Packing and moving on Sunday afternoon

September 24, 2012

Pentoga Road

Brr, it’s cold in here this morning. I just got a fire going in the wood stove and presently, there’s a happy fire dancing inside. I don’t want a happy fire, darn it. This isn’t Christmas time. No one’s going to roast chestnuts. I want a roaring, big, ol’ mean, heat-giving blaze.  Guess I ought to kick on the furnace and burn some $4 a gallon heating oil to take the chill off the house before Sargie rises for the day.

In my mind's eye, Sunday almost didn’t exist. I awakened at 6 with my head and eyes aching. Evidently some sort of allergy had taken possession of my body. Sargie suggested I take an over the counter allergy pill.

If one was good, two must be better, and three would relieve the symptoms almost immediately. Three it was!

I fixed huge omelets for brunch. After Saturday’s biscuit fiasco, it felt good to once again cook on solid ground and the late-season garden vegetables served as the main ingredients. At least we’re wise enough to enjoy them. Having been picked last week and now stored in the basement or refrigerator, they won’t last much longer.

Sargie busied herself elsewhere in the house. I sat in my recliner to watch the football games and promptly fell asleep.

I slept the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. It seems that the dosage on the allergy tablets was one. I’d taken three. I should have read the label on the bottle.

I finally roused from sleep and suggested to Sargie we do something, ANYTHING, so I might get the blood flowing once again and hopefully have the medicine work itself from my system. My head was groggy and the rest of me felt as though I were trying to walk through water.

What better way than to move more articles from Sargie’s? We spent the rest of the day packing, fixing, hauling, and moving. Some things went to storage, others to a pile for her sons. The rest was packed into the Blazer to be brought home.

I spent Sunday night grading papers with one eye on the Sunday night game while poor Sargie tried to figure out where to put everything. At one point, I watched her shake her head back and forth in frustration. This moving thing is not for the weak of heart.

Who was the last person to put the cereal away without closing the box? Oops, guess that was me.

Sargie will be working in the Vision Center today saving the eyes of America while I work until noon at the camp. Since the forecast is for clear skies with temperatures in the low 60’s, I think I’ll cut up some firewood this afternoon. We haven’t had a decent day in over a week and I’m beginning to feel the effects of being trapped inside; becoming lackadaisical and eating out of boredom, not because I’m hungry. Yup, it’s time to get busy.

So are the tales of Pentoga Road…

Hey Ma, ain't that blue smoke in the air over Pentoga?

September 23, 2012 – Sunday morning

Pentoga Road

I wonder who the sick, perverted, Chinaman was who invented “Futon-in-a-Box?” I guess someone figured wine in a box worked, why not a futon?

By the time I finished assembling a Wal-Mart special yesterday, a futon made in China that came in a box, I probably set any American/Chinese diplomatic relations back a century or two. For certain, any semblance of diversity and tolerance went by the wayside.

Saturday morning began poorly with breakfast. While moving the contents of Sargie’s kitchen cabinets a few days ago, I had discovered a large box of Bisquick, one that had been stuck in the furthest nooks of a top cabinet and long since forgotten. Mmm, biscuits and gravy.

While Sarge was getting ready for work, I mixed and kneaded and plopped several balls of dough on a cookie sheet and put them in the oven.

I later read the contents of the box had expired over a decade ago. The biscuits were a dismal failure and tasted like… biscuits made from a ten-year-old mix. Resembling miniature canon balls in both texture and quality, they were dumped into the bear food bucket. In the end, I made pancakes. I dislike cooking failures and allowed a small amount of blue smoke to exit my ears.

One positive note about Saturday’s breakfast; a cantaloupe from the garden was one of the best I’ve had in years. It was juicy, succulent, and very sweet. The first meal of the day wasn’t a complete failure.

Sargie had just left for work, the weather was lousy, and I decided it was Futon Day on Pentoga Road. We’d purchased the folding couch-like bed this past summer while on sale to serve as an extra place for company to sleep. There was already a spare bed, a queen-sized sleeper sofa, an inflatable double mattress, and Sargie and I thought with the futon, we’d be able to accommodate a fairly good-sized crowd of people, even Sargie’s sons and friends, the Pennington boys and families, and the Milligan cousins, who number in the hundreds of thousands, if not millions.

