I couldn't help but be amused at one of the local news stories a couple of days ago. A report on Local 6, one of the Orlando TV stations, focused on school supply lists issued by Central Florida schools. I don't have kids, but back when I was in school, those lists usually contained items like crayons, a box of pencils, a composition book, notebook paper, etc. But apparently some local school districts have items like Clorox Wipes and toilet paper on their list! If you don't believe me, you can view the story for yourself:
http://www.local6.com/money/9551272/detail.html
You'd think that the potty would be stocked at district expense, but according to John Young Elementary School Principal Regina Ponce, most schools are asking for more supplies from parents and less from the district in order to route money to teacher salaries.
"Any time parents can help us with the less expensive items, then that's where I want to spend the bulk of the tax payer money," Ponce said. "Because those parents are taxpayers and they appreciate "A" schools and quality teachers."
I couldn't help but wonder: What if a parent refused to provide the potty paper? Would their child's right to poop be rescinded? Would the poor kid be forced to collect leaves outside during recess for later use or pray that corn would be served at lunchtime so they could save the cobs? Besides the butt wipes, I wonder if nauseous kidlets have to provide their own bin of that gross-smelling sawdust that gets tossed on vomit.
Some schools also require children to bring ten glue sticks each. At ten glue sticks per child in a class of 30 kids, you're looking at a 300-stick bonanza. Ponce explained that one as follows: Items like these this go into a reserve because getting them from the warehouse where the school district keeps its supplies can take up to a month. Basically, you're providing communal glue sticks to go into a district pool.
Another one that appealed to my wry sense of humor was a request for old socks and T-shirts to wipe down dry erase boards. No fancy-schmancy erasers for Central Florida schools when apparel from the rag bag will do just as well! After all, those high falutin' Office Max dry erasers run a whopping $2.99 each and only last for a year or two.
Thankfully, the Charmin-Gate scandal is limited to Orange County, and Celebration is in Osceola. Our schools have been embroiled in enough other controversies, so I'm glad we can sit this one out and know that the local kids attend plush facilities equipped with toilet paper and genuine erasers, secure in the knowledge that there are well-stocked supply rooms brimming with the hundreds of glue sticks that we all know are essential to a quality education. Meanwhile, over in Orange, I wonder if "chair" and "desk" will make next year's list.
Click here for my Life Coaching website.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
A Different Side of Florida
Even though I typically blog about life in Celebration, we're really just one miniscule spec on America's wang (Homer Simpson's name for the Sunshine State). All kidding aside, there's a lot more to Florida than Disney World, Miami, Daytona Beach, the Kennedy Space Center, and the other big tourist areas/attractions that people typically associate with us.
Now that Figment, my horse, is here, I am becoming well acquainted with a different side of Florida. It's a side that is disappearing all too rapidly...a side dotted with cattle pastures and orange groves. As I drive to the barn, I pass through the gaudy 192 tourist corridor and weave my way through road construction where 27 is being widened to accommodate the strip malls and subdivisions springing up like weeds on either side. Here and there, a bedraggled orange tree speaks of the not-so-distant past when its brethern once dotted the landscape in military rows. Now, there is Walgreens, CVS, and Wal-Mart, plus Taco Bell, Burger King, Wendy's, and most of the other fast food Big Names.
But once I turn off 27, I only have to go a few miles before the scenery changes drastically. Suddenly I'm in the midst of dense copses of trees, broken occasionally by a pasture where cattle lazily graze. There are plenty of horses, too, and groves that still actively produce fruit. There are pristine lakes surrounded by open green spaces, not "lakefront" subdivisions with cookie cutter houses.
The barn where I board Figment is on a bona-fide dirt road. Hopefully it won't be developed for a long, long time...I suspect it will be a few years at least, as there is no easy way to get there. A state park is right across the street, and it's the kind of place where you might see a wild boar rooting along the riding trails or a baby gator sunning itself on a log.
Even though we moved to Florida primarily to be close to Disney World, and even though I love Celebration and find its high density a comforting reminder of my Chicago roots, I love the fact that another world is just a 45 minute drive away. It feels so renewing for me to rediscover the Old Florida whenever I visit the barn. It's heaven to saddle up Figment and trot through an orange grove or weave along the state park trails. I love the crowded, crazy atmosphere of Disney World, but riding in the country fulfills a deeper, more basic need.
I used to feel it when my husband and I would visit Woodside Ranch, a dude ranch in the wilds of Wisconsin. It's not too far away from Wisconsin Dells, a tourist area with a main strip that looks like 192 on steroids. We loved to visit the Dells twice a year, reveling in the restaurants, water parks, and thrill-ride attractions. Woodside was only a few exits down the expressway, but it might as well have been on another planet.
I remember standing outside the bunkhouse one night, looking up at the stars. They sparkled like diamonds on a sky of black velvet. No other light was visible, save the soft glow from the windows of the bunkhouse and a lone streetlight on the driveway. There were no cars on the lonely road in front and no sounds, save for the distant nicker of horses in the barn across the street. Standing there, soaking it in, the peace somehow filled a deep well in my soul that I hadn't even known was empty.
It's been many years since I've been to Wisconsin, but now I've found my peaceful place in Florida, and I have my horse to share it with.
I guess that the easiest way to explain it would be to share the lyrics of one of my favorite songs, "Out in the Country" by Three Dog Night:
Whenever I need to leave it all behind
Or feel the need to get away
I find a quiet place, far from the human race
Out in the country.
Before the breathing air is gone
Before the sun is just a bright spot in the night time
Out where the rivers like to run
I stand alone
And take back something worth remembering.
Whenever I feel them closing in on me
Or need a bit of room to move
When life becomes too fast, I find relief at last
Out in the country.
Before the breathing air is gone
Before the sun is just a bright spot in the night time
Out where the rivers like to run
I stand alone
And take back something worth remembering.
Click here for my Life Coaching website.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Now that Figment, my horse, is here, I am becoming well acquainted with a different side of Florida. It's a side that is disappearing all too rapidly...a side dotted with cattle pastures and orange groves. As I drive to the barn, I pass through the gaudy 192 tourist corridor and weave my way through road construction where 27 is being widened to accommodate the strip malls and subdivisions springing up like weeds on either side. Here and there, a bedraggled orange tree speaks of the not-so-distant past when its brethern once dotted the landscape in military rows. Now, there is Walgreens, CVS, and Wal-Mart, plus Taco Bell, Burger King, Wendy's, and most of the other fast food Big Names.
But once I turn off 27, I only have to go a few miles before the scenery changes drastically. Suddenly I'm in the midst of dense copses of trees, broken occasionally by a pasture where cattle lazily graze. There are plenty of horses, too, and groves that still actively produce fruit. There are pristine lakes surrounded by open green spaces, not "lakefront" subdivisions with cookie cutter houses.
The barn where I board Figment is on a bona-fide dirt road. Hopefully it won't be developed for a long, long time...I suspect it will be a few years at least, as there is no easy way to get there. A state park is right across the street, and it's the kind of place where you might see a wild boar rooting along the riding trails or a baby gator sunning itself on a log.
Even though we moved to Florida primarily to be close to Disney World, and even though I love Celebration and find its high density a comforting reminder of my Chicago roots, I love the fact that another world is just a 45 minute drive away. It feels so renewing for me to rediscover the Old Florida whenever I visit the barn. It's heaven to saddle up Figment and trot through an orange grove or weave along the state park trails. I love the crowded, crazy atmosphere of Disney World, but riding in the country fulfills a deeper, more basic need.
I used to feel it when my husband and I would visit Woodside Ranch, a dude ranch in the wilds of Wisconsin. It's not too far away from Wisconsin Dells, a tourist area with a main strip that looks like 192 on steroids. We loved to visit the Dells twice a year, reveling in the restaurants, water parks, and thrill-ride attractions. Woodside was only a few exits down the expressway, but it might as well have been on another planet.
I remember standing outside the bunkhouse one night, looking up at the stars. They sparkled like diamonds on a sky of black velvet. No other light was visible, save the soft glow from the windows of the bunkhouse and a lone streetlight on the driveway. There were no cars on the lonely road in front and no sounds, save for the distant nicker of horses in the barn across the street. Standing there, soaking it in, the peace somehow filled a deep well in my soul that I hadn't even known was empty.
It's been many years since I've been to Wisconsin, but now I've found my peaceful place in Florida, and I have my horse to share it with.
I guess that the easiest way to explain it would be to share the lyrics of one of my favorite songs, "Out in the Country" by Three Dog Night:
Whenever I need to leave it all behind
Or feel the need to get away
I find a quiet place, far from the human race
Out in the country.
Before the breathing air is gone
Before the sun is just a bright spot in the night time
Out where the rivers like to run
I stand alone
And take back something worth remembering.
Whenever I feel them closing in on me
Or need a bit of room to move
When life becomes too fast, I find relief at last
Out in the country.
Before the breathing air is gone
Before the sun is just a bright spot in the night time
Out where the rivers like to run
I stand alone
And take back something worth remembering.
Click here for my Life Coaching website.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Monday, July 10, 2006
The Ceiling is Falling! The Ceiling is Falling!
Chicken Little would feel very much at home at Duloc Manor this week. The sky, or rather the ceiling, was literally falling this morning due to a leak in the air conditioner drain pipe.
Actually, the saga goes back a few of weeks. I dragged my sorry butt back to Chicago for the first time in 9 months in mid-June. I didn't really want to, but I've been putting it off for much too long. We had set up a visit with my sister, a dinner date with friends, and I also had a business meeting in the Loop, so I had to steel my nerves, down some Xanax, and force myself onto the plane.
I was flying alone on a Thursday to join my husband, who'd been there working since Monday. It was my first time flying since the fatal Southwest accident at Midway last winter, and my mind had been concocting all sorts of terrible air-disaster fantasies in the many months since I'd last flown. I'm a nervous flyer at the best of times, and a Flight From Hell (Cliff Notes version: unable to land due to weather, forced to divert for fuel and sit on the plane for hours, and then an aborted landing at our original distination) made me even more paranoid. I'm not afraid of a crash, but rather of knowing that I'm "trapped" and potentially unable to land. But Xanax usually chills me out enough to prevent me from running through the aisles in a frenzy of panic, and I'm not too bad unless the flight takes on some of the characteristics of that terrible, terrible day when I was trapped on the plane for hours.
Fortunately the flight to Chicago was dull and uneventful, just the way I like 'em. I chose a window seat in the exit row and prepared to lose myself in a music CD. But the man in the middle seat was quite chatty, so I spent most of the 2+ hours listening to his tales of life and retirement. It made the time go by rather fast, and before I knew it I was touching down at Midway and breathing a sigh of relief as the reserve thrusters assertively kicked in.
I marveled at the fact that I didn't feel any attachment to the condo where I'd lived for almost a decade. It was somewhat more familiar than a hotel room, but not by much. I feel more at home in 5650, my usual room on the Disney Magic and Wonder ships, than I felt in my former abode. The only thing that tugged at my heartstrings was my comedy/tragedy mask collection that still graces the piano room walls. I reminded myself that someday soon they'll be with me at Duloc Manor.
It was great to see various friends and relatives, but I was more than ready to board a Florida-bound plane on Monday. I popped a calming pill and settled in to listen to some music while hubby watched a DVD. I was pretty relaxed, so the fact that well over two hours had passed didn't sink into my skull until the captain announced on the PA that we were in a holding pattern. We couldn't land due to weather. ARGHHHHH!!!! FLASHBACK! FLASHBACK!
I popped another half-pill of Xanax and fought the anxiety that surged through my nerves like an electric current. I pulled out a book in an attempt to focus my racing brain. Then hubby, who always knows just the right thing to say, announced, "Wow, I'll bet we're running out of fuel by now. We're probably going to have to divert to Tampa!"
It was only through a supreme act of will than I didn't totally lose it right there. Instead, I excused myself to the lavatory, where I splashed cold water on my face and practiced slow, measured breathing. I'm a cognitive therapist, and I was frantically forcing myself to look at the situation in a rational framework: "There's nothing you can do about this, whether or not you freak out, so why waste the energy required to panic?" It helped a little, but I still took the other half of the Xanax pill when I returned to my seat. That large of a dose of "happy drugs" typically puts me to sleep, which I figured would be the best option.
At that point, the captain announced that we had been cleared to land in Orlando. Whew! I could feel my comfort level rising as we glided in over the familiar scenery. I wanted to cheer when the plane entered the airspace over MCO property. But suddenly the engines gave a mighty roar and we swooped up into the sky again! I couldn't believe it...an aborted landing. How much closer could this get to my previous nightmare experience? Worse yet, the captain never explained why we were forced to abort. I'm sure it was some mundane reason, like another aircraft in front of us that hadn't moved quickly enough, but I need some reassurance. I just want to know that the landing gear isn't hanging by a thread or that an engine is ready to explode.
My adrenaline vied with the Xanax for control of my brain, but thankfully we landed after a few more circles. I actually managed to stay awake for dinner, but I laid down when we got home at 8 p.m. and didn't stir again for 12 full hours.
