TIMBER!!!!!

Yesterday's project at Casa de la Flaming Bore was to (sob!) denude our old sick blue spruce tree that fell victim to cytospora canker disease this summer. Dr. Big Bore, a certified tree surgeon in a past life, performed the last rites and then we got busy with the loppers. Most of the tree looked like the top left of this picture--brown, with needle drop. Beyond repair.

But! There is still hope! Being the folk artisans (?) that we are, we have decided to keep the trunk and create a memorial of some sort. Our current thinking is to stick a cat weather vane on top and then nail in directional signs indicating the distance to our favorite places: Rocky Mountain National Park, Mount Magazine, Arkansas; 30-Mile Campground, Wichita Pizza Factory, El Charro's of Pittsburg, Fredonia, Phelan Ranch, and, of course, Climax USA. We think this piece of art will go well with the nearby bottle tree and cause all the neighbors to shudder. A progress report will be made before the end of the year--provided we haven't been thrown off the block.

SHORT-SIGHTED

"Are my butt cheeks showing?" I asked Big Bore yesterday afternoon. I have an old pair of blue flowered shorts that are comfy to wear around the house, but they are a bit too shorty-short for a senior citizen to be wearing out in public.

"No," he said. "You look good in them." -- Now there's a lie if I ever heard one.

"How much are they below my butt cheeks? I don't want to be exposing myself."

"A good four inches. Quit worrying."

The ringing of the doorbell came to his rescue. There was no question about our visitor's identity. We saw him peeking inside the front window: "Hey, Jeff!" The neighborhood gadabout was home from pre-school.

I got up to answer the door and, I swear to God, this is exactly what came out of his little mouth once he saw me:

"Hey, Nancy, put your pants on and come out here to see what I have!"

Good grief! Nothing like having a five-year-old give an honest critique of my shorts!

"These ARE my pants!" I said, wounded.

"Well, get out here and see what I have!"

---I think it's time to pack away the flowered shorts--permanently.

QUICK-CHANGE ARTIST

There is a petrified zoo hanging around outside Casa de la Flaming Bore. Right now the numbers stand at four cats, three gorillas, two rabbits, and one turtle. None of them have names, but the favorite of the neighbor kids is the turtle.

I've lost track how many times they've hidden it from Big Bore this summer. ("Hey, let's hide the turtle from Jeff!") He originally placed it in the flower area around our elm tree. Then the kids moved it to the front bird bath. ("Look! It floats!") It has since travelled to the front ground cover, then the backyard coleus, underneath the coneflowers, then to the back bird bath, and now it's beneath a barberry bush. They've moved it so many times that the 5-year-old (no longer 4, as of last Sunday) forgot where he put it and had to go on a mad search yesterday.

It's a good thing turtles are slow, or we'd never be able to keep up with it!

CHILL OUT

Good lord! When I stepped outside at 8 o'clock this morning, our front porch thermometer read 34 degrees! After a summer of over 60 days in the 100 degrees+ range, this threw my body into shock and I ran back inside to warm up.

"Where are my sweatpants?" I asked anyone who would listen. I rummaged through the closet and couldn't find where I'd stored them last spring, so I just put on my spotted-leopard flannel jammy pants, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and went back outside to suck in the cool air. I must be in Colorado.

I don't mind the heat so much, but the drought has been hideous. Every time clouds start forming, we get on Weather Spark or Weather Bug to watch the storms boil up all around us, only to have them give us the snub. We have cracks in our front yard so big that I think I'm in danger of slipping inside one and never being seen again. Saturday we got a few tiny sprinkles, but I got wetter when the little neighbor kid assaulted me with a spray bottle.

In the last few hours, the temp has risen almost 30 degrees, so I don't think I'm going to need to put out an All Points Bulletin yet for the sweatpants--but at least I can begin to think about cooler weather, watering less, and raking more. My weather calendar says that autumn is officially 17 days away and thunderstorms are in the forecast. I'll believe it when I see it.

EMERGENCY EJECTION

This just in from the dumbo department: seems a man in Wichita contacted his favorite online hook-up service for a hooker to come (no pun intended) to his hotel room for some some sort of recreational companionship. Use your imagination. Apparently two-for-the-price-of-one showed up, he forked over $160.00, then changed his mind and decided he didn't want to hook up after all. The article didn't say what prompted the sudden change--maybe he was intimidated by a threesome, I don't know. Anyway, he asked for his money back.

"No refunds!" the lovely ladies of the evening informed him and walked out.