I carried a good attitude about the entire construction process while arranging my tools, a power screwdriver, a hex key, and a wrench that was included in the nuts and bolt’s package.

Right out of the box

Small, detailed, instructions were never my forte. Sargie had brought home a large magnifier last week to aid with my reading. I found myself holding it in front of the photocopied instructions with little success.

Maybe being closer to the window… how about placing them flat on the floor and illuminating them with my hiking headlamp? I even lay on my back with legs in the air holding the instructions overhead in an effort to gain a better perspective of how to assemble a futon couch made in China that came in a box.

In the end, I simply started assembling. There were more pieces than Milligan cousins.

You no doubt saw the blue smoke rising from Pentoga Road late Saturday morning. From where you live, chances are, it rising in the north. No, it wasn’t me burning the trash. It was Tommy P in the assembling and disassembling process. Hours later, by process of elimination, I emerged from the room victorious.  The nuts, bolts, and pieces all came out even and our newest piece of furniture sat solidly against one wall.

I figured while I was miserable, I might as well clean the upstairs, run the vacuum sweeper so Sargie wouldn’t feel as though she needed to clean on her one day off this week.

The previous owners had a huge, fake wood, particleboard, entertainment center that completely covered one wall in the dining room. Rather than waste all that good imitation wood, I made a much smaller cabinet in which to store old VCR tapes and DVDs.

Saturday morning, I grabbed hold of the cabinet so I might sweep in back of it.

I lifted one end and pulled. The top came off. More blue smoke rose from the vicinity of Pentoga Road.

But still, the futon was assembled and after trying it on for size, discovered it was downright comfortable. The upstairs was vacuumed and fairly clean. What else to do on a windy, intermittently rainy day?

I wanted to go to town and purchase a brush to scrub the inside of the chimney. No flue fires for us this year. First, a call was made to Sheri.

Could she use another batch of ripe tomatoes? She said, bring ‘em on in.

I loaded two grocery bags with tomatoes, put them in the Blazer, and started down the road.

Wait, was the flue six or eight inches?

I drove further fairly certain it was eight inches in diameter.

But, maybe, it was only six. Better turn around and measure.

It’s a good thing I did. It’s a six-inch chimney.

To the left is a shield to prevent the snow and ice from sliding down the tin roof and taking the chimney with it.

I enjoyed my visit with Mark and Sheri and especially enjoyed Leroy and his baby sister, Sheri’s nephew and niece with whom they were babysitting for the weekend. We big people talked and gabbed and Mark even shared a few White Castle sliders.

I bade all goodbye and had started for the door when I discovered I’d failed to bring my wallet.  You might have seen the blue smoke rising from Caspian, Michigan, at that point.

I don’t care to drive anymore, at least on the roads. I’m sure there was blue smoke streaming from the SUV’s windows as I navigated the ten miles from town to the house and back to the hardware store.

A nylon bristle head or wire? Of course, wire. I wanted the brush to scrub that chimney. No feel-good interior wiping down for me. One eight-foot section of handle or two? Flexible or solid?

The choices a man is forced to make so he may clean the inside of a flue are mind boggling, confusing, and in the end, expensive. I walked from the hardware store much poorer and dreading the chore that lay ahead of me.

I pried the chimney cap off. I couldn’t see inside the darn thing. Was it clean or dirty? I didn’t really care. I’d just spent half of next month’s retirement check on the brush and handles. It was getting cleaned, regardless. But still, I wanted to know.

I almost lost my camera down the chimney as I snapped a picture. After, I downloaded the image on my computer so I might see what I was dealing with.

And I scrubbed… up and down, round and round, in and out. At one point, the brush caught something inside the chimney.

I pulled and yanked, pushed and turned. Whatever it was, let go. Later I discovered the pipe had come off the stove.

I won’t write about the mess I found inside the living room, the piles of soot laying around the stove and on the floor... or the minute, fine, black, dust that lay over the furniture and filled the air.

