Ft. Bob

Quick…what do you get when you combine a Xerox salesman with three redheads, five more-than-age 50-somethings, two southern belles, a map of South Dakota, a laptop computer and projector, one energized golden retriever, 5,000 motorcycles, a herd of buffalo, a pair of scissors and a cereal box? Well, an incomplete list for one thing….but, more importantly…the 2008 Prusa family reunion.

I imagine with the passing of a week since the reunion ended, Mom and Dad have recovered enough to ask themselves: “Who were those people? And why do they say they are related to us?”

Let me explain. It all began with a Thanksgiving Meatloaf. Okay, so maybe going back to how Mom and Dad met is taking the story back too far (or as HH would say: “Let me back up a bit here…”). But the point remains the same, Mom and Dad: you brought us into this world, you have to claim us.

For my family, it was a National Lampoon worthy event. Five states, 1200 miles, two time zones, a dozen bathroom stops (each way), and our darn dog still wouldn’t just lie down and sleep. As far as I’m concerned, on our next trip she’s driving. All that boundless energy would be put to good use. HH, DD and I would be very happy to snooze our way to Western Nebraska.

Then there was the exciting scenic…sights and well…smells.
DD: “Euwww, what is that?”
GITYM (Gorgeous, intelligent, and way-to-young-to-have-adult-children, mother): With t-shirt pulled over her nose “I think it’s the sewer truck.”
DD: “Dad HAD to pull up next to the smelly sewer truck to pump gas, didn’t he???!!!???”
HH: “What smell?”
Energetic Golden Retriever: Woof (translation: wouldn’t someone really like to walk me over to McDonald’s to get a burger?)

None-the-less, we made it. We arrived at Ft. Robinson State Park, near Crawford Nebraska while still speaking to each other. Another 100 miles and I think one of us may have joined the dog kennel strapped under the bungee cords on the roof of the mini van. That would be the lucky family member – free of the ever present scent of eau d’la dog. But I digress.

Oddly enough, nearly all of the Prusa siblings with spouses, children, and essential supplies and equipment in tow arrived at Ft. Bob at close to the same time. That arrival marked the last time for the week that we all were in sync and headed the same direction at the same time. I think it may have had something to do with the promise of Dad’s BBQ feather bones and Mom’s baked beans. Oh yeahhhhh…you KNOW it’s going to be a good get together when 28 people and a dog start the week out with ample servings of baked beans and shared housing. And no air conditioning.

We always have the traditional Prusa fun of “Butt Darts”, the “Cereal Box Game”, “Fly, Fly, Who Ate the Fly” (ok…we only played that one time in 1999), and “Who Can Remember the Most-Embarrassing-and-Possibly-False-Thing From Childhood?”. This reunion, a new activity was added - a family version of a Corporate Annual Report. Cue the laptop and projector. Each family had the opportunity to give a presentation to the group as to what had transpired over the 2-years since the last reunion. Given that we, for the most part, either talk TO or ABOUT one another on a regular basis, this was a challenge. Creativity was essential. Visual aids were a good thing. Oh, and candy bribes to encourage attendance and participation in the post-presentation Q&A’s were vital. Sleeping during presentations was not allowed, and a physician’s statement was required to actually miss a session. Luckily, most of the adults have #1 attended college, #2 regularly attend Mass, and #3 have to participate in meetings at work. So, we all have ample experience in sleeping while appearing awake and interested. Just kidding Mom, Dad, and God!

My top ten favorite questions asked after presentations:
10. Can we have more “Cornhusker Crumble”?
9. Are we done yet?
8. What’s it like being married to Maggie? (my poor picked-upon baby sister)
7. How and where did you propose to Grandma? (never did get a straight answer on that one…)
6. Did you ask Grandma’s Dad for her hand in marriage?
5. Are we done yet?
4. What is the biggest change you’ve seen in the world?
3. Can I have some more candy?
2. Did you ever leave a polar bear in charge of your house?
And….drum roll…
1. Are we done yet?