We were scheduled to go on a three-day Disney cruise on Thursday for my husband's birthday. Unfortunately, on Tuesday I noticed an ugly brown stain on the family room ceiling. Just great...that gave us 48 hours to deal with it before we had to leave for Port Canaveral. Thankfully, we had purchased an extended home warranty, so even though it would be a major inconvenience, at least it wouldn't cost us any more than $50 to repair.
The warranty company sent a serviceman out on Wednesday. He pronounced it a clogged A/C drainage line, which seemed ironic since we flush it out with Simple Green every month per the builder's instructions. There was no dampness around the mouth of the drain pipe, but water had definitely found its way underneath the A/C unit. The serviceman unclogged it and pronounced it "sound," but I couldn't help a nagging feeling of paranoia that something else could happen while we were away on the cruise.
Like my flying phobia, my house fear is rooted in a past experience. When we were first married, I moved into my husband's townhome. It was a creepy 1970s throwback with an avocado-painted exterior and a vibe inside that would have sent any self-respecting psychic running in panic. Ever seen the "Bad Dream House" episode of The Simpsons? I'm sure that townhome was the inspiration; if I'd seen blood running down the walls, it wouldn't have shocked me in the least.
I always felt that we'd come home someday and find it burned to the ground. While that didn't happen, it did get destroyed by a second-floor flood while we were in Ohio for the weekend. The toilet tank cracked, and the subsequent damage was enough to leave us homeless for three months. The drywall was destroyed, as was most of the flooring. They had to strip Bad Dream Home right down to the studs and rebuild most of the interior. We sold it shortly thereafter and moved into a nice, non-haunted condo.
But obviously water-based destruction is a reocurring theme in my life. Our ceiling had a big, brown stain in the shape of a giant, mutant ameoba, and the paint on the beam between the dinette and family room was cracked and peeling. We put it out of our minds and focused on enjoying our cruise.
Upon our return, we purchased supplies to attempt a do-it-yourself repair job. But we didn't want to start it until we were certain that everything was dried out, so we let it sit for a few more days.
Good choice!
On Sunday morning, I heard hubby grumbling in an annoyed sort of way, tinged with mild panic. The stain was spreading like the lethal slime in "Creepshow," and the whole area was soaking wet again. The cracks had now worked their way almost halfway across the beam. Why oh why does this sort of thing have to happen either a) two days before we leave on vacation; or b) on a weekend?
I called the warranty company, and they had the repair shop call me back. I was assured that we'd be a priority call on Monday morning. There was one call before us, so the serviceman showed up around lunchtime. After eliminating the less destructive possibilities, he realized that he was going to have to cut into the ceiling. Turns out that the pipe joint had come unglued and separated, so all the run-off water was draining right into the ceiling. Ugh!
The serviceman fixed it and patched the hole temporarily with a taped-up garbage bag. It can't be fixed until it drys out completely and until we make sure that there is no repeat performance. Hopefully the new glue will be more effective than the old.
So now Duloc Manor looks very classy; outside, most of the front lawn is dead (perhaps Davy will replace it someday, but I'm not holding my breath), and inside you can sit on the family room couch and admire the "decorator white" plastic trash bag that is nicely counterpointed by a frame of black electrical tape. Perhaps if the beam cracks extend any further, I can pass them off as a new sort of designer rough finish, sort of like distressed wood.
Oh well, I can't complain to much. It looks like the problem is really fixed this time, and since the ceiling had to be cut into to make the repair, part of the restoration should be covered under our warranty too. Not too much of a trauma in the cosmic scheme of things, but I'll still feel better when Duloc Manor is pristine once again.
Click here for my Life Coaching website.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Actually, the saga goes back a few of weeks. I dragged my sorry butt back to Chicago for the first time in 9 months in mid-June. I didn't really want to, but I've been putting it off for much too long. We had set up a visit with my sister, a dinner date with friends, and I also had a business meeting in the Loop, so I had to steel my nerves, down some Xanax, and force myself onto the plane.
I was flying alone on a Thursday to join my husband, who'd been there working since Monday. It was my first time flying since the fatal Southwest accident at Midway last winter, and my mind had been concocting all sorts of terrible air-disaster fantasies in the many months since I'd last flown. I'm a nervous flyer at the best of times, and a Flight From Hell (Cliff Notes version: unable to land due to weather, forced to divert for fuel and sit on the plane for hours, and then an aborted landing at our original distination) made me even more paranoid. I'm not afraid of a crash, but rather of knowing that I'm "trapped" and potentially unable to land. But Xanax usually chills me out enough to prevent me from running through the aisles in a frenzy of panic, and I'm not too bad unless the flight takes on some of the characteristics of that terrible, terrible day when I was trapped on the plane for hours.
Fortunately the flight to Chicago was dull and uneventful, just the way I like 'em. I chose a window seat in the exit row and prepared to lose myself in a music CD. But the man in the middle seat was quite chatty, so I spent most of the 2+ hours listening to his tales of life and retirement. It made the time go by rather fast, and before I knew it I was touching down at Midway and breathing a sigh of relief as the reserve thrusters assertively kicked in.
I marveled at the fact that I didn't feel any attachment to the condo where I'd lived for almost a decade. It was somewhat more familiar than a hotel room, but not by much. I feel more at home in 5650, my usual room on the Disney Magic and Wonder ships, than I felt in my former abode. The only thing that tugged at my heartstrings was my comedy/tragedy mask collection that still graces the piano room walls. I reminded myself that someday soon they'll be with me at Duloc Manor.
It was great to see various friends and relatives, but I was more than ready to board a Florida-bound plane on Monday. I popped a calming pill and settled in to listen to some music while hubby watched a DVD. I was pretty relaxed, so the fact that well over two hours had passed didn't sink into my skull until the captain announced on the PA that we were in a holding pattern. We couldn't land due to weather. ARGHHHHH!!!! FLASHBACK! FLASHBACK!
I popped another half-pill of Xanax and fought the anxiety that surged through my nerves like an electric current. I pulled out a book in an attempt to focus my racing brain. Then hubby, who always knows just the right thing to say, announced, "Wow, I'll bet we're running out of fuel by now. We're probably going to have to divert to Tampa!"
It was only through a supreme act of will than I didn't totally lose it right there. Instead, I excused myself to the lavatory, where I splashed cold water on my face and practiced slow, measured breathing. I'm a cognitive therapist, and I was frantically forcing myself to look at the situation in a rational framework: "There's nothing you can do about this, whether or not you freak out, so why waste the energy required to panic?" It helped a little, but I still took the other half of the Xanax pill when I returned to my seat. That large of a dose of "happy drugs" typically puts me to sleep, which I figured would be the best option.
At that point, the captain announced that we had been cleared to land in Orlando. Whew! I could feel my comfort level rising as we glided in over the familiar scenery. I wanted to cheer when the plane entered the airspace over MCO property. But suddenly the engines gave a mighty roar and we swooped up into the sky again! I couldn't believe it...an aborted landing. How much closer could this get to my previous nightmare experience? Worse yet, the captain never explained why we were forced to abort. I'm sure it was some mundane reason, like another aircraft in front of us that hadn't moved quickly enough, but I need some reassurance. I just want to know that the landing gear isn't hanging by a thread or that an engine is ready to explode.
My adrenaline vied with the Xanax for control of my brain, but thankfully we landed after a few more circles. I actually managed to stay awake for dinner, but I laid down when we got home at 8 p.m. and didn't stir again for 12 full hours.
We were scheduled to go on a three-day Disney cruise on Thursday for my husband's birthday. Unfortunately, on Tuesday I noticed an ugly brown stain on the family room ceiling. Just great...that gave us 48 hours to deal with it before we had to leave for Port Canaveral. Thankfully, we had purchased an extended home warranty, so even though it would be a major inconvenience, at least it wouldn't cost us any more than $50 to repair.
The warranty company sent a serviceman out on Wednesday. He pronounced it a clogged A/C drainage line, which seemed ironic since we flush it out with Simple Green every month per the builder's instructions. There was no dampness around the mouth of the drain pipe, but water had definitely found its way underneath the A/C unit. The serviceman unclogged it and pronounced it "sound," but I couldn't help a nagging feeling of paranoia that something else could happen while we were away on the cruise.
Like my flying phobia, my house fear is rooted in a past experience. When we were first married, I moved into my husband's townhome. It was a creepy 1970s throwback with an avocado-painted exterior and a vibe inside that would have sent any self-respecting psychic running in panic. Ever seen the "Bad Dream House" episode of The Simpsons? I'm sure that townhome was the inspiration; if I'd seen blood running down the walls, it wouldn't have shocked me in the least.
I always felt that we'd come home someday and find it burned to the ground. While that didn't happen, it did get destroyed by a second-floor flood while we were in Ohio for the weekend. The toilet tank cracked, and the subsequent damage was enough to leave us homeless for three months. The drywall was destroyed, as was most of the flooring. They had to strip Bad Dream Home right down to the studs and rebuild most of the interior. We sold it shortly thereafter and moved into a nice, non-haunted condo.
But obviously water-based destruction is a reocurring theme in my life. Our ceiling had a big, brown stain in the shape of a giant, mutant ameoba, and the paint on the beam between the dinette and family room was cracked and peeling. We put it out of our minds and focused on enjoying our cruise.
Upon our return, we purchased supplies to attempt a do-it-yourself repair job. But we didn't want to start it until we were certain that everything was dried out, so we let it sit for a few more days.
Good choice!
On Sunday morning, I heard hubby grumbling in an annoyed sort of way, tinged with mild panic. The stain was spreading like the lethal slime in "Creepshow," and the whole area was soaking wet again. The cracks had now worked their way almost halfway across the beam. Why oh why does this sort of thing have to happen either a) two days before we leave on vacation; or b) on a weekend?
I called the warranty company, and they had the repair shop call me back. I was assured that we'd be a priority call on Monday morning. There was one call before us, so the serviceman showed up around lunchtime. After eliminating the less destructive possibilities, he realized that he was going to have to cut into the ceiling. Turns out that the pipe joint had come unglued and separated, so all the run-off water was draining right into the ceiling. Ugh!
The serviceman fixed it and patched the hole temporarily with a taped-up garbage bag. It can't be fixed until it drys out completely and until we make sure that there is no repeat performance. Hopefully the new glue will be more effective than the old.
So now Duloc Manor looks very classy; outside, most of the front lawn is dead (perhaps Davy will replace it someday, but I'm not holding my breath), and inside you can sit on the family room couch and admire the "decorator white" plastic trash bag that is nicely counterpointed by a frame of black electrical tape. Perhaps if the beam cracks extend any further, I can pass them off as a new sort of designer rough finish, sort of like distressed wood.
Oh well, I can't complain to much. It looks like the problem is really fixed this time, and since the ceiling had to be cut into to make the repair, part of the restoration should be covered under our warranty too. Not too much of a trauma in the cosmic scheme of things, but I'll still feel better when Duloc Manor is pristine once again.
Click here for my Life Coaching website.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Monday, June 12, 2006
The Teaser Storm
As I type this, the torrential rains brought in by Tropical Storm Alberto are thrumming again my window pane. My wish for rain has been granted; now, I just hope that we get enough to put out the brush fire. Judging by the gray skies and soggy ground, that's not going to be a problem.
In the cosmic scheme of life in Florida, Alberto is just a "teaser storm." Sure, it's bringing bands of wind and rain, but after Hurricane Charley two seasons ago, it seems like nothing more than a really, really long version of our typical afternoon thunderstorms.
It's sort of like a practice run...Nature's version of a school fire drill. Even though we knew Alberto wouldn't hit the Orlando area too badly, people have taken it as a sign to make sure that their pantries are stocked. It's an excuse to inventory outside areas and build awareness of items that could easily be "gone with the wind." Are there batteries in the weather radio? The flashlights? Is the roof sturdy enough to hold up to a real hurricane? This first topical storm of the season reminds us that hurricane season is, indeed, here...that Charley, Frances and Jeanne in 2004 and Katrina in 2005 are not just distant nightmares. God forbid, history could repeat itself, and we all must be prepared.
Alberto has also served as the opportunity to rekindle another rite of the summer, at least in our home. When Halloween is coming, you break out the jack o'lanterns and corn stalks. With Christmas, it's colored lights, tinsel, and holly. With hurricane season, it's an obsession with The Weather Channel and www.noaa.gov (the hurricane tracking site). I've had my eye on NOAA ever since Alberto was in its infancy, fixated on its potential strength and projected path. Since my husband and I both work at home, TWC has been on our television non-stop, even though we could just as easily look out the window.
At least this storm is bringing us a lot of good, in the form of much-needed moisture. The first bands brought some rainfall yesterday, and I was ready to rejoice among the raindrops as they fell on the parched earth. I was at the barn, and the rain started literally as I pulled into the driveway. Living in Florida, I've learned that the bands bring their downpours in waves. I simply waited till the first wave past, then managed to get in some riding time before the next one hit. Figment and I waited that one out in the barn, then snuck in a little more work before another band unleased its watery load.
