Janet's Blog

It hangs in the guest room closet--that green, velour robe that my Grandma made for my Dad so many years ago. I don't think Dad has ever worn it. Robes just aren't his thing. But I wear it every time I stay with my folks in their house in Fairbury.  Even as I write, I can almost smell that faint, distinctive, velour odor. You would think the scent would have faded by now, but velour, along with some other synthetic fabrics manufactured in the 1970's, always seems to retain that vague, chemical smell that must have been a necessary part of the fabric-making process. The robe is soft and bulky, cozy to wear, but not too warm, even on sultry, summer mornings. It falls almost to my ankles. The sleeves are too long for me, but they are easily rolled up. The unattached sash is long enough to wrap three times around my waist. If I'm not careful when I tie it, the sash drags on the floor, causing a definite tripping hazard. I'm sure that Grandma just used the selvage, the u...

I love thunder and lightning, puddles, and rainbows. I love the smell of rain, and the beauty of the thunderheads as they overtake the entire sky. The last few years have brought an abundance of rain to the Nebraska Panhandle, but this summer is different. This year, our last significant rain was more than two months ago. Since the beginning of June, we've seen some promising clouds, heard a little rumbling thunder, and experienced some devastating hail, but we've only felt a few sprinkles. Just this week, I saw these unwelcome words in print: severe drought . Ugh! So, this summer, we've had to celebrate the wonders of water in other ways, and in other places.  Ask the LORD for rain in the springtime; it is the LORD who sends the thunderstorms. He gives showers of rain to all people, and plants of the field to everyone.  Zechariah 10:1 We set up our pool early this year, before Memorial Day. Pool accessories have been hard to find this summer, so we've made do with a pa...

Jackson spotted them first, or maybe, he smelled them. Anyway, he alerted me to the deer's presence, just a few feet away, on the other side of the ditch. I had driven about a mile from home, past the landfill, to the small parking area next to the bike path that skirts the east side of the National Park land. We had left the house a little later than I planned, so the sun had disappeared behind the Monument before we started walking on the path. It was a beautiful, still evening, right at dusk. I was hoping the light would hold out until we made it back to the car. I was hoping, too, to spot some wildlife of the four-legged kind--I can do without rattlesnakes, thank you very much! The lingering sunset, on the north edge of Scotts Bluff. We met a couple of other walkers on the path, with their black lab, but otherwise, Jackson and I had the path to ourselves. I snapped way too many sunset pictures. On the way back, we crossed over to the alley that borders the bike path, to get jus...

I have been counting the days since last week's oral surgery, until I am allowed to exercise again. Today's the day! When the weather cooled off a little this evening, I was out the door with Jackson to walk the neighborhood. In the summer, the best time to walk is often just after the sun sets, when the air is cool and still. It's only been the last three or four years that I've been making a conscious effort to walk regularly. At first, I used the Health App on my phone to track my steps, but I have been more motivated since Bill brought me a FitBit from some convention he had attended. This time of year, I walk more than 10,000 steps nearly every day. It's become a habit now, except when I'm sick, or when the weather is nasty. When I was growing up, first in northeastern Nebraska, then in Fairbury in the southeastern part of the state, exercise was not a priority for most people, probably because it just wasn't necessary. Farmers and their families got pl...

We like to think that we are civilized people, here in the US in the 21st century. For the most part, we have been living busy, predictable lives. We work hard, and we play harder. Until just a few months ago, every minute of nearly every day has been scheduled, and we have been stressed by our ceaseless and, in our opinion, decidedly worthwhile activities. Now, our stress is caused by something different: the uncertainty of these unexpected, unparalleled times. So many things have changed in just a short time: our job and school situations, our limited ability to travel or gather freely, our inability to seek services and products we once took for granted, and our sense of freedom and personal safety. Was it really only four months ago that our biggest concerns revolved around our families' activities and favorite sports teams?  Now, we have been coerced to stay close to home and cooperate with new rules that have been totally foreign for most of us, until now. We don't like t...

There is nothing quite like a tree. I love the sight and smells of all flowering trees, but especially the pink crabapple trees that bloom so beautifully most springs--except, sadly, not for this year's too-cold spring. The majestic oak trees, with their acorns, have always fascinated me, and the vibrant, orange, sugar maples in Michigan are without comparison in the fall. But here in Nebraska, nothing can compare to our state tree, the mighty Cottonwood. One of many Cottonwoods at Scottsbluff's Riverside Park. I'm not talking about the newer, cottonless, ornamental trees, erroneously called Cottonwoods in spite of their relatively wimpy appearance and inherent lack of cotton. The trees I love the most are decades old, or even a century or more in age, stretching their branches heavenward, with trunks that can only be encircled by several people clasping hands around a tree.  Shimmering leaves. The shade of a magnificent Cottonwood provides a refreshingly cool sanctuary on ...

I was working in the yard about three weeks ago, moving some mulch, when I got a sliver under my fingernail. It hurt like the dickens, and was visible, a black line just beneath the nail, where it extended nearly three quarters of the way up. None of the sliver was reachable with a tweezers, a needle, or anything else. It didn't help that this particular nail has a ridge that dips down, right along the path of the sliver, making it that much harder to see the end of the sliver under the nail, let alone get ahold of it.  As soon as I came into the house, I washed my hands with soap and doused the offending finger with hydrogen peroxide, which bubbled up just like it was supposed to, killing any bacteria that dared to accompany the sliver. When Bill got home, he tried to remove it, with no success, and with much pain on my part, so he gave up because he didn't want to hurt me. I googled how to remove a sliver from under a nail, and tried soaking my finger in a solution of baking ...