I’m not even going to mention the blue smoke that once again rose as I attempted to use the wet/dry vac to suck up the mess only to find it was spitting out the black particles as fast as they were being inhaled.

At this writing, the flue is scrubbed and cleaned and ready for another winter season’s worth of use. The living room is spotless and looks as though Better Homes and Gardens will be doing a photo shoot later today.

The inside of the chimney is spotless. Notice how there are no pictures of the living room?

Jerad and a friend stopped last night to visit. It was good to see my young buddy. We talked about his work, but mostly, of the upcoming hunting season.

Sargie had to work late and arrived home exclaiming how nice the living room and stove looked. She journeyed upstairs to the spare bedroom, sat on the futon, and expressed how comfortable and solid-feeling it was. For the first time all day, no blue smoke clouded the air and everything was good in my world.

Sargie’s off today, the sun is out, and I swear I just saw a bluebird fly past my window followed by a butterfly and ladybug. Somewhere in the background, I hear Zippity Do Dah being sung accompanied by a hundred piece orchestra, and who knows, maybe we’ll enjoy mint juleps out on the veranda.

Failing that, we might try to move one of the last loads of Sargie’s belongings from her old house later this afternoon between rain showers. There’s also an old maple tree at the camp to cut, work up, and bring home. And most importantly, it’s NFL Sunday. That, along with Sargie being home, makes all the blue smoke of yesterday seem to dissapate.

And so are the tales from Pentoga Road…

Who is that girl behind the sale bill?

September 22, 2012 – Saturday morning

Pentoga Road

I was awake way too early this morning; around 3:45. I wake up on the weekend or days that I’m off thinking how I don’t want to waste my free hours lying in bed. So, I get up, sip coffee, read the news online, and later, I write. It’s such a well-established routine that I doubt it will ever change.

I think I read somewhere that Herbert Hoover believed in getting twelve hours of sleep nightly? Simply put, that means the man was paid for and slept a solid two years of his four-year term.

When I was young, two, three, and four years old, Mom and Dad surrounded my bed with toys and books so when I awakened in the very early morning hours, I’d remain under my covers and entertain myself until the rest of the family was stirring for the day. Dad didn’t want to sing Sunday school songs at 3 AM. Seems he had no sense of humor what so ever in the wee hours of the morning.

I want to say, “Happy Birthday!” to my oldest grandson, Coleman. I missed his birthday yesterday and need to call him this morning. Grandpa forgot his own birthday a few years ago so don’t feel too bad, Coleman. The card will be in the mail. I love you, little buddy.

Speaking of the mail, it appears that the Alaska Teacher Retirement System managed to lose the check for my first three months of retirement. Running behind in processing applications, it was finally issued several weeks ago retroactive to June… and promptly lost. They cancelled the check yesterday and are reissuing another. At least September’s check and all thereafter will be electronically deposited into my checking account. 

Friday was the kick off of the Fall Women’s Retreat at Fortune Lake Lutheran Camp and it seemed to go quite well. The ladies took over registration, had their own nametags, decorations, and I served as a greeter/gopher most of the day.

Early Registration

I’m amazed how seriously some participants take their room and seating assignments. It seems there’s a bit of rivalry between congregations and some, after attending the same synod conference for (this is no joke) fifty-six years, insisted on staying in a particular room and so forth.

Since I’m the new guy, I was naïve’ of the ways of yearly senor ladies’ church gatherings. But, in the end, it turned out just fine. The chairperson knew the politics and headed off any potential problems before they reached me. Everything turned out well.

I found the beginning of the conference was a microcosm of everyday life. Some attendees were leaders, other’s followers. And just like little children on the playground at recess, a few attempted to boss the others around, telling them in which row to sit, what to do, and how to do it. At one point, I remember standing in the back of the room thinking the only difference between early elementary children and senior conference attendees is sixty, seventy, even eighty years. The social structure is almost identical.

Inside the Chapel during early registration

I thought of Grandma Reinhardt often during the day. Grandma was a leader, an arranger, and when it came to running organizations, enjoyed total control.

