Cabin Mama

Humor and woodsy wisdom by Laura Lollar

humor

The Engineer’s Wife

I married an engineer.

You’re talking to a woman who doesn’t balance her checkbook, goes by the rule “good enough IS enough” and cooks by the seat of her pants. As my former boss knows all too well, the term “planning” is anathema to me. Risk assessment is a phrase I’ve never much dwelled on. Project management scares me silly and “measure twice, cut once” is a lesson I still haven’t learned.

Enter my wonderful husband, Doug.

He balances his checkbook to the penny, glories in the magic of spreadsheets, color codes his calendar and keeps emails longer than I’ve kept tax records.

I’ve learned a lot in the four short years we’ve been married.

For example: it’s “soil” not dirt; it’s “concrete” not cement; and it’s “fuel” not gas.

I’ve grown used to pillow-talk on Subsurface Utility Engineering, foundation design, reinforced concrete slab, erosion control BMP (best management practices), traffic control device spacing and signal timing.

Oooo, baby! Whisper it to me slowly!

When we read in bed, I’m absorbed in Jerry Jenkins’ Left Behind books. Doug is knee deep in Reinforced Concrete Design.

We have baggies of “soil” all over the house and a jar of dirt and water measuring the separation of clay and sand. The official name is “Sediment Suspension Test” in case you were wondering. The jar sits among other decorative items on our fireplace mantle. While Doug observes sediment layers measured in centimeters, I see an image of snow covered sage bushes.

He’s planning a leach field for our future home and texts me love notes of holes in the ground with protruding measuring implements. Last year for Christmas I got him the Survey Linker Rod he asked for. I call it a BMS – Big Measuring Stick.

Our dinner conversations are all about perc tests and clay deposits.

The garage is now organized with every rake and shovel and broom in their own special spot. A tennis ball hangs to indicate the exact spot to park the car. Tools nest in drawers according to size and function.

When I hang a picture on the wall, it’s a hit or miss process. He’ll measure from stem to stern (he’s a Navy guy) to find the right place for the nail. I marvel at how he only needs one hole to do the job right.

Yet, I’m the fussy one when it comes to loading the dishwasher. I re-arrange to get maximum cleanliness. And God help anyone who puts plates in the wrong spot. I’m sensitive to water flow and soap dispersion, ya know.

Together we make a great pair. We poke fun at our quirks and find plenty to laugh about. I love his wit and sense of humor. He puts up with my penchant to collect books, boxes and old furniture.

I call him “Cookie Monster” ‘cause he sneaks out of bed at night to raid the pantry. He calls me “Blondie” although these days, it’s more a pet name than a fact.

We’re lucky we found each other. And he’s the best this Cabin Mama could have ever hoped for!

Lollypop Farm

In Rochester NY where I grew up, the local branch of the Humane Society was affectionately known as Lollypop Farm. We kids loved to visit there because it had a barnyard with goats and sheep we could feed and pet. It was where you went to adopt an animal. It was also where you took the pets you could not keep. We always wondered about Lollypop Farm. Did all the pets there get adopted? Mom and Dad said they did.

There were six of us kids. At one point, Mom and Dad had five under five. We didn’t have a lot of pets ‘cause my folks had their hands full as it was. But with enough pleading, a few critters found their way into our home. I never got the pony I wanted, but we scored with a few smaller animals.

Mugsy was my brother Eric’s apricot poodle. He was cute, cuddly and very portable. We took Mugsy with us on our trip to Cape Cod in a big Winnebago motor home. He liked to lay on the long, wide dashboard and survey the countryside. When my Dad made a turn, Mugsy slid gracefully across the vinyl dash to the driver’s side. But Mugsy didn’t like to be left behind. Mom would come home from grocery shopping and find that sweet little dog on their bed getting far too frisky with her decorative pillows. The last straw was when he wet all over Mom’s brand new living room drapes. Mugsy went to Lollypop Farm.

Trixie was the cat from hell. She was super hyper from the moment we brought her home. She’d run loops around the tops of our living room furniture. She had wild eyes and would show her sharp teeth when she panted. We were all afraid of her. My brother Paul still sports a scar down his face from that demon cat. Trixie went to Lollypop Farm.

I had a big, beautiful white male rabbit. We kept him in a fenced spot in the back yard in the summer. In the winter he stayed in the garage in a cage. He would get so excited to see us! If we walked close to his cage, he’d run around in circles and display his manliness. That didn’t bode well for the bottoms of my Dad’s dress pants. It wasn’t long before the rabbit went to Lollypop Farm too.

