Whether you seek out pop-up gardens, pop-up messages from nature, or smile recalling when someone special popped the question -- this musing has it all. 

Pop-up Gifts 

Doesn’t “pop-up” sound like a pleasant surprise?

Do you hear the whack of a baseball bouncing high off the bat? Or did cool drops from a sprinkler kiss your body on your well-timed walk? Perhaps a tiny burst of color peeking through a crack in the sidewalk makes you stop. These are pop-up moments. Pop-up, a fun-to-say-word, is traceable to the mid-15 century, according to etymonline.com.

My recent favorite pop-up moments:

• A handsome box turtle popped out from his shell to say, “Hello there!” I am a fan of tortoises, that’s why I give him a lift across the street. His shell is hard but without deep, rough ridges and cracks. He retreats inside his shell as I carry him to a cool grassy spot by an opening in the fence. I hope his home is in the marshy place down the hill.  
• The blur of a brilliant flame-orange male Baltimore oriole that flies in front of me. No time to stop!
•  An impromptu conversation with our neighbor by our trash one evening. We talk and laugh. Despite living next door, seeing her outside is almost as rare as seeing a Baltimore oriole. She’s a homebody.
•  At the farmer’s market, one vendor and I marvel over the beauty of beets. She uses the vegetable as a natural sweetener in her delicious granola. She also eats them raw and roasts them. Golden beets are popular now but it’s red beets that please my tastebuds. Cooked, please. My dad grew beets and they are the best beets ever. So many beets taste like old dirt! Not his.
• It’s been so hot and dry, I wonder why there’s a mushroom in our yard? A yellow disc-shaped ‘shroom shows up near our breakfast nook (two chairs and an umbrella) where my husband and I sip strong Cuban coffee in the cool shade each morning.

My husband and I are celebrating our wedding anniversary this weekend. Did you know that to pop the question dates back to 1725? Nearly 22 years ago, my husband asks me to marry him on a sunny, cold winter day in our favorite Henry Moore sculpture garden. It is the first of many surprises we share in our marriage.

May you delight in pop-ups wherever you find them!

Huge High Five! for All the Dads

Dr. Ralph V. Wimp 

   

 Dad and I emailed each other daily about current news or past historic events, family and friends, and ordinary things. My dad’s signature sign-off was your earthly father, which made me smile. If his computer wasn’t working, he’d call me because he didn’t want me to worry about him. After he died, I kept writing to him—my earthly father who now lives in heaven.

    He showed me what humor sounded like. At my retirement party, my manager said she learned to appreciate my quirky sense of humor. I considered her comment a compliment. Thanks Dad.

    Dad also showed me what happiness felt like— freedom to map out my life.

“You can be anything you want when you grow up,” he said.

    I was probably 11 or 12 years old, but realized he believed in me. My career was my choice, with unlimited possibilities.

    Dad showed a genuine interest in my work. He was curious about how I was getting along. When I shared my stories of challenging co-workers, bad bosses, or temperamental team members, he shared how he coped with similar situations. One piece of his advice I followed: write my feelings about a particular person, then tear up the piece of paper. Just let it go!

    He was such ann easy-going, not the person who held grudges, called in debts, or wanted to get even. I wanted to model his behavior for he was kind and generous to everyone. I appreciated his patience. (He taught me how to drive!) 

My first driving lesson! 

    A soft-spoken man who rarely raised his voice. His calm demeanor instilled confidence in his patients. Dad left his thriving family medical practice to work at the State Hospital. The position allowed him regular hours and more time at home.

    “He didn’t want to miss seeing you and your brother grow up,” Mom said.

    In his long-standing career as a doctor at the State Hospital, I don’t remember him calling out sick. He was immune to illness; I supposed. He enjoyed working and tried and failed to retire three times. He officially retired at age 68, but worked another 14 years as a consultant.

    Before leaving for work, he’d give me a high five. Thwack! He slapped his palm against mine. “I’m off to save lives and stamp out disease!” He left before 8 a.m., came home on his lunch break, and returned home after 5 p.m.

    Lunch was a simple fare. He liked plain food—    soup, cottage cheese, or a sandwich. However, he loved sweets – puddings, pies, or ice cream. His grandkids knew they could count on him stashing chocolate puddings in the cupboard (for them!).

