The Things You See Along the Way in Vermont…

If you were having your yard dug up, would you want it done by the bourgeois?  When I first saw this, it occurred to me that this might not be the best name for a company, but then I thought about it for a little longer.   The word bourgeois means conventional, conservative and hide-bound and the antonyms are adventurous, inspired and original.  Yes, if I wanted someone to dig up my yard, I’d want them to be bourgeois.  I don’t think we need originality in yard digging.

Ever seen one of these before?  Me, either.  I like the originality though, don't you?

The bears in Vermont are so refined, they wear clothes and they always recycle.

Even without the license plate, I would have a pretty good guess where this car has its home base.  My favorite of the bunch is, “Never give up on your dreams, unless your dreams are stupid.”  Great advice!  Well, I kind of like the “Drink Vermont Beer” one, too.  

But seriously, I really am already against the next war.

Fellow blogger Nicki (Bended Road Photos) recently posted a gas pump similar to this one. The difference is that the one she posted has the Esso logo on it.  Seems her father was an Esso dealer back in the day.  I am sure that fans and collectors of petroliana could point out more differences between the two pumpls besides the brand name, but to me they look like they might be of similar vintage.  We ran across this pump at Calvin Coolidge’s birthplace in Plymouth Notch, Vermont.  My father owned a service station in Ohio and was a Gulf dealer so, of course, I had to take a snap.

 

Here’s an aside about Coolidge.  An interesting thing to me about him is that before he became president, he was mayor of Northampton, Massachusetts, where my daughter Carrie lives and Calvin’s wife, Grace Anna Goodhue, who was a graduate of the University of Vermont, taught at the Clarke School for the Deaf that is located down the street from Carrie’s abode.

I know that the above is true but is this?

OOPS!  I forgot something.  As we were traveling down the road, we spied this sign:

If you've followed this blog for any length of time, you may know that I fell in love with Scotland when we visited a few years back.  While we were there, we visited the Isle of Skye and I wanted to buy a Skye tartan scarf because I really, really liked it.  Well, long story short, I didn't buy it and have regretted it ever since.  When we spied this sign, Greg turned around and let me go in to look for my Skye tartan.  Now, I have it and it's beautiful!  Yay!

Thanks, Greg!

Oh, snap…

When I woke up in the middle of the night last night like I usually do, I glanced out the window and saw that we had gotten a bit of snow.  Yesterday friends from the mid-west USA had posted photos on Facebook with bitter complaints about the weather because they had snow.  Didn’t the Powers That Be know that it was April 15 already??

  Here in Central Massachusetts, it was a nasty day yesterday but it was warmish so it rained all day and the wind was blowing like a son of a gun.  I thought that that was going to be the worst of it.  I wasn’t expecting snow.  But there it was staring me in the face at 3:30 a.m.  I didn’t lose sleep over it.  These late snow storms are ephemeral and really more like April showers than snow.  They don’t even make the flowers that are trying like heck to come up complain much.  But, here is what it looked like when Olive and I went for our walk this morning:

Looking out the window a little later, I saw that most of the snow was gone.  I went out and took a few snaps of the lonely flowers that are growing in our yard.  They looked a little down-hearted, but I think they will survive.  I suppose that that is the good news.

The bad news is that I felt like I had to put on socks today.  Oh, snap!

Never put a sock in the toaster and other musings about socks…

“Never put a sock in the toaster” is excellent advice from Eddie Izzard.  But sometimes I must admit to being tempted to do just that.  It’s the truth that my absolute favorite thing about spring and the coming warm weather is that I don’t have to wear socks, wash socks, match socks or, most of all, listen to complaints about someone’s favorite sock going missing.  Socks have been the bane of my existence since the day I got married and started doing someone else’s laundry besides my own.  I don’t think I need to mention any names here.