Grandma was the President of the Galesburg, Illinois, Women’s Club, back when it enjoyed a certain amount of local social and political clout. She did everything from chair various fundraisers to bake pies to sell at the county fair. She also was appointed to one state board or another and took great pride when her picture occasionally appeared in the local newspaper. Even in her most senior years, Grandma made the social headlines by being elected as Queen of the Valentine’s Day Ball in her senior citizens community. Grandpa was elected king, but he was a sideline spectator who happened to be married to the queen. Grandma’s eyes sparkled in the picture that appeared in the newspaper. Grandpa was merely along for the ride.

Pastor Tracy and I worked for part of Friday afternoon discussing how we might better utilize the camp software. I’ve grown fond of my thirty-something year-old boss, who very well could be my daughter, and enjoy discussing working and management strategies with her. Given enough time, I think she’ll have the office running like clockwork to where her time can best be utilized serving people, not slaving over bookkeeping procedures.

Chris hanging a banner

I thought Friday might be my last day, but Tracy said she’d like me to come in next week. Honestly, I don’t mind the half-day schedule. It allows me to meet and greet, process the mail, answer the phone, take reservations, make a few computer entries, sip some coffee, and listen to Telephone Time. I also enjoy Ruth the cook, Chris the ground and maintenance man, and Pastor Tracy a great deal. I guess I’ll hang around for another week. Why not? It’s good to be the token old guy.

Ruth, our cook

I arrived home last night grateful for the beginning of the weekend. Sargie had supper with her father at the VA Hospital and was home early enough that we enjoyed huge bowls of hot, buttered, popcorn and watched a movie.

My resident optician has to work later today and close tonight. I really want to clean the flue, but since the forecast is for rain/ice pellets/snow, I’ll probably stay off the tin roof. There’s plenty of time to get the chimney cleaned before heavy weather sets in… I hope.

A dead maple tree has fallen at the camp and was offered to me for firewood. I may hop in the Man Truck and go cut and bring it home. Failing that, I might have to read the latest trapping magazine and take a nap. I’m sure such a thing is written somewhere in the Grandpa Handbook of Life.

The sun is coming up. It’s time to greet the day.

And so are the tales from the house on Pentoga Road…

September 21, 2012 – Friday

Pentoga Road

I missed my substitute teacher meeting earlier this week as I thought it was on Wednesday rather than Tuesday. Since I was off a day, I assumed the check-in for the Women’s Fall Retreat was on Thursday. I was wrong, it’s today.

It was both a delight and disappointment when I discovered the news yesterday morning. I arrived at work mentally prepared to greet throngs of mostly-elderly ladies ready for three days of rock ‘em/ sock ‘em Lutheran fellowship. Instead, I sat at the desk and entered accounts receivable, answered the phone, and listened to the local gossip on Telephone Time while sipping coffee.

Having worked my half a day, I left shortly before noon. Sargie met me at the door and we decided to move another load from her old home to Pentoga.

We stopped at the log church in Mansfield. I’m not sure why the old structure has such an attraction for us. We walked inside, hugged, and stood enveloped in silence. Sargie said she awakened Thursday morning with a feeling she ought to stop by during the day. As it turned out, I needed to make a camp deposit at the bank in Crystal Falls so it was convenient and more than just a little coincidental.

I had the reaffirmation yesterday that going to church doesn’t have to always happen on a Sunday morning; nor does one need to be surrounded by fellow congregants. There was more spiritual energy in the silent and empty log church in Mansfield on a rainy Thursday afternoon than I’ve felt in a conventional structure in many years.

I’m almost hesitant to say this, but I believe we’re starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel concerning moving Sargie’s possessions. Since her old house was furnished, we’ve only had one truckload of furnishings to haul, the rest has fit inside the Blazer. There’ll be another truckload in the next week containing a bench, the gas grill, a couple of outside chairs, etc.

The biggest amount of time Thursday was spent at a storage unit, sorting, stacking, piling, and otherwise trying to make sense out which box contained what.

Supper was eaten at Taco Bell in Iron Mountain. I called son, Andy, to ask what the best meal was on the menu and according to my Bellologist, it’s a #6. I’m not sure what I ate, but it was certainly filling. No doubt there were some food groups in #6, I’m just not certain they were healthy ones.

