A song I wrote about our lives on our 20 acres at Oak Grove

 For better or worse, I decided to share one of my favorites of the songs I've written.  In 1967, we bought 20 acres with a four-room house for, I believe, $14,500.  The seller was a very sweet elderly man who had plenty of money and wanted to see two young idiots folks succeed.  Those who know anything about Oak Grove these days can only imagine what the place is worth now, but we sold it and moved, and then moved again.  

The lyrics of the song song are mostly accurate, but sometimes for the sake of meter and rhyme, I use poetic license.  So I will point out the statements that are not true:

1. We never found mushrooms there; at that time, neither of us knew how to find them.  We had to move here for me to start finding mushrooms.  But we did have an apple tree.

2. "We" weren't busy making money... just Cliff.  And we barely made ends meet, and we were lucky to have two bucks left in our checking account once we paid the bills.  So bank accounts, pretty clothes, diamonds, lace curtains were nowhere in sight.  There was, however, a carpet on the floor... that part is true.  We were living in a bigger house, but it was about 90 years old and nothing fancy.  Better cars?  Nope.  

3.  I never noticed birds of any kind back then, so I'm sure there were bluebirds to be seen on our 20 acres.  But I never actually started seeing any until we moved to Wellington.  

4.  Nobody has built a mansion on our old home place.  From the road, the house almost looks the same as when we lived there, although I understand someone added some rooms to it at some point.  You can't tell it, looking from the road.  Yes, we still drive by it sometimes, remembering.

5.  The metal pole barn Cliff built so I'd have a place to milk my cow when it was raining is still there.  And all the feelings and memories are still with me today.  I sat on the front porch swing at our old house here as I thought of the words for the song.

The spirit and feelings in the song are as true as true can be.

Donna and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

OK, I ripped off the title for this entry:  It's from a children's book I've never read, but I guess I must have seen the title a few times; all I did was substitute my name for Alexander's.  It seems to describe my day yesterday.

"But Donna, you seemed to be so happy making pumpkin pie filling.  What happened?"

Yes.  Yes, I was happy and feeling like a character out of "Little House on the Prairie" making my own pumpkin pie filling from scratch.  I didn't mind that the crustless pie I baked was a little watery; I just knuckled down and learned how to reduce the liquid in the next batch of puree.  Well, I only got about four cups of puree made before my food processor breathed its last breath.  Not to worry, the instructions on processing pumpkin from it's natural state included the fact that you can also use a blender to get the fibrous strands broken down.  I don't have a blender, but I thought my daughter did.  I put the baked pumpkin flesh in a measuring cup and set it in the refrigerator, planning to borrow her blender when she was home from work.

Cliff's brother was here so so the two of them could work on their progress getting the loader to work with Phil's tractor, so I decided to make mashed potatoes and meat loaf and macaroni-and-tomatoes and corn (too much starch, but who's counting?  I know what those guys like.)  

Somewhere in the preparation of that meal, I stabbed my thumb with my granny knife.  Notice that sharp little stabbing tip.

I take a baby aspirin every day (doctor's orders), so when I cut myself, I bleed like crazy.  At the time it really didn't hurt that much, still doesn't when I can keep it wrapped, but I was busy and didn't realize I'd cut myself that badly.  By the time I realized it, there was blood on the counter and blood on the floor (Gabe, wanting to help, cleaned it off the floor for me).  There was even blood on the handle of one of the pans I was using.  I had to change the bandaid three times before it stopped pouring out of the bandaid.

So:  I was dealing with a bloodbath right after witnessing the demise of my twenty-year-old food processor.  I decided it was a bad day.  My spirit heard what I was thinking and said, "from your mouth to my ears" and decided to take it from there.  Don't ever do what I did here; I've seen it time after time:  you decide one bad incident has ruined your day, then you let yourself get in a mood that causes the rest of your day to go downhill.  So yes, everything that went wrong (after the blood-letting) was caused by my attitude.  I won't even tell you what the other "bad things" were, because they really weren't that bad... it just seemed like it to my gloomy self.  My inner "Little Donna" (oh yes, the spoiled little girl still lives) didn't get to play with the pumpkin exactly when and how she wanted to.  

My daughter brought her blender over yesterday evening.  I used it this morning.  I had to add extra water to get the blender to get the job done, but I'm reducing liquid in the stuff anyhow; another hour of cooking won't matter much.

Cliff wanted to take me to Oak Grove Walmart to buy a new food processor after Phil when home, but I'm on a crusade to stop making thirty-mile round trips to buy one item.  I will buy a food processor when I get find one for a reasonable price.  A lady in Blue Springs has one on Facebook marketplace that's never been used; she wants $25 for it.  I have a dentist appointment in Blue Springs next Tuesday, and if it's still on Marketplace, I'll offer her $20 since it's already been there for a week.  I don't use a food processor often, but I do need one around for those times when I need it.  And I still have two more pumpkins in the garage.  

On a different note, I've been letting my three chickens out every evening to enjoy freedom awhile.  Tuesday evening, only two hens came home.  They don't always stay in my yard, so it's hard to know what happened:  Somebody's dog?  A red-tail hawk?  Probably not a wild predator, not in broad daylight so close around people's homes.  She was one of my two tame chickens, so somebody may have just wanted to own a friendly, tame chicken.  And they had all just started laying eggs.  I've shed no tears about this like I would if it were Gabe or Blue or Mama Kitty, but it makes me a little sad.  She may have even heard the neighbors rooster crowing and wanted a love life!  If she is living elsewhere now, I'd love to know it.  I wouldn't even ask for her back; she was just so sweet and loving, I'd like to know she's OK.

That's your report for the day.  Watch your attitudes, dear Readers, and don't let one bad incident ruin your whole day.

Sincerely,

Donna