Whistling the Tub Spout Tunes

As owners of a cabin in Northern Minnesota, it seems unusual mysteries crop up periodically. Soon after we moved into our cabin in 2005, we discovered our showers like to sing to us. It’s a flutelike, warbling, high-pitched sound coming from the tub spout that's loud enough to be heard throughout the cabin. After a while we learned to block out the annoying concert. However, guests politely wondered why they needed to be serenaded to a cacophony of tuneless less than one hit wonders that will never be written up in Billboard Magazine. Unfortunately, the guest shower is louder than ours so they probably had a reason to complain.

Last summer Brian and I used the guest shower quite a bit during the hot days of July, as we had moved to the downstairs cooler guest bedroom. Each day as I took my morning shower while listening to the deafening squeal, I grumbled  that this mystery could be solved. By now, the sound was no longer “cute.” Over the course of six years,  I had changed the shower heads, removed the low flow  washer, had a plumber check it out, soaked the shower heads in a variety of potent liquids, and googled every imaginable word and phrase that would give me the answer to this unwanted intrusion. Not understanding “plumber speak”, I was soon looking at tub spout and shower head diagrams wishing I had a brain for plumbing. Finally, in exasperation I called a plumber ( who happens to be female and was gifted with more plumbing brain cells than I’ll ever have) recommended to me by a local painter.

I threw out the word “diverter”....the word that kept popping up on plumbing chat boards. Our new plumber did some research and assured me a new tub spout would solve the whistle. How could it be that simple? She was correct. Moen has a flap that likes to vibrate in the spout, especially on well water. Case solved!!!  The next morning I took my shower with no accompaniment. This should have made me happy but I soon realized I missed that irksome sound. I yelled to Brian to whistle me a tub spout tune...which he obliged with a perfect “top ten” bathroom Billboard whistling winner.

                                                                      

The Gift That Was a Billion Years Old

What is the most memorable gift you’ve ever received? Do you still have it or has it been lost forever? Perhaps it has since been deposited into a charitable donation box, mashed into the back of a garbage truck, or regifted  to an office partner. Is it prominently displayed on a shelf in your home, wrapped carefully in a box in your drawer, or dangling from a chain around your neck?

This is the story of a unique gift we received from two people we had never met before. Last October, we packed the car for a  trip to Ontario, Canada with enough cold weather gear to last a few weeks. After all, we were going to   be in the wilds of Northern Ontario and would surely need hiking boots, down vests, sweatshirts and long underwear. Isn’t all of Canada still in the ice age?   As an after thought,  a few t-shirts and lightweight pants were thrown in the mix.  As it turned out, our Fall trip was during a record breaking warm spell. At least we were prepared for a blizzard whenever it might hit.

In Thessalon, Ontario,  we waved goodbye to Lake Huron and headed north for thirty miles to an old fishing/hunting camp near the Mississagi valley. The resort owners had mentioned  we would be driving through the Canadian shield and would see  beautiful Autumn vistas of hills and valleys.

Although I am familiar with the Canadian shield bare outcroppings in Northeastern Minnesota, I had no idea two-thirds of Ontario is a mass of exposed Precambrian rock dating back 4.5 billion years. In fact, the Canadian shield is composed of some of the oldest rock on earth and was the first part of the continent to be raised above sea level. Farming would not be a good choice of occupation in this region, but mining would be perfect.

The 1938 hunting lodge and  seven cabins were built by a Chicagoan for his sporting buddies. The current owners, a husband/wife team, had their hands full maintaining, feeding, and entertaining their guests. Even though we were the last guests of the season and the boats and docks had been pulled, we were treated as if we were their first guests. With enthusiasm they told us about the remnants of a village of 2,000 people on the lake during the mining/logging era, which hiking trails to take, where the best waterfalls could be found, and the beautiful Mississiagi valley with its river  narrowing into a  chute  full of churning waterpools.

