Anne Tezon Spry's Blog

Ham balls are a Midwest holiday tradition. And maybe an acquired taste.

The first time a friend from Iowa tried to describe the deliciousness of ham balls, I nearly threw up in my mouth. I could not imagine that mixing ground ham and ground beef with graham cracker crumbs would be anything but disgusting.

Yet here I am, a decade or so later, making ham balls for the holidays, incorporating a longstanding Midwest tradition that originated in Iowa or Nebraska as my own.

I had to be coached by my stepdaughter the first time I tried to make them. She was tutored by my Aunt Gene, who got the recipe from a late great, second cousin, Nancy Crow.

Nancy served as the cook for many years at Wakarusa School and became most famous and beloved for her cinnamon rolls. (It must have been some kind of rule that schools had to serve the rolls with chili, at least in Kansas and Missouri.)

The cinnamon roll-chili combo takes a page from the ham ball playbook with the sweet graham crackers in the meatballs melding deliciously with the brown sugar in the sauce they’re baked in.

My ham ball touting friend from Iowa said the lore surrounding the dish had cooks rushing around to be the first on the block or quarter-mile gravel road to produce their holiday ham balls. And if you know anything about Midwest gardeners taking giant vegetables to the local newspaper to be photographed, you’ll recognize this quaint drive for bragging rights.

If I tried to grind the meat with my old-fashioned, hand-crank grinder it would take me until New Year’s Day.

Before I share our extended family recipe, here are a few pointers:

Do not attempt ham balls unless you are a lazy cook like I am and have access to a local meat locker, smokehouse or a butcher. A few weeks before Christmas I give Herman’s Meat & Smokehouse in north Topeka, KS a call and place my standing order for 2-1/2 pounds of ground ham, 2 lbs. of ground pork and 1 lb. of ground beef. In my defense, they’ve got big machines that do the heavy lifting! If I tried to do it with my old-fashioned hand-crank meat grinder it would take me until New Year’s Day.

It also helps to have a heavy-duty stand mixer with a dough hook to incorporate the graham cracker crumbs into the meat.

And for the certifiably lazy cook, you can just use frozen meatballs and cook them in the special sauce; although I doubt that will get you any rave reviews from your family.

Here is your gift for Christmas, my family’s recipe for what Nancy called Memorial Day Ham Loaves. At least that’s the heading printed in the Community Favorites II cookbook compiled by Wakarusa Presbyterian Church. Some of my family members probably regretted that title because the Auburn, KS Alumni Association requested a whole bunch of these for a reunion a few years ago. Since then my relatives who catered the event probably never want to see another ham ball.

To keep them from throwing up in their mouths if they read this, I’m giving it a different heading.

Nancy Crow’s Holiday Ham Balls

2-1/2 lbs. ground ham

2 lbs. ground pork

1 lb. ground beef

3 eggs

3 ups graham cracker crumbs

2 cups milk

Salt to taste (since ham is usually pretty salty, I omit this. Who wants to taste raw meat anyway?)

Grind the meat (or have your butcher do it for you). Use a food processor or blender to finely crumb the graham crackers. Put a third or half of the ground meat into a large stand mixer bowl. Using a dough hook, start incorporating the eggs, milk and graham cracker crumbs into the meat. Gradually add the remainder of the meat and other ingredients.

Using disposable food grade gloves sprayed with Pam and a large scoop (also sprayed with Pam), start forming the meatballs, placing them in cake pans or Pyrex baking dishes. This recipe makes at least 36 meatballs, so you will need an extra-large pan or maybe two smaller ones. Alternatively, you can make one pan and wrap the rest of the meatballs individually in waxed paper and freeze them for later use).

Sauce:

1 can of condensed tomato soup

1/3 cup vinegar

1 tsp. dry mustard

1 cup brown sugar

Mix the sauce ingredients in a small saucepan and place over medium heat, stirring until it comes to a boil and turns a dark red-brown color. Cool for a short time before pouring over the meatballs.

Put the meatballs in pre-heated over at 350 degrees for one hour. I cover the ham balls with foil and bake for 45 minutes, removing the pan and taking off the foil. I spoon the sauce over the meatballs then put it back in the oven to continue baking. The sauce will form a glazed crust over the ham balls.

Be sure to let them cool for ten to 15 minutes before serving.  

I take no credit for these hints or this family recipe. I’m just continuing the holiday tradition and sharing the family legacy.

The post Holidays are happier (but maybe not healthier) with ham balls appeared first on NewTricksforoldDogs.net.

