Forty-eight

When I turned 35, my father informed me that I was officially middle-aged. I begged to differ. Since he was 72 at that point, I told him I wasn't there yet -- and he almost made it to 95. Both of my mother's parents (born in the 19th century) lived into their 90's.

But today I completed my 48th trip around the sun. There's no denying I'm middle-aged -- whatever that means. Most of my contemporaries have kids in college, not kindergarten. I'll be 60 when Sweet Daughter graduates from high school. Hopefully, I'll be able to pass on some of what I've learned to smooth her path just a little, and encourage her to find her own way, wherever that takes her.  And if nothing else, maybe I can pass along a little wisdom from the Duke.

"Tomorrow is the most important thing in life. Comes into us at midnight very clean. It's perfect when it arrives and it puts itself in our hands. It hopes we've learnt something from yesterday."  ~John Wayne

You make the diagnosis

Sweet Daughter and I did our annual strawberry picking trip yesterday, and it was HOT. We got home in the early afternoon and Shorter Half was getting ready to go troubleshoot why the riding mower wasn’t working. After cooling off a bit, SD asked if she could go play in the wading pool, so I went outside to fill it up. I noticed the lawnmower battery plugged in to the battery charger just outside the door, but didn’t see SH. I walked around behind the house and saw him flat on his back. This, I believe, is what they call a “clue” that something might be amiss as was the fact that he was in the grass, in the sun, was sweating profusely, and had his left forearm in the air with the hand curled up like a claw and didn’t answer the first couple of times I called his name. Near as we can tell, he was sitting down in the shade, stood up too quickly, started walking, got dizzy and passed out, and fell on his hand.

SH was convinced it was just soft tissue damage, but I called our Friend-the-Paramedic who advised us to head into town to the urgent care center. In under 5 minutes, Sweet Daughter threw together a “go bag” that consisted of a paper box lid, 5 stuffed animals, two packages of cheese crackers, a bottle of water, and two other small toys. She did a great job -- those toys (and snacks) kept her busy for the first two hours of our wait. The last hour was spent with us girls outside and SD using the box lid like a sled to slide down a small hill.

During those 3 hours SH got x-rayed, splinted, and other assorted tests run. Now he has to go make an appointment with a specialist to get it set properly. The question is, is his hand broken in 2 or 3 places?

Click for a better view.

In memoriam: Joseph G. Kriss

Joseph G. Kriss: June 1, 1916 – May 16, 2011

Joseph Gibb Kriss, 94, of Byron, MN, died Monday, May 16, 2011, in Rochester, MN.

Joseph Kriss was born June 1, 1916, in Pittsburgh, PA, where he was raised and educated. After attending Carnegie Tech, Joe worked as an engineer at KQV radio station in Pittsburgh.

In 1942, after Pearl Harbor, Joe joined the Army Air Force and was stationed in Big Springs and Midland, Texas, where he trained bombardiers. In April 1944, he went overseas with the 8th Air Force at Deopham Green, England. As a B-17 bombardier, he flew 30 missions over Germany; 15 missions as lead bombardier. He was awarded the Air Medal, Distinguished Flying Cross, for exceptional bombing ability over Berlin, Germany. In the spring of 1945, Captain Kriss returned to Eglin Field, FL, where he was later discharged.

He was a member of the Mighty 8th Air Force Historical Society, the Distinguished Flying Cross Society and the 8th Air Force 452nd Bomb Group.

After WWII he returned to his job at KQV. In July 1946, he went to work in Washington, DC, for WRC television. In those early days of television, he worked several different jobs from cameraman to video engineer. He also spent time at the White House and met Presidents Truman through Carter.

In 1947, he married Barbara Alexander, and they raised their four children. After 33 years with NBC, they retired to Rochester, MN, where Barbara passed away in 1984.

In 1985 he married Elaine Wangen. They traveled from coast to coast visiting their children and attending his 8th Air Force Bomb Group reunions. They moved to Byron, where they celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary last year.

He is survived by his wife; son, three daughters, his three “bonus children”, 10 grandchildren, three great-grandchildren, and his dear cousin.

Prayer to St. Peter

A drink in need of a name

Lemon Balm on the left,
Bergamot on the right.

Being a rum drinker, but never having had a Mojito, I decided that needed to be remedied. So, I went out looking for recipes. I found that Mojitos require light rum. Michael W. has introduced me to Black Strap Rum, and I now find light rum to be an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. And I didn't think that dark rum and mint would go together too well. So, what do do about that Mojito? Why, substitute ingredients, of course!

