Puzzled

I swore I was never going to get sucked into the whole Wordle thing. 

Attribution below. Don't attempt unless you know Frisian.

Day after day, I'd see others posting their Wordle score on Facebook, and for years I resisted, certain it was a time-killer and I didn't have any of that to waste.

But, as usual, I was the latecomer to the feast, and here I am, digging hungrily into this new pastime. 

If it stopped there, it wouldn't be a big deal. But now I have the New York Times' puzzle app on my phone, and I'm a goner.

"How in the world did I get here?" you may wonder. 

I blame my subscription to the NYT newsletter. One day, at the bottom, it talked about a new game called "Strands." It's a word search but the words go every which way. Maybe I was bored that fateful day or whatever, but I decided to try it.

That was my undoing. I quickly got hooked, and decided to download the NYT puzzle app so I could do it every day.

Alas, the new word game isn't part of the app, as I discovered after downloading it to my phone. However, there are several other games, including Wordle, Connections, Letter Boxed, Tiles, Sudoko and a mini and maxi crosswords. To top it all off, there's the diabolical Spelling Bee, in which you try to make as many words as you can from a set of letters. 

While most of the games take only two or three minutes to do, the Spelling Bee is a real time suck. Mr. Ginley has growled at me over this repeatedly. 

"Are you playing that damn game again?" has become a refrain. Well, and sure, isn't he doing the crossword, Sudoko and anagram puzzles in the newspaper every day? (Okay, I do the Jumble and ScrabbleGram every day, too, but that's beside the point.)

I suppose all this puzzling is due to my being a word nerd, which can't be helped. We'll call it an occupational hazard.

And when I retire? 

I'll tell you it's keeping my brain going. As hobbies go, it's dirt cheap.

Just don't ask me to share my scores on Facebook!

Photo attribution: Kees Swart, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons. Fun fact: the name of this puzzle is Slangesiker puzel Wâldsang, or "Snaking Puzzle," as translated from Frisian, a nearly-defunct West Germanic language that's spoken spoken primarily in the northern Netherlands in the province of Friesland (Fryslân). Now, you know the rest of the story!

I Want a Lustron Home

When my Mom would say, "Your Uncle Jimmie and his family live in a metal house," I didn't realize the novelty at the time. In fact, I'd forgotten about it for years until my sister reminded me recently, and I had a sort of epiphany.

photo attribution below

Who lives in a metal house? And why? Was it just to put magnets on the walls or ceiling, like my Aunt Donna did? (Mr. Ginley would LOVE that, by the way. You'd understand if you saw our refrigerator.)

But I digress.

My curiosity sufficient piqued, I went to my friend, the Google and inquired. Here's the rest of the story.

Lustron was a Columbus, Ohio manufacturer in the late 1940s that came up with an ingenious idea for prefab homes. It was perfect timing, given the post-war building boom was in full swing and the demand for new homes was at an all-time high. 

Lustron homes were made of an enameled-steel design and could be assembled in 360 hours. (That's 15 days, I did the math for you). The houses had a solid steel frame and were built on a concrete foundation. Most didn't have a basement. Unlike their bricks-and-mortar counterparts, Lustron homes required almost no maintenance. The roof never needed to be replaced. No painting was necessary. All that was required was to hose the thing down every now and again to get the schmutz off the siding. 

Truly, the Lustron home was way ahead of its time. Like today's tiny houses, it was compact and functional. Everything was right there at your fingertips and there was built-in-storage for your stuff. 

About 2,500 Lustron homes were built before the company went kaput. They weren't able to pay back their start-up loans and were shut down.

Fortunately, there have been some folks who see the beauty and fabulous mid-Century vibe of these tidy little domiciles. 

The Ohio Historical Society has a video of a Lustron house that was moved from Virginia back to Columbus and is now a museum there. The YouTube video is definitely worth the 4+ minute watch.

Ohio Magazine did a more in-depth article about the Lustron house and the company that created it. 

And one ambitious soul made a Lustron home locator that shows where the remaining homes are situated. They cover a wide swath of the country, from the east coast to New Mexico. 

I'm thinking it's time for a road trip to the past! 

Photo attribution: BFDhD, CC BY 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Childhood Echoes

Sure, I'm a grown-ass woman, but the ethos of childhood are so deeply engrained, they continue to peck at me, like pigeons in the park.

Can you spot the First Holy Communicant in the bushes?