Have you received an email to update your antivirus software? Software you haven’t had for years? Software that will now cost you $495 annually? You are not alone.

The arrival of autumn signals a fresh season of scammers. Besides their greed, this cadre of low-life scum has become much more sophisticated in the past few years. Maybe we can blame the pandemic for putting us on our phones and computers in our quest for connection through social media. Seniors seem more susceptible to scams than younger folks because most of us are more prone to trust that others have good intentions and because we may not be as astute with technology.

As tech-savvy as I consider myself, even I have fallen victim recently to an online impersonator. Luckily, he didn’t get my money, but here’s how it happened:

A unique example of Facebook fan page cloning

My cousin, a big-time music fan and concertgoer, alerted me to a musician she follows who was seeking someone to translate song lyrics from Portuguese into English. She thought of me since I had been a Peace Corps volunteer eons ago in Brazil. She sent me a link to the musician’s Facebook fan page and I connected with who I thought was the recording artist himself. He responded and wanted to communicate on Messenger only. Okay, no problem.

We exchanged pleasantries and he outlined what he was seeking. He gave me the name of the song that had been recorded many years ago by a Brazilian singer. I got on YouTube, downloaded the lyrics in Portuguese, and did the translation. To help the singer out further, I recorded an MP3 file of me saying the lyrics in Portuguese so he could get the correct pronunciation because he wanted to record the song in both English and Portuguese.

When I had willingly completed the task, just satisfied to dust off my rusty Portuguese and do it for nothing, I thought we had finished our communications. But suddenly, he had another set of song lyrics he wanted translated. And he started asking for a lot of personal information. Nothing to set off alarm bells, but enough to raise my eyebrows and wonder why he wanted to know my favorite singers, my dreams, and aspirations.

When I thought we had finally ended our collaboration, he wanted to know if I’d like to donate to his fan club by buying a “fan privilege package,” to the tune of $3,000. In exchange, I’d receive preferred seating at his concerts, a backstage pass, and a free newsletter.

No, thank you. I had spent hours doing the translations and recordings and responding to his annoying personal messages. It was time to block the man and do some research. I discovered he had cloned the real musician’s Facebook fan page and began impersonating him. I was not the only person who thought they were following and commenting on the real musician’s posts.

The old PCH scam

My husband is a Publishers Clearing House fanatic. I’ve watched him go through all those little glossy individual advertisements and pull out a few items that he thinks we really, really need. He likes cleaning gadgets (what is he trying to tell me, I wonder?) And he’s been known to unwittingly subscribe to monthly deliveries of tins of nuts and candies. Once we consume the contents of the cute little decorator tins, down to a basement shelf they go. I try to re-gift them every holiday season by filling them with homemade goodies, but we don’t have that many giftees. Someday soon they will be donated to the local thrift store.

This is all to say that my husband’s addiction to PCH has put him on an electronic hit list. I came home from a hair appointment the other day to find him fuming in anger. For the second time in the past four years, he’d received a call from someone claiming to be from Publishers Clearing House telling him that he’d won the big prize. All he had to do was go to the local Walgreens or Walmart and buy a gift card to pay the taxes on his winnings.

Even before we married, I had to alert this intelligent but trusting man to a scam he’d fallen for while using his laptop. He got a flashing message on his desktop that his Microsoft program had become corrupted and expired and he needed to renew it or lose all his files. This involved turning over his computer to them so they could remotely update the program, but only after coughing up $395 and his bank routing and account numbers. The result of this scam? He stopped using the old laptop that the scammers now had total control and access to. He bought a new one instead and now ignores those annoying popup warning messages. And he knows how to block the popups with some system settings.

The worst scam of all

The absolute worst, most heartbreaking scam happened with a friend and neighbor. My husband was helping him locate a used tractor with a cab so the friend would not be so exposed to the winter elements when taking hay to his livestock.

My husband has helped other friends and neighbors locate parts or machinery online because he is more tech-savvy than many of them. And I may have even helped too by looking at Facebook Marketplace for tractors for sale. We located one, which was not for sale anywhere close to where we live. But it was a good price. In fact, the price was half of what it should have been but involved a widow who had no use for it.

The local rancher made arrangements through my husband to wire the money to a bank in New York and then received instructions about the shipment and delivery of the tractor to a nearby town. The shipping was allegedly being handled by eBay. A date was set for delivery…a delivery that never happened.