Another new activity: Prusa Iron Chef. Need I say that competition was fierce? The family was paired into 6 teams, with three preparing a dish featuring the secret ingredient of buffalo; and three preparing a dish featuring corn. With a plentiful contingent of really, really, excellent cooks, odds were mighty good for a tough job of judging. Thus we called upon the wisest family members present: Dad (aka “Give-Me-Meat-and-Sweets”), Mom (aka “Don’t-Make-Me-Pick”) and Maggie’s mother-in-law Gail (aka “I-Like-It-All, What-Did-My-Baby-Boy-Make?”). Scoring was tight on such memorable selections as “Buff-a-Rogi”, “Jamaican Jerk Buffalo”, and “Cornhusker Crumble” (the previously mentioned sweet entry). We almost had to contact the American Olympic Committee after a couple protests were lodged – one alleging that the Jamaican Jerk actually seasoned (are you ready for this shocker?) BEEF (gasp!). As to the other completely unfounded protest, I want to go on record stating that it was a complete coincidence that my entry, Buffalo Chili, won by a landslide, (a very small landslide – actually a mere dustball). And how the ballots got thrown away so quick had to be a completely inadvertent mistake.

Breakfast at the lodge was a delightful routine. In fact, the lodge staff enjoyed it so much that I overheard them insuring that everyone had a chance to spend time with us: “NO. I took care of THEM yesterday. It’s YOUR turn.”

We had unusually moderate weather, making it easy to take part in all the outdoor activities Ft. Bob and surrounding area had to offer. The trail horses are most likely still looking longingly down Highway 20, searching for the daily family riders. The tennis court was well used, the pool - well splashed, and the sunset hike to the top of the bluff was so good that it had to be done two nights in a row. Prusa family members’ spelunked Wind Cave, summitted Harney Peak, and checked to see what’s on the backside of those presidential images on Mt. Rushmore (Nope, not a presidential full moon. The answer: yet MORE motorcyclists!). A sizeable number “rode the hide” at the Ft. Bob Rodeo (don’t even ask!) We walked and bicycled miles-and-miles, ate Buffalo Stew and sang along to “The Chicken Song”, and some took a culture break to see “Guys and Dolls” at the Post Playhouse. Rumor has it that beautiful Bridget is now engaged to the Buffalo Stew singer.

In between organized (and disorganized) activities, we caught up on life and laughter. And we watched as the cousins played and seemed to grow up before our very eyes. For myself, I had the supreme pleasure of watching my brothers and sisters do their job as outstanding parents – and outstanding people. Where else do you see 3 beautiful women, and a couple cute girls, voluntarily gather for the Sun Salutation and other yoga poses – as the Nebraska sun rose? The brothers-in-law “let” the oldest nephew beat them at golf – twice (that’s their story anyway). And…the energetic dog eventually won over the time and attention of the tenderhearts.

What a lucky, lucky bunch we are. To be able to gather with both parents and nearly all of the siblings and spouses. To truly enjoy each other. And to have family that practices unconditional love. It really did all start with a Thanksgiving Meatloaf. And we still have lots of thanksgiving to do.

In a final wrap-up, I want to let the sibs know that I did wear down Mom and Dad as we drove home across the state. I am inheriting the National Geographic collection, and many other treasures yet to be discovered at the Thrift Store. Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah-nah – I always have been the favorite.

Meandering

meander: to proceed by or take a winding or indirect course (dictionary.com)

Yes, sometimes my daily bike ride takes a meandering route. But, more frequently, it is my brain that is meandering, while the bicycle traces a well-known and orderly path. Without fail, the start of my ride is full of frenetic brain activity:

“Ok..helmet? check...
“Gloves? check…
"Do I need new gloves? ...
“Water bottle? Check…
“Brrr….it’s chilly out here…
“No one else is out, great…
“Boy, I wish I had coffee already…
“What is that in the middle of the road ahead? …
“What IS that? …
“Good grief, dog poop. Who lets their dog poop in the road? …
“Must’ve been a BIG dog…
“Oh no! (spotting neighborhood odd ball) Great...don’t look this way, pleeeease don’t look this way….
Big smile, (greeting odd ball) “Good morning” Then silently, “creep”
“Alrighty then, that’s done…
“How far have I gone? Four-tenths of a mile. Grrrrreat…
“Is there a car coming? Do I need to stop here? …
“What shall I make for dinner? …
“C’mon buddy, just go around me! …
“I wonder if Steve would help me paint the front hallway this weekend? …
“What color? …
“Boy, I bet my butt looks big from behind…
“How do I feel? Why do I hunch my shoulders when I ride? …
“Yup, buttimus maximus….
“What’s in the freezer? ...
"What day is it? ...
"Can I just go ho-
"Look at THAT. That house is for sale! Wonder what happened? ...
"Wonder what our house is worth? ...
"Move squirrel...move squirrel...MOVE! ...
"Is that a new pool? ...