Now, you'd think the man would have just chalked this up to a lesson learned but, no, he called 9-1-1 to complain that he'd been given the shaft. And, course, he ended up being arrested on suspicion of soliciting a prostitute and hauled off to jail.

Big Bore was inclined to cry foul. "That's hearsay."

"No it's not. It's a confession straight out of his mouth," I said.

"But what if he just made it all up?"

"Well, I suppose anything is possible." Maybe he was tired of living in a ratty hotel and wanted to upgrade his accommodations to lock-up. Who knows. Next time he gets overcome by the desire to make a hook-up, however, I have a recommendation. Call for self-service. He'll be a lot better off. Hassle-free. It's cheaper and safer and will most likely keep him out of jail.

SINK OR SWIM

Last night I had the pleasure of visiting with some former students, and one of them referred to me as something I hadn't been called in twenty years--Coach. I wan't sure whether to laugh or cringe. You see, back in 1991 and '92 I was the lamest excuse for an assistant junior high volleyball coach that this town has ever seen.

I agreed to take on this position of athletic esteem because: 1. I was new to the school system and didn't know any better 2. the head coach was desperate for a helper and 3. I met the qualifications of having two legs and the ability to blow a whistle. Knowing how to play the game was immaterial.

Actually, I HAD played volleyball in Miss Mosby's jr. high gym class back in the mid-1960s. This was in the days when girls served underhanded and just pitty-patted the ball back and forth across the net. Nothing to it. Fast forward almost 30 years and, my, how the game had changed with interscholastic competition. Most of the girls wanted to serve the volleyball overhanded, like a rocket, and move the ball around with a bump, set, spike return that was guaranteed to intimidate the opponent into submission. I was way out of my league. About all I knew how to demonstrate was stretching and running warm-ups.

Fortunately, the former student I ran into last night seemed to have no recollection of what a lousy coach I was--or at least she didn't throw it up in my face.

"Remember the time when the zipper stuck in my skirt and you had to come to the locker room to rescue me?" she asked. We laughed. Oh, lord, do I remember that! I thought I'd have to call the Jaws of Life.

"And remember the game when I served the ball (underhanded) and it went up to the ceiling and back through the gym rafters?" Indeed, I do. The ball actually never touched a thing and landed on the opponent's side, remaining in play. Damnedest serve I'd ever seen.

I didn't tell her what I remember MOST about those two years of being the assistant VB minion, though: Coaching is hard work. After a day of teaching, I was ready to go home and relax before getting to the paper-grading grind. The last place I wanted to be was in a noisy gym with 30 girls for 90-minute practices, riding buses to games, and getting home late--since we always had to stay for the jr. high football games, of course. It was sensory overload for a 40+ year-old body that had never bumped and spiked a volleyball in her life.

After two years of this charade, and numerous chiropractic appointments, I left coaching to become the yearbook adviser. I had much more ability and confidence with this position since it didn't require wearing shorts, but it was just as challenging and dangerous--this time to my mental health. As far as I'm concerned, schools need to re-name those "extra-duty" jobs to "hazardous duty." If I had it to do all over again, I'd be wearing a life preserver.

I'LL WAGER CANADA, ALEX

Yesterday, the final question on "Jeopardy" was from that wacky category, eh, Canada, which opened up a wormy can of memories for The Flaming Bore.

"Dr. Maureen and I used to go to lots of baseball and hockey games," I told Big Bore, "and every time a Canadian team was in the mix, she would belt out the Canadian National Anthem like there was no tomorrow."

The song is shorter than the American National Anthem but sung with much more emotion and gusto, which Dr. M. never failed to inject. And, of course, being the daughter of a football coach, she had enough volume to reach even the most remote regions of the stadium or arena. I never joined in on her "O Canada" performances, preferring to be the sidekick, shaking my head and laughing.

Invariably, people sitting around us would ask Dr. Maureen if she was from Canada. Rather than blow up some ridiculous story, which I would have expected her to do, she was honest: "No, I just know the words to 'O Canada' and I like it better than our anthem."

I can't remember now what the Canada question was on "Jeopardy," but Big Bore and I both missed the answer. He guessed British Columbia and I picked New Brunswick, but the answer was Prince Edward Island. Rats. If Alex Trebek had said, "These are the last eight words of the Canadian National Anthem" then I would been triumphant.

"O Canada, we stand on guard for thee!!!" I belted out in my best, off-key operatic voice at the end of the quiz show.

Big Bore rolled his eyes. "Hanging out with Maureen and you must have been a real trip," he said.

Yeah. Sort of like putting your life in jeopardy. Double jeopardy.