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I stopped by my kids’ school today to join my Varmint and Critter for lunch.  I got there a little early, so hung around outside with the recess Aide watching the kids play an impromptu game of Soccer.  It was a fierce battle between the 4th graders and the 5th graders…and it was brutal.  Pele himself would have been afraid.  Those little guys and gals don’t follow any rules that I can see….it reminded me vividly of Calvin and Hobbes and their invented game, Calvinball.  (For those of you who have been living on a deserted island for the last several decades, in Calvinball, one makes the rules up as one goes along. Rules cannot be used twice. No Calvinball game is like another and it can involve wickets, mallets, volleyballs, and additional equipment as well as masks.) There were kids running and laughing everywhere; they were all having a complete and total blast.

It was a gorgeous day.  Sun was shining.  60 degrees.  Slight breeze.  Sugarloaf Mountain was in the background.  The surrounding farms looked idyllic and peaceful.  I thanked the Lord above that my children are lucky enough to be raised in this place, the Montgomery County Agricultural Reserve. I was in such a good mood, feeling grateful and blessed.   All was right with the world.

And then the recess aide asked me nonchalantly, “Have you heard that someone is suing the farmers for farming around Laytonsville in Montgomery County, and this could affect the Ag Reserve?”

I thought she was kidding.    I waited for her to crack a grin.

She didn’t.

Turns out, as we speak, farmers in Laytonsville are being sued and prevented from farming by residents in developments that form homeowner’s associations with covenants that do not allow for farm activities in the Reserve.  If they win, this would directly impact the farms in the Ag Reserve.

To put it in plain English…. Within the last few years, someone decided to build a bunch of homes near rural Laytonsville.  And then, they formed a covenant that said, “No Farming!”, and decided to sue the farmers for doing what they have done since before the revolutionary war….er…farm.

It boggles the mind.  I sure hope the people suing the farmers don’t get anywhere with this.  It would be so….wrong!  I can’t think of a more fitting word for it.  Wrong.  It would be as if the legislators were playing their own game of Calvinball.  Make up the rules as you go!

The rest of the recess and lunch hour with my Varmint, a large dark cloud hovered over my head.  I couldn’t wait to get home to write the County Legislators a letter in support of farm legislation MC 16-12.   And I’m so grateful that the recess aide just happened to mention it.

Even if she did kill my buzz.

It was a dark and windy night.  It was snowing outside.  The windows  rattled.   Trees swayed menacingly.  Brrrrr.

Sounds like a good time to be half-naked in a satin, sequined, lacey negligee, right?

WRONG.

Look, people, I don’t care if you call me old, or frumpy, or sex-less.  Winter is for flannel.  Period.  And socks.  Thick ones.  Fleece, if possible.    If Victoria Secret had half a brain, they would be making their skimpy little nighties out of thick pile flannel, possibly with some battery operated heated underwires.  Someone write them a letter for gosh darn sake.  Truth be told, the Victoria Secret models could use a little insulation.  They all look like they need a sandwich,…. or five.

And while I’m at it, let’s talk about underwires.  Who in the world thought THAT was a good idea?  A misogynist, obviously.   Why not add some rebar, fiberglass, and sandpaper in the cups while we’re at it?

And don’t get me started on the ideas of thong underwear.  Good Night!  It’s asinine.  (get it?  Ass-inine…)

And for you men who think it’s a woman’s place to dress uncomfortably to ‘please her man’, may I gently suggest that you try on some of these contraptions and see how sexy you feel!  I’ll tell you right now that amorous is not what you’ll be feeling.  Cranky, annoyed, and irritated is what you’ll feel.

And possibly chafed.

Flannel.  It’s the smart woman’s bedclothes.

I’ve always delighted in a sense of individuality.  I don’t bend easily to other people’s whims.  I don’t often follow the crowd.  I just walk my own road.  Pride myself on it, really.  So it was not normal for me to do something as stupid as I did last summer.

Well, it might be normal for me to do something as stupid as I did last summer, but if it is, I’m blissfully unaware of it.

My Captain and I were on our annual trip to Glacier, Montana.  We were visiting our friend Peggy, who introduced us to our new friends Gigi, and Sue, who introduced us to the evils of swimming in glacial meltwater.

“What?!” you cry?

I know, I know.  I feel the same way.  What kind of idiot swims in glacial meltwater?

This one does.

You see, we were rafting down the McDonald Creek in West Glacier,

when we came upon a large rock.

Almost a mini cliff, really.  And the ladies informed us that it was tradition for newcomers to the creek to jump in from the rock.

So we did.

“What?!” you exclaim.

I know, I know.  What kind of idiots do something so illogical just because others before them did it?

This kind.

And it was colder than the contents of a million ice cream cones.  (Please don’t ask me where I got that metaphor.)

We are talking the mother of all ice cream headaches.

I became one big goose pimple.  And at my weight, its more like a goose boil.

Funny?  I guess.  Worth it? Well,  I can tell you I will never do it again…..

…..I’ll do something equally stupid, most assuredly, but it will be different.