We contacted the local sheriff, the FBI, and the attorney general’s office after the tractor didn’t show up. Despite repeated calls to the so-called seller (why do they all have foreign accents?) and eventually a recorded message saying the number had been discontinued, the thousands of dollars spent for a tractor were not returned to the friend’s bank account.

We all learned a painful lesson; namely,

If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. It’s easy to clone a reputable website.Online marketplaces are not good at policing the items offered for sale on their sites. The best thing to do if you fall victim to something that is not represented honestly on such sites is to report it. After our scam, we saw the same tractor for sale again with only slightly different details. We reported it and eventually, it was taken down.

Other than learning through painful experiences, and seeing friends scammed, I’m no expert at the nefarious plots scammers have concocted to separate seniors from their retirement funds and savings. If you want more details, check online sources, including https://www.ncoa.org/article/what-are-the-top-online-scams-targeting-older-adults/

That’s it for this public service blog. Just be wary as the holiday season approaches. And don’t believe any unsolicited or solicited claim that your antivirus software needs to be updated or you’ll lose all your data. What you’ll stand to lose is your peace of mind and your money if you click on that link or follow that verbal command.

Not everyone is as nice as you are.

The post It’s scam season and seniors are often targets appeared first on NewTricksforoldDogs.net.

I know I’m finally recovering from double knee replacement surgeries this winter because I’m regaining my morbid sense of humor.

I asked my husband today, “What happens to new knee joints when people are cremated? Does titanium melt?”

He thought for a minute and surmised that what doesn’t melt in a crematorium is pulled out and tossed, before handing the cremains over to the family. Unless, that is, a family member might want the joints as souvenirs to put on the mantle.

My husband is the same age as me (actually, I’m older and wiser by four months) and must have the same morbid fascination with how things work. He noted that all these implants have serial numbers so if something happens before a person is cremated…say a fiery plane crash or collision…the joints are better for identification purposes than even dental records.

I guess all of us who are newly bionic can take some comfort in the fact that some of our body parts will outlive us. As I feel my way through my mid-seventies I’m beginning to think in terms of mortality. Too late am I making a concerted effort to eat whole foods instead of things that come in boxes, and trying to get more exercise, even if it’s just re-learning how to walk on new knee joints.

I’m still working on curing my sugar addiction and trying hard not to think about something I heard recently….that sitting is the new smoking. That’s probably doubled for folks like me who do a lot of sitting in front of a computer.

I do hope to live into my 90s with renewed energy and purpose now that I have new knees. Cue the theme music from The Titanic–“Near, far, wherever you are, I believe that the knees do go on…”

The post My new knees will outlive me, or things to put in your pre-need funeral plan appeared first on NewTricksforoldDogs.net.

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I know I’m finally recovering from double knee replacement surgeries this winter because I’m regaining my morbid sense of humor.

I asked my husband today, “What happens to new knee joints when people are cremated? Does titanium melt?”

He thought for a minute and surmised that what doesn’t melt in a crematorium is pulled out and tossed, before handing the cremains over to the family. Unless, that is, a family member might want the joints as souvenirs to put on the mantle.

My husband is the same age as me (actually, I’m older and wiser by four months) and must have the same morbid fascination with how things work. He noted that all these implants have serial numbers so if something happens before a person is cremated…say a fiery plane crash or collision…the joints are better for identification purposes than even dental records.

I guess all of us who are newly bionic can take some comfort in the fact that some of our body parts will outlive us. As I feel my way through my mid-seventies I’m beginning to think in terms of mortality. Too late am I making a concerted effort to eat whole foods instead of things that come in boxes, and trying to get more exercise, even if it’s just  re-learning how to walk on new knee joints.

I’m still working on curing my sugar addiction and trying hard not to think about something I heard recently….that sitting is the new smoking. That’s probably doubled for folks like me who do a lot of sitting in front of a computer.

 I do hope to live into my 90s with renewed energy and purpose now that I have new knees. Cue the theme music from The Titanic–“Near, far, wherever you are, I believe that the knees do go on…”

The post My knees will outlive me, or, things to put in your pre-need funeral plan appeared first on NewTricksforoldDogs.net.

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Shopping for undergarments at department stores can be an exhausting, challenging feat as you grow older. Goodbye to sexy: A short course in shopping for elder-wear

After months of isolation during the initial days of the pandemic in 2020, guess what my radar settled on for that first shopping trip in a mall?

Underwear. Elder underwear

I was so exhausted upon returning from the big bra expedition, I had to take a nap. It’s hard work to bend over and rake through the bottom rungs of department store racks to find just the right bra for an aging body.

