LOVING LUCY

Good grief! Yesterday was comedienne Lucille Ball's 100th birthday, had she lived that long. I hadn't realized she was in her 40s when "I Love Lucy" was in its hey-day. She had the energy of someone much younger.

I'm a Lucy Lover. Her humor is goofball clean, and I always liked how she tried to keep her clueless husband out of the loop of her loopiness. My favorite Lucy of all time is not from her TV show, where there are some true classics, but from an old movie called The Long, Long Trailer. Lucy and Desi are on their honeymoon at Glacier National Park, hauling a huge mobile home with their convertible. Like moi, she is a rock lover and she keeps picking up rock after rock after rock as souvenirs until the car can barely pull the trailer---especially up the hairpin curves. Desi finally orders her to throw out the rocks but, instead, she just hides them in various closets and crannies. And, of course, they don't stay hidden for long on the downhill portion of the ride. Oh, you just have to see the movie.

Thanks, Lucy, for all the laughs. Happy 100, you funny girl.

SHADY GARDENER

It's been so blasted hot here that I have been neglecting my duties as self-appointed weed warrior at the local library. Today started out cooler, however--no sun and a light mist--so after breakfast I headed downtown on my trusty bike.

"You're gonna get wet!" Big Bore said as I took off.

"I don't care if it pours!" I shouted back. "It'll feel great and be fine with me!"

Well, the moisture didn't last for long, but the sun stayed behind the clouds and I yanked away at the bad guys for a good 90 minutes or so. Let me tell you, this drought we've been having hasn't slowed down the weeds one bit! Some of them had gotten so big that it's a wonder they didn't try to sign up for a library card and check out some books.

After my back played out, I went to the downtown Garden Club garden to dead-head. Mostly standing up. I'll get to my own yard as soon as I finish the ice treatment on my back. Hopefully before the sun returns.

FLITTERING AROUND

I don't know what this big guy is called in botanical terms, but there are a gazillion of them hanging around the flowers of Quigley Castle in northwest Arkansas (see blog entry dated August 3rd) and they love to have their picture taken. My own butterfly bush here in Kansas has seen a number of visitors this summer, but none quite like this one.

Casa de la Flaming Bore has also had a number of drop-ins from evil grasshoppers--some which are so huge that I've been forced to tangle with them and fight them to the death. I especially like to grab them, wrestle them to the ground, whack them silly with one of my flip-flops--all the while lecturing them. "Bad grasshopper! Stay away from my garden!!" No mercy for grasshoppers. That's my motto. One does not need insecticide when The Flaming Bore is in action.

FLIPPING OUT

I think the heat is finally getting to my brain. Yesterday afternoon, when I returned home from doing my morning activities downtown, Big Bore asked me, "Do you know you're wearing your top inside-out?"

"I'm what?!" I looked down at my red and blue, tie-dyed, sleeveless T-shirt. Egad!!! "I've been all over town, talking to people, looking like this? They must have thought I've lost my mind!" (Especially when I left the Herald office asking for my newspaper and it was already underneath my armpit.)

"Yep. The tag is on the outside. But at least you didn't have the shirt on backwards," Big Bore said. A lot of consolation that was.

From now on, I'm double-checking...make that triple checking...in the mirror before I leave the house to make sure my clothes are put on correctly. It's one thing to act like a dimwit--but to dress like one, too, is simply not acceptable.

ROCK SHOW

I'm goofy for rocks, so when I recently passed through Eureka Springs, Ark., I simply HAD to stop by to see what is touted as "The Ozarks Strangest Dwelling." Quigley Castle is not really a castle, but it is certainly strange. Rocks are EVERYWHERE!! And 14 bottle trees are in the yard!! Here is a little sampling:

The Quigley's mailbox: for Albert, Elise, and their five children

The old man's easy chair.

A lovely planter.

Animal pen.

Gotta love these bottle trees!

A small piece of yard art.

I told Big Bore I came home from Arkansas with lots of crafty projects for him to make for me, but he's not so keen on the idea for some reason.

BIKER CHICK

Back in the summer of 1956, I was 7 years old and ready to take over a "new" hand-me-down, Big Sis's blue bicycle. Good lord, it's as big as I was and about ready to swallow me up and spit me out on the street. When it came to wheels, though, I was always game--even in spiffy, white party shoes.

I visited with Mama Bore over the weekend, and she recalled when I learned how to ride my first two-wheeler bike--a loaner, of course, boy's bike, in our backyard. "You must have fallen off a hundred times," she laughed. At least. I quite clearly remember tumble after slam after head-on crash into trees. But, by god, I was going to learn how to ride that little red bike. And I did. Two years later, I graduated on to the gargantuan one above. Did I really pedal it up and down the street faster than lightning, like it seemed at the time? Hmmmm. Probably.

GONE WITH THE WIND

Back on May 23, I blogged about the Joplin, Missouri tornado, mentioning my hope that two former favorite haunts, Frank's Lounge and Denney's, had survived the storm. During my trip to Arkansas last week, curiosity got the better of me and I made a drive through Joplin to check on the businesses. Denney's is alive and well, located over a mile south of the line of fire, but, alas, Frank's Lounge is no more. The above picture shows what is pretty much left of Frank's. Say it isn't so. Had its address been just one block to the north, it would still be standing.

When I saw what wasn't left of Frank's, my immediate thought went to the lounge's customer supreme, Mr. Phillips, a Channel 12 co-worker of mine (and Dr. Maureen's) almost 40 years ago, and a man well-scholared in brew. He died last year, and it's probably for good reason. He would have suffered too much if he'd seen his beloved Frank's reduced to a pile of bricks. The place was his home away from home. He was a man of drama. God spared him the grief.

So, here's to old taverns blown to smithereens. Frank's we loved you and hope you'll soon be back in business. And here's to our ol' fuss-budgety buddy Mr. Phillips relaxing on his big bar stool in the sky. No tornado watching required.

Celebrating my 28th birthday at Frank's Lounge, 1977. That's Mr. Phillips in front and Dr. Maureen and me in the back of our favorite corner table.