BLUE ORBS OF KENTUCKY

MEA weekend my two daughters and I went on a long overdue family vacation. In the initial planning phase we considered the traditional Disneyland vacation, but chose instead to visit my sister and her family in Kentucky.

This was Kaya (10 years) and Julia’s (8 years) first airplane experience. The basic airport security check was a little unnerving for them, but that was soon forgotten. They had no trouble flying. Their favorite part of flying was the take-off, landing, and the turbulence.

When you fly into Lexington’s Bluegrass Airport, the logical first sight is the racetrack, being conveniently located directly across the street. Keenland is a horse track only open for a couple of weeks, twice a year. I had done my homework, and made sure our visit was during the racing season.

Two years ago I went and won $4.60. This year I was up to about $35 in winnings. Although this barely paid for refreshments, I’m satisfied with my meager improvement. I’m still working on my strategy.

We spent six days there, traveling around Kentucky quite a bit. Insider traveler tip: skip Shelbyville. One of Kaya and Julia’s favorite parts of the vacation was visiting an arcade type restaurant where they rammed the heck out of each other on the bumper cars. An experience they’ve since tried to re-create on roller skates with hockey sticks.

We visited the Science Museum in Louisville, some underground caves, and went on a ghost walk. Before the ghost walk, we watched a slide show presentation highlighting our tour guide’s haunted encounters. (Complete with audio.) Our guide, Starr, is a certified ghost hunter. She also teaches a ghost hunting certification class at the local college and has the only store in Kentucky with all the essentials any up-and-coming ghost hunter would need. This seems a relatively untapped and lucrative profession. Starr walked us around the haunted district of Bardstown. (About a block.) We visited a graveyard and an old tavern rumored to be haunted by Jessie James and apparently also a hot spot for local wedding receptions. We learned all about spirit “mists” and “orbs.” An orb is a floating bubble type shape invisible to the untrained eye, but magically shows up on photographs. The rare colored orb indicates a spirit with great personality. The girls burned through most of their film on the ghost walk. I had my digital camera and was surprised to see some orbs show up in a few of my pictures.

All of the pictures with orbs were taken in very dim light or outside in the dark of night. I had a theory that this was a phenomenon that occurred when you take pictures in the dark. The night we arrived home, I tested my theory. The girls had gone to bed and I turned out all the lights in the house. I took pictures in their bedrooms, and even ventured into our basement to snap a few. The outcome was inconclusive. I caught what may be an orb over one of the girl’s beds, but that was it. I can only assume that the orbs, like the birds, have gone South for the winter.

Since the trip, my daughter, Julia, has informed me that in addition to being a teacher and the president, she is now considering being a ghost hunter when she grows up.

All kidding aside, the best part of the trip was visiting my sister Diane, her husband Danny, and their 1-1/2-year-old girl, Emma Marie. (Not coincidentally, my middle name is also Marie.) I am grateful to have enough time with my little sister for us to still get sick of each other.

I miss them terribly.

I RODE “THE BEAST”

MEA weekend brought another well anticipated trip to visit my sister, Diane, and her family in Kentucky.

I can’t ever go to Lexington without a trip to Keeneland, the local horse track. The second day we were in Kentucky, my brother in-law took their two kids (Emma & baby Jack), and my two kids (Kaya & Julia) to the Louisville Science Museum for the day; allowing my sister and myself to spend some quality time at the race track.

I credit my losing streak to several “improvements” to the track made for it’s 70th Anniversary. Wider turns and a new Polytrack surface (made mostly of recycled material made to look like dirt) is to blame. I did manage to win 2 out of 9 races. It was only about $25, but that was $25 more than my sister.

We had a great time, despite the down pouring rain. Both of us belly-up to the rails of the track yelling, “Baby needs a new pair of shoes!” I’m usually not a gambling person, but a general weakness for horses runs in my blood.

Cincinnati is only about 1-1/2 hour drive from Lexington, and we went there to visit Paramount Kings Island amusement park. Having never stepped foot on a fair ground outside Itasca County, this was a bit of a shock to me.

We did a little sight seeing on the way. We took a Christmas card-worthy picture at Big Bone Lick State Park (that’s right next to Beaver Lick). Needless to say, most of our souvenirs were purchased at that gift store.

Once in Cincinnati, we stayed at Kings Island Resort, compliments of my sister. Thanks Diane & Danny! This allowed us to get a full nights sleep and hit the park, as it opened at 11:00 a.m.

