We’ve got sunshine but cool wind, so still need to dress for spring apparently. None of this bare-headed, jacketless gallavanting for us.
On Thursday Emil got out of bed and on Friday or Saturday he went outside for an hour and last night I drove him back to Aylesbury House for the week’s work that is ahead of him. He sands reclaimed wood, which is repurposed into art pieces and sold at Rustic Havens, a little gift shop on mainstreet Wadena.
Emil out for a walk.
He says this particular green is “pretty nice to look at.”
I’m back to being on my own throughout the day. I do miss him. He’s good company. Which reminds me, all the walls and surfaces he touched after moisturizing his hands following each wash need to be wiped down. (Whew, that was a mouthful.)
Excuse me, while I’m thinking of it.
We are all tick bait.
Two or three have been found crawling on me, but none has latched on — maybe they’re desperate to get away! — and the credit goes to Laura’s home-made lemongrass lotion and her essential oil blend for insect repellent. I slather up with the lotion several times a day and spray the oil on my socks, walking shoes, and gardening clothes. Nothing is foolproof but I do all I can because lyme disease is no laughing matter and even if it weren’t for that, woodticks are gross creatures, gak!
Every day when Scott comes home he stops and examines SadieSue and removes a dozen ticks from beneath her fur. She doesn’t like to sit still and will wriggle away when he starts on her lower jaw and chin, but she enjoys the attention. Here she gets one of her daily doses of it as Scott returns to the house at suppertime.
We’ve tried numerous things — the commercial collars, the medications that you apply to the skin behind dogs’ shoulders, a home-made spray, and now a prescription from a vet. Some say the drug is too strong and toxic and they won’t give it to their dog, so we haven’t till now. But it’s a desperate situation. I won’t pick ticks off dogs (get the heebie-jeebies taking them off my own self, and then having to basically chop them in half to kill them, well … nope), you can’t always find them hiding even in short fur like Duckie’s, and Scott doesn’t have a lot of free time for the search. So we’ll try the medication and with luck it will give both us and the dogs some relief.
There goes the timer. Bread dough’s finished the second of its three rises and I must go shape it and put it into loaf pans. I owe Everett 15 loaves because between Scott and me on Saturday night we had $10 and needed $70 to pay for tickets and CDs, and Everett was the only one with enough cash on hand.
I’d received a phone call with an invitation to attend a house concert featuring vocalist Melanie Hankewich and her two-piece band, a.k.a. Belle Plaine. I’d seen one of their house concerts advertised on FB already and it seemed alittle unusual that they were playing in two local places in May, but then again, why not? Maybe Melanie was spending a couple weeks visiting family in the area; maybe the other two players were, too, as their hometowns are nearby.
Anyway, we took Emil to Everett’s for the evening and crossed the street to knock on the door of the hostess, Marj. It looked like we were getting there just in time, as there were a number of vehicles parked outside her house.
The door swung open wide, giving a view past Marj’s smiling husband into the dining room — which was full of people at the table, eating. Hm. The concert was to start in about five minutes, I thought.
“Are we early?” I asked.
He looked confused. “For what?”
“The house concert?”
Now Marj had left her guests at their meal and was coming over to see. He turned and looked at her questioningly; was there something she’d forgotten to tell him? No. She didn’t know what we were talking about either.
“Come in for some ice cream anyway!” he said with a grin. Talk about being welcoming to uninvited guests. It was actually tempting, but …
“You know what,” I said, “it must’ve been another Marge I was speaking to! That means we’ve gotta bolt, because the concert is starting right away — on a farm somewhere outside of Quill Lake.” We had at least a 20-minute drive ahead of us.
So we apologized for the interruption, waved goodbye, and carried on down the highway. I drove. Scott phoned my friend Charlene, who I seemed to recall had been to one of Marge’s house concerts before. Luckily she was home and her perfect directions got us to the farmyard before we’d missed too much of the musical performance. We heard the concert had started late anyway because another couple had gotten lost and the performers had waited for them.
Now, what are the odds that I would mistake one Marge for another, over the phone? But I did.
Here’s one of Belle Plaine’s catchy tunes: