St. Nick It

I delivered my sister's family's gifts last week, mostly so Brady could have his Santa Brady bib and his Baby's First Christmas stuff in time for, well, Christmas.

While I was there, Blane showed me all of the ornaments on their tree &mdash the Pooh bears, the Goofy, the apple bell &mdash and saved the best for last: his own Cars Lightning McQueen and Sally from last year and, new this year, Luigi and Guido. Luigi's sporting his Ferrari finery, so I told Blane:

"You'd better watch Luigi when Uncle Cary comes over; he might try to nick it."

"I don't want him to... What does 'nick it' mean?" Blane asked, shifting from alarmed to confused.

"It means he'd steal it, he'd take it."

"I don't want him to nick it!"

I assured Blane that Cary wouldn't take Luigi but likely would admire him. He seemed okay with that idea... but it'll be interesting to see whether he keeps a close eye on Cary the next time he's over.

Crazy Dog People

Yesterday morning, I heard the doorbell and looked up to see a cop car in the driveway. Ruh-roh.

I spent the next five minutes wrestling the dogs into the garage, and then opened the door to a sheriff's deputy. He said someone had reported a Chocolate Lab and a Black Lab running loose around the fairgrounds (which are a half-mile from our house), and wanted to know whether they were ours.

"No, sorry," I answered. "All of our dogs are black."

"Oh," he said. He explained he'd already talked to another Lab owner in town as well as a few other folks, and they'd all referred him to the couple who walk their dogs each morning.

"They walk every day," he added.

"That's us," I confirmed.

"Up and down 99."

"That's us."

"Male and female, four or five dogs."

"Yeah, that's us," I said yet again.

"Oh," he said. "Around 8:00?"

Just how many Rickreall couples do you think walk four dogs every morning, rain or shine, I wanted to ask, but instead I smiled and confirmed he had the right house.

We tried to brainstorm whose dogs they might be, but he'd already talked to or ruled out everyone I suggested.

Our conversation made me realize again how many people in our town have dogs, which then made me wonder again why whenever anyone finds a loses a dog, they contact us. Maybe they figure we have so many, we might not notice one more or less?

Uncle Santa

"That's not Santa; that's Uncle Cary!"

Our five-year-old nephew Blane, ladies and gentlemen, announcing to a room of impressionable children &mdash including his baby brother, Brady &mdash that the man in the red suit was not the mythical St. Nick but rather Blane's very real Uncle Cary.

I quickly pulled Blane to the side.

"Quiet, will ya? You wanna blow his cover?"

Huh? his face replied.

"Yes," I admitted, "That's Uncle Cary because Uncle Cary is...?"

Still blank.

"Is Santa Claus," I finished.

"No he's not!" Blane scoffed.

"Uh, yeah."

"Nuh-uh!"

"Yuh-huh," I countered.

"Yuh-huh what?"

We both turned to find my six-year-old niece, Abby, had joined us.

"Aunt Darcy says Uncle Cary is Santa," Blane said in a tone of wavering doubt.

"No he's not," Abby said with a dramatic eye roll.

"Have you ever seen Uncle Cary on Christmas Eve?" I asked. "The few times you've seen him Christmas Day, hasn't he looked sleepy?"

"Santa lives at the North Pole," Abby stated, crossing her arms to reinforce the fact.

"Yeah," Blane added, also crossing his arms.

"That's what we want people to believe. Who would think to look for Santa in Rickreall, Oregon?"

Their arms dropped a little, their united front weakening. I made a good point, their furrowed brows said.

While they deliberated, Abby's brother, Drew, barreled past to stage-dive a pile of presents. That little linebacker may only be a year and a half, but he's as fearless as a rookie stuntman.

Blane brightened and pointed a finger at me.

"You and Uncle Cary don't have any reindeer!"

"Yeah!" Abby shouted.

"Who needs reindeer when we have four big dogs? Sherman could pull a sleigh all by himself."

"Yeah," Abby said, less enthused.

"Besides," I continued, "who needs a sleigh when..."

Blane's eyes widened, the truth coming into focus.

"Uncle Cary delivers presents in his race car?!"

"What else would make it around the whole world in one night."

"So Santa's Workshop..." Abby said, climbing aboard the I Believe Express.