    He was modest in his dress, what he drove, and our home. His car was a big old Buick with an enormous trunk to transport his garden tools and produce. He grew corn, okra, zucchini, beans, cucumbers, cantaloupe, and watermelon. He also raised all kinds of tomatoes, from Romas to heirlooms that were black not red. Most weekends, he wore his old, faded jeans and a flannel shirt. Certainly, he looked like more like a farmer than a physician. 

    Our family admired his amazing memory. He studied history and that included family history too, recalling birthdates, anniversaries, and middle names with natural ease, as if he was stating what the weather was. His own childhood was a painful memory because He was orphaned at age eight. As a boy, his fatherly role models were likely his older brothers and his scout leaders. Those scout badges (especially swimming) and his Eagle Scout were hard earned.

    Last summer, while cleaning out his garage, I found certificates, plaques, and letters he saved, including his high school diploma, US Navy commendation, medical licenses, and volunteer church work. He graduated at the top of his naval academy class in Great Lakes, then served his country from 1951 to 54 during the Korean Conflict. His exam grades from medical school were impressive (scores in the high 90s) with his highest marks in surgery, principles and practice, diagnosis, and toxicology. He also had a rapport with his patients, that I saw firsthand when I accompanied him on house calls. 

    My father’s compassion, strong work ethic, generous spirit, and sense of humor made him special and I treasured my time with him. 

    For Father’s Day, here’s a high five to you Dad and all the fathers on earth and in heaven.

 

Summer-rizing    

What does summer-rizing mean for you?

Summer- rize (To prepare one’s self, home, yard, and attitude for summertime.)

        Ah, summertime. Birdsong before dawn wakes me up and I go for a stroll, swim, bike ride, or game of tennis before the searing heat sets in.

        The pool, cool and shady, invites me to take a dip before the heat arrives. The sun makes me a lazy floater gazing at the clouds. 

        Let me feel the warm nights, hear the crickets chirp, and watch the woods aglow with fireflies.

       Summer produce -- fresh herbs, fruit, and vegetables -- are worth the wait. I anticipate the first ripe peach with its sticky, sweet juice exploding after one bite. The fragrance of my homegrown basil shows off its aroma in only a few weeks after planting.

       Give me long days that call for a tall glass of cold, tart limeade and an engaging book. Bring on the bats in all their frenzy chasing down supper at dusk. 

But the work of summer-rizing comes first. Here’s my short list:

·         Replace or fix everything that’s worn out or missing from last year. 

·         The grill, deck, and chairs all get a bath. The power-washer trades places with the snow blower. 

·         Bikes get a tune up. 

·        The herb garden receives a pep talk. Two new types of tomatoes follow me home from the garden store.

·         Weeding the garden beds, while wary of poison ivy and its relatives.  

·         Hummingbird feeders with homemade sugar water decorate the windows.

·         Memorize the farmers market schedules: Who has the best produce? When should I go? Saturday or Sunday morning?

·         Throw out the outdated sunscreen, and buy new flavors in SPF 30, SPF 50, and SPF 70.  Ah, do I need SPF 100?  

Enjoy the summer season! May your chores be few, and the joys be many.

 

Introduction: Tales from the Trail, is an occasional fictional musing inspired by the nearby trail. A place where I meet and make imaginary friends who are featured in the blog.  

Marilyn's Musings passed the six month fledging mark. I've been publishing my essays, posing questions, sharing music recommendations, and odds and ends since November 2023. Thanks for following the posts and my plan is to "Keep On." 

This weekend's musing was delayed because I was summer-izing my house vs. winterizing, which I'll summarize for you next week. Why isn't summerizing isn't in Merriam-Webster's dictionary?  

Stumbling upon a Star 

Golden star, shinny and bright, 

falling from afar one dark night. 

Golden star, lost and alone, 

grounded here without a home.

Let's be friends, what do you say? 

Twinkle each day and night away. 

Golden star, speed and soar  high, 

fly back to your starry sky. 

My how you glow oh golden star, 

gaze upward and there you are! 

