Nailed It

The nail salon was full when the four of us walked in a little after noon today, and the young man who did my mani-pedi seemed a little put out to be doing any hands-on work. I had seen him there before, and his role was usually cashier, clean up, and general schmoozer. Unlike most of the nail technicians I have had in the past, who wanted to turn the chair as quickly as possible, this guy took several breaks, ostensibly to allow my feet to soak or my legs to moisturize. When he was at my feet however, he was relatively charming.

Twenty-something, well-muscled, heavily tattooed, and quite deferential to his granny, the elderly Vietnamese woman who ran the salon, he was especially curious about the relationship between Louise, Gary, Heidi, and I. "Well," I explained, "we're married," I gestured to Heidi and me, "and these are her parents."

"Cool!" he said. "How long have you been married?"

"We've been together 21 years," I told him, "and married 5."

"Did you wait until it was, like, legal, to get married?" he asked.

"Well, yeah," I answered.

"But did you, like, get married right away, as soon as you could?"

"Pretty much," I nodded.

"Well, that is awesome!" he said, and then went off to do something else.

Somehow? It didn't bother me at all.

One Woman's Treasure

I love a good junk, er antique, shop. There's something very satisfying about poking around dusty displays hunting for treasure. Oh, the bounty I find is rarely a valuable item priced well below its worth; my reward is usually in spotting something I remember from my childhood that I haven't seen or thought of for decades.

Over the years I have been reunited, briefly, record albums, collectable glasses, Christmas plates, toys, and lunch boxes. Usually those items are priced a little too high for me to reacquire them, or at least high enough to make me consider why we parted in the first place. I do actually own a few things that are replicas of stuff we had when I was a kid.

The set of pyrex mixing bowls in turquoise and white with the farmer design is a prominent example. The largest bowl of that set is what my dad always used for popcorn when he made it on nights he was babysitting us. I can still remember dragging my finger through the salt and butter pooled at the bottom of the bowl when all that was left were the unpopped kernels.

Several years ago, my mom found sets of those bowls and gave them to the three of us for Christmas. You can bet I always put my popcorn in the popcorn bowl. And today, wasn't I surprised to find not something that I used to have, but rather something that I actually have now for sale in a junk, er, antique store.

Now that's a sign of age!

Par for the Course

One of the minor motifs of this summer so far has turned out to be miniature golf. A couple weeks ago we were flipping channels one evening after dinner and we happened on Holey Moley, a tongue in cheek reality show where contestants compete for 25,000 bucks and an ugly green plaid jacket on an extreme mini golf course.

If they had me at mini-golf, they kept me when the first player got knocked off the green not once but three times as she tried to run through giant windmill to take her second shot. I couldn't stop laughing, and we have giggled through several episodes of the silly show since then.

There was a time back when I was in my twenties and lived at the beach that I played miniature golf all the time. I wasn't great, but I was pretty good; my best score ever was a 33 on a par 36 Putt Putt course. I still enjoy the game, and I would play more often if there was a convenient course and some willing competitors in my life.

Today, those conditions were met. Heidi, her mom ,and brother, and I set out for a local mini-golf course. Oh, the competition was tough, but I hooked my pinkies together the way my golf instructor showed me in college, lined up the heels of my flip flops, and used the siting feature on my club to sink most of my putts. In the end? I know I was the winner in both rounds we played, even though the other players claimed we "weren't really keeping score."

Too bad there weren't any giant windmills.

Only So Much

We spent the afternoon on the Roycroft Campus in East Aurora, NY.  Founded in 1895, it was a community of artists and craftsmen and part of the American Arts and Crafts movement. Today it remains an artist cooperative and is a National Historic Landmark. We ate lunch on the shady porch of the Roycroft Inn, a beautiful setting with unfortunately mediocre food.

There were many lovely things to admire in both the Inn and the shops, though, and among them were several versions of a William Morris quote that I heard long ago, but had forgotten. Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful. 

Considering his words, I did a quick inventory of just a few of the many, many possessions we have in our home, and while most of them fit well in one category or the other, we left East Aurora with no more than what we owned when we arrived.

Go Go Go!

For the past few days I have been gleefully posting screen shots on social media of the perfect weather we have been having up here in Western New York. Well... today brings the first 90+ degree heat of the year for this area and all its attendant issues. It's too hot to play outside and there's nothing to do inside.

What's that you say? Vacations are meant for relaxing?

Don't be silly!

Cornhole anyone?

Souvenirs

Sometimes it's not enough for me to simply walk through a beautiful place. On beaches I search for shells, shark teeth, and sea glass. On hikes in Maine, it's a hunt for blueberries or the smoothest rock. In corn mazes I have been known to gather husks and fashion dolls as I navigate my way through.


And today it was wildflowers. There were so many different blooms and blossoms in the fields and meadows on the farm where we took Lucy to run and swim, that I picked a sweet little bouquet as we walked in the sunshine serenaded by larks and red wing blackbirds.

International Sensation

On our visit to the falls last Christmas, we spotted a small sign that we had never noticed before. Pedestrian Walkway to Canada, it read, and the die was cast. Heidi's brother Mark and I agreed to bring our passports this summer so that we could WALK! to Canada.

"Can Lucy come?" was Heidi's only question, and a quick internet search revealed that yes, indeed, dogs can walk to enter Canada along with their human travelers.

Today, our plan became reality. Under perfect, 80 degree blue skies, the four of us trotted gleefully across the Rainbow Bridge, passed the international border marker halfway,  and breezed through immigration to Canada. There we strolled through well-manicured parks and along stone walls lining the river gorge up to Horseshoe Falls where the wind blowing from the US sprayed us with a steady mist.

Along the way, fellow tourists speaking Cantonese, French, Italian, Spanish, and English asked if they could pet Lucy, who was smiling and prancing her way through her first International visit. Two hours later we returned to our native land, a little tired, a little sun burnt, but joyful, too.