the candy turkeys. Oh well, the ones made from canned crescent roll dough are A LOT easier.

The last two years, our holiday has whittled down to just immediate family … a big deal having the girls come from far away … we wanted to soak up all that the time with them that we can.

I often dreamed of us having a traditional activity. We almost got there when, several years running, I made us walk the Narrows Bridge in Tacoma when we lived on the West side of the state. Turkey in the oven, we headed out to cold air and beautiful views … and lots of complaining. My Guy did most of it!

“Do we really have to do this?”

“We’ll only go half way and turn back.”

My Guy held me to it but the girls ran ahead completing the whole mile each way. The next year though, they brought friends. After that, it got harder to coordinate dinner and schedules.

Last year was the last one we had with Mom … she didn’t actually make it to Thanksgiving dinner … turned out to be one of her hard days. Dementia does that to a person. BUT, she had one of her amazing good days earlier in that we and insisted on coming to help make pies. So … so thankful we got that day.

Tomorrow … it’ll be just My Guy and me. And probably some FaceTime with the kids … we’re trying to figure out a way to do a virtual version of some of our favorite board games. If it’s a fail, there’s always Charades.

This year the turkey will be a re-heated turkey breast from Costco. All the candy turkey makings are in the house but so far the caramels and candy corn are sitting untouched. We had visions of making them and taking some to neighbors who didn’t go anywhere this year. We’ll see if our good intentions make it out of the bag(s).

It’s connecting with loved ones. A text, a phone call, online chat, in person, a cherished memory of someone not with us … it’s all good.

Besides the candy turkeys, I realize that there is one tradition that found its way to us since the first year of marriage. Taking time to let each person voice something they’re thankful for. (We learned to do this while we’re eating, instead of before … we got a lot more out of hungry teens that way.)

Some years were awkward for sure … the kids especially felt put on the spot even though they knew what was coming. Sometimes it felt forced and a little superficial. But the words that have been said have stuck with me. We’ve been given so much. And even in years like this when so much has been taken, there are still bright spots. The sadness of change and the loss of my mom and other extended family weigh on me a bit … yet I find peace in reflecting on what they have each meant to us.

It’s a weird one … 2020 … but I’m sure we’ll look back and decide that this chapter of our long book on non-traditional traditions wasn’t half bad.

Hope yours wasn’t half bad too.

Happy Holidays!

These are not the same as ours. We make ours with chocolate kisses and with caramels as the stands … but this gives you an idea.

Thank you for reading “Small Stuff”.  This is the second of two blogs sites that I keep.  You can find more on my thought&faith blog at rashellbud.wordpress.com. Wishing you a beautiful day full of the Small Stuff that transforms life into BIG STUFF.

A note to my “silent” readers … thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to read my work. I’ve learned that many of you are shy about commenting or hitting the like button, but I want you to know that I appreciate your visits and invite you into the conversations whenever you are ready.

Wishing you peace in all things … Shelly

October Snow (II)

Where I live is more beautiful than where you live! Just kidding … well … not really …

Where I live is more beautiful than where you live! Just kidding … well … not really …

Either someone put up their Christmas decor a wee bit early and the weather took them seriously, or it decided to dress up as Old Man Winter for Halloween. This wasn’t a hint of Winter … it was a full on, 5 inches and 10 degree Fahrenheit, real deal Winter Weekend. Five days out, and it’s just starting to warm up enough to begin the melt down.

It’s not exactly unusual to get a “Halloween Snow” in Eastern Washington; my childhood friends and I remember crunching through a scant inch, sometimes a little more, rubbing together frozen fingers while trying to grip our candy buckets and not fall on our bums. We were so cold! But we refused to wear a coat over our costumes … because what was the point of dressing up then, right? All this for candy and treats … most candy, that is. I wasn’t a fan of black or orange jelly beans and could never understand why people spent money on anything other than chocolate …much of which was pilfered by my mom … so the more chocolate the better!.

Last weekend’s storm, tho’ … I can’t think of any October snow that could hold its own with this one. Every since COVID showed up in February, every month following has had something insane happen … attempts … I imagine … to not be forgotten against the backdrop of a pandemic. Who knew months were so competitive.

The first two tree pictures (above) are of our flowering cherry plum (my friend calls it our “Plerry” tree) First pic is “early storm” … the second one is morning after”. I went out three times to knock snow from branches … hate to think what would have happened had I not done that.

Moving back home recently provided a whole new perspective on winter weather. It was one thing to experience local winters as a kid. Besides freezing, I remember sled rides and snowmobiling. There were snow angels and being the first one to stomp across a snowy field. Hot buttered rums (sans alcohol for us kids) with the neighbors and daring each other to lick one of the glimmering icicles hanging from the eaves of the house.

Now there’s winter as an adult … an adult in a 100+ old house. The lesson of this crazy early snow is that cheap heating oil may not be the bargain we hoped for.

