Too long for Facebook; too important not to see

The following is from a friend in Georgia who was born and raised in Burlington: "If (Colorado's Props. 60, 61 and 101) pass, the consequences will go far beyond “just cutting taxes”. I would suggest that, especially in small towns like Burlington, Limon, Wray, Yuma, etc, the consequences will alter small town life and take the “life” out of the equation of living. If the mandated budget cuts are what is being projected then consider that many of the things that tend to bind a small town together will have to be eliminated. No football, no basketball, no wrestling, no choir, no cheerleading, no extra-curricular activities of any type and probably no library. What courses will have to be cut in schools because there will be no teachers to teach them – history, English, Home Ec, Voc Ag? There is more than enough justification to demand tax cuts because of waste and issues that government has insinuated itself into without placing a death grip on a way of life. These measures are truly draconian, ill-conceived, and obviously not considerate of the consequences." Please, folks. Pass it on!

But I'm not bitter . . .

Last weekend our little city had its annual Junior-Senior Prom.
I can't remember when I've missed going to the gymnasium to watch Grand March and see all the girls and guys in their finery.
It's a little part of small-town Americana that I have enjoyed for literally ever.
Not this year.
This year they moved it to the auditorium, supposedly so a member of the class could attend in his wheelchair, and then gave tickets to the students to pass out.
If you didn't have a ticket presented by a member of the classes, you couldn't go.
So guess who didn't go?
That's right.
Me.
And guess who else didn't go?
The guy in the wheelchair!
But I'm not bitter . . .

'Rot' now I'm stymied . . .

I can't believe I was so stupid!
Earlier this spring I bought elephant ear bulbs, brought them home and left them in the garage to plant later.
In a plastic sack!
Right.
Rot.
So now I'm going to plant what isn't soft and hope there's a little bit of life left in a few that wants a chance to survive.
While I'm looking for more bulbs.

Rats!!!

Just one . . .

Heard about a darling toddler who, when taken to the annual Easter Egg Hunt last Saturday morning in Burlington, found a white sack and then sat down, opened it, and began to happily munch on the candy inside.
He was finished.
One was enough.
And I remembered another little boy so many long years ago who watched, wide-eyed, as his big brother dived into a pile of Christmas packages, ripping them open with glee.
He opened one, sat down and began to play with it.
"Here's another, honey," coaxed his grandmother. "Open another one!"
"No, fankew," he said, and continue to play with his single toy.
"Just one more?"
"No, fankew. No, fankew. No fankew!"
And that was that.

I'm a baaaad girl . . .

For some reason, I've been able to talk myself out of blogging despite the fact that I had promised I would faithfully do so at least once a week.
So here we go again.
I've discovered that I don't need to twitter or tweeter or whatever-the-hell it's called.
The only reason I'd want to is to find out what Son No. 2 (who has an account) is talking about and possibly a couple of other people.
Turns out all I have to do is type a name and "twitter" in my Google box and up pops every message they've sent.
And I can just read through them all at once.
Is this cool or is it cool?
Some people (like a certain granddaughter at school in Ohio)are smart enough to block their twitter accounts.
And me.
But I did read George Clooney's.
LOL

So don't mention it, whatever you do . . .

This is going to be one long week.

Friday is the in-house potluck "goodbye" for Hubby and John. Oops, wait. I'm not supposed to mention either one of those in this blog.

Okay, let's try it this way.

If I were married for almost 50 years and if my husband were retiring the end of this week, Friday would be the goodbye potluck for him and the son I also can't mention, despite the fact he is moving to Texas next month. If he did exist . . . and he doesn't because I can't mention him here, he would be two years older than our-son-the-author (see adhudler.com), who welcomes free publicity.

Why did I ever start this?

Just to vent a bit.

I'll tell you how it went.

For me.

Because I can't say how it went for you-know-who and you-know-who . . . or He Who Shall Not Be Named Times Two.

Gawd, now I sound like a Harry Potter novel.

Isn't that just the way it goes . . .

Hubby and I went for our Sunday afternoon drive and came upon a group of pheasant hunters, togged out in bright day-glo orange vests, guns held at the ready.

They were walking abreast, in a straight line but spread out, so as to flush any birds up that might be hiding ahead. Two dogs were prancing out front of the group and a four-wheeler with two people on it was keeping up with the pace of the men alongside the field's edge.

"Wow, looks like quite an operation," I said, grinning to Hubby as we drove past.

We were headed north of town to see where we had heard operations for the coming wind farms were beginning to set up shop.

After we'd seen what we wanted, we started back the way we had come but I slowed and pulled over before we got to the area the men were so diligently scouring for birds.

"I don't think I want to go past them again," I said. "What if a bird flushes out from cover and someone ends up shooting our car? Stranger things have happened."

So we turned right to make our way back to town by another route. After we had driven west for no more than a quarter of a mile, we saw five gorgeous pheasant cocks just to our left at the road's edge.

And we burst out laughing.