Their excitement crescendoed as they told us about one of their favorite pastimes, looking for puddingstone along the hiking trails. They led us to a “rock pile” next to their lodge entrance and showed us white quartz rock interspersed with red jasper, named puddingstone by an Englishman who thought it reminded him of pudding.  It was  as if they had discovered gold as they explained how a billion years ago sand deposited in lakes mixed with jasper pebbles. Volcanic activity transformed these ingredients into a quartzite conglomerate, and voila...we are staring at the end result. Except “voila” took  an unfathomable billion years from start to finished product.

As we bid goodbye and got into our car, they suddenly came over and said, “Wait, we have something for you.” In a few minutes they returned with three puddingstones and softly said,   “We want you to have these.”

On my counter I have the oldest gift I’ve ever received, three puddingstones from the Canadian shield hand-picked off a trail in the Mississiagi valley, each a billion years old. What a treasure!

Terms of En-deer-ment/Minnesota Style

Have you ever wondered about those affectionate, endearing words and phrases used by your loving partner in place of your real name? “Honey” is a word frequently used to address another. “Honey, will you take this bag out and put it in  the  trash?” Saying “honey” instead of your name, makes the question sweeter or more palatable and less like a chief handing out an order, especially if it’s stinking rotten fish guts. “Honey, I really want to stay home tonight,” is a nicer way of saying, “Are you crazy? I worked 60 hours this week, got up before dawn, and transported the kids after school to five hockey meets and six basketball practices!”

There are other terms of endearment that have sweet connotations like “muffin” and “sugar”. “Fruitcake”  would not be a good one to use even though it has a high sugar content. Some people like to call their loved one a vegetable name like “pumpkin,” but  “corny” would be a good one to avoid. Anything cute and furry is fine, such as “ducky”, “kitten” and “bunny”.

Minnesotans should come up with some really creative endearing words that highlight those things we love about Minnesota. What do Minnesotans love more than anything else? Fishing! Why not say, “Lindy, you look really nice today,” or “You’re my little bobber.” “Buzz bait, can you help me with this?”  I suppose I could figure out some way of using the word “walleye”, Minnesota’s  most prized fish, but I haven’t figured out what that might be yet. Here’s a question to ponder:  If a lady is real “foxy”, can  a man be a likable “lutefisk”?

On occasion, I’ve been known to call my spouse “funny bunny” or “snookems” but I wouldn’t think of calling him “fish eyes” or “snapper”. If I call him “dear”, he’ll think I’m referring to the antlered four-legged creature. Maybe I should call him “buck”. Yep, he has such en-deer-ing qualities, I’ll have to come up with some more real  Minnesota style gems to describe him.

Still Life With RSV

It’s day 21 of Respiratory Syncytial Virus (RSV), better known as a cold that can have upper and lower respiratory implications. According to  the Department of Health in Minnesota, 23% of Minnesotans are suffering with me today. I know this is true  because a trip to Target Pharmacy shows huge gaps on the shelves  in the “cold” medications section. Mucinex is on sale too. The Mayo Clinic website says I should be over this in two weeks. Not true! Day 21!

In an attempt to recreate de Soto’s famous expedition into the Americas, and the resulting epidemics that hit the the indigenous people, we were visited by our Georgian grandchildren and family who had the southern version of RSV. Maybe we should call it RSV 2.0 as there were two visiting Georgians suffering from this malady.  My husband and I played the role of the natives, and true to form, we acquired RSV. Amazingly, RSV 2.0 has morphed into RSV 8.0, striking all immediate grandparents from New York to Florida to Minnesota. Family gatherings just seem to spread the love around, and other things too. But how can one resist a gorgeous, blonde, wide-eyed three year old girl standing at your feet with Mr. Teddy. Sniffles or not, grandchildren are irresistible.

The past two weeks I’ve been humming, “If I Only Had a Brain” from the Wizard of Oz. It seems so appropriate when infused with mucus galore and plied with OTC cold medications. Luckily, my husband is suffering with me in this ethereal medicated world as our stuffed ears make conversations muffled. “Huh?” seems to be a standard line...or “I didn’t hear you,” or “Say that again!”