My brother Paul’s long haired guinea pig was so funny! Jerry looked like a little mop on batteries. He was black with streaks of caramel colored hair that reached to the ground. We’d put him on the floor in the kitchen just to watch him scuttle to the corner and hide under the cabinets. His cage was in a basement room where Mom worked on her crafts. After church one day we all came home to find Jerry stretched out in his cage. Paul said, “Mom, something is wrong with Jerry. He doesn’t look too good.” We soon held a burial ceremony for Jerry and laid him to rest somewhere in the back yard. Months later, Mom was in her craft room spray painting one of her creations and she noticed a warning on the side of the can. “May harm small animals.” She felt terrible. Jerry never made it to Lollypop Farm.

My parents are very compassionate people. Truly. They love animals. My Mom keeps the birds fat and happy. She stuffs peanut butter into the holes of a birch log and hangs it from the kitchen window. But Mom and Dad both battle with squirrels. They’ve tried every which way to keep them out of the feeders. Dad finally bought a cage and once it was full of a mad-as-a-wet-hen victim, he’d relocate it to the park at the end of their street. For every one he moved down there, four or five new ones appeared back up at the house. One squirrel nested in a spruce outside their back patio door, so now they have a whole “fam damily” of squirrels.

Next stop – Lollypop Farm!

Cooking with Pearls

My siblings and I have a talented Mom who turns tuna, noodles and mushroom soup into a feast fit for a king. Our memories are filled with bubbling pots of savory stews, creamy casseroles and mouth-watering desserts. Mom made liver look good. She dedicated her time and creativity to keep six stomachs full while my Dad worked non-stop to feed his happy horde.

My brothers watch the Food Network. For fun. They glory in barbecue, brisket, spices and sauce. If you want their attention, just whisper, “Talk foodie for me.” My sister will whip up a quiche at the drop of a hat and serve countertops full of delectable dishes at each family gathering.

But me? I’m not a cook.

“I read recipes the same way I read science fiction. I get to the end and say to myself, ‘Well, that’s not going to happen!’” — Rita Rudner

You’ll never catch me floating around the house in an apron and pearls looking like June Cleaver or Julia Child. Before the wildfire, I had a few cookbooks and a recipe box I rarely opened. I make a mean banana bread, but will serve up the same simple fare for a long suffering sweetie who loves me for my conversational skills. I’ve been known to scrape and serve burned toast and disguise lumpy gravy with onions.

Of course, baking a birthday cake at 7500 feet can present some problems. But I wanted my son to beam with pride and family to swoon in delight at my scrumptious concoction. I would blush, careful not to steal the limelight, but bask in just enough glory and adulation to be memorable.

“What? Me, another Julia Child? Aw, c’mon , you don’t really mean that! You DO? No, it’s nothing, really. I made it from scratch in my spare time from an old family recipe.”

The beep of a pre-heated oven snapped me back to reality. It was time to get down to business, so I read the high altitude tips on the back of the box. In went the extra flour with water and butter. I prepared the pans, poured in the delectable goo and popped them both through the door. And then I prayed. I prayed to The Pioneer Woman for just a smidge of success, secretly hoping one day I too could make it big from a blog.

The moment of truth arrived. T’was time to cast my eyes upon the miracle I’d made. Two golden orbs of sweet smelling deliciousness stared up at me. I carefully lifted them up and out of the oven, knowing a tap on the counter would free them from their buttery bonds. I would marvel at my skill as each layer fell gracefully (in slow motion) ever-so-gently onto the plate below.

But something was terribly wrong. The darned things were sticking.

If I wasn’t careful, I would soon have a crumbly mess. Large chunks would rip away, revealing grotesquely gaping holes. No amount of frosting would disguise it. I could see those family faces now – eyes wide in shock, mouths twisted in disgust at the senseless destruction of a perfectly good cake. My son would race from the room, sobbing uncontrollably.

It was time for drastic action. Deftly removing my pearls, I reached for my weapons and slowly walked towards whatever fate would deal me. Cold and unforgiving in my grip, these instruments of force were intricately carved, handed down from my great-grandfather through the generations – only to be used if there was no other choice. My son tried to intervene, but I shook him off, demanding he run for cover. I stopped and planted my feet on the hard, dusty ground.

“This. Ends. Here.” I growled.

With a steady gaze and a lightening fast flip of my spatulas, the uncooperative cakes broke free and landed with a thud, lifeless and beaten. Overhead, turkey buzzards circled in the blinding sunshine and shimmering heat, waiting for a chance to attack their meal.

Oh wait, those were my guests! They came, they sat, they devoured everything in sight. My son looked at me differently that day and forever after. And I, dear reader, now knew how it felt to be tested, revel in the thrill of victory and take my place alongside bakery bastions, heroes and legends!

Horse Crazy Girl Finally Gets a Pony

How many of us will admit to being a little horse crazy as a kid? When I was a young ‘un, I lined the shelves in my bedroom with lots of little plastic horse statues, hoping one day I’d get to own a real one.