"Is your Uncle Cary's shop, mmm-hmm."

"Does he have elves?"

"Doesn't need 'em," I waved. "He has power tools. And Internet access."

"How does he get down the chimney?" Blane asked.

"And what about kids who don't have chimneys?" Abby added.

"And where &mdash"

"Sorry; trade secrets," I said. "I've told you too much already &mdash but only because I trust you two can keep our secret. You can keep it a secret, can't you?"

Blane scowled and considered, taking the matter very seriously. After a long moment, he looked up and nodded once. I looked to Abby, who also nodded agreement.

"Good," I smiled. "Now let's go see whether 'Santa' is ready for a break, shall we?"

"Riiiight," they giggled together. "Santa!"

The Orchid Experirment

I learned at an early age that houseplants can be fickle friends.

Oh sure, they start out all lush and fat, full of promises of indoor greenery with minimal care — "Just water me, give me some light, how could you go wrong?" — but a few weeks later my mom and I would be staring at a whithered stick in a pot that would make Charlie Brown's tree look worthy of Rockefeller Center.

So we fell back on the hardiest of hardy houseplants: spider plants for her, ivy for me.

Which is not to say I gave up trying to cultivate other plants (my previous post shows that), but one genus of which I steered clear was orchids. Not only did they seem as temperamental as Veruca Salt, they were EXPENSIVE.  No way was I gonna plunk down that kind of money for something doomed to die.

Until yesterday, that is.

I went to Wal-mart for bird food — three varieties of bird food, to be exact — and there they were: orchids. Tall, slender, deliciously delicate orchids in simple aluminum pots. I felt myself drawn closer.

Only $10, the sign read.  Easy care, the snowflake tag promised.

I bit my lower lip, considering.

They are awfully pretty, I thought. And $10 isn't that much to risk....

Obviously I took the plunge, and am now either on my way to expanding my plant-growing comfort zone or relearning a painful lesson. Fingers crossed for the first outcome!

December Flowers?

Our three so-called Christmas Cacti have been blooming since two weeks before Thanksgiving... but they're not alone out there in the sunroom. In addition to the cacti...

We also have flowers on a geranium:

An azalea:

And a Wandering Jew:


My citrus shrubs &mdash I can't bring myself to call them "trees" &mdash had blooms in early November, but are now putting on honest-to-goodness fruit. Right now they all look like limes, so I'll post photos of them as soon as they show some color.

Gobble-gobble

Happy Almost Turkey Day!

We were planning to go to my brother's for Thanksgiving, which meant we made the four-hours-one-way trek to my aunt's house in Eastern Oregon for a family dinner last Saturday and the four-hours-one-way trek to Cary's grandmother's in Southern Oregon the Saturday before that.

Tomorrow would have finished our series of road trips (luckily my brother's house is less than an hour away), but then yesterday afternoon, my brother called to disinvite us. Apparently he has strep throat AND the flu AND pneumonia. Gees, kid. If you didn't want us to come over, you could have just said so; you didn't have to get so elaborate!

So yesterday I drove over to Costco and fought the mob to get a mini-turkey &mdash also known as a rotisserie chicken &mdash and, even more important, a pumpkin pie. Sure, I could have baked my own, but why bother when Costco's costs the same as the ingredients, if not less? Plus then we would have had two pies.

Huh. I phrased that like it's a bad thing, didn't I?

Sorry, Sue!

"You cheated on Sue!"

That was Cary's pronouncement during our Tuesday evening walk. I had to admit he was right &mdash technically &mdash but I also had sorta hoped he wouldn't notice that part of my story.

Sue and I were supposed to have a day of Goodwill Hunting this past Wednesday. Like all of our outings, I had looked forward to it for days, had practically counted down the last few hours, when tragedy struck: One of her friends had passed away. She had to cancel.

I understood, of course, but I couldn't help being disappointed.

I had other things to do in Salem &mdash errands thwarted by bad timing the week before &mdash so I decided to go alone. I knew it wouldn't be as much fun, but maybe I'd find some treasure that would make it worthwhile.

After my Coinstar encounter (read the previous entry if you're curious), I visited the North Salem Goodwill. OUR Goodwill, Sue might say. I sent up the hope she'd forgive me as I walked inside.