I’m seriously concerned about some of my functions diminishing with old age. I have to work harder and harder to keep the body from sagging around my ankles and I’m not nearly as agile as I once was.

But, what really bothers me is… I think my taste buds are going awry.

I remember when I chomped into my first Taco Bell meal. It was heavenly. The hamburger was hot, the cheese melted, and the secret Latino herbs and spices were blended in such a way to compliment the river of grease that flowed down my chin.

I’m concerned. In my more mature years, my taste buds have developed a fondness for yucky things like vegetables, salads, and… gulp… healthy eating.

So what’s next, actually liking soup and half a sandwich for supper once or twice a week followed by a cup of hot tea? Will I have a penchant to visit the Bob Evans chain of restaurants and order from the senior side of the menu?

I’m seriously concerned. I hear it’s the taste buds that go first, then the mind follows. I better call ahead and reserve my wheel chair in the old folk’s home.

We spent Thursday evening unpacking. I stopped at eight to read and grade assignments. Sargie worked in the kitchen until bedtime. It was two tired and sleepy kids with diminishing taste buds who went to bed last night.

Assuming I survive today, I think I’ll measure the flue tomorrow and ride the four-wheeler into town to purchase a chimney brush. The wood stove has a catalytic converter and burns very clean, but the flue needs to be thoroughly scrubbed to prevent any future chimney fires. Other than that, the world’s the limit.

And so are the tales from the house on Pentoga Road…

It was time to make tomato preserves Wednesday afternoon on Pentoga Road

September 20, 2012 – Thursday morning

Pentoga Road

I’m being lazy this morning. Since there are a hundred gazillion ladies pouring into the retreat center for the beginning of a three-day workshop, I’ll be busy well into late afternoon. I’m supposed to work half days, which isn’t going to happen today, so I’m simply taking my time getting to work.

Wednesday was a cold and blowy affair. I sat in my office watching the rain come down sideways. Occasionally, an early-fall snowflake would be mixed in, but soon disappeared before hitting the ground. As Dad used to say, “It was just plain miserable.”

I left work at noon and after mailing out Wednesday’s camp correspondence, came home to boil down twenty lbs of tomatoes and make twelve jelly jars, one pint, and one quart of tomato preserves.

It took all afternoon to mix the brown sugar, apple vinegar, lemon juice, twenty cinnamon sticks, and other ingredients too numerous to mention and boil it into something that might accompany peanut butter on one’s toast or be dribbled over a bowl of vanilla ice cream. In the end, the kitchen was one huge sticky mess, but the preserves taste pretty darn good. It passed the Sargie taste-test!

OUCH!

Neighbor Mike knocked on the door letting me know he was going to walk through the property in search of grouse. I told him to have at it and secretly, was jealous I wasn’t going along. When it comes to making tomato preserves, a man’s work is never done.

Two hours later, I was pouring the boiling tomato goo into hot jars when Mike returned and left a freshly killed grouse. He’d shot three and also managed to get himself turned around in the thick woods behind my house. I didn’t feel nearly so bad about doing the same earlier this week. I wonder what his excuse is? There’s nothing wrong with his eyes!

While we were talking, I cleaned the bird on the front porch in the Allagash, Maine, manner. No knife needed. Standing on the wings, I gently tugged the legs exposing the bare, clean, breast. Mike claimed it was the Yooper method. I’ve come to the conclusion it must be how all bird hunters quickly clean their kill.

Sargie fixed a huge salad last night for supper. That, along with cubed partridge fried in butter and garlic, made for a wonderful meal.

I missed the substitute meeting yesterday! Thinking it was Wednesday, when I called to check for directions, I found I’d already missed it. I’m rescheduled for another in Marquette next Thursday. Sargie’s already arranged to take the time off and we’ll make a day out of it, seeing the boys, doing some shopping, and enjoying the amenities of the UP’s largest city.

It’s going to be a long one today, so I guess I ought to be heading out.

So goes the tales from the house on Pentoga Road…

September 19, 2012 – Wednesday morning

5:47 AM

We have a breathtaking sunrise this morning to welcome in the newest member of the Milligan Family. A baby girl will be born later today to niece Ashley and her husband, Brent, in Appleton, Wisconsin, just down the road from Green Bay. Hmm, I wonder if she'll be wearing green and gold diapers?