It looks like Figgie will have a couple of days of leisure now, and when the rain is over, the pastures should start coming in lush and green. He already thinks he died and went to Heaven; in Chicago, he was turned out in a dirt corral with hay, but now he spends his days grazing on fresh grass. It must be like the differences between living on military MREs and then suddenly switching to gourmet cuisine.
He has taken to life in Florida very well, although being torn away from his former herdmates has had a psychological effect. If I take him out of view of the other horses now, he gets quite agitated and whinnies for them frantically. It's something I'll be able to break him of in time, and meantime I'll cut him some slack...he's been through quite a transition.
I can't really complain about his progress; he works well in the round pen, and I've been riding him all over the owner's property, through the orange grove next door, and down the road. The next step will be a short jaunt to the state park to start getting him accustomed to the trails.
But that's not going to happen until later in the week; for now, I'm housebound and watching the rain. I don't mind being stuck inside one bit, as I know how much we need this water. It will feel so good to see the grass come up green again and see the water levels of the lakes rise back to where they should be.
I know it's wishful thinking, but how nice it would be if this were the worst we would get this year. Sure, that's unrealistic, but after the last few years, we could really, really use a tame one. Only about five more months to go.....
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
In the cosmic scheme of life in Florida, Alberto is just a "teaser storm." Sure, it's bringing bands of wind and rain, but after Hurricane Charley two seasons ago, it seems like nothing more than a really, really long version of our typical afternoon thunderstorms.
It's sort of like a practice run...Nature's version of a school fire drill. Even though we knew Alberto wouldn't hit the Orlando area too badly, people have taken it as a sign to make sure that their pantries are stocked. It's an excuse to inventory outside areas and build awareness of items that could easily be "gone with the wind." Are there batteries in the weather radio? The flashlights? Is the roof sturdy enough to hold up to a real hurricane? This first topical storm of the season reminds us that hurricane season is, indeed, here...that Charley, Frances and Jeanne in 2004 and Katrina in 2005 are not just distant nightmares. God forbid, history could repeat itself, and we all must be prepared.
Alberto has also served as the opportunity to rekindle another rite of the summer, at least in our home. When Halloween is coming, you break out the jack o'lanterns and corn stalks. With Christmas, it's colored lights, tinsel, and holly. With hurricane season, it's an obsession with The Weather Channel and www.noaa.gov (the hurricane tracking site). I've had my eye on NOAA ever since Alberto was in its infancy, fixated on its potential strength and projected path. Since my husband and I both work at home, TWC has been on our television non-stop, even though we could just as easily look out the window.
At least this storm is bringing us a lot of good, in the form of much-needed moisture. The first bands brought some rainfall yesterday, and I was ready to rejoice among the raindrops as they fell on the parched earth. I was at the barn, and the rain started literally as I pulled into the driveway. Living in Florida, I've learned that the bands bring their downpours in waves. I simply waited till the first wave past, then managed to get in some riding time before the next one hit. Figment and I waited that one out in the barn, then snuck in a little more work before another band unleased its watery load.
It looks like Figgie will have a couple of days of leisure now, and when the rain is over, the pastures should start coming in lush and green. He already thinks he died and went to Heaven; in Chicago, he was turned out in a dirt corral with hay, but now he spends his days grazing on fresh grass. It must be like the differences between living on military MREs and then suddenly switching to gourmet cuisine.
He has taken to life in Florida very well, although being torn away from his former herdmates has had a psychological effect. If I take him out of view of the other horses now, he gets quite agitated and whinnies for them frantically. It's something I'll be able to break him of in time, and meantime I'll cut him some slack...he's been through quite a transition.
I can't really complain about his progress; he works well in the round pen, and I've been riding him all over the owner's property, through the orange grove next door, and down the road. The next step will be a short jaunt to the state park to start getting him accustomed to the trails.
But that's not going to happen until later in the week; for now, I'm housebound and watching the rain. I don't mind being stuck inside one bit, as I know how much we need this water. It will feel so good to see the grass come up green again and see the water levels of the lakes rise back to where they should be.
I know it's wishful thinking, but how nice it would be if this were the worst we would get this year. Sure, that's unrealistic, but after the last few years, we could really, really use a tame one. Only about five more months to go.....
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Saturday, June 10, 2006
I'm Wishing for a Hurricane
Okay, well maybe not a hurricane, but at least a tropical depression. Not a big, scary, destructive one, but just something that will dump a lot of rain on Central Florida. We should be in our rainy season right now, but the dry weather continues unabated. In addition to the low lakes and dried-out vegetation, we're facing a high threat of brush fires.
Hubby and I discovered the fire danger firsthand on our way to the barn this morning. 192, the Yellow Brick Road of tourism, was closed at the 429 toll road. We jumped on 429 and took it all the way out to 50. That was well out of our way, but we didn't feel like going all the way back to I-4, and we needed to stop at the Lake Louisa State Park ranger station anyway to purchase an annual membership. Since I board Figment, my horse, right across the street from the back entrance, the membership card will allow me to ride on their trails legally.
429 was shrouded in an eerie gray-black haze from the fire that burned not too far away, and the smell of blazing vegetation permeated the car. Thankfully, the fire didn't threaten any homes, but I'm sure it will have a big impact on the businesses located in the cordoned-off area.
We thought that the road might be open by the time we were done at the barn. No such luck....we whizzed down 192, thinking that we were safe because there were no signs or other warnings. But suddenly the sight of a patrol car loomed up out of nowhere, and we had to join the conga line of cars heading back towards 27. At the morning roadblock, there was a state trooper giving people instructions on potential alternate routes. This time around, there was no one.
We decided to take 27 to I-4, and since we hadn't had any breakfast or lunch and it was almost 2 p.m., we were hoping to grab a fast-food bite in the meantime. We couldn't really do a sit-down meal, since we were both covered with dirt and horse sweat, and I'm sure that we were scented with Eau de Manure.
There weren't many dining choices, so finally we opted for a Subway located inside of a gas station just before the I-4 interchange. The nearby fire should have warned me that we were close to the Gates of Hades, as we had stumbled on the Subway From Hell.
There were four people in front of us, each ordering multiple sandwiches. Normally that wouldn't be so bad, except that only one person was working and it was very apparent that he was paid by the hour, not by the sandwich. Actually, a second person was working too, but I use the term working very loosely. She made a few appearances, stared blankly at the line, and disppeared to some back area where her workday wouldn't be bothered by dealing with actual customers. At one point, she and the lone sandwich-maker did discuss where the kids meal toys were located, but it didn't seem to have much bearing since there were no children in the line. Of course, the people head of us might have been children when they first joined the queue, but if so, they had reached adulthood in the interminable wait.
One of the people in front of us stormed off in disgust, which probably saved us a good half hour of wait time. Since I had a lot of time to study my surroundings, I realized that we were in for a double dose of punishment. You get your sandwich at the Subway counter, but you pay for it at the gas register. I heard grumbles and groans that caused me to glance at the register...it was surrounded by three puzzled cashiers who were staring at it blankly while it emitted a continuous high-pitched tone. Meanwhile, a line of customers snaked down the snack aisle and almost back to the cooler.
The people in the register line were definitely kicking up more of a fuss than those of us waiting for sandwiches. That's probably because the Subway customer wannabes all had become malnourished during the lengthy wait, while the people who had just stopped in for gas had probably eaten elsewhere and still had their strength. Even if it flagged, they could survive on snack food from the shelves among which they were forced to wait.
I noticed that when a person ordered a toasted sub, the sandwich maker apparently didn't realize that he could start on the next order while waiting for the sub to toast in the oven. Instead, he just stared blankly while each single sandwich cooked. Making two orders at once was beyond the boundaries of his limited comprehension.
My husband pointed out a plaque declaring that Subway a "Model Store." Just what it was a model of was not specified, but we both had some ideas. Oh well...eventually we got our order, passed the second gauntlet (the cashier line) and made it home to Celebration before too many months had passed.
Early in the evening we did get a nice, heavy rainstorm, although it didn't last too long. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw drinking straws poking up from the grass as the raindrops poured down on the parched brown lawns.
There is a tropical depression that is supposed to hit us early next week. Normally, I'm praying for the storm path to turn away, but this time around I'm doing a rain dance to attract it. It's not a destructive killer storm...sure, there will be some wind, but nothing worse than a typical nasty thunderstorm. The much-needed moisture will be well worth it. Storms aren't particularly pleasant, but fire is so much worse.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Hubby and I discovered the fire danger firsthand on our way to the barn this morning. 192, the Yellow Brick Road of tourism, was closed at the 429 toll road. We jumped on 429 and took it all the way out to 50. That was well out of our way, but we didn't feel like going all the way back to I-4, and we needed to stop at the Lake Louisa State Park ranger station anyway to purchase an annual membership. Since I board Figment, my horse, right across the street from the back entrance, the membership card will allow me to ride on their trails legally.
429 was shrouded in an eerie gray-black haze from the fire that burned not too far away, and the smell of blazing vegetation permeated the car. Thankfully, the fire didn't threaten any homes, but I'm sure it will have a big impact on the businesses located in the cordoned-off area.
We thought that the road might be open by the time we were done at the barn. No such luck....we whizzed down 192, thinking that we were safe because there were no signs or other warnings. But suddenly the sight of a patrol car loomed up out of nowhere, and we had to join the conga line of cars heading back towards 27. At the morning roadblock, there was a state trooper giving people instructions on potential alternate routes. This time around, there was no one.
We decided to take 27 to I-4, and since we hadn't had any breakfast or lunch and it was almost 2 p.m., we were hoping to grab a fast-food bite in the meantime. We couldn't really do a sit-down meal, since we were both covered with dirt and horse sweat, and I'm sure that we were scented with Eau de Manure.
There weren't many dining choices, so finally we opted for a Subway located inside of a gas station just before the I-4 interchange. The nearby fire should have warned me that we were close to the Gates of Hades, as we had stumbled on the Subway From Hell.
There were four people in front of us, each ordering multiple sandwiches. Normally that wouldn't be so bad, except that only one person was working and it was very apparent that he was paid by the hour, not by the sandwich. Actually, a second person was working too, but I use the term working very loosely. She made a few appearances, stared blankly at the line, and disppeared to some back area where her workday wouldn't be bothered by dealing with actual customers. At one point, she and the lone sandwich-maker did discuss where the kids meal toys were located, but it didn't seem to have much bearing since there were no children in the line. Of course, the people head of us might have been children when they first joined the queue, but if so, they had reached adulthood in the interminable wait.
One of the people in front of us stormed off in disgust, which probably saved us a good half hour of wait time. Since I had a lot of time to study my surroundings, I realized that we were in for a double dose of punishment. You get your sandwich at the Subway counter, but you pay for it at the gas register. I heard grumbles and groans that caused me to glance at the register...it was surrounded by three puzzled cashiers who were staring at it blankly while it emitted a continuous high-pitched tone. Meanwhile, a line of customers snaked down the snack aisle and almost back to the cooler.
The people in the register line were definitely kicking up more of a fuss than those of us waiting for sandwiches. That's probably because the Subway customer wannabes all had become malnourished during the lengthy wait, while the people who had just stopped in for gas had probably eaten elsewhere and still had their strength. Even if it flagged, they could survive on snack food from the shelves among which they were forced to wait.
I noticed that when a person ordered a toasted sub, the sandwich maker apparently didn't realize that he could start on the next order while waiting for the sub to toast in the oven. Instead, he just stared blankly while each single sandwich cooked. Making two orders at once was beyond the boundaries of his limited comprehension.
My husband pointed out a plaque declaring that Subway a "Model Store." Just what it was a model of was not specified, but we both had some ideas. Oh well...eventually we got our order, passed the second gauntlet (the cashier line) and made it home to Celebration before too many months had passed.
Early in the evening we did get a nice, heavy rainstorm, although it didn't last too long. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw drinking straws poking up from the grass as the raindrops poured down on the parched brown lawns.
There is a tropical depression that is supposed to hit us early next week. Normally, I'm praying for the storm path to turn away, but this time around I'm doing a rain dance to attract it. It's not a destructive killer storm...sure, there will be some wind, but nothing worse than a typical nasty thunderstorm. The much-needed moisture will be well worth it. Storms aren't particularly pleasant, but fire is so much worse.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
All's Well That Ends Well
Figment is finally home! He arrived at around 2:30 p.m. and stepped off the trailer looking remarkably calm, especially considering that he'd been in transit for over 48 hours.
He was sweating a bit and gave the ramp a suspicious look, but then he walked right down and followed me into the round pen. We put him in there for a while so he could trot around and stretch his legs, and he also rolled several times in the orange clay. He managed to coat his whole body with an orange tint.
The trailer was huge; he had certainly ridden to Florida in style! I'm used to small, two horse trailers or basic goosenecks, but this was a fully enclosed rig where he'd basked in air conditioned comfort in a roomy, padded compartment with all the hay and water he could want. It was large enough to hold 6 to 8 horses, but by the time he got to Clermont, he was all by himself. He'd had a companion for part of the way, but she had been dropped off first. He was sad about that because they became close friends during the journey, nuzzling and licking each other like two necking teens.