Our home is heated with a forced air, oil furnace … thus stove oil. I learned last year that when temperatures start dipping below 30 degrees you have to mix the diesel with kerosene to keep the fuel from clouding up and turning to gel … very bad for the furnace. Thankfully, we did not learn the hard way.

Our fuel guy, takes care of all that stuff, BUT when I called him in September to fill our tank, I said, “put in the cheaper stuff. We’ll go for the mixture (more expensive) when the temps drop in Nov. “

“Not a problem,” he responded. “Lot’s of people do that.”

Probably wouldn’t have been a problem in a normal year … but … we all know. There is NOTHING normal about 2020.

So My Guy and I faced a nearly full oil tank (fully exposed to the elements as it sits at the back of our house) in danger of freezing fuel that could damage our furnace. After a $600 dollar repair at the end of last winter, that didn’t sound like a good idea to us. We next discovered that an additive wouldn’t do us much good either. Unless we have a way to mix it in, it will just sit at the top of the tank.

So … we bought heat tape (didn’t even know it existed until today) and the equivalent of a poodle noodle to wrap over the top. Waaa Laaa! Insulation for the pipe that lets the fuel into the house. Here’s hoping it does the trick.

The upside of our storm is that it’s stunning outside. The downside is that trees all across town took a terrible beating. The day following the storm, I watched pickup after pickup creep off the slippery hill behind our neighborhood, truck beds brimming with branches that were being hauled to our town yard waste site. Leaves had just begun to turn color and very few had fallen yet. So with the weight of leaves and heavy wet snow, followed by a strong wind that came at the end of the storm … our trees couldn’t hold up.

Most of these photos are the morning after the storm. It’s truly a photographers wonderland around here. Thankfully, I managed to get out on the one sunny day before the storm and capture some fall color on a frosty morning … before the snow robbed all the tees of their leaves… but those pictures have been pre-empted by these. I haven’t had time to process and edit them, so a future post is all in the making.

I kinda hate to end with pics of broken trees (photos below) but they’ve reminded me of some things. In a world … and a year … where everything feels frightfully tentative … I’m reminded that I don’t get to choose my storms. Storms will come. And I … I will either lock myself away … or I’ll look for the beauty in a storm. Then I’ll clean up and carry on … find something new out of what remains. That’s what we humans do.

As my father would have put it, “How’s the weather faring where you be?” Are you enjoying a beautiful fall or are you enduring one of the storms that seems to have sprung up around the edges of the country?

Thank you for reading “Small Stuff”.  This is the second of two blogs.  You can find more on my thought&faith blog at rashellbud.wordpress.com. Wishing you a beautiful day full of the Small Stuff that transforms life into BIG STUFF.

A note to my “silent” readers … thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to read my work. I’ve learned that many of you are shy about commenting or hitting the like button, but I want you to know that I appreciate your visits and invite you into the conversations whenever your ready.

Wishing you peace in all things … Shelly

I shared this photo on one of my Wordless Wednesday posts … too beautiful not to share again.

Wordless Wednesday – October Snow

Snow in October was not what anyone had in mind, but then … this is 2020.

Snow in October was not what anyone had in mind, but then … this is 2020. Sadly, many trees in town suffered greatly from the weight of snow and leaves. This was one of the more fortunate.

Thank you for reading “Small Stuff”.  This is the second of two blogs.  You can find more on my thought&faith blog at rashellbud.wordpress.com. Wishing you a beautiful day full of the Small Stuff that transforms life into BIG STUFF.

A note to my “silent” readers … thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to read my work. I’ve learned that many of you are shy about commenting or hitting the like button, but I want you to know that I appreciate your visits and invite you into the conversations whenever your ready.

Wishing you peace in all things … Shelly

Wordless Wednesday

Harvest of days gone past. This relic is found in the Ghost town of Elberton, WA. See previous Wordless Wednesday post.

Thank you for reading “Small Stuff”.  This is the second of two blogs.  You can find more on my thought&faith blog at rashellbud.wordpress.com. Wishing you a beautiful day full of the Small Stuff that transforms life into BIG STUFF.

A note to my “silent” readers … thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to read my work. I’ve learned that many of you are shy about commenting or hitting the like button, but I want you to know that I appreciate your visits and invite you into the conversations whenever your ready.

Wishing you peace in all things … Shelly

Walk in the Woods

One of the things that we love about where we live is our “back yard”. Thirty minutes from the driveway and we’re at the lake. Head in the opposite direction, and we’re driving down dirt roads, past iconic farm homes and old barns. And yet, one more turn in the road and we’re in Idaho at one of my favorite places on the planet … McCroskey State Park.

I grew up at the base of this ambling, understated wonderland … we knew it as Skyline Drive, and it was my Dad’s favorite place to drive. Now it’s ours.

Skyline Drive is where we headed on a recent Sunday afternoon. The crazy smoke and awful pollution from the onslaught of early September wildfires had finally cleared out and the sun beat down on us, unfiltered.