In the front display case, I saw a crystal bowl we'd seen on an earlier trip. If I remembered correctly, it should have a purple tag &mdash and therefore would be half-price this week.

I asked to see it. The woman carefully lifted it out, glanced at the bottom, and then smiled.

"Guess what?" she beamed.

It's half-price? I thought.

"It's half-price," she said, and handed it over. I can't say whether I was happier to get it half-price or that my memory was accurate... but either way, into the basket it went.

At the same counter I noticed a Fitz and Floyd lidded pumpkin in muted sage. It also sported a purple tag, and also went into the basket. The Coinstar Bad Shopping Juju Exorcism had worked.

Elsewhere in the store I found a little purple-tagged Boyds bear and not one but two of the Pfaltzgraff footed mugs my Aunt Merelyn's been wanting. Their tags were blue, meaning no additional discount, but at only $1.99 each, I wasn't complaining. Those babies usually go for $8 each, even on eBay.

Treasures in hand, I went to check out. The cashier picked up the ceramic pumpkin.

"This might be considered Halloween, which means it won't be half-off," she said.

I figured she meant Thanksgiving or Seasonal, but I got the drift. She held it up and got the attention of another cashier.

"Would this be Hallow&mdash"

Before she could finish, the bottom of the pumpkin slipped from her hand and smashed on the counter. She surveyed the shards for a second, and then slowly raised wide eyes.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"Accidents happen," I shrugged.

She exhaled relief... then told me about a time at a previous job when a customer brought up a cookie jar &mdash "The last one, they said. They were so happy to find it." &mdash and she'd accidentally slipped and broken its base.

"They weren't as nice about it as you," she added.

Yeah, well, I'm not even supposed to be here, I thought.

After dropping the Styrofoam, buying a few groceries, and filling the car with gas, I decided to detour to the South Salem Goodwill. I hadn't had any luck finding Levi's for Cary at the North Salem location and figured it was worth a try. (So if you really think about it, he's partly to blame.)

I found two pairs of his Levi's 501s, one of which looked brand new but at a third of the brand-new price. Have I mentioned how much I love Goodwill?

I cruised the remainder of my usual aisles and caught up with a woman humming along with the music. Now, I've been known to not just sing along but also dance to the music at Safeway &mdash much to Nephew Blane's delight, especially if his mom joins in &mdash so I wasn't about to judge.

"Is this Ann Murray?" the woman asked.

"Sounds like The Carpenters to me," I answered.

"I think you're right. Very pretty."

I nodded and let her finish the song.

"Have you seen any gravy boats?" she asked.

"Sorry."

"I need a new one. Grandkids keep breaking mine. I thought maybe if I could find a metal one,..."

"Or one of Melamine, or some other plastic?" I offered.

"Yeah! I didn't think of that, but yeah."

"Well, good luck," I said and passed by.

I crossed paths with her again up front by the jackets. (So sue me. Some women love shoes; I love jackets.)

"Did you find a gravy boat?" I asked.

"No," she said, and then smiled. "That looks like it fits nice."

I was standing before a mirror, trying on a purple J. Jill corduroy blazer. Purple in both color and price tag.

"It does," I confirmed. "Even with a sweatshirt underneath. So if I had on the type of shirt I should wear with it,..."

"Is it comfortable?"

I nodded and crossed my arms in front. "It even has a bit of stretch."

"Oh, that's nice," she said, and then held out the arms of another blazer. "I kind of like this one."

"It is a pretty red," I agreed. "A nice Christmas red."

She nodded but frowned. "It's tagged a Large, though."

"I don't go by the tags. My closet has everything from an extra-small to an extra-large, and it all fits about the same."

She frowned at it a bit longer, then put it on, saying, "I always think I'm bigger than I am."

I get accused of that, too, I thought. I stepped back and motioned to the mirror. We both admired how nice the fitted jacket looked on her.

"I already have several jackets, though," she said.

"So do I; but at these prices..."

She smiled and nodded. We'd each get a jacket.

"Nice shopping with you," I said as I turned to go.

"Nice shopping with you," she replied. "Likewise."

And that, my friends, is the exchange that prompted Cary to label me a cheater.

Maybe he's right. But if anyone can forgive, it's Sweet Sue.