Now, at his new home, there were several other horses, but they were all out in the pasture while he was confined to the round pen. Eventually he'll be turned out with pasture buddies once he has settled in. For now, he watched the others from his vantage point in the round pen. He was acting so calm that I did a little work with him; I didn't ride him, or even tack him up, but I lunged him a bit and had him perform some tricks. He remembered things quite well, considering it's been almost three years since I've done anything serious with him.
He didn't look stiff at all, and he was much less confused that I had imagined he'd be. He'd just been plucked from his home of five years, and before that he had lived his whole life at another barn with his mother. Since he's been rather sheltered, I wasn't sure how he would react to so much change. He's much more resiliant that I ever thought.
I gave him a shower before feeding time, and he seemed to enjoy the spray of cool water. He stepped right into the washrack as though he'd been in one a thousand times, even though this was the first time ever. Next, I put him in his stall, and he got a bit agitated because the other horses weren't in the barn yet. As they were brought in, he neighed frantically, upset at the fact that none were stalled near him. But not to worry...eventually his new next-door neighbor was brought in, and they happily sniffed noses through the bars that separated them. They seemed to become fast friends, so hopefully they will become pasture buddies once Figgie starts going outside with the others.
He'll have to be started on pasture slowly, since he didn't get much grass in Illinois. The corral where he was turned out was all dirt, and the horses grazed on hay. Figment can't suddenly be given all the grass he wants at once without getting a tummy ache. It would be like letting a child loose in an unlimited candy store. He can have a bit each day until he's built up his tolerance for "rich" food.
I left the barn confident that he's settling in very well...much better than I had expected. The shipper kept reassuring me that most horses handle long distance transit quite well, but horror story scenarios kept dancing through my mind. Granted, there was the breakdown in Kentucky, but the horses got through that unscathed.
I'm hoping to head out early tomorrow in order to beat the heat. I wonder how long it will take Figgie to get used to summer in Florda. If he's like me, it won't be long at all.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
He was sweating a bit and gave the ramp a suspicious look, but then he walked right down and followed me into the round pen. We put him in there for a while so he could trot around and stretch his legs, and he also rolled several times in the orange clay. He managed to coat his whole body with an orange tint.
The trailer was huge; he had certainly ridden to Florida in style! I'm used to small, two horse trailers or basic goosenecks, but this was a fully enclosed rig where he'd basked in air conditioned comfort in a roomy, padded compartment with all the hay and water he could want. It was large enough to hold 6 to 8 horses, but by the time he got to Clermont, he was all by himself. He'd had a companion for part of the way, but she had been dropped off first. He was sad about that because they became close friends during the journey, nuzzling and licking each other like two necking teens.
Now, at his new home, there were several other horses, but they were all out in the pasture while he was confined to the round pen. Eventually he'll be turned out with pasture buddies once he has settled in. For now, he watched the others from his vantage point in the round pen. He was acting so calm that I did a little work with him; I didn't ride him, or even tack him up, but I lunged him a bit and had him perform some tricks. He remembered things quite well, considering it's been almost three years since I've done anything serious with him.
He didn't look stiff at all, and he was much less confused that I had imagined he'd be. He'd just been plucked from his home of five years, and before that he had lived his whole life at another barn with his mother. Since he's been rather sheltered, I wasn't sure how he would react to so much change. He's much more resiliant that I ever thought.
I gave him a shower before feeding time, and he seemed to enjoy the spray of cool water. He stepped right into the washrack as though he'd been in one a thousand times, even though this was the first time ever. Next, I put him in his stall, and he got a bit agitated because the other horses weren't in the barn yet. As they were brought in, he neighed frantically, upset at the fact that none were stalled near him. But not to worry...eventually his new next-door neighbor was brought in, and they happily sniffed noses through the bars that separated them. They seemed to become fast friends, so hopefully they will become pasture buddies once Figgie starts going outside with the others.
He'll have to be started on pasture slowly, since he didn't get much grass in Illinois. The corral where he was turned out was all dirt, and the horses grazed on hay. Figment can't suddenly be given all the grass he wants at once without getting a tummy ache. It would be like letting a child loose in an unlimited candy store. He can have a bit each day until he's built up his tolerance for "rich" food.
I left the barn confident that he's settling in very well...much better than I had expected. The shipper kept reassuring me that most horses handle long distance transit quite well, but horror story scenarios kept dancing through my mind. Granted, there was the breakdown in Kentucky, but the horses got through that unscathed.
I'm hoping to head out early tomorrow in order to beat the heat. I wonder how long it will take Figgie to get used to summer in Florda. If he's like me, it won't be long at all.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Will He or Won't He?
Will Figment make it to his new home on Wednesday, or won't he?
According to the driver who picked up the stranded horses, he should be rolling into Clermont some time around noon on Weds. That's not too far off the original schedule, which is pretty impressive considering the truck break-down.
My mind is more at ease because Figment got into the new trailer without much hassle; if he were truly traumatized, he would have probably refused to climb in another rolling metal box after managing to escape the first one.
I always wonder what goes through a horse's mind when it is trailered somewhere. When I was younger, I used to take my other horse, Cochise, to shows and local parades. I imagined that he thought the trailer was some sort of magic box. He'd climb in, get jolted around for anywhere from half an hour to a couple of hours, and then emerge in a totally different place. That has to be pretty confusing for an equine.
I think he understood the concept, though...one year I had ridden in a parade and was preparing to bring him home. I had hired a trailer from a local barn, and they had to make multiple trips because it was a two-horse trailer and several other horses had also been brought out. Just as we approached the trailer, it started to rain. Another woman who had also brought her horse nearly broke her butt to rush to the trailer ahead of us and put her horse in. I guess she didn't want to wait in the downpour for the second trip.
Problem is, her horse refused to go in. He would barely even get close to the trailer. I stood by with my friend, who had come along to help with Cochise; we were all getting rained on while the woman struggled with her uncooperative beast. Finally, after 15 minutes or so, my friend couldn't take it anymore. She led Cochise up and said, "He knows how to trailer." She pointed him at the door, and he rushed right past the other horse and jumped in as if to say, "Out of my way! I'm getting wet! I know that this is the way home." Ah, the joy of a well-trained horse!
It usually takes some practice to get a horse to walk in willingly, especially in a small two-horse trailer. Figgie is being hauled in a nice, roomy four-horse model, but standard two-horse trailers look small, dark, and narrow to the equine eye. A horse is a prey animal that is used to being on the move in wide open spaces. Asking it to enter and stand "trapped" in a dingy, claustrophoblic area goes against its instincts.
But horses can be taught (or bribed) to do things against their better judgement. Through the liberal use of treats, I taught Cochise that a trailer was a good place to be. I've never tried to load Figment into a two-horse model, but hopefully now that he's had experience in a larger trailer, a small one won't seem too intimidating.
In addition to wondering how he views the trailer, I wonder if he misses Cochise and Serenity, his two pasture mates for the past five years. When I bought him, he was three years old and had never been away from his mother. For the first day, he galloped back and forth in the pasture, whinnying for her wildly. By the next day, he seemed to have forgotten all about her...he settled into his new home as though he'd lived there all his life. Hopefully he'll take to his new home in FL as easily.
Back in IL, Cochise doesn't seem to miss him at all. On the other hand, Serenity is quite confused. When the horses are out in the corral, they can go back into their stalls if they want to. After the trailer left, Serenity kept going into Figment's stall as though he were searching for Figgie. But he and 'Chise are buddies; they're both old farts who I suspect will quickly forget their young nemesis.
Meanwhile, the waiting game continues. Barring another breakdown tonight, I'm hoping that we'll be reunited within the next 12 hours. When I last spoke to the driver, he was just about to do a drop-off in Alabama and then continue on to Florida, with a sleep break worked in there somewhere, too.
Hopefully by tomorrow night I'll be describing our happy reunion.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
According to the driver who picked up the stranded horses, he should be rolling into Clermont some time around noon on Weds. That's not too far off the original schedule, which is pretty impressive considering the truck break-down.
My mind is more at ease because Figment got into the new trailer without much hassle; if he were truly traumatized, he would have probably refused to climb in another rolling metal box after managing to escape the first one.
I always wonder what goes through a horse's mind when it is trailered somewhere. When I was younger, I used to take my other horse, Cochise, to shows and local parades. I imagined that he thought the trailer was some sort of magic box. He'd climb in, get jolted around for anywhere from half an hour to a couple of hours, and then emerge in a totally different place. That has to be pretty confusing for an equine.
I think he understood the concept, though...one year I had ridden in a parade and was preparing to bring him home. I had hired a trailer from a local barn, and they had to make multiple trips because it was a two-horse trailer and several other horses had also been brought out. Just as we approached the trailer, it started to rain. Another woman who had also brought her horse nearly broke her butt to rush to the trailer ahead of us and put her horse in. I guess she didn't want to wait in the downpour for the second trip.
Problem is, her horse refused to go in. He would barely even get close to the trailer. I stood by with my friend, who had come along to help with Cochise; we were all getting rained on while the woman struggled with her uncooperative beast. Finally, after 15 minutes or so, my friend couldn't take it anymore. She led Cochise up and said, "He knows how to trailer." She pointed him at the door, and he rushed right past the other horse and jumped in as if to say, "Out of my way! I'm getting wet! I know that this is the way home." Ah, the joy of a well-trained horse!
It usually takes some practice to get a horse to walk in willingly, especially in a small two-horse trailer. Figgie is being hauled in a nice, roomy four-horse model, but standard two-horse trailers look small, dark, and narrow to the equine eye. A horse is a prey animal that is used to being on the move in wide open spaces. Asking it to enter and stand "trapped" in a dingy, claustrophoblic area goes against its instincts.
But horses can be taught (or bribed) to do things against their better judgement. Through the liberal use of treats, I taught Cochise that a trailer was a good place to be. I've never tried to load Figment into a two-horse model, but hopefully now that he's had experience in a larger trailer, a small one won't seem too intimidating.
In addition to wondering how he views the trailer, I wonder if he misses Cochise and Serenity, his two pasture mates for the past five years. When I bought him, he was three years old and had never been away from his mother. For the first day, he galloped back and forth in the pasture, whinnying for her wildly. By the next day, he seemed to have forgotten all about her...he settled into his new home as though he'd lived there all his life. Hopefully he'll take to his new home in FL as easily.
Back in IL, Cochise doesn't seem to miss him at all. On the other hand, Serenity is quite confused. When the horses are out in the corral, they can go back into their stalls if they want to. After the trailer left, Serenity kept going into Figment's stall as though he were searching for Figgie. But he and 'Chise are buddies; they're both old farts who I suspect will quickly forget their young nemesis.
Meanwhile, the waiting game continues. Barring another breakdown tonight, I'm hoping that we'll be reunited within the next 12 hours. When I last spoke to the driver, he was just about to do a drop-off in Alabama and then continue on to Florida, with a sleep break worked in there somewhere, too.
Hopefully by tomorrow night I'll be describing our happy reunion.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Don't Ship a Horse on 06-06-06
As Figment motors his way towards Florida, I have been checking in on a FL discussion board for horse owners to keep my mind busy. I was getting especially worried last night, since I couldn't reach the driver by phone. Same thing this morning...I left two messages, but didn't receive a call-back. It had been more than 24 hours since Figgie climed on the trailer, so I was starting to get concerned.
On the horse discussion board, someone was joking about bad things happening on 06-06-06. For those who are not up on their Christian End Times superstition (or who haven't seen either the old or new versions of "The Omen"), 666 is Satan's number, found in the Book of Revelations. Therefore, although it's a bit of a stretch, 06-06-06 could be considered an unlucky day.
The discussion thread made me chuckle. I've always been the sort of person who would call a black cat into my path, and Friday the 13th tends to be a lucky day for me. I thought, "Uh oh, maybe I shouldn't have shipped Figgie on the dreaded 06-06-06. Maybe that's why I haven't heard from the driver," but it was a joking thought.
A short while later, the phone rang. It was the transporter's office, calling to tell me that the truck had broke down in Kentucky! Yikes! The horses were all fine, but now they will have to wait until a "rescue" rig arrives from Pensacola. Thankfully, the temperature is in the 70s, and there is plenty of food and water to keep them occupied until their journey resumes. Figment tends to be calm as long as he is around other horses, so he will be fine with his two new equine buddies that were picked up in Ohio.
Once again, I am convinced that God has a wicked sense of humor. Such irony! Oh well, at least it's better than the ice storm that I encountered with the cats, fish, and bird. I'm glad they broke down in a safe place with cool weather so they will be nice and comfy while waiting. For horses, "waiting" isn't such a bad prospect...for the most part, they stand around and eat all day, so what they're doing right now isn't too much different than their usual life. Figgie is energetic and likes to have space to run around, but I'm sure he can contain himself as long as he has a bale of hay in front of him.
I'm the one for whom the waiting is hell. I'm anxiously anticipating a phone call that will give me the newly calculated arrival time. It doesn't look like the impact will be too bad; if things go well, Figment should still arrive in Clermont some time tomorrow.