And so it goes, cerebral bouncing from topic to topic. About mile 4, I seem to settle into both the ride and to my meandering brain. Without effort, my mind winds into problem solving or creative thought. I find the humor in previously annoying experiences, find a new way to teach an old topic, dream up new quilts, make lists, and reminisce about life with young kids. What would I do without this time for mental exercise?

Road Hazards

Guys. In trucks. Pulling trailers. Arrrggggghhhhh!

Today, as I road through bucolic Bowling Green in the early morning sunshine, I encountered numerous cars, motorcycles, and non-towing pick-up trucks of a variety of sizes. There was no problem. In fact, many of the drivers went out of the way to insure that our paths crossed safely – waiting patiently as I crossed the driveway they intended to enter, waving me through as they paused at a stop sign. BUT, then there were the GITPT (see above).

I’m not sure if they believe that they have the right of way regardless of the situation, or if the law of physics impedes their ability to stop at signs, lights, and cross streets. The most ironic encounter was the driver of a white pick-up, pulling a trailer loaded with a mower, who looked me directly in the eye and then proceeded to pull out OF THE CEMETERY directly into my path. Maybe he thought that my proximity to a cemetery would make the accident less traumatic, save tax dollars by not calling an ambulance, and instead send me and my beloved lil’ red directly into an open grave. After having a few close encounters today, I think that I have to send GITPT a message. I recognize that I must speak slowly and use small words.

BIKES AND THE RIDER HAVE A RIGHT TO BE ON THE ROAD. We have to follow the rules, just like you. That means that when you have a red light or stop sign you should not ignore it. Also, please consider the width of your truck, including projecting side mirrors, when passing a rider – leaving ample room between the rider and your truck is good both both of us. Please remember the trailer behind you before you swing directly in the bicycle’s path. I love my family and I want to spend many more years with them. I bet you do too, and bogging down your life with the results of an accident in which someone is seriously injured or killed, might mean that you might not get to spend all the time with them that you might wish. Thank you.

Oops – words too big? I’ll try again: BAD BOY. BE CAREFUL. DON’T HURT BICYCLE. DON’T HURT RIDER. BIG MESS. DON’T GO TO JAIL. DON’T LOSE TRUCK. BYE-BYE.

There, I think I feel somewhat better, despite the fact that I know this is a meaningless gesture.

What really irritates me, is not just my experiences, but the knowledge that I am seeing many more bicycles on the road since gas prices have sky rocketed. Lots of those riders don’t wear helmets, and may not have a lot of experience. They are even more vulnerable to unsafe driving practices. (Sidebar: I’m NOT saying that it’s OK for them not to wear helmets, but only one tirade per posting.)

On a more positive note, here are my top 5 things about riding in the early morning:

1. Morning sunshine.
2. Fresh air.
3. Fresh legs.
4. Relatively cool temps.
5. Coffee when I get home.

Here are the top 5 minor annoyances (aside from GITPT):

1. Fresh mulch.
2. Well rested dogs (not fenced).
3. Helmet hair.
4. Conundrums: sunglasses vs. no sunglasses? Need for sun block or not?
5. Waiting for coffee until I get home.

Get out and ride! Happy trails!

Low Expectations

I was listening, half-heartedly, to one of those makeover-type shows. I heard the tearful exclamation by the woman being made over as she lamented (be sure to inject a significant amount of barely contained tears as you read…) “I just don’t know what happened to me. I don’t know when I just let myself go. Now, I go out of the house without make-up, which just shouldn’t be.” Sniff, sniff.

Uh huh. In my humble opinion, the most important lesson in her makeover would have been to teach her the law of low expectations. Of course, that’s never going to happen, as the show is paid for by the advertisers of beauty products. None-the-less, low expectations are the key to a long, and compliment filled life.

The basic principle is that whenever you move into a new neighborhood, you must quickly and consistently demonstrate that you are a slacker. Never wear make-up for the first week or so. Be sure to dig those worn out sweats out of the Goodwill bag and use ‘em as standard wardrobe – paint stains contributes an extra layer of panache. If your budget can afford it, be sure to order a variety of pizza delivery for the first week in residence. For those with long hair, an ever present ponytail and ball cap look good, for those of us with a shorter do….just roll out of bed, run your fingers through your hair and call it a day. The scene has been set. Each time a neighbor comes by with brownies or cookies they will find you a mess. You have now established low expectations. You have NOTHING to live up to. Nirvana.