Years ago–long before turning 65–comfort became the key feature I sought in shopping for everything from automobiles to gynecologists. The car had to be a zero-entry product with an adjustable driver’s seat. If the door frame had a threshold that might trip me in getting in or out, the car was nixed. Heated seats became a must-have.

The gynecologist? She had to be recommended by friends who assured that they never felt even a pinch during a pap smear.

Goodbye underwires that pinch and things that push up

New bras now must meet similar requirements. Underwires are out. Padding is okay, but at my age, the three hook, back fasteners had to make way for a broad back five.  (I’m way past the age of worrying about a male having difficulty undoing three fasteners, let alone five.)

I spent the first several months of the pandemic trolling Facebook ads for bras that could smooth out fatback bulges and hold up saggy flesh. I soon got burned by a cute little t-shirt with sewn-in bra that promised to make me look like an 18-year-old. When it arrived from China a few months after languishing in customs, it caused one of the biggest laughs I’d had during the pandemic. And trying to get into it almost resulted in a trip to a chiropractor (I haven’t had time to shop for one of those yet). Chinese women are a lot smaller than Americans…just sayin’.

That Chinese t-shirt experience and the pandemic motivated me to

lose some weightorder some athletic bras andtry some of those things that fasten in the front and guarantee to improve your posture on account of having a crisscross thingy in the back.

The C model soon showed its impracticality with arthritic fingers trying to fasten the front, in the dark, while shoving uncooperative flesh out of harm’s way. The B model failed due to its requirement of being put on head-first, then failing to support even minimum bouncing while merely walking across a room.

[image error] I sure hated to part with these red sandals. By now they’re probably in a new home on younger, sexier feet. Saying good-bye to sexy shoes

About the same time that I had to make the shift to new undergarments for elders, shoes became a sore subject…literally. I blame this on my Sweet Adeline’s chorus and rehearsals that required standing for hours on risers. Admittedly, some of the agony that resulted in leg twitches, pain, and insomnia on nights after a rehearsal had more to do with my poor circulation and with pulling out of water aerobics classes during the pandemic.

The foot pain caused me to head to a real-life shoe store. The kind with men who kneel at your feet, measure them with that cold sliding ruler, then disappear into the back room to return with a tower of boxes holding your next Cinderella slipper. Except the slippers have now morphed into clodhoppers.

“This is what the dealers at the casinos around here wear, and they’re on their feet all day,” explained the young whippersnapper (did Red Skelton invent that word?) The thick soles on these models promised cushy standing support, but they looked like they’d been whupped with an ugly stick. Oh well.

I’ve been wearing the white and black versions of those things for the past two years now. They are a step up in elderly couture from the first old lady shoes I bought at an SAS store years ago. I think the saleslady became quite offended when I asked with dripping sarcasm if she could find an uglier pair in my size.

Now whenever I attempt to wear anything sexy on my feet for more than three hours, my legs cramp and keep me up all night and my poor feet turn red in protest. I have since purged my closet of all sexy shoes. I told them goodbye and good luck and sent them on their way to a thrift store and future younger feet.

Covering liver spots and lizard skin

I am now seeking lessons in elder makeup. The trials in that arena I can again blame on my chorus. For ten years I’ve worn little to nothing extra on my face except for liver spots and lipstick. But an upcoming competition on stage, under stage lighting, called for stage makeup. Enter false eyelashes. Enter things like pore putty and a daily moisturizer. And when it came time to apply the eyelashes for the first time, I had to call in a younger reinforcement with steadier hands.

Someone needs to do the world of baby boomers a favor and put out a primer on elder fashion and makeup. Maybe that’s what this drivel is. All I know is, I cringe at my younger self for making fun of women years ago who seemed to live in big, flowery mumus. How embarrassing, I thought back then. Why would they go out in public dressed like that?

Today, the judgmental woman that was me is eating her words and hoping I don’t embarrass the younger generation when and if I go out in public wearing my favorite new uniform—yoga pants. They don’t camouflage my saggy old bulges of skin like mumus did for older women decades ago. But they are great for supporting atrophied leg muscles and mildly compressing varicose veins. One of these days I might even wear them while practicing yoga. Just don’t hold your breath for that.

News flash and P.S. – Walmart sells mumus. Maybe I’ll have to give one a try…and wear it over my yoga pants.

The post Goodbye to sexy: A short course in shopping for elder-wear appeared first on NewTricksforoldDogs.net.