The closest town to me, Poolesville, is a Mayberry of sorts.  Small town, USA, on the outskirts of Washington-DC-Metropolis-from-Hell.  (No really, that’s what they call it.)  And since it sits so near to the county Agricultural Reserve, it is fairly protected from Urban Sprawl and its associated ‘progress’.    The Ag Reserve is fighting its own battles to keep development and sprawl from infecting its pristine, rural heritage, but Poolesville is in an odd situation.

Since it can’t grow developmentally too much, which is a good thing in some respects, it also can’t grow economically too much, which is not a good thing.   The price we pay for a small, tightly knit community, is that our businesses are struggling.  We’ve lost several already.

And now, a big blow, we’ve just closed our one and only grocery store.  A family run IGA that has been around for decades and decades and decades….closed its doors for the last time this weekend.  Its name was Selby’s, after the family that started it so long ago.

And it started out as kind of a General Store, in an old building with wooden floors.  Mr. Selby was well known and loved in the community, and his business was needed and welcomed.

Over the years, the town grew a little, the store moved locations, became an IGA, and it looked like it would be a successful grocery to serve a larger community.

But that community never grew enough, and other stores on the roads into Poolesville, like Safeway and Harris Teeter, began to take larger and larger pieces of the market.  Selby’s was a straight forward grocery.  They couldn’t easily compete with stores that had banks or Starbucks, or pharmacies.  And, even though the Selby family supported the community in areas like the local firestation, town clubs, town athletic teams, parades, etc, the community just didn’t have enough capital to keep Selby’s running.

And now it has closed.

As you can imagine, the little town is upset.  People keenly feel the Selby family’s pain.  Change is so difficult, even in the best circumstances.

One of ol’ Mr. Selby’s granddaughters, Lisa, is a friend of mine.  A harder worker I don’t believe I have met.  Her heart was definitely in her family’s business.  What could I say to her with the store closing? Everyone else in the community was saying all the sympathetic, loving words they needed to hear.  But so much of it was piteous.  Sad.  Doleful.  Dejected.  I kept thinking, “That won’t help them move on.”  Sure, it would help them know they were not alone in their disappointment.   Literally hundreds of people were sympathizing.  Appropriately so.

Yet it wasn’t what was in my heart to give her.  I wanted to say something to her that would give her some light.  Some optimism.  A different perspective.  Something hopeful.

On my living room wall is a cross-stitched plaque that was handmade for me by a friend when I was going through my extremely painful divorce years ago.  It reads simply:

Every Ending Brings A New Beginning

So I sent her that thought.

I am so sorry the store closed.  But I do look forward to seeing what paths Lisa and her family take in the future.  The world is their oyster, if they can see it that way.

And when you think about it, that applies to all of us.

I’ve got to lose weight.  Several doctors have told me this recently.  Personally, I think it’s a conspiracy.  They’re trying to keep the big girls down because we’re so dagnab loveable; they need some way to even out the playing field for the poor skinny ladies.  Oh yes, I am on to them.  But, I’ll just go along with it, if it makes them happy.

So I’ll try to diminish my impressive stature.  (Sounds very grand of me, eh?)

Eating less?  Of course.  Sprinkling Sensa on my food?  Yes.  Staying away from simple carbs as much as possible?  You bet.  Exercising? …….. Exercising? ……. Exercising?  (Crickets chirping.)

I don’t want to.

I figure like any other machine, my body is only good for so many miles.  Why would I want to hurry the end along?

My family is not in agreement with this particular philosophy.

Picture My Captain, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck and forcing me on a death march today while barking,  “You Vill Valk until you drop!”.  And he then he jabs me in the hiney with an electric cattle prod.   And cracks the whip.   And pokes me in my back fat.  (He has a lot of hands.)

Critter and Varmint, in an effort to support this plan of  ‘reducing Mama Boe’, came along, and we re-named it a ‘family hike.’   From our house, we traipsed 1.5 miles downhill to a nearby train station, looked around for flattened pennies, and then we crawled 1.5 miles back up-freaking-hill.  Why couldn’t we live on the low ground?  Who was the genius who put the cottage uphill?

People just don’t think, I tell you.

It’s a good thing my babies came along, because they provided me distraction from the pain in my knees, hips, back, and neck.  (The neck, from having its scruff yanked.)  Each in their own way. Gwen with her witty banter, and by linking her arm through mine so I could not bolt back to the house.  (Oh THAT is funny!  Can you imagine me bolting?  Bwaaahahahahahahhahahahaha!  hic.)

Critter brought his Ranger Rick binoculars to study anything he could get his focus to work on.  (That’s not much with a Ranger Rick set of Binoculars.)

Then he spied the moon…. in a beautiful crescent….in the afternoon….in a perfectly blue sky….on a sunny day.   The kids thought this was MARVELOUS!  It stopped Critter in his tracks….(for which I sent up a prayer of thanks for the respite.)  And I watched my baby in his moment of wonder.

My heart melted.  All pain faded into the background.  It left a warm fuzzy feeling in me about the whole experience.

Later on, back home, after I flopped down on the couch, I promised them I would exercise again…. if we could all be together like that every time.  I figure I’m safe with that promise.  Getting this motley crew out all at the same time is a difficult as me walking away from a plate of warm cinnamon rolls.  It’s not likely to happen.

So, I’ve got that going for me.