Camera in hand, I set out for a short hike between two campgrounds along the top of a long, tree-lined ridge. Unfortunately, the camera didn’t prove useful for the amazing wildlife experience I was about to have

I had just descended down the hillside, well out of view of the main road and deep into the brush on both sides of the under-used path. My feet screeched to a stop … I think they did so long before my brain comprehended why.

Something … something rather large it seemed … was rustling in the thick brush to the left and uphill from me. This wasn’t a chipmunk … at least not one of usual proportions. My heart rate agreed … this was bigger … and scarier than a chipmunk.

However, more curious than scared … a dreadful fault of mine … I readied my camera, but also reached for my cell phone and turned on the video setting. If this was my award winning moment at capturing a moose in the wild maybe I wanted it on video. (Or if I was trampled by a creature, like, say … Sasquatch ,,, the video would answer a few questions for my husband, who had stayed at the trailhead … he’s not into hikes so much. )

Snap, snap, snap. Rustle. Snap. I guessed that I was hearing chewing and moving sounds as whatever it was drifted closer. Seemed like there were echos because the sounds came from straight ahead AND to the left AND to the right. I strained to see through the leaves and shrubs but they were just too thick. I could see nothing.

I thought I heard a snort, so ruled out Sasquatch … he has never struck me as a being who grazes for food on all fours.

This apparently ravenous creature was now within 20 feet of me separated by a short clearing and maybe a 10 foot wall of brush.

Suddenly, a thought occurred. What if it were a bear?

Bear, although rarely seen, are not uncommon on Skyline Drive. A story that my neighbor told many, many years ago came to remembrance, causing little beads of sweat to roll off my neck. She had been at the restroom at the trailhead of this very same spot and pushed opened the pit toilet door to find a black bear inside. She raced back to her Jeep so fast she couldn’t remember if she left the door open enough for the bear to get out.

What if I were standing 20 feet from that very same bear? Forty years and a lot of imagination had it weighing about 4000 pounds. And from all the noise, something nearly that big must certainly be in front of me.

I had just decided that maybe I should slowly back my way up the path, when there came a loud crash to the right. Something burst into motion and bolted down the hill. I aimed my video in time to capture a blur and then a white butt with a short flapping tail above it. (Not very good quality, so I didn’t post it.)

Whew!

A deer.

But … the snapping, rustling noise DIDN’T stop. There were more…. and they were now about 15 feet away.

Deciding that it wasn’t worth having them burst through the brush on top of me, I scuffed my feet and broke a twig.

An explosion of movement sent several deer crashing uphill. I didn’t get a single glimpse of any of them, but marveled at how quickly they broke through the terrain and disappeared. In just a matter of seconds I could no longer even hear them.

A little disappointed that I hadn’t gotten even one close up photo, I was still thrilled at this close encounter with nature. “It was the greatest hike ever,” I told my husband later, although I didn’t have a good reason as to why … not even a truly good picture.

A smart person may have returned to the car at that point. I didn’t. Now that I knew what was on the hillside and how skitterish they were, I continued on.

Finishing the hike had its rewards. First the view …

Then, after reaching the other camping area, I followed the main road back. About a quarter mile away from the car, I had the distinct feeling that something was watching me.

It was.

Pretty sure this was the guy who first bolted away from the rest of the group. Love his ears … makes me think of a dog who got caught dragging the trash can all over the kitchen.

Eventually, we came off the mountain. COVID and politics were still down below. Laundry waited in the kitchen. Weeds in the yard hadn’t gone anywhere.

But that hour in nature … a sliver of time away from it all … no better medicine.

Oh … one more reward for the day … notice those flights climbed! That’s a BIG deal for me.

Cheers until next time!

Do you have a place where you can escape?

Thank you for reading “Small Stuff”.  This is the second of two blogs sites that I keep.  You can find more on my thought&faith blog at rashellbud.wordpress.com. Wishing you a beautiful day full of the Small Stuff that transforms life into BIG STUFF.

A note to my “silent” readers … thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to read my work. I’ve learned that many of you are shy about commenting or hitting the like button, but I want you to know that I appreciate your visits and invite you into the conversations whenever you are ready.

Wishing you peace in all things … Shelly

Wordless Wednesday – All That Remains

“In the neighborhood” … the Holy Brethren Church carries on in the the ghost town of Elberton … under a blanket of smoke from Pacific Northwest fires.

Thank you for reading “Small Stuff”.  This is the second of two blogs.  You can find more on my thought&faith blog at rashellbud.wordpress.com. Wishing you a beautiful day full of the Small Stuff that transforms life into BIG STUFF.

A note to my “silent” readers … thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to read my work. I’ve learned that many of you are shy about commenting or hitting the like button, but I want you to know that I appreciate your visits and invite you into the conversations whenever your ready.

Wishing you peace in all things … Shelly