In the meantime, he's hanging out in the Bluegrass State, where perhaps some of his distant relatives are grazing nearby (he's 1/4 Thoroughbred). Or with any luck he's already hitched up to the replacement truck and working his way south once again. Meanwhile, his "mom" has learned her lesson. No more ridiculing superstition, hee hee!
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
On the horse discussion board, someone was joking about bad things happening on 06-06-06. For those who are not up on their Christian End Times superstition (or who haven't seen either the old or new versions of "The Omen"), 666 is Satan's number, found in the Book of Revelations. Therefore, although it's a bit of a stretch, 06-06-06 could be considered an unlucky day.
The discussion thread made me chuckle. I've always been the sort of person who would call a black cat into my path, and Friday the 13th tends to be a lucky day for me. I thought, "Uh oh, maybe I shouldn't have shipped Figgie on the dreaded 06-06-06. Maybe that's why I haven't heard from the driver," but it was a joking thought.
A short while later, the phone rang. It was the transporter's office, calling to tell me that the truck had broke down in Kentucky! Yikes! The horses were all fine, but now they will have to wait until a "rescue" rig arrives from Pensacola. Thankfully, the temperature is in the 70s, and there is plenty of food and water to keep them occupied until their journey resumes. Figment tends to be calm as long as he is around other horses, so he will be fine with his two new equine buddies that were picked up in Ohio.
Once again, I am convinced that God has a wicked sense of humor. Such irony! Oh well, at least it's better than the ice storm that I encountered with the cats, fish, and bird. I'm glad they broke down in a safe place with cool weather so they will be nice and comfy while waiting. For horses, "waiting" isn't such a bad prospect...for the most part, they stand around and eat all day, so what they're doing right now isn't too much different than their usual life. Figgie is energetic and likes to have space to run around, but I'm sure he can contain himself as long as he has a bale of hay in front of him.
I'm the one for whom the waiting is hell. I'm anxiously anticipating a phone call that will give me the newly calculated arrival time. It doesn't look like the impact will be too bad; if things go well, Figment should still arrive in Clermont some time tomorrow.
In the meantime, he's hanging out in the Bluegrass State, where perhaps some of his distant relatives are grazing nearby (he's 1/4 Thoroughbred). Or with any luck he's already hitched up to the replacement truck and working his way south once again. Meanwhile, his "mom" has learned her lesson. No more ridiculing superstition, hee hee!
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Monday, June 05, 2006
Goodbye Mr. Figgs
My husband sent me more photos tonight to ease my worried mind. I needed that, since I haven't been able to get in touch with the driver. Hopefully he's not lying wounded by the side of the road next to a kicked-apart shell of a trailer as Figment runs wild down the expressway!
Since Figgie had only been on a trailer once in his entire 8 years on this earth, I was worried about how he would react. He was delivered to me as a 3 year old, but his mother was on board with him, so I'm sure that helped convince him to jump aboard willingly. Now he was being asked to climb into a dark, empty, unfamiliar space after climbing a hollow-sounding ramp. Goodness only knows that he'd think about that.
But from the photos, it looks like it wasn't a big trauma for him. Below, he is meeting the driver for the first time:
Since Figgie had only been on a trailer once in his entire 8 years on this earth, I was worried about how he would react. He was delivered to me as a 3 year old, but his mother was on board with him, so I'm sure that helped convince him to jump aboard willingly. Now he was being asked to climb into a dark, empty, unfamiliar space after climbing a hollow-sounding ramp. Goodness only knows that he'd think about that.
But from the photos, it looks like it wasn't a big trauma for him. Below, he is meeting the driver for the first time:
Having decided that he's friend, not foe, Figment follows him out of the corral:
My 29 year old horse, Cochise, watches from the safety of his stall. The old man looks pretty good, considering that he's the equivalent of a 90-something-year-old human!
Figment let off a pile of road apples before climbing in:
Trapped!
Figgie was eating hay within minutes of the above photo (right afterwards, the driver hung a hay net), so I don't think he was too upset. Goodness only knows where he is right now, as I type this. I remember my own Journey From Hell through the ice storm, but we're not too likely to have a repeat of that in June. Hopefully they made it to Ohio at some point today to pick up some friends so he can feel like he's part of a "herd" for the rest of the trip.
Tomorrow morning I'll try the driver again and see if I can get some news on how my "baby" made it through the night.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Figment and the Trailer
As an addendum to my last blog entry, here are some pictures of my horse Figment and the "equine limousine" that is transporating him to Florida:
Above is Figment gazing at the yard of the Illinois barn, unaware that this is the last time he'll see it. Soon, his view will be palm trees and orange groves!
Above is Figment gazing at the yard of the Illinois barn, unaware that this is the last time he'll see it. Soon, his view will be palm trees and orange groves! 
Here, Figment is trying to sneak a snack under the fence. His old stall is at left, and his two former pasture-mates are inside the barn. He has no idea that he's seen them for the very last time. My friend's horse won't be sorry to see him go, as he loved to torment the poor creature. But he never dared to mess with my old man, Cochise, who is a very dominant horse even at the age of 29.
Below is the trailer in which he will spend approx. 2 days and 1200 miles:
The Critter Caravan Rides Again
It's been almost two years since the Critter Caravan rolled into Celebration, Florida, bringing three cats, two fish, and a bird from the condo in Illinois to the door of Duloc Manor. But even with six furred, finned, and feathered animals, our menagerie was not complete.
In addition to all of the above, I own two horses as well. One, Cochise, is an old-timer that I've owned since he was 4. He has now achieved the ripe old age of 29, so there's no way I would subject him to a 1200 mile journey. I board him at a friend's house in the Chicago suburbs where I know that he is well cared for. He's been retired ever since we moved to Florida, and he spends his days moseying around the corral with his elderly Saddlebred buddy (owned by my friend and also retired).
But my second horse, Figment, is young and ripe for work. I bought Figgie a couple of years before moving to Celebration ever crossed our minds. Cochise was getting too old for strenuous riding, and I was longing for a more "durable" trail horse. Two things muddied the waters a bit: 1) I prefer a horse that I've trained myself, and I'm getting a bit older and more fragile. When I bought Cochise, I was 16 years old, and he'd only had a saddle on his back once or twice previously. I loved the challenge of riding out his frantic bucking and slowly but surely turning him into a compliant (but still spirited) mount. But now, even though I wanted an unbroke horse that could be trained to my own specifications, I wasn't sure I still had the guts (insanity?) to physically accomplish that.
And: 2) The area where I boarded Cochise had changed significantly in the past two decades. Once it had been farmland and a handful of homes scattered on minimum one acre lots...most had considerably more land than that. Now it had turned into Suburban Subdivision Sprawl. The barn was a tiny three-acre oasis surrounding by continual construction. There is another small barn next door on one side and another home with a big land parcel on the other, but once you get beyond that, it's pure subdivision.
I don't take animal ownership lightly. I believe that when you add a cat, dog, or horse to your family, it should be a lifetime commitment. But would I logistically be able to keep a young horse for its entire lifespan in the Chicago area? The number of barns was dwindling rapidly, and the trails where I used to ride were now over-run with bicyclists, walkers, joggers, and ATVs. Even though my friends have no intention of selling, I was afraid that someday they wouldn't have a choice.
But Fate intervened, and one day while reading the local Penny Saver newspaper, my eye caught a Horse for Sale ad. Normally I read things like that out of curiosity and nothing more, but this one made me do a double-take. The Penny Saver isn't a usual venue for horse sales, and it's rare to see anything from a local barn, mainly because there are so few. But this horse was only a few miles away, and it was cheap, unbroke, and most imporantly, a blanketed Appaloosa.
Appaloosas are a breed of horse. Most people think of them simply as "spotted horses," but they are a lot more than that. An Appy doesn't necessarily have to be spotted; it's a major characteristic, but there are others such as striped hooves and a white to the eye. A horse can have a solid coat and still be an Appy if it meets the other criteria.
Cochise is an Appaloosa, but when he was young, his coat was almost solid bay (brown). He had a sprinkling of snowflakes on his butt, and they have become much more prominent over the years. His bloodlines go all the way back to authentic Native American roots (the Appaloosa was developed by the Nez Perce tribe), even to the point that one of his early relatives is listed on his pedigree simply as "Indian Mare." But due to the lack of spots, I've spent over two decades trying to explain to others that an Appaloosa does not have to be spotted in order to be purebred.
'Chise's "stealth Appaloosaness" served us well in hunter/jumper shows, where many judges don't like a spotted horse. They associate Appys with Western riding and some will not place them high in English show classes. Since Cochise looked like a cute little solid bay unless you got up close and personal with his rump, we managed to do pretty well in the local show ring.
But I must admit that my favorite Apps are the loud, spotted ones, and I had always harbored a secret dream that I would own a flashy Appaloosa someday. When I saw that the ad said "Chestnut with large, white blanket," I had to take a look.
My ever-supportive husband tagged along, and we both liked what we saw. The horse in the ad had just turned three; he was the product of an elderly Appaloosa mare and a young Appendix Quarter Horse stud (an Appaloosa can be out-crossed to certain other breeds and still be considered a "pure" Appy). The stud's owner wasn't sure he would know what to do, so he was turned out into the pasture with the mare. Nature took its course, and now I was looking at the result.
Figment was a lovely chestnut color with an enormous white blanket on his rump dotted with chestnut spots. He was just the sort of Appaloosa that had always cantered through my dreams.
Hubby thought it would be a good idea to have another horse to soften the blow when Cochise inevitably cantered off to that great big Pasture in the Sky. My friends were agreeable to boarding another horse, so Figment became the latest member of our family. I named him after one of my favorite Disney characters, the little purple dragon that has become the symbol of Epcot. Figgie always wears a purple halter in honor of his namesake.
I worked with him for two summers, although my busy work schedule kept me from doing as much as a I wanted. We did a lot of arena work but rarely made it out onto the trails. Then fate intervened again and we bought our Celebration homestead. The next three years were a whirl of visiting the construction, spending weekends in our newly completed home, and then the permanent Big Move to Florida. During that time, Figment enjoyed a life of leisure chasing the two old-timers around the corral, consuming vast quantities of hay and turning it into fertilizer, and just generally being a "wild" horse.
But now that things have settled down, I have finally made the arrangements to bring him to Florida. A little searching yielded a lovely boarding barn in Clermont, right across the street from Lake Louisa State Park, where I can trot along on nearly 20 miles of equestrian trails. There are 10 acres of pasture, so Figgie can graze contentedly all way, plus a round pen and arena where we can brush up on his training.
Now that we had selected a home, I was worried about the logistics of hauling a horse 1200 miles; I know that people on the show jumper circuit do it all the time, but I tend to be a worrywart where my animals are concerned. Happily, I found a Florida-based firm called "Equine Limousine" that was going to be in the Chicago area in early June. Their quote was pretty reasonable, considering the skyrocketing gas prices, and their trailer is truly cushy. It has running water, padding, air conditioning, a video camera for the driver to monitor his charges, and even a fire suppression system.
I didn't know the exact day of the pickup, since that would depend on when they arrived in Chicago, but I knew it would be this week. I called them on Saturday, having just returned from a week's cruise, and discovered that they would be arriving MONDAY MORNING!
My husband had hoped to be there for the send-off; he was scheduled to be in Chicago for the week, but his flight wasn't schedule to touch down till 10 a.m. on Monday. Oops! Thank goodness for Southwest's liberal change policy...he was able to change his flight to Sunday evening so he could report to me firsthand as Figment was packed into the trailer. Figgie hasn't been in a trailer since he was delivered to me five years ago, and his mom came with him on that trip. I could just imagine a horrible scene in which he absolutely refused to get in and was left behind in Chicago. Since I couldn't be there myself, I felt much better knowing that intrepid hubby was on the scene.
As I type this, it's Monday morning, and the horror stories that danced through my mind did not come true. After some initial reluctance, Figment climbed aboard the trailer. He didn't like the ramp much, which is common with horses because they don't like the hollow sound. But once he got over that, he clambored inside and immediately began munching on hay. He stamped his hind leg a few times to indicate his displeasure, but other than that he didn't seem to traumatized. It's a four horse trailer, so he'll be gaining two friends in Ohio, which I think will calm him down even more.
Since there are several stops between Chicago and Clermont, it looks like he won't be arriving until Wednesday night. I'll be on pins and needles in the meantime, but the driver is very understanding so I can check in periodically via his cell phone. With the video monitor, he'll be able to tell me exactly what Figgie is doing at any given time.
I'll update this blog entry tonight when I walk to the driver and when my husband sends me the photos that he took of the send-off. And hopefully by Wednesday night our little family will be complete in Florida (well, almost complete, since Cochise will remain contentendly at the same home where he's spent the last 20+ years).
I'm sure glad that we have a hot tub, because once I start riding again, my butt and legs are sure gonna need it!