The fire in the wood stove feels good. With temperatures well below freezing, I arose at 5 to come downstairs and get a blaze going before getting in the shower. Surrounded by the warmth that only a wood fire can produce, I could easily nod off to sleep.

Tuesday was a busy one. I managed to work only half a day.  Free from the confines of the office by noon, I hurried home and gathered a large bag of ripe tomatoes for Sheri. Those, along with two large cabbages, a cantaloupe, squash, and peppers, all went to town. Since she has numerous siblings, nieces, nephews, and of course, Grandma, I don’t worry about the vegetables going to waste.

A visit with Brother Yooper Mark was next. Neither of us have had the time to simply gab for the past several weeks. I’ll be glad when I’m not so busy. The four of us haven’t had supper together in months. Like Mark said sometime ago, we saw each other more when I was in Alaska. That’s okay, I’m going to slow ‘er down here in the next week or so and make time for my friends and family. Life’s too short to ignore what's really important.

I stopped at the post office to mail out an iPad charger Uncle Terry forgot. I also included a piece of chinking/rock that he found and took a liking to the day we visited Mansfield and the old church.

And finally, after a trip to the bank to get some cash, I visited my buddy, Barber Bob, and got a badly needed haircut. Bob had just gotten back from purchasing a new car. He said it had so many gismos that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to drive the thing.

My barber is never in a hurry, that’s for sure. When one gets his hair cut at Bob’s, he’s there for an experience. Having one’s locks shorn is merely a byproduct. I walked from his shop almost an hour after entering… and I didn’t have to wait to get into the chair.

Arriving home to a mixture of rain and sleet, I rescued the clothes I’d hung out on the line earlier in the day and began the process of picking pumpkins. Temperatures were to dive into the twenties. Frost on the pumpkin is one thing; having a pumpkin freeze only to turn to mush before Halloween is another.

I’m not sure what the average weight of the giant squashes is, possibly thirty pounds? By the time I loaded them into the two-wheel cart, plus carried about that many more to the barn one at a time, my arms were burning. Once the weather returns to normal, I’ll set those that still are green in the sunlight to finish turning bright orange.

The biggest disappointment of the garden this year was a failure to grow decent onions. From a bag of Spanish onion sets purchased at Home Depot, I harvested an onion bag full, but they aren’t of the best quality and are quite small. I’m going to have to be a more discriminating shopper next spring when it comes to purchasing onion bulbs.

I also picked all the rest of the green tomatoes and put them on newspaper in the furthest corner of the basement. Hopefully, they’ll last well into the fall and early winter as they ripen slowly.

And finally, late Tuesday afternoon and well into the evening was spent grading assignments. Though my eyes were ready to fall from my head, I felt so much better getting caught up on the huge backlog of reading material that had been electronically submitted. I think by the end of today, everything will be back on track and learning can once again resume in ALST 300.

Poor Sargie didn’t get home until 9:30 last night. We had a late supper and went to bed. She has to open today, so her night was brief.

I’ll work at the camp this morning then travel to Iron Mountain and Kingsford to attend my two-hour substitute teacher meeting where I’ll learn how to teach. It will be a long day for me.

The blueberries are turning a brilliant red

Thursday brings an influx of ladies to the camp for a three-day fall retreat. I’m told there will be two volunteers helping me register the rampaging herd of mostly senior Christians. I’ll do book work on Friday and I think after that, I’ll be finished and once again retired. Stay tuned.

So goes the tales from the house on Pentoga Road…

A month ago, the garden was so alive. Now, it's used up, finished, and ready to be tucked in for a long winter's nap. But, just like Frosty, it promises to be back again someday.

