The Old Truck

These star-filled nights
that waver somewhere between
spring and summer
have me thinking of times passed.

Of those a-bit-chilly evenings
when the crickets chirp-
and the whippoorwill cries-
and the sun melts down
like rainbow sherbet ice cream.

It also reminds me of good times
in our old rusty pickup truck.

Somewhere after the '69 Datsun
and before the '79 Buick,
there was a 62(?) Chevy pickup.

My husband and I bought it off
the father of one of his friends-
giving him $200 a month
for three months
until it was paid in full.

It was finally ours!
That giant steering wheel-
The faded maroon paint-
The balding tires-

...and wild freedom.

I would drop my husband off
at the meat plant every morning
at five o'clock
and head to my mom's to do laundry.

She and I would usually pile into the truck
and set off to get groceries-
(looking a bit like Ellie May and Granny)-
keeping one eye out for yard sales
and the other eye on the dashboard thermostat
that always seemed to read a little bit hot.

We actually took that truck
all the way to Chicago once
to see his parents-
Our German Shepherd, Abe,
in the back-
our clothes packed neatly
in paper sacks on the floorboard.

And we thought we were cool.
We owned that road!

The truck was even more special
when we parked it at
the local drive-in theater-
pulled that heavy, clunky speaker
into the window
and watched B-rated movies
in tinny, Micky Mouse sound.

We always brought our own popcorn,
and hot dogs, and an occasional
candy bar when we could afford them.
And always a cooler of iced down beer.

Of course that beer made
my husband have to pee a lot-
but the floorboard was so rusted out
that a good aim was all that was needed!

That old truck was part of our lives
and a daily necessity.

And then I remember getting out of it
one day in the parking lot
and I was suddenly met by a girl
I went to high school with-
her sleek, new automobile
as shiny and new and modern
as anything money could buy.

Suddenly I was ashamed
of that beat up old truck
and I hated the fact
that she saw me in it.

It was then that the love wore off-
the fun subsided-
the way I looked at the world
became distorted
and unfair.

But-
soon there were others vehicles
that came along in our lives-
other memories-
and beautiful places-
and summer days rich with rock music...
and sweet kisses-
and starlit nights-
and a maturity that superseded jealousy.

I would never in a million years
go back and change that time
in our '62 Chevy.

I bet that girl I saw
doesn't know what real love is...

or the feel of a window fan on her face
in ninety degree weather...

the choice between buying gasoline
or a pound of hamburger...

waking up to an old rooster-
and wrinkled sheets-
and the dusty perfume
of a summer road...

or the thrill of sitting in
an old pickup truck
at the drive-in-
sipping cold beer,
eating hot dogs,
kissing gently,
and gazing at the moon.

I always have been-
and continue to be-
...very blessed.

Yay For Donut Day!

Friday and Saturday is
the official celebration of
Donut Day.

I don't know about you,
but I'm ready to celebrate
starting at midnight Thursday
to midnight on Saturday.

You just can't get too many donuts.

But how did they become so popular?

Some sources say that back in the 1800's,
Dutch cooks twisted their sweet dough
into knots before frying.

Sometimes the center of the pastry
wouldn't cook thoroughly,
so many bakeries would add
a ball of nuts to the center of the treat
so that it would cook and taste better.

Thus, the name eventually
became "doughnuts."

But what about the hole?

History says that the hole
in the center resulted from
customers poking out the
uncooked portion in the middle
of their donuts.

And soon the hole became a way
to hold the donut
while dunking them into coffee.

In the U.S. alone,
more than 10 billion donuts
are made every year.

But before you rush out
and eat them by the dozen-
let's see what the
nutritional value of those
sweet little circles are.

Here's a patial list
of stats from Dunkin Donuts:

Apple filled donut, each 250
                              
Cake donut, each 270 
                   
Chocolate croissant, each  440
                      
Chocolate frosted donut, each 200
                   
Croissant, each  310
                                          
Donut, Bavarian creme-filled, each 
 240

Glazed donut, each 200
                                     
Glazed French cruller, each
 140

Jelly donut, each 220
                                           
Oat bran muffin, each 330
                                 


Now, one would assume that the
oat bran muffin would be the
healthiest, but look at the calories.
Personally, I prefer jelly donuts
and have been known-
(in the past of course)-
to consume four or more
in one sitting.

But no matter how you celebrate,
enjoy a piece of baking history.

Yay for Donut Day! 

Mr. Math Strikes Again

In my part of the country,
it seems to have done nothing but rain
for the past few months.

Not only does that put my solar
landscaping lights out of service,
but it also postpones planning
our annual garden.

Luckily, a few dry days
over the past two weekends
gave us a small window of opportunity
to get our spot tilled and planted
in anticipation for a great
summer bounty of fresh vegetables.

And although my husband and I have
been planting gardens for almost
thirty years,
he stills astounds and amazes me
with his insistence for perfection.

This year he actually had to run
a line from
the edge of the garage to the garden,
just so the rows would be
parallel to the structure.

Sure.

I mean, I don't want my guests saying
that my rows of green beans don't line up
with the angle of the garage.
And heaven forbid
they might realize that one
tomato plant is two inches further
from the row of peppers than the others.

Needless to say, it takes
for a long day in the hot sun.

We usually get along great,
but gardening time puts a strain
on our opposite personalities.

These are typical quotes from
his side of the garden dialog:

"Move that stake 1/8 inch South," he says,
positioning his line of sight down a
well-placed string.

"No! South! Not 1/4 inch- I said an eighth!"

"Does that look straight to you?"

"I think we're a centimeter off on
this row of cucumbers."

"Wish I had my level. Go get it."

"Can't you see that those seeds are
going in crooked?"
****

Okay.Now-
Here's my side:

"Oooh, look at that bird, isn't it cute?"

" Can we stop now?"

"Just stick the seeds in and be done!"

"Aren't you hungry yet?"

"Where's 3/8ths on this tape measure?"

" Look, I found a four leaf clover!"

So, you see, our brains are on
different levels.
He loves the mapping, planning,
mathematically perfect garden.
I love the bushy greenness of
new plants and earthy vegetables
and a kaleidoscopic whirlwind
of blooms and plants and weeds and straw.

In the long run, I guess
that all is good.

Our gardens not only produce well,
but they look like someone with an
aggravating-mathematical-bossy-mind
plotted them out.

But- I can't help but love him...
and be glad it's finally time for lunch!