As we’re standing in line for The Beast (claim to fame is the longest wooden roller coaster in the world, at 7,400 feet) we find out that another coaster in the park, “Son of Beast” was shut down for the season because one person broke their collar bone, and another some ribs.

Like my new t-shirt says, “Ride it “til it’s broke”… guess somebody did. (I looked all over for the t-shirt “I rode The Beast,” but surprisingly, it was not available.) Blazing down the (coaster) track at 60 mph, it took all of my strength just to breath between screams.

Then it was a little sleep, and up at 4:00 a.m. (that’s 3:00 a.m. CST), to catch our flight home; the whole day was a fiasco. Beginning with a wrong turn on the way to the airport in Lexington, add a bit of mis-direction during our layover in Chicago, and top it off with the optimism of relying on my ex-husband to pick us up from the airport in Minneapolis.

After being at the Minneapolis airport for almost three hours, I still had the challenge of staying awake on the drive up north.

Despite the long trip home, I hope we can manage to make the trip again next year. Maybe by then, the Polytrack will be broken in.

None on the Range

This column unwittingly turned into my own version of “Sex in the City” which I’ve coined, “None on the Range.”

For a few weeks each year, everywhere you turn there are fuzzy hearts and chocolates.

The basic concept of Valentine’s Day is a good one. Showing the people we care about that we are thinking of them; whether it be a card, candy, or flowers. As young children we are taught in school to acknowledge every classmate. I watched my kids trying to pick out the perfect valentine to fit each one personally. Special cards go to favorite teachers and special friends. It’s a good system where no one is excluded.

As an adult, this holiday dedicated to love reminds us single folk that we may be missing something in our lives.

This Valentine’s Day started with a call from my sister announcing her pregnancy with their second child. Our family has always been hard on her husband, Danny. For a long time he wasn’t good enough for her. Of course I’ve always liked and approved of him. He has a flexible job – managing their own rental properties. Danny is able to stay home with their first child, Emma, soon to be 2-years-old. My sister, Diane, is able to go to school and not have to rely on daycare for little Emma. And to top it off, they seem happy. I can’t help but be a bit envious of their situation.

I did have sort of a date before Christmas. It’s funny how your interests shift when you’re a single parent/homeowner. I got one look at the plow on the front of his truck and was star-struck. I soon learned he also owned a chain saw and knew how to use it. The conversation quickly turned from small talk to what more resembled a job interview. My keen interest in his handyman skills inevitably scared him off. We didn’t really have that much in common, anyway.

My requirements for a potential significant other are pretty extensive. A man can’t just be compassionate, kind, care about kids, and have half a brain… he’s got to be handy around the house and be willing to cut up my steak for me. That’s hard to find these days.

If I sound a little cynical, it’s because I didn’t get any chocolates this year. I don’t think I’m alone on this. One of my favorite DJs on KAXE, Julie, even dedicated a whole set to the “dark side of love.”

Why does society expect people to pair off and walk together forever into the sunset? Just because love has eluded me, I am somehow incomplete? Statistics show that conventional marriage is unlikely to succeed for half of us.

I find no shame in simply watching the sun set with my wonderful kids.

I’ve never been a high society person myself. I can’t conform to a society where you are commended for killing a man in war, yet condemned for loving a man in peace.

Yet… I can’t help but hold out hope that someday my Prince Charming will come. When there’s a heavy snowfall, I fantasize that he will come in the dark of night and plow my driveway. A girl can only dream.