When my parents took us six kids to a winter festival, we sat on a sled with hay bales pulled by a team of huge draft horses. I remember telling my mom, “I so love the smell of horses!”

My sisters and I would pretend to be Palominos, Appaloosas, Arabians and Mustangs. We’d run through the woods, whinnying and pawing the air with our “hooves” to prove just how wild and untamed we really were.

I dreamed of having an office one day like Wilbur on TV. His horse, Mr. Ed, would hang his head over the stall door that separated the barn from the architect’s place of business. Ah, the best of both worlds!

Then I grew up. I rode whenever a chance occurred, took a few riding lessons and vowed one day I’d have my own horse. But the time never came. I got married and the kids came along, which took most of our resources to keep up with. And later on when I bought the cabin, there wasn’t enough room to board a horse on that little spot in the woods.

But Doug had owned a horse. And he had built himself a small barn to keep it in.

So early on in our dating adventures he invited me over for dinner and gave me a tour of the place. He had a saddle in the basement, horse blankets on a stand and ropes on the wall, just like a real cowboy! He even called me “Darlin’” with that country kind of drawl. (Every time he calls me Darlin’ it gives me goosebumps!)

But there was more! “C’mon out to the barn,” he said. “I’ve got something to show you.” He slid open the door and sunshine streamed across the dirt floor to the hay bales stacked against the rough wooden panels.

“I know you’ve been hankerin’ for a horse, so I got you one.”

And there it was, with sunlight bathing it’s long brown mane and a white blaze across its forehead. It stood there placid, silent and serene and stared deep into my eyes.

My very own stick pony!

He urged me to take it for a ride, but I knew I was too much of a novice to do it justice. So I just took it home and it shares my office. Just like Wilbur and Mr. Ed!

A Bunny in the Bedroom

When we first moved to Colorado Springs, the kids and I squeezed ourselves into a 600 square foot apartment. It was our first “starter home” being out on our own. I couldn’t afford much but I could manage a two-bedroom one bath with boys in one room and girls in another. At bedtime, I’d sit in my corner with my daughter sound asleep at the other end of the room, and I’d read or I’d write. I was as quiet as a mouse and kept the lights dim.

So it was understandable I second guessed myself the night I saw a quick movement out of the corner of my eye. At first I thought I was imagining things and went back to my book. But there it was again! Something darted across the room and went under the dresser as quick as a bunny.

By golly, It WAS a bunny!

I whispered out loud, “There’s a bunny in our bedroom!” Then louder, “There’s a BUNNY in our bedroom!!!” Finally I shouted, “WHO BROUGHT A DAMNED RABBIT INTO THE HOUSE?!?”

Like a flash, I had all three kids in my room jumping up and down and screaming, “It’s a bunny, it’s a bunny!” And of course the more they screamed and ran around, the more that poor rabbit flew frantically from under one piece of furniture to another. And you know they can flatten themselves down and squeeze behind just about anything.

We finally found the little varmint but it made a dash for the door with all three kids chasing it down the hall into our tiny living room. I ran for the broom, thinking I could catch it that way.

Silly girl! You can’t catch a rabbit with a broom. Just like you can’t catch a fish with your hands, so I’ve been told. But I was giving it my best.

Round and round the living room we went, chasing that cute little critter. Then my oldest had a brilliant idea and opened the apartment door. That’s right. Let the neighbors in on the fun. They’ll love us for it.

Out the rabbit hopped into the hallway looking like a Walt Disney character panting in sheer desperation with each one of my pajama clad kids in hot pursuit.

We violated quiet hours big time that night. But finally Mom came to the rescue with her handy dandy broom and herded that baby bunny down the apartment hallway. Three kids shrieking with joy drew a few unhappy faces from various apartments. But that little creature did the smart thing and made a dash through the open door and out into the night.

“Fun’s over gang,” I said. “Back to bed.”

I herded them back to the apartment where we had a major “come to Jesus” meeting. “I want to know who brought a bunny into our apartment?” I asked, looking down at three flushed faces still wound up after their evening excitement. They got a big kick out of seeing mom chasing a rabbit around in her nightgown with a broom.

One pair of big blue eyes met mine, then looked down at the floor. He couldn’t help it. He was grinning like crazy and proud as a peacock. He said, “I did, Mom.”

“Brett, where did you find the rabbit?”

“I chased him around in circles when I was out working with Clyde, then I finally caught him and put him in my lunch bag,” he said. “Clyde said I’d never be able to catch him, but I did when he wasn’t watching.”

Poor kid. I didn’t have enough money to buy him a real toy. He had to go and chase down a live one out on the plains.

I couldn’t be mad at him. It made for a fun evening and something none of us will ever forget. It’s all great story material and I’m just glad it wasn’t a baby skunk.