Personally, I tend to be a traditionalist about socks.  Most of mine are black or white because they are easy to match up and I can wear them even if they don’t “match” precisely as long as I have long pants on.  But I do like brightly colored socks.  I just don’t manage to get to the Bright Sock Store…ever. When my socks seem to be running low having been eaten by the dryer or when they acquire too many holes in places that make them really uncomfortable, I just pick more up in the supermarket.

I think that the very best advice I’ve seen on the Interweb about socks is from Jerod Kintz.  He said, “I soak my white socks in coffee, so I can wear them with brown pants and keep my feet from falling asleep.”  I may just decide to do that one of these days.  I need all the help I can get.

My daughter Carrie, on the other hand, is most definitely a bright sock person who has never even been too particular about her socks matching.  I call it Serendipitous Sock Syndrome but I don’t think it needs to be treated medically.  I actually admire SSS in a person.  Carrie recently brought me a bag of her old socks that are orphans or have holes in strategic places.  Those colorful socks will eventually be stuffed with organic catnip and made into catnip toys for some discerning cat or possibly a designer cat bed, giving these colorful old tubes a new lease on life.

Last year's selection of catnip toys and an upcycled cat/dog bed designed primarily by my friend Diane O-J and made in last year's colors.

Carrie does knit but I don’t think she has tried to make socks yet.  If she ever did, this story might just be about her:  A policeman spotted a woman driving and knitting at the same time.  Driving up beside her, he yelled, “Pull over!!”  “No,” the woman shouted back, “a pair of socks!”  Actually, Carrie is a very careful driver.  Just because she suffers from SSS, it doesn’t mean she would be careless with knitting needles.

But I know that most of you have lost socks in your laundry so you can, like I can, relate to this quote by Rod Schmidt:  “I washed a sock.  Then I put it in the dryer.  When I took it out, it was gone.”  My friend Kathi Clayton is a notable exception to this law of nature and claims to have never lost a sock in the laundry.  I think she needs to go on tour and explain exactly how this has happened. What’s your secret, Kathi? People would flock to her lectures.  She would be the next big thing and would be able to buy socks made of silk and cashmere woven with gold.  My guess is that socks like that would get lost.  What self-respecting dryer could resist gobbling those up?

Enough about socks, already!  I would say that it’s about time to put a sock in this blog post.  But I ran across this article written in 1979 by the incomparable Erma Bombeck.  Apparently she asked that people let her know their theories on the cause of socks going missing and this is what she found out:

Most of the writers zeroed in on sex.  Like coat hangers and paper clips, socks were believed to have an active sex life – but only in water.  Some believed they married, but they fooled around and often divorced in the dryer.  No alimony was involved.  Some stayed together through two or three washings, but suddenly turned into a swinging single.  One writer believed that socks went through a sex change, coming out another color.

                A large number embraced the Planned Obsolescence theory, that is a conspiracy between sock and washer manufacturers who incorporate sock disintegrators (right next to the button crusher) and sock sensors which grind up a sock and spit it out as lint.  The newer models even have a reconstructed sock cycle which returns a sock lost five years ago.

                There was a Sock Fairy theory for those of you who believe in Peter Pan, the Cloning theory where for every pair of socks an extra one is cloned driving you crazy with three socks of one color, and the Best Friend theory where your friend is secretly after your husband and both are trying to drive you whacko.  There is the Reincarnation theory where it is believed that a sock returns in another form.  (One woman swore that after five years of losing socks, they all came back one day as a sweater.)

                Some believed socks had an identity crisis and split.  Others leaned toward cannibalism.  One writer went for the Steve Martin theory where socks, instead of getting high on detergent, got small and disappeared.

                A great number believed socks to be a migratory species, activated by simply adding water.

                And finally, one writer blamed the United States government for programming washers to eat socks and keep the economy alive.  One blamed the Russians for undermining American women’s stability.  I’d have been disappointed if someone hadn’t said that.

My last words on the subject are that I’m just glad my dogs can breathe.