A Baker’s dozen

Traveler, a foundation sire of the Quarter Horse (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For as long as I can remember, my sister has loved horses. Like so many little girls, all would be perfect with the world if she could only have a horse of her own to love and to take care of. So, she asked my parents for a horse. Not wanting to break her heart, my dad said, “If you save up the money yourself, we’ll allow you to get a horse.” I often wonder how my family’s life would be different if my father had just told her “NO” like every other sane parent on the planet. So, at just eight years old, little Diane came to my mother & father with two year’s worth of allowance & the classified ad with the horse she had picked out. Diane became involved in 4-H and horse shows immediately. She had a lot to learn, but always seemed to enjoy herself. Judging by all the ribbons and trophies still in the tack shed, I’d say her & Tomtee did pretty well. Tomtee was a pony, and Diane was a growing girl. Soon Tomtee was traded in on a Palomino Quarter Horse named Joe, bless his soul. Throughout her teenage years, Diane remained involved in the horse show circuit. A girl can’t haul a horse by herself, so Mom & Dad quickly became involved themselves. When the stables where Joe was kept shut down, my parents realized they could buy a small piece of property just outside of town for about the same cost as monthly boarding fees. Bakersfield Quarterhorses was born. Now, you can’t have 6 acres of land and only one horse. One became two, two became four, four became six… you can see where this is going. Then, you can’t have that many horses on just six acres. So, again they began looking for a bigger “yard”. Shortly after Diane moved away, they bought 80 acres in rural Bovey. With high hopes of breeding and selling, the herd grew. A manageable Baker’s dozen became, at one point, thirty-six horses! I love my parents dearly, but even they will admit this had gotten a little out of hand. I’m not a horse person myself, and have always been a bit bitter about the whole “horse thing”. The horses were like a herd of older siblings that always got fed and were tended to before me. I guess I was jealous. If only I had the persistence that Diane did, I’d have saved up my money and gotten that Unicorn I always wanted. That’s a different story. By not learning anything about horses, I did manage to avoid most of the chores that came with them. My older brother is very handy, and was not as lucky. This is all the plight of an honest man to keep a promise to his young daughter. Now, with both parents over the proverbial “hill”, they are finally coming to their senses. The current emphasis is off the breeding, and focused on the selling. Diane is home this week to help halter and load. Their current herd of 19 will be dwindled down to just 2 – 5 (depending if all sales go through). So, this is an end to an era, of sorts. Diane still loves horses. She is currently studying for her Masters degree in Animal Research at the University of Kentucky. My parents are left with a beautiful farm and just enough horses for them to handle. I’ve learned an important life lesson in all this, too. It’s a lesson about keeping promises, and loving your family. I’m still hopeful to have the human family outnumber the horse family. That is yet to be seen.

The Nail Game

August 19 is my dad’s sixty-second birthday, and on the 20th he’ll throw a grand party. Some people of his wisdom and maturity might not celebrate every birthday with a party, but he’s a festive guy. My dad worked hard as a salesman for many years. He sold Frito-Lay potato chips. Luckily for us kids, right around the time we were big enough to slide open the door to his delivery truck, Frito-Lay expanded from just chips into a variety of dips, cookies, and other yummy treats. Now in retirement, he works part-time as a bartender in a quaint little pub in LaPrairie. For as long as I can remember, my dad has collected dimes. I’m sure that’s where I learned my frugality. It’s actually quite smart on his part. People are much more likely to part with a dime, than say, a quarter. So, throughout the year, all his friends and patrons at the bar give him their dimes. Every August he cashes in those dimes, rents a porta-potty for the weekend, and has himself a shin-dig. My uncle comes from Ogilve, and they start at the crack of dawn, firing up the double-barrel smoker/grill to roast the pig. One year they had a whole pig with two chickens sitting pretty within the pig’s cavity – roasting to perfection. I know, it sounds gross. At first I refused to eat any chicken prepared that way. Then I tried it… my endorphins kicked in and obliterated any girly-gross premonitions that I had. Everyone brings a dish to share. My mom makes her famous baked beans and tuna noodle salad. We play horseshoes, bocce ball, and of course, my favorite, the nail game. The nail game is quite elegant in its simplicity. You need a pretty tall stump – about 4-1/2’ high. Everybody who wants to play donates a buck to the hat for the winner. (Sometimes it gets nailed right to the center of the stump for inspiration.) Each player gets a nail equally started into the top of the stump. Then, you get one swing per turn, swinging with the claw of the hammer to see who can get their nail nailed in first. You’d be surprised how difficult it is. (And for how long this can entertain otherwise seemingly normal adults). I, myself, have partaken many a nail game. It has become sort of a rite-of-passage into the K.B. birthday party experience. I highly recommend it. Inevitable held every year on the same weekend of the Fair, my dad’s party accounts for the relatively low numbers at the beer garden on Saturday night. All in all, it is a good time for all. If you are fortunate enough to know my father, maybe I’ll see you there. I’ll be the one in the big garage near the tall stump with my game face on. (Please, no fireworks this year – it scares the horses!) I hope when I have reached the “wisdom and maturity” that my dad has, that I have as many people to call my friends as he. Happy birthday, Dad! I love you, and I’ll see you Saturday!