The first time a neighbor sees you in make-up they will gush with how lovely you look. Simply blow dry your hair and apply lipstick before a trip to the grocery, and everyone you run into will say “I can’t put my finger on what’s different, but you look really nice today.”

Setting low expectations is not letting yourself go. I repeat, it is NOT letting yourself go. No…this is strategic planning, no less important than the Yankees’ play book. By setting low expectations, there is no where to go but up. What a lovely place to be. Once a neighbor has come into the family room to find you sorting underwear for laundry, it can’t get much worse.

Actually, my finest moment of low expectations occurred many years ago when my oldest son, Nick, was in kindergarten. To set the scene, it was a nice spring day, and I was standing at the fence chatting with my neighbor, Stephanie. Stephanie the wonder-woman: beautiful, sexy, great cook, runner, and tidy-house award winner for at least 5 consecutive years.
Nick stepped out onto the back porch, wearing his slightly baggy “He-Man” underwear and shouted, “Hey Mom, I don’t have any clean pants!”
I answered, “Yes, you do. Your brown cords and blue jeans are both hanging in your closet.”
“They can't be clean! They're not hot,” he said as he went back into the house.
Ah yes, the pinnacle of slackerdom, a child who has become totally accustomed to a wardrobe that is only ready-to-wear fresh out of the dryer. No pressure on me to be mother-of-the-year. If I could only depend on Stephanie to pass the story along, I was likely to get out of multiple PTA committee assignments, as no one would suspect that I had any organizational skills.

Women! Stop fighting to fit time in to do everything! Enjoy life, with a clean face, and a full laundry room. Trust me, it works. You’ll like yourself better as you can always acheive the goals that you set for yourself (#1 Breathe, #2 Eat, #3 Play with the kids or walk the dog, #4 start at the beginning and repeat). Anything over and above that is clearly overachieving.

Consider it a random act of kindness when you run into a co-worker at the store and she is pulled together and you are…well…not so much. You have just boosted her self esteem. Consider it a random act of kindness. So, I’ll close with some words adapted from a man who does know how to set low expectations (think baseball career) ~ Garth Brooks

'Cause I've got friends in low places
Where the expectation is that I’ll be
Make-up free, and honestly
I know I’m okay
I'm not big on social graces
Think I'll slip on down to my own oasis
Oh, I’m my own friend in low places

Liver + Europe = Bad Combination

Liver. Yes, that nasty meat-like substance that every mother of the 1960’s fed to her young because “it was good for them.” To build iron, or some such malarkey. Actually I think that youth-fed liver is the primary reason for sky-high baby-boomer cholesterol levels. Do you know how much cholesterol there is in liver??? Not to mention that the bribe for eating liver was the accompanying bacon and fried onions. We needed a side order of lipitor to make the meal complete. Actually, my brother Joe didn’t need the cholesterol meds, as he devised a clever hiding place for his liver. We discovered it mummified years later when the family dining table was disassembled to be refinished. He should have been called home and forced to sit at the dining room table until he ate his liver…never mind that he was pushing 40.

Handsome husband swears that liver was the first meal served to him by my Mother while we were dating. He despises liver, but he put on a cheerful face and ate not one helping, but two. And he STILL married me! Now, that's love.

At my house, we’ve been thinking of liver a lot lately. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind wrapped in plastic in the meat section at Kroger. No, this is the kind embedded in the abdomen of my daughter, Emily. Perhaps, hereafter referred to as “Liverella”. Some sort of viral gastroenteritis (for the non-medical, a bad case of the ‘rrhea and “vomicking”) seems to have affected her liver – causing it to grow to ginormous size. I mean GI-normous. You can feel it, without any trouble at all. Just hanging out, below her right rib cage. I may have to invest in a truss of some sort.

We missed the entire jaundice phase of her illness, as Liverella was in Austria, in the midst of a semester of study-abroad. Supposed to be having the time of her life. Riding the Eurorail, bopping in and out of European countries, collecting photographs, and a large assortment of luscious European chocolate to bring home to Mom. Instead she ended up bopping in and out of the Austrian healthcare system and collecting lab reports.

Imagine the experience. Hospitalization with most of the staff speaking English-lite, at best. On the night of her admission it seemed that the only English phrase the physician knew was “Have you always had trouble with your liver?” as he asked it repeatedly, despite her assurances that up to that time she and her liver had been on the best of terms. Intimate friends as it were.

Her tales of ultrasounds, x-rays, and lab work being accomplished via a medical version of pantomime would be funny, if she wasn’t family. OK, they are funny anyway, but don’t tell her I said so.