For instance, every time I throw away leftovers or fresh foods that have become inedible, I feel the tug of my mother's admonitions not to waste food. I hear the distant echoes of children starving in a foreign country calling out to me, shaming me. And although I realize my overeating and gaining another pound or two will surely not help those hungry youngsters, I still feel the twinge of guilt as I scrape aged foodstuffs into the garbage bin.

My parents weren't the only ones who shaped my childhood. There were also the flightless birds in their floor-length habits, their hair tucked neatly into wimples, with brows stern and rulers at the ready, waiting for the next transgression, which always came. 

I'm speaking, of course, of the the nuns. Masters of guilt instillation. God's warriors and every Catholic child's only hope of salvation. Always there to remind you that wearing a short skirt was a passport to hell. That God wouldn't cotton to boys with long hippie hair. And that playing keep-away on the playground was akin to dancing with the devil. 

My favorite was the nun who, when a boy was sitting on his hands one day, screamed at him to keep his hands on his desk. Clearly, nuns knew what was in the hearts and minds (and pants) of young boys.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, only as I near the brink of turning a milestone age, where the scales tip from "getting old" to "officially over the hill," I'm reflecting a lot on where I am, where I've been and what the foreseeable future holds. 

Will I become the alter cocker who begins every sentence with "when I was young..."? Will I try to keep up with the Gen XYZ'ers and pretend my body isn't slowly grinding to a halt like the Racing Horses ride at Cedar Point? Or will I simply stare the future in the eye and call out, "bring it on!"

And now I hear my Mom's favorite phrase, oft repeated and appropriate for any number of occasions.

"We'll see."

Dancing (or not) Under the Eclipse

Frankly, I was a little surprised by the response I got to one of my Facebook posts this past week.

photo credit below

It was on Monday, the day of the Solar Eclipse 2024, a day to be remembered forever – or at least until after everyone had posted their photos of the event. 

This is what I said in my post: Contrary to what "someone" said, I did NOT do a pagan dance during the eclipse.

I was being flip, of course, and the post was in response to Mr. Ginley (aka "someone") who sent a text to this effect to our son. I didn't think much about it, but then I started getting a response.

"Why not?" asked Dave, echoed by Sue and Dana.

Rachelle said she was very disappointed in me.

I started to think maybe I do need to loosen up a little. This idea was reinforced when I turned to my "Postcards From Spirit." Now I have to explain this concept. Fashioned like tarot cards, each has a message on it from your spirit guides. You shuffle the deck and pick one. 

Now you're thinking I'm a little wacky (or a lot wacky). Just bear with me.

This is the card I randomly chose: "Are you taking yourself and your problems too seriously?," it began. "Maybe fear of the future is weighing on you. We would like you to take a little break from all that and start having FUN." It suggested I get "loose, silly and goofy," go dancing or watch a comedy. Or touch base with someone who will remind me of "how ridiculous and delightfully giddy you can be."

Well, sure, and now you're saying, "Get over it, Barb, that could apply to anybody. And let's face it, how ridiculous and delightfully giddy have you ever been?"

It's all true, of course. I'm a worry wart from way back, and it's hard for me cut loose, and I certainly don't loosen in public. Which is why I wasn't dancing in my backyard with all the Seniors at the senior housing center watching the eclipse just across my back fence. Although that would certainly have given them something to talk about on their FB pages.

But I digress.

It got me to thinking, and so I made a point of taking a break from my work (in my home office, just me and the cat) and did a little chair dancing. I've been exploring different types of music, so I wasn't just boogying to the Beatles. There's a CD of French music and one with Calypso. And Michael Jackson's greatest hits. (Don't judge.)

It was a nice break, it made me happy and best of all, there were no witnesses.

Now it's your turn!

Photo credit: Paramount Pictures, CC BY 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

"I Want to Be Let Alone"

Greta Garbo is associated with the phrase, "I want to be alone" (or "vant" if you're saying it with the accent), but she told a close friend something a little different.

"I don't want to be 'left alone,' I want to be 'let alone.'"

That may seem like a pretty fine distinction, but oh, what difference a letter makes. 

I don't want to be left alone by friends and family, for example (not most of you, anyhow). But I do want to be let alone by those outside my circle.

I say this because I have a big birthday coming up later this year, and I've been flooded with reminders of same. In my mailbox, in my email and yes, even in my Facebook account, I keep getting ads for supplemental insurance. I've also received invitations for a free meal if I sit through an explanation of the screwed-up system that Medicare has become. Every insurance company on the planet, apparently, wants to be my carrier. 

