Cardboard Boxes and Sisterhood

I just spent a 4-day weekend in Utah with my sister, Bonnie. We had a great time doing everything from hiking...

to mall loitering...

to caving...

 

to wandering aimlessly on a sunny day in her old neighborhood  park... 

Whenever we hang out, I'm always surprised how many people ask us if we're twins. (One guy asked us if we were "open-minded twins." I think I may or may not have understood what he meant by that.)

Whenever we're together, I'm also reminded that growing up with her as my sister it's amazing I survived to adulthood. So many of the very best bad ideas have involved her. Case in point, she pushed me off the roof twice while we were growing up, both times in a cardboard box.* 

#Once.  Our parents had just bought a new water heater, and that gigantic cardboard box practically begged to be played in. "We" decided it would make good practice for someday when we would become famous by going off Niagara Falls in a barrel.

 

#Twice. Our neighbors had just bought a new washing machine. Bonnie and I pooled our brain power as budding engineers and made an airplane cobbled together from the washer box, an old bicycle chain & handlebars, and a box of Cookie Crisp cereal (the trans-continental in-flight meal). "We" decided I could be the solo test pilot for its maiden flight.

Thanks for the great memories and the excellent cardboard-box-free weekend.

I love you, Bon!

*The issue of why we were allowed to play on our roof is a whole other blog post... maybe even a book.

Ooh! Who sent me this?

Do you remember back in junior high when, out of the blue, a note would arrive in your locker from "a secret admirer" and you would swoon through the school hallways for the rest of the day feeling special because someone (may as well presume it's someone cute and awesome) secretly admired you?

Yeah, that never happened to me either.

But instead, yesterday someone identified only as none@nowhere.com emailed me a link to 11 pieces of Hilariously Bad Art. Apparently, there's a Museum of Bad Art in Boston where most of the art was rescued from the trash then proudly displayed in the MOBA as "Art too bad to be ignored."

Thank you, secret admirer of bad art. I feel...uh...special.

A glimpse into the love life of people with impossibly tiny feet, whose clothes match the foliage impeccably.

- - - - - - - - - - - - There is nothing more perfect than a full moon, the Golden Gate Bridge, a menacing fist, an apocalyptic fog, and a shameless bowl cut. I think I saw this pattern woven onto a fuzzy blanket for sale at a roadside swap meet once.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

This one is called "Lucy in the Field with Flowers," and it was the original artwork in the MOBA. I love how it's like we're unexpectedly witnessing a Marilyn Monroe moment from a cranky old broad in sensible shoes. Plus, I've always liked how acid rain from a radioactive yellow sky makes the flowers grow.

Basking in Centuries of Culture

A few weekends back, I went for a hike out at Pere Marquette, where the top of the hill rewards you with a breathtaking view of the backwater tributaries of the Mississippi river valley. The lobby of the visitor center at Pere Marquette also had something rather...uh...breathtaking.

I can honestly say I've never seen buckskin pants, a fur loin cloth, and a lollipop-feathered headdress all together in one ensemble quite like this.

Although the model shown here is undeniably making it look fierce (not a trace of silly candy-schlepping-salesman-type pandering; simply stoic candy-coated pride), and I'm always a fan of mixed media and quirky cultural intermingling, and I'm sure the suckers are delicious, I have to wonder whether hundreds of years of tribal civilization were *really* supposed to culminate in this.

Ultimately, I give a bewildered salute to the determined sculptor with a sweet tooth who brought us this strange modern masterpiece. Tasty, but not tasteful.

Mergency

"Some situations are so dire that you don't even have time for vowels."

(Special thanks to Dave for this picture and its awesome caption.)

A quilt is a hug

How can it possibly already be two weeks since I visited my sister, Janene, and her family in Arkansas? Time flies. It was just a quick weekend visit, but highlights included seeing my two cutie nephews and adorable neice. From left to right here:

- Marc is showing me his favorite blanket.

- Matthew has just informed me he has no intention of wearing clothes at the park. I wonder why 3 year olds all seem to revert to a firm nudist philosophy after spending the first couple of years pretty ambivalent about clothes?

- Miriam is demonstrating that her favorite and best word is "Cheese."

Janene lives on the Air Force base. As an honored guest there, they let me fly one of the planes.

Leaving was bittersweet. My roommates from sophomore year in college may remember Printer Man: Alison's talking printer that spoke in a stale electronic voice to notify you when printing was complete, or when it was time to replace the paper or ink. Naturally (...naturally???), it became a running joke in our apartment that Printer Man was my one and only love. *Swoon.* Alas, Printer Man and I never dated. But since then, Printer Man has been followed by a select but compelling group of other inanimate one-and-only-loves, including the Wooden Doorstop Man in Ghana, and now the plastic Crosswalk Reminder Guy on my sister's streetcorner. We shared tender goodbyes before I left Arkansas.

I may never see him again. But my street-crossing habits are forever changed.

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The surprise of the weekend came when Janene started apologizing, saying "I have your favorite old Smurf quilt here from when we were kids, and I'm sorry I haven't given it back to you all these years." I had zero recollection of a favorite old quilt, let alone a Smurf quilt.

Then she pulled this out of the closet and suddenly all the memories of it flooded back. The day our Mom took me to Western Drug (our podunk town's pharmacy/books/decor/taxidermy/fabric store of choice) and let me pick out cloth for her to make into a quilt of my very own. How I carried it around everywhere. How I took it up on the roof once to watch a meteor shower with my Dad. How I threw up all over it once when I had stomach flu. How Smurfette was my beauty icon.

It's funny how something can trigger memories so instantly, so powerfully. Do you have any memory triggers like this?