September 18, 2012

The Little House on Pentoga Road

I’m thinking summer must really be over. Here’s the current forecast:

Updated: 4:00 AM CDT on September 18, 2012
Freeze watch in effect from this evening through Wednesday morning...
	Tuesday Mostly cloudy with a chance of rain in the morning, then partly cloudy with a chance of rain. High of 52F. Winds from the NNW at 10 to 15 mph. Chance of rain 50%.
	Tuesday Night Clear in the evening, then partly cloudy. Low of 25F. Winds less than 5 mph. Chance of rain 20%.
	Wednesday Mostly cloudy with a chance of snow and rain showers in the morning, then overcast with a chance of rain. High of 57F. Winds from the SSW at 10 to 15 mph. Chance of precipitation 50%

Hmm, I don’t know, I have to seriously consider the possibility that we’ll no longer be swatting flies, plucking ticks, or slumbering to the hum of the window fan for another six or eight months. 

Yesterday’s half day of work at the camp turned into a nine-hour affair, but that’s okay. I enjoyed fielding phone calls, taking reservations, smiling, giving a hug or two, and greeting 27 ministers and a bishop, as they arrived to attend a two-day retreat.

The group reminds me of a gathering of teachers before an in-service workshop.

When assembled in a small area, the group automatically separates into two groups, the rookies and the veterans. It's as distinct as when the Red Sea parted for Moses.

The newbies stick out like high school freshmen adorned with KICK ME signs taped between their shoulder blades. Each seems freshly scrubbed with rosy cheeks, full of smiles, and ready to spread the Word.

They stand to one side, elbows almost touching, with grins that show teeth, and are anxious, indeed eager, to shake hands. All must have taken Handshaking 101 at seminary from the same professor.

I observed one youngster yesterday who even shook hands with members of a women’s quilting group who were renting some of our facilities and had come into the dining hall to use the public restrooms. The child-pastor reminded me of Donny Osmond with just a touch of Elmer Gantry.

The veterans emit completely different personas. They seem to have vacillating attitudes that give one an impression of strength and familiarity. They want to get the conference started so each can get home to family, congregations, NFL, and fishing. The old-timers are real, genuine, and give off the same vibrations as older teachers. They are my favorite group.

Then the bishop and his assistant entered. He has the same aura as the superintendent of any given school district. The man was comfortably in control and like any good administrator, was escorting the featured speaker of the conference.

So, school teachers or clergy… one deals in children, the other in souls. Is there that big of a difference?

I spent an hour on the internet with Susie in Alaska last night getting my online class straightened out. Some of the mistakes I’ll simply have to live with. She showed me how to best work with what I have and for sure, I won’t make the same errors next semester. Susie is also very familiar with my class and will help me set it up next semester so I’ll know exactly where/what/why buttons and levers to push and pull to make the software perform without me having to stand on my head to see and read quite so much. I’ll begin to grade assignments today and hopefully, by tonight, the class will be streaming ahead at full speed.

And speaking of school… I get to attend a two-hour meeting Wednesday afternoon for new substitutes that is going to teach me how to teach! I hope my education students at UAS don’t find out about this class. The university will go broke.

 I’ve spent forty years honing my craft and instructing other teachers and suddenly, I find that everything one needs to know can be learned in two hours of instruction.

I’m going because it’s required and to meet other area substitutes and no doubt, representatives from the area school districts. I imagine rather than teaching us how to teach, they’ll be talking about procedure and expectations… and that’s a good thing. I’m looking forward to attending.

OUCH… I just came in from hanging out a load of white clothes. Sargie closes tonight and gets to sleep an extra hour this morning, so I thought I’d do a load of white clothes and get them hung out on the line before she feels compelled to. The washing was easy, but my fingers are telling me it’s a bit chilly out there.

I enjoy hanging clothes outside… it’s a pleasant childhood memory; that of running between the sheets on a summer day. I loved the way they smelled and felt on my face.

I no longer run between the lines, but if one watches very closely, he can still observe me smelling the sheets and quickly rubbing them on my cheeks while I take them from the line and place them in the clothes basket.

No new pictures today. It rained yesterday and I was office-bound. I hope today is better. I need to pay the property taxes and mail out Uncle Terry’s forgotten charger for his iPad. I’m going to attempt to limit my hours working to four. The next group that arrives at the retreat center will come in Thursday afternoon. There’ll be about a million women who will arrive for three-day fall conference.

So goes the tales from the little house on Pentoga Road…