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
In addition to all of the above, I own two horses as well. One, Cochise, is an old-timer that I've owned since he was 4. He has now achieved the ripe old age of 29, so there's no way I would subject him to a 1200 mile journey. I board him at a friend's house in the Chicago suburbs where I know that he is well cared for. He's been retired ever since we moved to Florida, and he spends his days moseying around the corral with his elderly Saddlebred buddy (owned by my friend and also retired).
But my second horse, Figment, is young and ripe for work. I bought Figgie a couple of years before moving to Celebration ever crossed our minds. Cochise was getting too old for strenuous riding, and I was longing for a more "durable" trail horse. Two things muddied the waters a bit: 1) I prefer a horse that I've trained myself, and I'm getting a bit older and more fragile. When I bought Cochise, I was 16 years old, and he'd only had a saddle on his back once or twice previously. I loved the challenge of riding out his frantic bucking and slowly but surely turning him into a compliant (but still spirited) mount. But now, even though I wanted an unbroke horse that could be trained to my own specifications, I wasn't sure I still had the guts (insanity?) to physically accomplish that.
And: 2) The area where I boarded Cochise had changed significantly in the past two decades. Once it had been farmland and a handful of homes scattered on minimum one acre lots...most had considerably more land than that. Now it had turned into Suburban Subdivision Sprawl. The barn was a tiny three-acre oasis surrounding by continual construction. There is another small barn next door on one side and another home with a big land parcel on the other, but once you get beyond that, it's pure subdivision.
I don't take animal ownership lightly. I believe that when you add a cat, dog, or horse to your family, it should be a lifetime commitment. But would I logistically be able to keep a young horse for its entire lifespan in the Chicago area? The number of barns was dwindling rapidly, and the trails where I used to ride were now over-run with bicyclists, walkers, joggers, and ATVs. Even though my friends have no intention of selling, I was afraid that someday they wouldn't have a choice.
But Fate intervened, and one day while reading the local Penny Saver newspaper, my eye caught a Horse for Sale ad. Normally I read things like that out of curiosity and nothing more, but this one made me do a double-take. The Penny Saver isn't a usual venue for horse sales, and it's rare to see anything from a local barn, mainly because there are so few. But this horse was only a few miles away, and it was cheap, unbroke, and most imporantly, a blanketed Appaloosa.
Appaloosas are a breed of horse. Most people think of them simply as "spotted horses," but they are a lot more than that. An Appy doesn't necessarily have to be spotted; it's a major characteristic, but there are others such as striped hooves and a white to the eye. A horse can have a solid coat and still be an Appy if it meets the other criteria.
Cochise is an Appaloosa, but when he was young, his coat was almost solid bay (brown). He had a sprinkling of snowflakes on his butt, and they have become much more prominent over the years. His bloodlines go all the way back to authentic Native American roots (the Appaloosa was developed by the Nez Perce tribe), even to the point that one of his early relatives is listed on his pedigree simply as "Indian Mare." But due to the lack of spots, I've spent over two decades trying to explain to others that an Appaloosa does not have to be spotted in order to be purebred.
'Chise's "stealth Appaloosaness" served us well in hunter/jumper shows, where many judges don't like a spotted horse. They associate Appys with Western riding and some will not place them high in English show classes. Since Cochise looked like a cute little solid bay unless you got up close and personal with his rump, we managed to do pretty well in the local show ring.
But I must admit that my favorite Apps are the loud, spotted ones, and I had always harbored a secret dream that I would own a flashy Appaloosa someday. When I saw that the ad said "Chestnut with large, white blanket," I had to take a look.
My ever-supportive husband tagged along, and we both liked what we saw. The horse in the ad had just turned three; he was the product of an elderly Appaloosa mare and a young Appendix Quarter Horse stud (an Appaloosa can be out-crossed to certain other breeds and still be considered a "pure" Appy). The stud's owner wasn't sure he would know what to do, so he was turned out into the pasture with the mare. Nature took its course, and now I was looking at the result.
Figment was a lovely chestnut color with an enormous white blanket on his rump dotted with chestnut spots. He was just the sort of Appaloosa that had always cantered through my dreams.
Hubby thought it would be a good idea to have another horse to soften the blow when Cochise inevitably cantered off to that great big Pasture in the Sky. My friends were agreeable to boarding another horse, so Figment became the latest member of our family. I named him after one of my favorite Disney characters, the little purple dragon that has become the symbol of Epcot. Figgie always wears a purple halter in honor of his namesake.
I worked with him for two summers, although my busy work schedule kept me from doing as much as a I wanted. We did a lot of arena work but rarely made it out onto the trails. Then fate intervened again and we bought our Celebration homestead. The next three years were a whirl of visiting the construction, spending weekends in our newly completed home, and then the permanent Big Move to Florida. During that time, Figment enjoyed a life of leisure chasing the two old-timers around the corral, consuming vast quantities of hay and turning it into fertilizer, and just generally being a "wild" horse.
But now that things have settled down, I have finally made the arrangements to bring him to Florida. A little searching yielded a lovely boarding barn in Clermont, right across the street from Lake Louisa State Park, where I can trot along on nearly 20 miles of equestrian trails. There are 10 acres of pasture, so Figgie can graze contentedly all way, plus a round pen and arena where we can brush up on his training.
Now that we had selected a home, I was worried about the logistics of hauling a horse 1200 miles; I know that people on the show jumper circuit do it all the time, but I tend to be a worrywart where my animals are concerned. Happily, I found a Florida-based firm called "Equine Limousine" that was going to be in the Chicago area in early June. Their quote was pretty reasonable, considering the skyrocketing gas prices, and their trailer is truly cushy. It has running water, padding, air conditioning, a video camera for the driver to monitor his charges, and even a fire suppression system.
I didn't know the exact day of the pickup, since that would depend on when they arrived in Chicago, but I knew it would be this week. I called them on Saturday, having just returned from a week's cruise, and discovered that they would be arriving MONDAY MORNING!
My husband had hoped to be there for the send-off; he was scheduled to be in Chicago for the week, but his flight wasn't schedule to touch down till 10 a.m. on Monday. Oops! Thank goodness for Southwest's liberal change policy...he was able to change his flight to Sunday evening so he could report to me firsthand as Figment was packed into the trailer. Figgie hasn't been in a trailer since he was delivered to me five years ago, and his mom came with him on that trip. I could just imagine a horrible scene in which he absolutely refused to get in and was left behind in Chicago. Since I couldn't be there myself, I felt much better knowing that intrepid hubby was on the scene.
As I type this, it's Monday morning, and the horror stories that danced through my mind did not come true. After some initial reluctance, Figment climbed aboard the trailer. He didn't like the ramp much, which is common with horses because they don't like the hollow sound. But once he got over that, he clambored inside and immediately began munching on hay. He stamped his hind leg a few times to indicate his displeasure, but other than that he didn't seem to traumatized. It's a four horse trailer, so he'll be gaining two friends in Ohio, which I think will calm him down even more.
Since there are several stops between Chicago and Clermont, it looks like he won't be arriving until Wednesday night. I'll be on pins and needles in the meantime, but the driver is very understanding so I can check in periodically via his cell phone. With the video monitor, he'll be able to tell me exactly what Figgie is doing at any given time.
I'll update this blog entry tonight when I walk to the driver and when my husband sends me the photos that he took of the send-off. And hopefully by Wednesday night our little family will be complete in Florida (well, almost complete, since Cochise will remain contentendly at the same home where he's spent the last 20+ years).
I'm sure glad that we have a hot tub, because once I start riding again, my butt and legs are sure gonna need it!
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
A Year's Worth of Pie in One Weekend
Last weekend was the annual pie festival, and it's a darned good thing that it only happens once a year. Within the space of one weekend, you can eat enough pie to last you an entire twelve months. While there are various events, such as bake-offs, pie eating contests, a make-your-own-pie booth for the kiddies, and even a Pie King, the crowning jewel is the Endless Pie Buffet. And let me assure you, it is indeed endless...for $8, you are turned loose to consume all of the crusty, creamy, and/or fruity delights that your belly can hold.
In case you don't believe me, here's a pic of me with the Pie King:
You can attend the other events without doing the buffet, but that is the piece de resistance of the event. And if you get any ideas about crashing, there are ominous black-shirted Pie Police who protect the sanctity of the gorge-fest.
In case you don't believe me, here's a pic of me with the Pie King:
You can attend the other events without doing the buffet, but that is the piece de resistance of the event. And if you get any ideas about crashing, there are ominous black-shirted Pie Police who protect the sanctity of the gorge-fest. Although I've attended the festival before, this was my first year volunteering. I was hoping to work with a friend on the early shift, but I ended up worked from 3 to 7 p.m. at the pie buffet. My husband dropped me off so I wouldn't take up a precious parking spot (parking in downtown Celebration is even more endangered than the Florida panther). There was so much traffic heading downtown that I jumped out of Crush (our NEV) a block away and still made it to the pie fest area before he did.
As I approached the check-in area, dark, ominous clouds rolled in as if on cue. I unfurled my umbrella, which I'd brought for just such an emergency, and hustled a bit more quickly towards the shelter of the check-in canopy. All around me, people were scattered under overhangs and other sheltered areas as we were pelted with a typical Florida afternoon thunderstorm. Thankfully, like most of those storms, in only lasted for a few drenching minutes and then rolled out just as abruptly as it had arrived. It dropped just enough rain to soak everyone to the skin.
I had been issued my official Crisco blue volunteer t-shirt, so I hustled off to the Town Hall area to find my booth. I had been assigned to work with Bonert's Slice of Pie. My duties consisted mainly of replenishing the stock as needed and answering any questions. The most frequent, of course, was "What kind of pie is that?", and the answer was an ongoing challenge since we kept swapping out flavors. We also had to do a massive restocking, as the downpour had infiltrated some of the plastic pie containers, turning the crusts soggy. Quickly, we pitched those pieces and replaced with with pristine pies.
Bonert's sells a wide variety of pies...everything from conventional apple to more exotic varieties such as peach/pineapple empanadas. I was proudly able to inform our visitors that the company had won 16 blue ribbons in the bake-off.
The Bonert's booth turned out to be a perfect location, as it was right in front of Town Hall (with non-porta-potty bathrooms for volunteers) and right across from the bottled water station. On a day when the temperature is flirting in the 90s, it's good to be close to places where you can put lots of water in and then let it out.
Volunteers receive a free ticket to the buffet, and I had resolved to resist temptation on Saturday and return on Sunday to enjoy my reward. That lasted for a couple of hours, but then I succumbed to temptation. As I munched on a slice of award-winning cherry streusel, I told myself that it was my duty. After all, how could I recommend it to our visitors in good conscience unless I had taste-tested it myself?
I also had to indulge in a pie of French Silk from the nearby Baker's Square booth. That probably means nothing to Floridians, but Bakers Square is a chain that I grew up with in Illinois (it was originally known as Poppin Fresh). They make the best, most godly French Silk pie in the known universe, with a recipe stolen from the kitchens of Heaven. It's one of the few food items that I truly miss here in Florida. The photo doesn't do it justice:
French Silk isn't built to withstand the opressive heat; I only made it about halfway through my slice before the rest had disintigrated into a sloppy, melted mess. But oh, it tasted sooooo good! It almost made me homesick for Illinois...almost, but not quite.
The time raced by quickly, and soon it was nearly 7. I knew I would have to hustle, since my husband and I had tickets to see "Fiddler on the Roof," as presented by the Celebration Players, at 8. After four hours in the unrelenting Florida sun, I had to have a shower or I would likely clear out our whole section of the theater.
Hubby pulled up right on the dot, and I hopped into Crush along with a little stash. My husband adores strawberry rhubarb, so I brought some home for him (and some pumpkin for me).
I leaped into the shower for a quick body cleansing, and then we dashed off to Celebration High School for the play. We had excellent seats (second row center) and were duly impressed with the high-energy performance. There is a lot of talent in the Celebration area, and our community theater groups are a great medium for spot-lighting it. The casting was excellent, and I was quite impressed that the singing remained strong throughout. "Fiddler" is a three-hour, song-intensive show, but the actors showed no sign of fatigue even as the clock approached 11 p.m. The sets were minimalist, but through the artful story-telling I could easily imagine the little town of Anatevka onstage.
"Fiddler" has always been one of my favorite shows, dating back to my early childhood. When I was six, I got it into my head that I wanted to see it. I have no clue where I had heard about it or what it was even about. At six, I was more concerned with dolls and building blocks than the plight of Russian Jews on the eve of the revolution. But I kept insisting that I wanted to see it; fortunately, the movie version was released shortly thereafter, so I finally got my wish.
I didn't understand all the nuances of the story, although my mother tried to explain them in ways a young child could understand. At the time, I was still innocent enough to be puzzled about why some people would hate others, and even drive them out of their homes, simply because of their religion. Mostly, I focused on the dancing and singing; my mother bought me a soundtrack album, and soon I knew all the music by heart.
Since that time, I've seen the movie countless times and have also seen a dinner theater production of the play. In comparison, I'm proud to say that Celebration's version definitely held its own against the professionals.