 

 

  

Llama Enchantment 

Introduction: As a reporter working in a small town, I covered city council meetings, business openings, and odds and ends. I interviewed people from all walks of life. One of my favorite feature stories was an interview with a llama farmer in Missouri who invited me to witness the birth of a baby llama (cria). This musing was written after my late-night return from the barn after meeting the baby llama. A musing from the past:

    How can anyone not like llamas? Llama are loveable. Ask me about my first llama kiss (nose rub).

    Those who scoff at the notion probably haven’t met a llama. My first introduction to a llama-like animal was through “The Adventures of Dr. Dolittle.” Remember the two-headed Pushmi-Pullyu? It sort of looked like a llama, but this creature was a descendant from the unicorn. Dolittle had a knack for conversing with all animals, from the common mutt to the most aristocratic of beasts.

    It’s understandable that in today’s real world, there is little time to “talk with the animals.” Yet imagine what we could learn if it was possible? llama language sounds like humming. We humans hum as a happy habit, but is it the same for llamas? Only other llamas and Dr. Dolittle know for sure.

    How can you not admire such a dignified, regal creature as a llama? Especially when they captivate you with their large, dark, soft eyes. Then there’s that face with a hit of a smile.

    Llamas, like people, have distinct personalities, yet most are outgoing and inquisitive. They are nosey by nature—like reporters? looking for their next story. (Llamas, however, are considerably more charming than most of my cohorts.)

    Hidden beneath a llama’s long woolly coat is a sensitive, intelligent being. They perk up their ears when something new enters the pasture. But because they don’t like to be caught watching someone or something, they’ll turn their heads. It gives the false impression that they’re aloof As with any animal, becoming friends takes time. 

    Unfortunately, I didn’t come back with any good quotes from the llamas for my feature story. The family were a bashful bunch. However, I made an entire herd of new friends.

    I still believe llamas have a magic ability to spark a smile, create joy, and make me hum a happy song.

Let’s explore the weight of things. I have always collected things -- stamps, coins, rocks, postcards, books, and teapots. Some collections are on display, others are hidden in the closet or basement.  Let me introduce you to a few of my favorite things I have saved in today's blog

Have you heard of döstädning commonly called Swedish death cleaning?  

    Keep only the things you need. Rid yourself of the rest. Living with less is an act of kindness for your family and loved ones left to deal with your lifetime of things after you’re gone.

    “The Gentle Art of Swedish Death: How to Free Yourself and Your Family from a Lifetime of Clutter," written by Margareta Magnusson is the premiere guidebook. Her book inspired a program on the practice starring Amy Pohler, which aired on Peacock. (I haven’t seen it.)

      Recently, a friend told me how freeing the Swedish death cleaning experience was for her. She wished she had emptied all those boxes of things instead of moving them over the decades.

       For me, it’s easier to donate or discard stuff that hasn’t lived with me that long. But honestly, the age of something doesn’t matter as much as my memories connected with the something. Sometimes, I’ll box up donations and I change my mind the next day.

        I’d describe my dilemma much like the Butterfly Effect. If I change one small thing (get rid of one small thing) what will the larger effect be? Mmh, it’s ironic that I’m worried about chaos theory when I want to unburden myself and others from clutter and chaos.

       Let me introduce you to a few of my favorite things:  

1)                My first Mac computer in its original box sits on the top shelf in the basement. This computer (vintage 1990s) with its small screen, and soft hum kept me company as a freelance writer.  

2)                 A Prince tennis racquet with purple synthetic strings has hours of court time lives in my coat closet, ready for a game. Unlike the computer, this racquet still rocks. Every time I hit the sweet spot it makes a bonging noise.  Not only is the racquet too loud, but it’s also too heavy for me.  

L            Last year, I broke down and bought a new racquet but couldn’t part with my Prince.   

  In the upstairs closet hangs a form-fitting light blue denim dress, which I wore to the Kansas City premier of “Bird” about Charlie “Bird” Parker. My dress is not your grandmother’s long, loose denim jumper. This dress transports me back to 1988 standing in the theater lobby with bunch of jazz-loving friends acting as giddy as if Bird, the sax legend himself would walk through the door and thank us for coming to see him. 