The Dishmaster Imperial-4

It is officially summer and I have marked the occasion with my first big purchase of the summer – an air conditioner. I even “installed” it myself. It’s kind of a botched job, but quite an accomplishment for me – given my history of large appliances.
THREE years ago my parents got me a garage door opener for Christmas. I do have one now – fully functional, but the remote doesn’t work. So, you have to get out of the car, go into the garage, and push the button. Makes the whole thing a bit pointless. In the dead of winter, doesn’t do much good. After bugging my brother and begging my father for a year and a half, my dad finally cracked. He came on a Tuesday to install it. The box got opened, the parts were sorted, my last two beers were drank, and there it sits. Still  unassembled on the garage floor.
TWO years ago at Christmas I received a Dishmaster. My mom grew up in Southern California, and it’s all the rage there. At least it was 25 years ago. The Dishmaster is a unit that replaces the faucet in your kitchen sink. It has an arm that detaches with a scrubber at the end. You fill a basin with dish soap and when you push the little red button – soap comes out. We had one when growing up, and I remember loving to do the dishes as a kid. It would be so very helpful getting my own kids to do the dishes. My mom went on-line and found the company that makes them, spent way too much money, I’m sure, on the Dishmaster Imperial-4, that sits in the box, still unassembled on the bedroom floor.

Dishmaster (Photo credit: jimrenaud)

I’ve been meaning to buy an air conditioner for a few years. The last two years I’ve waited until the end of summer to go in search of an air conditioner, only to be met with empty shelves. This year would be different. About a month ago, I went to my favorite mart and purchased our first air conditioner. True to form, it sat in the box on a chair at the dining room table for three weeks.
I was in the garage getting out my bike, when I noticed the pieces of the garage door opener and the box on the garage floor. I went inside to put some shorts on and saw the Dishmaster box on the bedroom floor. I came out into the living room and there was the air conditioner box on the chair. I started to get a little panic attack when I realized that I was turning into my grandmother. She always had boxes and bags of unopened, unused anything you could ever imagine. The curse on my mother’s side is the big butt, the curse on my father’s side is clutter – and I’ve inherited them both.
I’ve always been pretty independent, and don’t like feeling helpless in my own house. But, after a certain plumbing incident, I’m sometimes hesitant to assemble and/or install anything myself. Desperate to alter my path to old age, I decided I would take on the task of the air conditioner. For two nights after dinner, this was my project. I painstakingly screwed in the side panels. It looked easy – but was deceivingly difficult. My hand hurt from clenching the screwdriver – so the next night I continued with my installation. Since I don’t have the proper outlet in the living room, we had to settle for the kitchen window for now. It sits in the window frame, nestled in a little styrofoam house that I made out of the packing material.
Now I stand in my kitchen and do my dishes the old-fashioned way with a wash-cloth, enjoying the “whisper-quiet” coolness that only the second-cheapest air conditioner in town could give. I smiled at my small accomplishment.

Baker Tourettes

Last Saturday we had a Baker family reunion at my Aunt Brenda & Uncle Robin’s beautiful lakeside home in Cohasset. Grandkids, aunts & uncles, second cousins twice removed, and tag-alongs gathered from all around. I’d drop a few names, but I neglected to collect name tags after the event.
It was a stressful time. My family re-union activities actually started a few days before aforementioned event. Thursday my sister & her family arrived from Kentucky. Since I’ve maxed out my vacation days for the year, I’ve been burning the candle at both ends for a good week now.
My youngest daughter, 10 year old Julia, came home on Friday after a week long camp at Legionville in Brainerd. That was the longest time I’ve ever been away from my baby. I think she did better than I.
My sister, Diane, and her husband, Danny, celebrated their 10th Wedding Anniversary while they were here. Danny had some interesting observances regarding our family behavior. He noticed what he calls the “Baker trait” arising in his own little daughter, Emma – now 3 years old. He likened it to an emotional Tourette’s Syndrome, but noted that the females are far more likely to carry the gene, and it seemed to worsen with age. Watch out, buddy, because we are stronger in numbers!
The family reunion itself was really quite nice. Not sure why I was dreading it. I guess I just don’t do well in large groups. The fact that it’s family only seems to heighten the dread. Family is much more critical of what you’re wearing, how many pounds you might have in excess, or whether or not there are any new men in your life.
Nobody noticed that I had on my new Krazy-Dayz bargain flip-flops, or cared that I’ve achieved a new personal best score in online cribbage, or wanted to hear about my cats newest hairball episode.
We all gathered around our favorite dishes and ate peacefully together. You can tell a little bit about each person by the dish they bring. Somebody brought some kick-ash jambalaya. There was potato salad, wild rice dishes, pork, turkey, and what I assumed was beef. (You know what happens when you assume).
Of course growing up here in northern Minnesota, we often had venison. I never liked it. So, my mother saw fit to start lying to me about what I ate, and snuck venison hamburger and sausage into much  of our childhood meals. I would discover the tell-tale white paper wrapping in the trash and quickly became leery of everything my mother ever cooked. At one point I looked at my chicken leg and asked if it was venison.
I was pretty well traumatized as a child by venison. I don’t know why I can eat a pig, chicken, or cow, but not a deer. Doe eyes? Bambi? I know it is all in my head.
A few years ago at another family function, I thought I was eating some roasted pork. It tasted good to me. Mid-bite, by brother starts laughing hysterically, shoots the evil eye to my Dad, and immediately I knew it was venison. Instantly it went from tasting scrumptious to a gag reflex and tightening of the throat muscles. Pure mind power.
Maybe if I watch the Secret a few more times, I can learn to harness that power in my brain and then I would be dangerous. But then, I suppose the BT’s (Baker Tourettes) would kick in and I’d end up short-circuiting, and probably make a scene in the middle of the next family function.
I can’t wait.