After the play, we went to Perkins for a very late dinner. As we sat at our booth, awaiting our food, I suddenly had a flashback. Arrgh! Post Traumatic Stress Disorder! My husband quickly figured out the trigger...an ad for bakery-fresh Perkins pies on the table. Normally I loved their baked goods, but after a day of handing out pie slices (and imbibing myself), I wasn't ready to be confronted with any more pie.
The next day, I was toying with the idea of not returning to the buffet. Even though I had a complimentary pass, I had reached my saition level the day before. After church, we headed out to our favorite Indian buffet, so by the time we were done with that, I wasn't in the mood for any more food.
But as the afternoon wore on, the idea of another slice (or two...or three) was sounding more and more tempting. Pie for dinner would be a nice counterpoint to the spicy curry lunch. Our friends, who had eaten at the Indian buffet with us, convinced us through a bit of arm twisting. Thus, I soon found myself downtown again, flitting among the tables laden with sugary delights. I had some sugar cream pie and of course another slice of French Silk, and I commendeered half of my husband's slice of peanut butter pie. Here is the impressive aftermath of our pie binge:
Okay, okay, so maybe we didn't really eat all of that, but you've got to admit that it makes an impressive picture. And to top off the day, the Bonert's rep. at the booth where I had worked the previous day gifted me with a company t-shirt. I lorded it over my friend, who had worked at the booth next door and who hadn't been gifted with anything. She marched over to her former "employer" and returned with a tote bag, and we spent some time bickering over whose free premium was superior.
But alas, the Pie Festival was ending for another year. Slowly we dragged our curry- and pie-filled bodies back to Crush for the drive home (in restrospect, we should have walked as we could have used the enforced exercise). It had been a fun time, but I knew that I wouldn't be wanted a slice of pie any time soon. I figure I should be ready in about twelve months...right around the time that the endless pie buffet rolls into town once again.
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Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Sunday, April 23, 2006
New Easter Traditions
Ever since we moved to Florida, we've been creating new holiday traditions. In Chicago, our holidays alternated between going to my brother's house for dinner or taking a cruise to avoid going to my brother's house to dinner.
In theory, when we came to Celebration, I thought that we might return to Chicago for the "big" holidays. In practice, I discovered that I have no desire to do so. That may be influenced by the fact that the "Big Three" holidays (Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter) fall during times of the year when sunshine, heat, and palm trees are preferable to cold, snow, and bluster. With free long distance and unlimited cell phone minutes, it's easy to reach out and touch northern family members aurally while physically revelling in southern comfort.
Last Christmas, we started the "hair in the Chinese food" tradition (loosely based on a "A Christmas Story," although the hair part is pure Celebration...you can find full details in a previous blog entry). Now, for Easter, we started a ritual called "Breaking and Consumption of the Politically Correct Praying Hands."
The day actually started on a relatively low-key note. We were planning to attend the 11 a.m. church service, as usual, but friends urged us to opt for 9:45 so we wouldn't be buried in the massive church-twice-a-year-at-Christmas-and-Easter crowd. Our church normally holds services at 8:30 and 11 a.m. The 9:45 service had been added to accommodate the holiday masses; since it is at a non-standard time, it tends to be the least crowded. Humans are creatures of habit, and many don't want to take the leap of resetting their internal schedules for a week. No problem...all the better for those who are flexible!
After the service, we planned to join our friends for lunch at Carrabba's, a wonderful Italian restaurant that is normally open for dinner only. It only serves lunch on holidays, so we planned on an early meal after church.
Both the service and the lunch were non-eventful (chicken with sun-dried tomatoes and goat cheese...mmmm!). The only slight excitement was a spirited disagreement between my husband and I on which direction to turn on 192. For some reason, I continually confuse Carrabba's with Pacini's, which is to the right. But the correct way is to the left, as my husband vigorously reminded me. I followed his directions, mumbling dissention the whole way as I inched through the bumper-to-bumper tourist traffic, and soon he had the pleasure of chanting, "I told you so!" (It's a rare pleasure for him, so it was especially sweet.)
Once we returned home, we decided to take a dip in the hot tub. We were just about to don our swimwear when the phone rang...it was the friends we had just dined with, inviting us over for a capper of Publix Fine Wine Product (aka Wild Vines blackberry merlot) and a dip in their pool. It sounded like a good plan to us, so we put on our swimsuits and hopped into Crush (our NEV) for the journey to West Village.
Even though I've turned from a heaty Chicagoan polar bear to a Floridian wimp where water temperature is concerned, the solar heater had warmed to pool to a comfortable level. As we paddled around, I marveled at the wonder of living in a climate where Easter is a time for pool parties.
But we did give proper deference to the season by the ritual "Breaking and Consumption of the Politically Correct Praying Hands." Our hosts had Easter chocolate in a variety of sacred shapes (in the photo below, their son is enjoying a chocolate cross sucker in the "holy waters" of the hot tub):
In theory, when we came to Celebration, I thought that we might return to Chicago for the "big" holidays. In practice, I discovered that I have no desire to do so. That may be influenced by the fact that the "Big Three" holidays (Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter) fall during times of the year when sunshine, heat, and palm trees are preferable to cold, snow, and bluster. With free long distance and unlimited cell phone minutes, it's easy to reach out and touch northern family members aurally while physically revelling in southern comfort.
Last Christmas, we started the "hair in the Chinese food" tradition (loosely based on a "A Christmas Story," although the hair part is pure Celebration...you can find full details in a previous blog entry). Now, for Easter, we started a ritual called "Breaking and Consumption of the Politically Correct Praying Hands."
The day actually started on a relatively low-key note. We were planning to attend the 11 a.m. church service, as usual, but friends urged us to opt for 9:45 so we wouldn't be buried in the massive church-twice-a-year-at-Christmas-and-Easter crowd. Our church normally holds services at 8:30 and 11 a.m. The 9:45 service had been added to accommodate the holiday masses; since it is at a non-standard time, it tends to be the least crowded. Humans are creatures of habit, and many don't want to take the leap of resetting their internal schedules for a week. No problem...all the better for those who are flexible!
After the service, we planned to join our friends for lunch at Carrabba's, a wonderful Italian restaurant that is normally open for dinner only. It only serves lunch on holidays, so we planned on an early meal after church.
Both the service and the lunch were non-eventful (chicken with sun-dried tomatoes and goat cheese...mmmm!). The only slight excitement was a spirited disagreement between my husband and I on which direction to turn on 192. For some reason, I continually confuse Carrabba's with Pacini's, which is to the right. But the correct way is to the left, as my husband vigorously reminded me. I followed his directions, mumbling dissention the whole way as I inched through the bumper-to-bumper tourist traffic, and soon he had the pleasure of chanting, "I told you so!" (It's a rare pleasure for him, so it was especially sweet.)
Once we returned home, we decided to take a dip in the hot tub. We were just about to don our swimwear when the phone rang...it was the friends we had just dined with, inviting us over for a capper of Publix Fine Wine Product (aka Wild Vines blackberry merlot) and a dip in their pool. It sounded like a good plan to us, so we put on our swimsuits and hopped into Crush (our NEV) for the journey to West Village.
Even though I've turned from a heaty Chicagoan polar bear to a Floridian wimp where water temperature is concerned, the solar heater had warmed to pool to a comfortable level. As we paddled around, I marveled at the wonder of living in a climate where Easter is a time for pool parties.
But we did give proper deference to the season by the ritual "Breaking and Consumption of the Politically Correct Praying Hands." Our hosts had Easter chocolate in a variety of sacred shapes (in the photo below, their son is enjoying a chocolate cross sucker in the "holy waters" of the hot tub):
And what better way to honor both the religious and secular aspects of the holiday than to cap it off with chocolate praying hands? Better yet, politically correct praying hands! Below, I am holding the sacred plate containing both Caucasian and Person of Color praying hands:
Why bite the ears off a pagan-inspired cholate bunny when you can chew on a Christian finger or two? The hands didn't last long in their pristine state. Within moments of the photo, they were broken into pieces and consumed in the spirit of the day.
I am an Equal Opportunity supporter, so I made sure to consume both milk chocolate and white chocolate hand chunks. They made a lovely topper to the earlier Italian feast.
As I floated in the cool blue water, chewing on a last hunk of chocolate, I pondered the interesting turn that our holiday traditions have taken. I knew it would be a big change to move to Celebration, but somehow I never pictured finding a hair in the Chinese beef on Christmas or chowing on praying hands in a pool on Easter. Yes, I have a vivid imagination, but those ideas were beyond even my warped mind.
But the new traditions are so much fun! I knew I'd love life in Celebration, but I never expected such a surreal adventure. I don't even try to imagine what the next new tradition or adventure will be. I just sit back and enjoy the ride.
Click here for my Life Coaching website.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Sangria, Hot Tubs, and Hot Mommas
Last Friday was the latest meeting of the Mickey Mommas, Celebration's premiere social group. It was a rather low-key gathering, considering that in the past we've done everything from stalk Davy Jones to visit the Cypress Cove nudist colony. But it involved sangria, snack food, and a hot tub, which was more than enough to keep the Mommas happy.
We met at one of our member's homes; since it was a potluck, I made a stop to Perkins first. My expertise in the kitchen extends to punching a microwave button, so I generally pick up a fresh-baked Perkins pie when a food item is called for.
Actually, to be fair to my inner-chef, I do make good chili and Mexican fideo, as well as decent cookies and cup cakes. "Foods" was one of my favorite classes in high school; I had two kitchen mates, but one was always getting suspended and rarely even spoke to us. Thus, my other partner and I would cook up elaborate creations like home-made German chocolate cake or flaky-crusted pies brimming with fresh fruit, and we'd make the poor "outcast" wash the dishes. Then we'd cut her a piece of whatever we had whipped up, and we'd split the rest between ourselves. I had study hall right after Foods class, but I was a student aid so I got to spend the period in an empty classroom with the other aides. We were probably supposed to do something useful like grade papers, but instead we all sat around, gossiped, and chowed down on my kitchen creations.
But alas, that was many years ago; now I leave the household cooking to my husband and the potluck chores to Perkins or Publix. I selected an apple/carmel pie as my contribution to the Mommas buffet.
I arrived at the appointed time, and our hostess produced two pitchers of libations, one containing margaritas and the other brimming with sangria. I had to opt for the sangria as it looked so tempting, with chunks of fruit floating enticingly on a ruby red river of liquid.
Despite the fact that our High Priestess/Official Photographer likes to take photos of me with at least two drinks in my grubby little paws, let me assure my readers that the margarita in the photo below is for prop purposes only:
We met at one of our member's homes; since it was a potluck, I made a stop to Perkins first. My expertise in the kitchen extends to punching a microwave button, so I generally pick up a fresh-baked Perkins pie when a food item is called for.
Actually, to be fair to my inner-chef, I do make good chili and Mexican fideo, as well as decent cookies and cup cakes. "Foods" was one of my favorite classes in high school; I had two kitchen mates, but one was always getting suspended and rarely even spoke to us. Thus, my other partner and I would cook up elaborate creations like home-made German chocolate cake or flaky-crusted pies brimming with fresh fruit, and we'd make the poor "outcast" wash the dishes. Then we'd cut her a piece of whatever we had whipped up, and we'd split the rest between ourselves. I had study hall right after Foods class, but I was a student aid so I got to spend the period in an empty classroom with the other aides. We were probably supposed to do something useful like grade papers, but instead we all sat around, gossiped, and chowed down on my kitchen creations.
But alas, that was many years ago; now I leave the household cooking to my husband and the potluck chores to Perkins or Publix. I selected an apple/carmel pie as my contribution to the Mommas buffet.
I arrived at the appointed time, and our hostess produced two pitchers of libations, one containing margaritas and the other brimming with sangria. I had to opt for the sangria as it looked so tempting, with chunks of fruit floating enticingly on a ruby red river of liquid.
Despite the fact that our High Priestess/Official Photographer likes to take photos of me with at least two drinks in my grubby little paws, let me assure my readers that the margarita in the photo below is for prop purposes only:
There was a large turn-out of Mommas, and we all gathered around to enjoy the rapidly spreading buffet. There were all sorts of appetizers and some pasta dishes, a lovely fruit plate, and little cream puff pastries. I quickly became addicted to the crackers topped with a yummy cream cheese mixture. We all imbibed in food and drink, then moved the party over to the pool.
Even though it was a lovely, warm evening, the Mommas gravitated to the hot tub. What is more quntessentially "Florida" than luxurating in a hot tub, with a round of mojitos in hand?
Better yet, I reminded myself that it was mid-April. Back in the midwest, I would most likely have been holed up our condo, suffering from cabin fever and cursing the blustery winds extend winter's chill and delay spring's arrival. In Chicago, you don't even start thinking about using an outdoor pool until June. But here in Celebration, "winter" is a short snap of 40-degree nights and 60-degree days that is Heaven on earth for someone who is sick of cold and snow.
Still, as Floridians, we gravitated away from the rather chilly pool water to comfy 95 degree environs of the hot tub. We spent some very pleasant time chatting while the evening sped away...before I know it, it was 11 p.m. We had promised to drive our neighbors to their cruise pick-up on I-Drive the next morning, so I knew I would need to reluctantly drag myself away from the fun.