By now we’ve thoroughly researched the pros and cons of being a couch potato. Drinking gallons of orange juice, water, and tea does not accomplish anything other than many trips to the powder room. Paper towels work just as well as kleenex. Forget about doctors saying don’t share your prescription as my husband’s codeine cough syrup did help. All cough drops work the same. Grand Marnier can relieve a cough and make you sleepy. Netti pots can be used five times a day or more with marvelous results. The Afrin directions say don’t use it for more than three days or you’ll permanently cement your nose together. That’s not true. If you only use Afrin in one nostril for three nights, you have another nostril  all lined up for the next three nights.

Although I’m not a painter, I decided to create a collage which I’m calling, “Still Life With RSV”.

What Will the Wood Ducks Say?

      The planners of our neighborhood cul de sac mistakenly configured the hydrology of two marshes and two retaining ponds resulting in a 45 inch bounce in the marsh behind our house. That means our marsh water level can reach my waist during those times. How apropos that Silverstein’s song should pop into my head as I’m writing this blog...   

                        

                                                      Oh gee, it’s up to my knee.
                                                      Oh my, it’s up to my thigh.
                                                      Oh, fiddle,  it’s up to my middle.
                                                      Oh, heck,  it’s up to my neck.
                                                      Oh, dread, it’s upmmmmmmmmfffffff..

   

      A few years ago I put on my rubber boots, grabbed a long walking stick and attempted to wade into the boggy wetland to retrieve a plastic bag, only to get stuck a few feet from shore. Sweat poured off my face as I was wondering if I were going to be permanently cemented Jimmy Hoffa style into the peat-like, gooey blackish muck. Panicking would only make matters worse and yelling seemed like such a silly option.   Instead, I opted to slowly work at pulling each encased rubber boot out of the tendrils of the swallowing muck, while leaning on the walking stick. I’m here telling the story, so I obviously recovered.  But that was the last time I attempted to wade into the duckweed covered marsh, preferring to leave it to the wood ducks, frogs and turtles.

       In the spring, our flooded marsh becomes a veritable nursery for waterfowl and amphibians. Although I’ve never seen the wood ducks pop out of their nesting holes, I’ve heard Mama repeatedly calling to her chicks to “break a leg”. These chicks have faith in their Mom. Would I jump 30 feet out of a hole in a tree just because Mom is calling me? I suppose they don’t understand gravity, which is a good thing. Sometimes it’s best to  be ignorant of what’s ahead in our timeline.

     As a consequence of the hydrology goof, we’ve lost a lot of trees around the marsh, including a 250 year old oak tree, a mere babe when our country was declaring it’s independence. Other trees have fallen into the marsh like matchsticks in a game of pick up sticks. This week I hired a tree removal company to chain saw and stack the fallen timber in half the marsh. The other half will be left wild so smaller birds and rodents can hide from the red tailed hawks. Plus, turtles need something to sit on, right? I’m hoping the wood ducks will arrive this Spring and approve of the furniture rearranging. They’ll see this woodpile as evidence their home was getting too cluttered.

A Tactical Matter

This is the dead of winter, I am told by the meteorologists in Minnesota. To counteract this "deadness", my mind drifted to May with thoughts of purple coneflowers, budding alders and  lots of dirt and mud. Truth be told, I love mud and dirt. It's gratifying digging in the luscious, earthy, loamy soil (albeit with gloves). Transplanting  blue flag iris, adding a new sidewalk, removing old stumps, dumping rock mulch next to the house....these are all fun gardening activities for me.

It's in my genes and my jeans. Grandpa's paths in his vegetable garden were  meticulously and constantly rototilled. His habit of walking barefoot in his garden  extended into his eighties or until he died.  I'd sink  to my ankles into this aerated, soft brown stoneless dirt that made wiggling toes a must. This foot massaging sensation can be  compared to walking barefoot on a three inch foam mattress topper.   The dirt at my cabin does not compare with Grandpa's well composted vegetable garden. I can't walk barefoot and I don't own a rototiller.  My garden get-up consists of  a light colored T shirt(better to see the ticks on me), ragg wool socks, Asolo hiking boots and the ugliest pants in Minnesota.