The Boyfriend Pillow

Christmas is long gone, but I am just now ready to talk about it. I know that it is not about the presents, but this particular column is.

I couldn’t help but feel a little rush of excitement when the kids declared that I had the biggest present under the tree. Be careful what you wish for. My mother had mentioned to me that she had taken a different route with the gifts this year, and bought most of them on-line. She seemed very pleased with her shopping experience, and had announced that she had found the perfect gift for everyone this year.

Down-playing my excitement, I opened all my gifts, saving the big one for last. Most of the family’s other gifts had been opened too, and all turned to me as I deliberately milked the anticipation. I open the box and … and… what is it? All eyes on me, I pull out what appears to be the plush top half of a man.

“It’s a boyfriend pillow!” my mother says with proud excitement, “And, it has a built-in vibration mechanism for you to relax.” The kids looking to me for guidance…. what was grandma thinking??? Also in the box was another gift – a leather travelling bag. Now I’m thinking…It came with a traveling case? I’m mortified.  Later it was revealed that the leather duffel was actually a separate gift.  A nice one, too. It was just packaged together so all us “adult” kids would have the same number of presents.

Later that day, my 2-1/2 year old niece, Emma, was watching TV. Leaning up against the pillow, it’s arm around her waist, playing with the fingers of the hand. Again, mortified. It’s hand is shaped as such that it is giving you the “thumbs up” at all times.

After about a month I was finally able to look at the thing. I was hoping maybe it had some bells & whistles that my mother may not want to reveal in front of the whole family, but alas, it is just a pillow. A pillow with a classic button-up, fuzzy, powder blue 1/2 shirt, with one arm. I’ve named him Stan.

This will be one of those gifts that will be re-gifted every year to the appropriate family member. It will live in infamy. Now that a little time has passed, my bruised ego can see the humor in it. My mother was even thoughtful enough to put two AA’s in Stan for me.

This is a cautionary tale. Please warn your friends & relatives of the dangers of on-line shopping. Even just a few cocktails will dangerously affect your judgment. Protect the ones you love.

I have a dream

This past week we recognized Martin Luther King Day. I’ve always been inspired by his bravery and all he accomplished in his short life. I was reminded of a poem that I had written in school as a teen-ager. We won’t say exactly how long ago that was. Looking at it now, I see that it is a bit juvenile and idealistic. I guess I haven’t changed much.

Anyway, it took me a while to dig it up, and I thought it worth sharing. It seemed to me to still has some relevancy…. here goes:

America the Beautiful

Dearly beloved,

We are gathered here today,

To pay tribute to a great country,

Of which I am proud.

Four score and seven years ago,

Our fathers brought forth new diseases,

Killed some Indians, raped their wives,

Stole their last threads of pride.

Give me your poor, your weak, your tired,

I’ll give them a cardboard box,

A spot on the sidewalk,

The right to life, and almost any other four letter word.

Oh, say, can you see,

The hungry children crying,

Stomachs aching for some food, clean water,

Just a hug?

For beautiful and spacious skies,

For amber clouds of smoke,

Politicians, athletes, actors and parents,

Polluting the air and their bodies with various chemicals.

Thou shall not kill,

The flowers or the birds,

The ocean or the sky,

My brother.

All men are created equal,

And innocent until they’re broke,

Just tell them what they want to hear,

That’s all they’ll listen to, anyway.

I pledge allegiance to the flag,

Of a country that’s gone awry,

I’m gonna grow up to be president,

And send our children off to die.

I have a dream…