I had driven Crush (my NEV), so just in case the effects of sangria and mojitos had transformed me into a danger on the road, I figured that the little plastic vehicle wouldn't pose much of a danger. (Actually, I had only had a couple of drinks in total, so I knew it would be safe to drive back to East Village...otherwise, I would have called hubby to pick me up in Canyonero.)
Sure, it hadn't been a celebrity stalking (although Davy is due back at Disney next month, so I suspect we'll be on our way to Epcot soon) or a romp among naked bodies, but it had been great fun. Sometimes it's nice just to laze around, munch on goodies, have a drink or two (or three) and relax in the warm, bubbling water. The Mommas chalked up another meeting success!
Click here for my Life Coaching website.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Gee Gee and Paw Paw
Once upon a time, back in the days when Duloc Manor was little more than a sandy lot spotted with deer tracks, my husband and I would try to imagine what our little cul de sac would someday become. We have vivid imaginations, but I don't think either of us could have ever pictured the neat little neighborhood that would spring up around the "croquet field" park or the neighbors who would someday populate our world.
When we bought our house, we had a choice between two units. Triplexes have two mirror-image units on the end and a larger unit in the middle. We had already ruled out the middle because even though it had an extra bedroom, I am a sunlight fanatic and didn't like the fact that it only had two outside walls. Thus, we were left to choose between the right- and left-hand sides.
Originally we chose the right-hand unit because it had a larger side lot. In Celebration, many homes are so close that you could reach out a side window and shake hands with your next-door neighbor as they reach out theirs. But due to the curve of the property, there was a vast space between the right-hand unit and the house next door. Even though it wasn't built yet, the space was plainly visible on the plans. Also, due to the placement of the garage, the backyard would be longer.
But somehow we weren't quite sure of our choice. Even though the left-hand unit would be right up next to the neighbors, that didn't really bother me. I had grown up in Chicago, where rows of brick bungalows are routinely placed inches apart. I liked the fact that the left side would have a single garage vs. a shared building for the middle and right-hand units. Then we discovered that the left unit would have french doors to close off the front room, while it would be an open space in the other. I liked the idea of being able to close it; if we got a futon, it would make a nice guest room with a little privacy. The decision was made...I contacted the builder and flip-flopped our choice.
Over the weeks and months of construction, we visited the burgeoning Duloc Manor as often as we could. In Celebration, it's a tradition for the builder to erect a "Sold" sign listing the names of the buyers. My husband wouldn't let me put anything "cute" on ours, but people often choose to put nicknames or other amusing appellations. One day I noticed the sign on the house next door, which boldly declared "Gee Gee and Paw Paw." Yikes! What on Earth could a Gee Gee and a Paw Paw be? I couldn't help but picture a doddering old couple making their way shakily onto the front porch to wave their canes and holler at us whippersnappers for causing a ruckus. I never could have imagined the real Gee Gee and Paw Paw or that fact that in a couple of years we'd be out partying with them at Buca di Beppo in celebration of their 50th wedding anniversary.
Fast forward to the present day...Duloc Manor is long since built and has lost that "model home" look and new construction smell. It's looking rather lived-in, which is a nice way of saying that cat hair tumbleweeds float lazily across the floor and we're constantly scrubbing cat barf off the carpet.
We have become quite close to Gee Gee and Paw Paw, who are indeed older in chronological years but who have been known to wear me out. I've visited Epcot with them, and they ran me into the ground! They're always on the go, in the center of a whirlwind of activity...everything from watching their granddaughter ride in horseshows to jetting off to England. They often stop by for a cup of coffee, or we pop over to their place for homemade waffles. It's the quintessential Celebration, with friendly neighbors knocking on the back door or gathering to chat on front porches.
This year was their 50th wedding anniversary, and their daughter was planning a surprise family get-together at Buca Di Beppo (an Italian restaurant geared towards large groups). She invited us to attend, since they've all but adopted us. Unfortunately, I didn't tell my husband that it was a surprise, so he nearly let the cat out of the bag.
We were chatting in the backyard, and our neighbor said, "Maybe we can go to the Indian restaurant buffet on Sunday." Hubby piped up, "Oh, no, that's Buca day!"
"Uh, DEAR," I snapped, shooting him a death look, "I think it's time to water the flowers in front."
"What's Buca?" asked our neighbor.
"I think it's time to water those flowers NOW!" I said a little more forcefully...thankfully, light dawned in hubby's eyes and he refrained from further comment, even though she asked, "What's Buca?" once again.
Later in the week, while my husband was out of town, my neighbor stopped by to chat about Sunday. "I know we're doing something," she said, "and I want to get a photographer, but my daughter won't tell me where we're going."
"Uh, yeah, sure," I said, standing in the family room with my arms crossed in a posture of body language that subtly stated, "It's time for you to leave now."
"You mentioned you have a friend who's a photogapher."
"Oh yeah. Well, give me your daugher's phone number and I can talk to her about it." (Inside, I was feeling paranoid. Had my husband's Buca comment tipped her off? Was she trying to get more information out of me? How the heck was I going to get rid of her before she asked me outright?)
Having picked up on my uncharacteristically inhospitable attitude, she finally retreated. Little did I know that she had tried to contact her daughter, who was also avoiding her so she wouldn't be tempted to spill the secret! Even though Gee Gee and Paw Paw knew they were going to some type of dinner, there were going to be a few "surprise" guests, including a grandson just home from the military and their surrogate "mom." Their daughter was afraid that she wouldn't be able to keep it to herself for much longer, so she wouldn't return their phone calls.
On the appointed day, hubby and I were out in the hot tub when our neighbors piled into their car to head to the restaurant (they had directions but still didn't know full details). We waved goodbye until they were out of sight, then hustled out of the tub and ran upstairs to shower and change.
We had directions from Mapquest that got us there quickly and expediently, but our neighbors had gotten lost. Ironically, they arrived at the exact same moment as we did...and cut me off in order to grab the sole remaining parking spot in the main lot! My husband laughed as the car cut in and said, "Oh, look, that's them!" Since they had no idea that we were coming, they hadn't recognized Canyonero. We later learned that Paw Paw had muttered, "Sorry, buddy, but I need that spot!" After getting lost and burning up time searching for the restaurant, he didn't want to spend any more time searching for a spot.
We parked in the back and caught up with them at the entrance...the look on their faces was priceless! "Hey, weren't you just in the hot tub?!" they exclaimed. Now I could finally explain while I'd nearly slugged my husband on that fateful day when he was babbling about Buca and why I was so unfriendly when my poor neighbor had tried to visit.
Soon we were all gathered inside, enjoying a champagne toast, house wine, and a variety of delicious Italian dishes while listening to amusing tales of the half century that Gee Gee and Paw Paw had spent together. As we tucked into our meal, I couldn't help but think back to those pre-construction days when I had wondered what life in Celebration would be like. Would we have a good street? Good neighbors? Had we made the right choice in picking our unit? Little did I know that we had made the best choice possible and that not too far in the future we'd be partying with some of the very best neighbors in the whole town.
Click here for my Life Coaching website.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
When we bought our house, we had a choice between two units. Triplexes have two mirror-image units on the end and a larger unit in the middle. We had already ruled out the middle because even though it had an extra bedroom, I am a sunlight fanatic and didn't like the fact that it only had two outside walls. Thus, we were left to choose between the right- and left-hand sides.
Originally we chose the right-hand unit because it had a larger side lot. In Celebration, many homes are so close that you could reach out a side window and shake hands with your next-door neighbor as they reach out theirs. But due to the curve of the property, there was a vast space between the right-hand unit and the house next door. Even though it wasn't built yet, the space was plainly visible on the plans. Also, due to the placement of the garage, the backyard would be longer.
But somehow we weren't quite sure of our choice. Even though the left-hand unit would be right up next to the neighbors, that didn't really bother me. I had grown up in Chicago, where rows of brick bungalows are routinely placed inches apart. I liked the fact that the left side would have a single garage vs. a shared building for the middle and right-hand units. Then we discovered that the left unit would have french doors to close off the front room, while it would be an open space in the other. I liked the idea of being able to close it; if we got a futon, it would make a nice guest room with a little privacy. The decision was made...I contacted the builder and flip-flopped our choice.
Over the weeks and months of construction, we visited the burgeoning Duloc Manor as often as we could. In Celebration, it's a tradition for the builder to erect a "Sold" sign listing the names of the buyers. My husband wouldn't let me put anything "cute" on ours, but people often choose to put nicknames or other amusing appellations. One day I noticed the sign on the house next door, which boldly declared "Gee Gee and Paw Paw." Yikes! What on Earth could a Gee Gee and a Paw Paw be? I couldn't help but picture a doddering old couple making their way shakily onto the front porch to wave their canes and holler at us whippersnappers for causing a ruckus. I never could have imagined the real Gee Gee and Paw Paw or that fact that in a couple of years we'd be out partying with them at Buca di Beppo in celebration of their 50th wedding anniversary.
Fast forward to the present day...Duloc Manor is long since built and has lost that "model home" look and new construction smell. It's looking rather lived-in, which is a nice way of saying that cat hair tumbleweeds float lazily across the floor and we're constantly scrubbing cat barf off the carpet.
We have become quite close to Gee Gee and Paw Paw, who are indeed older in chronological years but who have been known to wear me out. I've visited Epcot with them, and they ran me into the ground! They're always on the go, in the center of a whirlwind of activity...everything from watching their granddaughter ride in horseshows to jetting off to England. They often stop by for a cup of coffee, or we pop over to their place for homemade waffles. It's the quintessential Celebration, with friendly neighbors knocking on the back door or gathering to chat on front porches.
This year was their 50th wedding anniversary, and their daughter was planning a surprise family get-together at Buca Di Beppo (an Italian restaurant geared towards large groups). She invited us to attend, since they've all but adopted us. Unfortunately, I didn't tell my husband that it was a surprise, so he nearly let the cat out of the bag.
We were chatting in the backyard, and our neighbor said, "Maybe we can go to the Indian restaurant buffet on Sunday." Hubby piped up, "Oh, no, that's Buca day!"
"Uh, DEAR," I snapped, shooting him a death look, "I think it's time to water the flowers in front."
"What's Buca?" asked our neighbor.
"I think it's time to water those flowers NOW!" I said a little more forcefully...thankfully, light dawned in hubby's eyes and he refrained from further comment, even though she asked, "What's Buca?" once again.
Later in the week, while my husband was out of town, my neighbor stopped by to chat about Sunday. "I know we're doing something," she said, "and I want to get a photographer, but my daughter won't tell me where we're going."
"Uh, yeah, sure," I said, standing in the family room with my arms crossed in a posture of body language that subtly stated, "It's time for you to leave now."
"You mentioned you have a friend who's a photogapher."
"Oh yeah. Well, give me your daugher's phone number and I can talk to her about it." (Inside, I was feeling paranoid. Had my husband's Buca comment tipped her off? Was she trying to get more information out of me? How the heck was I going to get rid of her before she asked me outright?)
Having picked up on my uncharacteristically inhospitable attitude, she finally retreated. Little did I know that she had tried to contact her daughter, who was also avoiding her so she wouldn't be tempted to spill the secret! Even though Gee Gee and Paw Paw knew they were going to some type of dinner, there were going to be a few "surprise" guests, including a grandson just home from the military and their surrogate "mom." Their daughter was afraid that she wouldn't be able to keep it to herself for much longer, so she wouldn't return their phone calls.
On the appointed day, hubby and I were out in the hot tub when our neighbors piled into their car to head to the restaurant (they had directions but still didn't know full details). We waved goodbye until they were out of sight, then hustled out of the tub and ran upstairs to shower and change.
We had directions from Mapquest that got us there quickly and expediently, but our neighbors had gotten lost. Ironically, they arrived at the exact same moment as we did...and cut me off in order to grab the sole remaining parking spot in the main lot! My husband laughed as the car cut in and said, "Oh, look, that's them!" Since they had no idea that we were coming, they hadn't recognized Canyonero. We later learned that Paw Paw had muttered, "Sorry, buddy, but I need that spot!" After getting lost and burning up time searching for the restaurant, he didn't want to spend any more time searching for a spot.
We parked in the back and caught up with them at the entrance...the look on their faces was priceless! "Hey, weren't you just in the hot tub?!" they exclaimed. Now I could finally explain while I'd nearly slugged my husband on that fateful day when he was babbling about Buca and why I was so unfriendly when my poor neighbor had tried to visit.
Soon we were all gathered inside, enjoying a champagne toast, house wine, and a variety of delicious Italian dishes while listening to amusing tales of the half century that Gee Gee and Paw Paw had spent together. As we tucked into our meal, I couldn't help but think back to those pre-construction days when I had wondered what life in Celebration would be like. Would we have a good street? Good neighbors? Had we made the right choice in picking our unit? Little did I know that we had made the best choice possible and that not too far in the future we'd be partying with some of the very best neighbors in the whole town.
Click here for my Life Coaching website.
Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com
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