After a 3-week subsistence diet of crackers and a variety of Austrian juices, we determined that coming home might be for the best. Austrian juice sounds most interesting. Liverella reports that nearly all juices contained carrot juice, and many contain sauerkraut juice. Please tell me that sauerkraut is a generic word for cabbage. She said that the absolute worst was the beet-carrot-sauerkraut-and onion juice. She heated it up and pretended it was soup. She is now my hero for even trying to consume it. I am now her hero for buying good ol’ American apple, cranberry, and pomegranate juices. If only motherhood were always so easy.

It’s like we have another child now. We talk about her liver as though it was its own entity, with a room of its own. “How does it feel today?” “It is angry?” “Does that food make it happy?” From my perspective this is more work than a colicky baby. Luckily, (or not), it is Liverella who has to do most of the work, toting the colicky baby 24-7.

Like infant colic, we’ve been told that with time, rest, and fluids Liverella will once again return to her sweet alter-ego, Emily. In the meantime, wish her well – and please, no bacon and fried onion jokes.

Waiting for the Pope

Me and one of the three men in Rome worth standing in line for.

Italian Men - PC?!

When and how did Italian men fall prey to the wave of political correctness? Why am I always “a day late”? Or decade….? To quote a 1997 piece from The Tattoo: “Too many Italian men have no pride, shame or tact. They do not just flirt, they follow, grab, pinch…” Sounds to me like the last site on planet earth where a chubby, middle-aged, long-married woman might experience a bit of flirtation.

Okay, okay, I really didn’t want to be pinched. I would have settled for a wink. A kiss blown across a crowded metro. An unexpected “Ciao bella…” Sigh.

I believe that I am as much of a feminist as the average woman. But one simply cannot be a fan of movies of the 1950’s and 1960’s without developing a fine fantasy of Italy, and therefore, Italian men as sexy. Consider: Roman Holiday, Rome Adventure (a bit silly), Summer Time, Seven Hills of Rome (musical), and Three Coins in the Fountain. Even more recently: La Vita e Bella (Life is Beautiful), Only You, A Room With a View, Bread and Tulips, and Merchant of Venice.

Need I say more? I’ll wait while you fan yourself and recover from the mere mention of those fantastic (and sexy) films.

Well, I’m back from a week in Rome with an accurate report. Pinches = 0, Winks = 0, Blown Kisses = 0, Ciao Bella = 1, then I realized he was speaking to the woman next to me on the metro. Since they boarded together, and were both wearing wedding bands … well, you figure it out.

During my stay in Rome there were only three men worth standing in line to see: Michelangelo's Zeus, the Pope, and Steve. Since Steve came home with me, the count is now 2. None of them pinched me. Steve does wink and blow kisses, but never could master “Ciao Bella” – his version sounded a bit like “Cowbella”. Also, I do believe that Steve is much more fun to stand in line with than either Michelangelo or the Pope would be.

Rome is a city of opposites,

• The most beautiful artwork countered by more graffiti than New York City. The wall surrounding Vatican City had been “tagged”.
• Spotless table linens in restaurants, from the finest dining to the casual trattoria, countered by litter. Litter everywhere – even in St. Peter’s Square.
• “La Dolce Vita” – the sweet life – where all are encouraged to linger at dining tables, to talk, laugh, and argue over a lengthy meal, no hurry to turn the table quickly, countered by Italian traffic. Frenetic, buzzing, urgent. Pedestrians scurry as crossing signs have little meaning to drivers, especially Vespa drivers. The key to crossing the street – “never look ‘em in the eye, never let ‘em see your fear” (from my study-abroad daughter, Emily).
• The approach of waiters in “keeping your tab” as you dine. It goes like this: you mime that you want your tab and then wait another 30 minutes, or so (see bullet #2 above). The waiter appears at your table with a blank sheet of paper and asks what you have had. You tell them, they write a number on the page, you pay, rounding up to the next even Euro, and everyone is happy. To counter this mealtime honor system are the ever present pickpockets, fearless and bold, on the streets, the metro, the busses, and in lines. I was told that the average Roman resident has their pocket picked eight times per year.

So, given this tendency toward opposites, I am writing this to all handsome Italian men (especially Romans). It’s not too late! Political correctness is well…correct, and no, women do NOT want to be pinched, groped or otherwise manhandled. But, would a little wink to a middle-aged tourist hurt? Go ahead, make my day.