For a Mojito, one generally muddles together mint leaves, sugar or simple syrup and lime juice. Then you add light rum, club soda and ice.

I substituted lemon balm or bergamot (yes, like in Earl Grey tea) leaves for the mint, used a simple syrup made with raw sugar and kept the lime juice. Then I added dark rum, tonic and ice.

It's looks like something that came out of the bottom of a cypress swamp, but oooh, it's lovely. The lime juice and quinine in the tonic keep it refreshing, and the bergamot or lemon balm add another nice citrusy layer. Now I just need a name for it. "Swamp Water" misses the mark entirely. Michael W. suggested "Cypress Cooler" or "Noise Suppressor". "Noise Suppressor?", you ask. Two of these and the noise of every day life just sort of fades into the background.

What should I name it?

UPDATED to add: A naming contest!

Open Carry Day

I was congratulating Breda last weekend on her open carry experience and said “Hey! We should have an open carry day and see how many people we can get to do it!” And so we touched base with Mike W., who has been OCing for a while, now. And I know there are a lot of others out there that just do it and don’t blog about it, because it’s just not a big deal once you get over that feeling that everyone is staring at you like they did in high school when you had that giant Cyclops zit on your forehead that popped up after your Algebra class and nobody told you about it. (Don’t tell me I was the only one. We didn’t have Pro-Active back in the old days.)

ANYHOW. June 5th (the first Sunday in June) has hereby been declared the first annual Open Carry Day for those that can do it. That's it. Just wear a gun, and go about your normal daily routine. The sight of regular people wearing a gun shouldn't be a big deal, and who better to normalize it than reasonably normal people? Report back with what happens. I’m hoping there will be a lot observations that “Person goes about their normal day with a gun and nothing happened!” It will turn into a non-event, which is exactly what open carrying should be.

R. Lee Ermey is a darn nice guy

While at the 2011 NRA Convention in Pittsburgh, Sweet Daughter wanted nothing more than to stand in line to see “Gunny” again. We stood in line for 2 hours last year, and he clearly made quite an impression on her. That, and Glock has the most cushioned floor I’ve ever stood on, so I was okay with that part of the program. Saturday morning the line looked fairly short, and so like some Cold War-era Soviets, we hopped in line without even knowing the details. It turns out the line was short because it wasn’t moving. And it wasn’t moving because R. Lee wasn’t shaking hands at that point. No matter. We talked to some nice people for about a half hour and then had to step out of line to go watch the anti-gun demonstrators. They didn’t show, so we got back in line to see R. Lee. And one of those very nice, well-meaning retired law-enforcement types who was behind us in line proceeded to tell me everything he thought I should know about handguns and shooting.

Him: “You know what the best carry gun for a woman is?”

Me: “The one I’m most comfortable with and will carry.” (And you thought I was going to say a .38 snubbie, didn’t you?)

Him: “The one you’ll carry. The .22 on your hip is better than the .45 in your bedroom.”

Him: “You know, you hafta practice with your holster. You gotta practice drawing and firing from your holster. You gotta train like you fight.”

And on. And on. Ad infinitum, ad nauseum. I swear I was familiar with every cliché he uttered to the point I was finishing his sentences. He meant well, and he was a Viet Nam Veteran, so I was as polite as possible. But when I got the call that the antis showed up, SD and I lost no time in beating feet back outside for the demonstration.


Afterwards we got back in line for the third time and waited our turn. It was worth it. R. Lee says he remembered SD from last year. Now, I don’t imagine there are that many 6’ tall middle-aged moms with little girls that wait in line to see him so it was probably true, but SD was impressed. And he autographed a picture for her and her stuffed animal. AND gave her a challenge coin. Then he signed another picture for me because I told him my boss’s boss was a retired Marine, and it gave me a little street cred to have his autograph on my wall when he stopped by. And so R. Lee insisted on sending another autographed picture for the Big Boss.

“What’s his name?” R. Lee asked.

“Um, Mr. Lastname”, I said. “I don’t think he has a first name. I’ve never heard anyone use it.”

And R. Lee Ermy autographed one for “Mr. Lastname”. And when I gave it to the Big Boss, he smiled, and said he’d have it framed and put it on his office wall. I’d never seen him smile before, or say that many words to me in a row. R. Lee is magic.