Sadly, Parker died at the age of 34 in 1955. The most unusual thing he left was a plastic saxophone that resides in the historic 18^th and Vine jazz district, last I heard. An instrument made of cheap-grade plastic could have easily been discarded. Historians are grateful this sax was saved.  

    In my life, the less saved may earn more gratitude!  

 

 

What car, truck, or tractor taught you how to drive?

I honed my driving skills on our family car—a Dodge Dart circa 1967-1970. Even today, I still pride myself on being able to parallel park anywhere thanks to the Dart. What a machine whose manual steering required wrangling the car into submission, one inch at a time. 

Today, even the most inexperienced drivers ease into postage-stamp size spaces thanks to modern cars equipped with rear cameras and automatic steering.  Look Ma, no hands parking! Cars can even do all the driving for you while you look out the back seat passenger window. That’s not for me. In fact, self-driving cars are an accident in the making.  

    My first car accident happened close to home—in the driveway. First, let me explain the frightening experience of backing out of the garage into the driveway. Our driveway sat on a slope leading to our forest-filled backyard. Visibility was wretched. (Imagine an infinity driveway on a cliff.) My nightmare was one wrong turn of the wheels then the car and I would careen backwards, bouncing the steps, sliding into the woods, and landing in the creek. 

    Mom always backed the car out for me. She was fearless. Except when she was a passenger with me behind the wheel. Then she clung to the dashboard in the same way one adrift at sea would hold onto their lifeboat. Her right foot would mimic pressing down on the brake blocks before the stop light. It wasn’t funny at the time. But I can laugh about it now.    

     That day, after mom handed over the keys, I confidently backed out of the driveway. Bump! I ran smack dab into a telephone pole at the end of the driveway. Surprise! 

    For a teenager, I was a safe driver. That Dart, if pressed, could fly, with a speedometer that went to 120 mph. Speed wasn't my thing. I wanted the freedom a vehicle offered. This Dodge – we were a Dodge family for a while—was sturdy, practical nothing fancy four-door sedan, unlike the sleek more  expensive car my best friend's parents drove. The Dart was four-door beauty was an ideal beginner's car. Yet, whenever I drove it on weekends, it came home with a new “sound” an off-kilter ugly sound like a hammer hitting a pipe.   

    Those sounds caused my dad’s face to scrunch up in worry—a look I dreaded. He had questions asked in a calm voice, but I, the one with no answers, responded in a squeaky, broken voice. I don’t recall getting grounded or being in trouble. These unexplainable car things were bound to happen. Dad took the car to the mechanic. 

    Generally, I am attuned to abnormal stress sounds (clatters, clunks, etc.) my Chevy Bolt makes. It’s been making sporadic metallic pinging noises, coming from underneath the car. I miss Car Talk on the radio.

    We replicated the sound for our mechanic by pushing the rear end of the car side to side. The Bolt stayed in the shop and our mechanic checked and tightened everything, assuring us nothing would fall off. Mission accomplished.

    Not so fast. On the way home, a block from the shop, I heard the sound. 

    Then, this week, my hubby heard the sound from inside the house as I drove by. Much like my dad, he got serious and made an appointment at the dealership. Before we dropped off the Bolt we did online research. The verdict: I was not the only Bolt owner whose vehicle sang this song of unknown origin. 

    Our dealership has a drive through diagnostic device called Under Vehicle Eye or UVEye, which takes photographs of the vehicle’s exterior. The customer waits in the lobby and sees “issues” that appear on the seven-foot tall machine. We tapped the icon on the screen to see the photos with a brief description of the “issue.” My tires were 6.5 years old and worn. But what about the noise? No flash diagnosis for us. A real live mechanic would need to examine the Bolt.

    Two guys invented the UV Eye to detect bombs planted underneath vehicles and now is being employed by dealerships around the country. My Dad would be impressed with the technology.

    He was a family doctor whose philosophy was to make his diagnosis first based on talking with the patient, taking a health history, and listening. The tests he ordered were to confirm or rule out his diagnosis. He felt tests alone didn’t offer a reliable diagnosis.

    What was my poor Bolt’s condition? A broken axel torsion bar. Good news: I received word that my car will be ready in two days. Ready for more adventures!