That brings me to my jeans or ugly pants attire. I might have a genetic predisposition for gardening and that includes my pants. Grandpa would only wear blue jeans, oftentimes overalls. Back in the 60's, when hippies glommed on to jeans, I thought my Grandpa was the coolest, hippest guy. No one else had a Grandpa who wore jeans.  Today, I prefer light colored pants (again, to see the ticks). They're usually rejects from my husband, back when he had a smaller waist size.  After five years of gardening in his pants, I can say they are sufficiently broken in. The knees have been patched three times and the stains refuse to come out in the Clorox infused wash despite lengthy soakings. My neighbors must shudder at my lack of haute couture.

So I spent this dead of winter day surfing through the web for gardening pants. L.L. Bean instantly  answered my email. "No, we don't carry cargo pants anymore." Any hope of replacing my comfortable but stained and ripped cargo pants diminished at once. Then, out of the blue, the word "tactical" came into my google brain! For the next two hours I googled "women's tactical pants" and found the perfect online review of such pants, "The Tactical Pants Review"! I had a treasure trove of the best tactical pants companies. In spite of bookmarking the site twice, I had to print out the 15 page document, much to the consternation of my spouse who would have preferred saving a few trees instead of watching the paper flowing out of my printer.

I discovered in my googling that Lisa Robbins, who started the Royal Robbins clothing company in Colorado, designed the first tactical  pants and called them 5.11, which refers to a particularly difficult rock climb. I'm about to order the Women's Taclite Pro Pants "designed after the original 5.11, with a woman's fit, lightweight 65 % polyester/35%poly-cotton ripstop, an external pocket, HT teflon treatment, a clip loop, elastic waistband, seven pockets,  48 bar-tacks and a bronze YKK zipper."  Need I say more? Oh yeah, my husband has informed me he wants a pair too...in men's, of course.

Frozen Fingers

We've been on the lookout for more choices in our home movie watching. Installing an Apple TV helped as we can now stream from our ipad. When our cable provider is behaving, streaming works. When the data streaming gets jammed by the kid down the block gaming, the ubiquitous "loading" symbol appears.

Netflix lost its allure as sometimes we really didn't want to wait a few days for the mail to deliver flicks. Directv has current movies we can watch, but I have to set my watch and calendar to their time. It's 7:00pm and that movie will start whether you're ready or not!
...
Enter "Red Box" to our neighborhood. It seems like a great idea. Affordable? Yes. Two minutes away? Yes. And you can start/stop the movie anytime you want.

BUT...and this is a big but...did Red Box ever test market this idea in Minnesota when the wind chill is minus 20 degrees outside? There I was, standing next to the Red Box outside Holiday gas station instructing the person in front of me how to navigate the screen. My hat is over my ears and my hoodie is holding some of the wind at bay. Thank God for the longjohns and polarfleece gloves.

My instructions worked and the young, charming man left, movies in hand. We exchanged a few grumbles about the weather and commented about the people inside the WARM store. Do you think Red Box ever thought of having these contraptions inside a warm building?

As I was about to flip through the movie choices, an older man came up and asked if he could go ahead of me and punch the "return" button so he could get rid of his movie. No problem. BUT now I've been standing there in minus 20 degree wind chill for the past 12 minutes and I'm really wondering why I'm even there.

Clenching my teeth, I am determined to find a movie for us to watch. I soon discover gloves do not work on these sensitive TOUCH screens. Yep, I have to go gloveless so I can flip through all the movie titles. On a normal day that wouldn't be a problem. BUT, when it's this frigging cold it's finger numbing! I forget about reading the specs and who's in the movie. With a little ingenuity I figured out I could remove my glove, punch a button and put the glove back on, which I did again and again. Over the course of "forever", I managed to navigate through the payment choices, and too many "no thanks" punches to remember what they were.

I swear, I'm going to buy the cheapest gloves I can find and cut the tip off the right pointing finger of my right glove. I'll keep it in my glove compartment just for those frigid Minnesota days when I have to stand in front of the Red Box.