And let's not forget the lovely brochures I've gotten from funeral parlors offering me affordable pre-payment plans.

Enough, all of you. 

The constant reminders of my age and impending decrepitude have begun to feel like a slab of cement pressing down on my chest, slowly crushing the life out of me. Which, if you think about it, is not in the insurance company's best interest. Their best interest being that I will live as long and healthily as possible so they don't have to pay up.

Just how persistent are these vultures, you may well wonder.

We're still getting ads addressed to my father-in-law. And he's been gone for well over 30 years. 

Maybe those smarty-pants don't know everything, after all. 

Photo attribution: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (work for hire), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

GOATS for Goats

In modern vernacular, GOAT stands for Greatest Of All Time. Recently, a small town in Utah called Stansbury Park,  got a shout-out for being GOATs for actual goats.

photo attribution below

The story, attributed to Cathy Free for the Washington Post, goes that Jose Garcia and his uncle Bartolo were hauling 50 bleaters from Minnesota to their dairy farm in California when they got caught in a massive snowstorm. The pair began to panic because the goats needed to be milked every 12 hours. If not, their udders would swell up and things would get mighty painful for them.  

After five hours of creep-and-beep, Jose was able to exit the freeway and head for a place where they could milk the goats. Fortune smiled on them when they pulled into the parking lot of Stansbury Park's Tractor Supply Company.

Assistant Manager Lisa Fernandez was closing up the store at 9 p.m. when she was approached by a frantic Jose, who asked if she'd ever milked a goat before.  

Startled, Lisa replied she hadn't, but she was up for it, and also enlisted the help of another store manager, who called employees to see if anyone else could assist. One of them did a post on the local Facebook page, and pretty soon 40 volunteers showed up in the 31-degree weather to milk the goats. When the sheriff pulled into the parking lot to find out what was going on, even he agreed to help. 

The game was on.

Ms. Fernandez gathered buckets and supplies from the store. Many of the volunteers brought their own containers so they could take the milk home. Unsurprisingly, most had never milked a goat before, but all were willing to learn. Jose quickly taught them the proper technique. 

By 11:15, all the goats had been relieved of their burden, and a very happy Jose and his uncle were able to complete the final leg of their journey to California.

So, why am I sharing a story about goat milking in Utah? Because I get so tired of the daily rag sharing stories of mischief and mayhem. It's refreshing to hear a story about real people helping real people. 

I'd like to think most of us are like those folks in Stansbury Park, Utah, not the trolls who pollute social media.

Maybe I'm delusion, but it's my delusion. 

And yes, if the opportunity presented itself, I like to think I'd pony up and milk a goat, too.

Photo attribution: Bernard Lens (II) (died 1725), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

For the Love of Splooting

"No, we're not getting a dog," Mr. Ginley said many moons ago. "I'm not a big fan of dogs. One cat. We can have ONE cat. That's it."

Galison puzzle, "The Corgi Museum" (1,000 pieces)

So it was written, so it shall be done. Which is why we've only ever had one furry four-legged creature wandering the vast Ginley estate. And it's always been of the feline variety.

While I'm okay with his decree, I still think about pooches from time to time, my pup of choice being the corgi. It's not because the Queen of England was partial to this particular breed, although that certainly does give them props. 

Corgis are just so stinkin' cute.

So when my friend, Ilona, got her corgi, I was thrilled to live vicariously through her adventures thanks to the sometimes-miracle that is Facebook. 

In the course of my stalking photos of corgis, I learned they're particularly good at splooting. Who knew that was a thing? It's when a dog lays on its stomach with its back legs splayed out. It's too adorable, although they do it because it's comfortable, not to amuse humans. Splooting is kind of like a person doing the child's pose in yoga. It's a good stretch. Apparently, it's also a canine move to find relief from heat in the summertime. So when you dog sploots, it's cool, no need for concern.

My love of corgis spilled over into puzzling territory this week, which is why they've been on my mind so much of late. When I saw the corgi puzzle at a local thrift store, I couldn't resist. Plus, the puzzle had never been done before and all the pieces were there, so huzzah!

It was such a joy to work on. Now I'll take it apart and share it at the library puzzle exchange so someone else can ooh and ahh over it.

Sure, and what's all the fuss about, you may wonder. I guess you could say it's a coping device. It keeps my spirits up as I avoid political ads, social media trolls and other depressing assaults on my sensibilities.

"Oh, look, he's so precious! Who's a good boy?"