Shopping for undergarments at department stores can be an exhausting, challenging feat as you grow older. Goodbye to sexy: A short course in shopping for elder-wear

After months of isolation during the initial days of the pandemic in 2020, guess what my radar settled on for that first shopping trip in a mall?

Underwear. Elder underwear

I was so exhausted upon returning from the big bra expedition, I had to take a nap. It’s hard work to bend over and rake through the bottom rungs of department store racks to find just the right bra for an aging body.

Years ago–long before turning 65–comfort became the key feature I sought in shopping for everything from automobiles to gynecologists. The car had to be a zero-entry product with an adjustable driver’s seat. If the door frame had a threshold that might trip me in getting in or out, the car was nixed. Heated seats became a must-have.

The gynecologist? She had to be recommended by friends who assured that they never felt even a pinch during a pap smear.

Goodbye underwires that pinch and things that push up

New bras now must meet similar requirements. Underwires are out. Padding is okay, but at my age, the three hook, back fasteners had to make way for a broad back five.  (I’m way past the age of worrying about a male having difficulty undoing three fasteners, let alone five.)

I spent the first several months of the pandemic trolling Facebook ads for bras that could smooth out fatback bulges and hold up saggy flesh. I soon got burned by a cute little t-shirt with sewn-in bra that promised to make me look like an 18-year-old. When it arrived from China a few months after languishing in customs, it caused one of the biggest laughs I’d had during the pandemic. And trying to get into it almost resulted in a trip to a chiropractor (I haven’t had time to shop for one of those yet). Chinese women are a lot smaller than Americans…just sayin’.

That Chinese t-shirt experience and the pandemic motivated me to

lose some weightorder some athletic bras andtry some of those things that fasten in the front and guarantee to improve your posture on account of having a crisscross thingy in the back.

The C model soon showed its impracticality with arthritic fingers trying to fasten the front, in the dark, while shoving uncooperative flesh out of harm’s way. The B model failed due to its requirement of being put on head-first, then failing to support even minimum bouncing while merely walking across a room.

I sure hated to part with these red sandals. By now they’re probably in a new home on younger, sexier feet. Saying good-bye to sexy shoes

About the same time that I had to make the shift to new undergarments for elders, shoes became a sore subject…literally. I blame this on my Sweet Adeline’s chorus and rehearsals that required standing for hours on risers. Admittedly, some of the agony that resulted in leg twitches, pain, and insomnia on nights after a rehearsal had more to do with my poor circulation and with pulling out of water aerobics classes during the pandemic.

The foot pain caused me to head to a real-life shoe store. The kind with men who kneel at your feet, measure them with that cold sliding ruler, then disappear into the back room to return with a tower of boxes holding your next Cinderella slipper. Except the slippers have now morphed into clodhoppers.

“This is what the dealers at the casinos around here wear, and they’re on their feet all day,” explained the young whippersnapper (did Red Skelton invent that word?) The thick soles on these models promised cushy standing support, but they looked like they’d been whupped with an ugly stick. Oh well.

I’ve been wearing the white and black versions of those things for the past two years now. They are a step up in elderly couture from the first old lady shoes I bought at an SAS store years ago. I think the saleslady became quite offended when I asked with dripping sarcasm if she could find an uglier pair in my size.

Now whenever I attempt to wear anything sexy on my feet for more than three hours, my legs cramp and keep me up all night and my poor feet turn red in protest. I have since purged my closet of all sexy shoes. I told them goodbye and good luck and sent them on their way to a thrift store and future younger feet.

Covering liver spots and lizard skin

I am now seeking lessons in elder makeup. The trials in that arena I can again blame on my chorus. For ten years I’ve worn little to nothing extra on my face except for liver spots and lipstick. But an upcoming competition on stage, under stage lighting, called for stage makeup. Enter false eyelashes. Enter things like pore putty and a daily moisturizer. And when it came time to apply the eyelashes for the first time, I had to call in a younger reinforcement with steadier hands.

Someone needs to do the world of baby boomers a favor and put out a primer on elder fashion and makeup. Maybe that’s what this drivel is. All I know is, I cringe at my younger self for making fun of women years ago who seemed to live in big, flowery mumus. How embarrassing, I thought back then. Why would they go out in public dressed like that?

Today, the judgmental woman that was me is eating her words and hoping I don’t embarrass the younger generation when and if I go out in public wearing my favorite new uniform—yoga pants. They don’t camouflage my saggy old bulges of skin like mumus did for older women decades ago. But they are great for supporting atrophied leg muscles and mildly compressing varicose veins. One of these days I might even wear them while practicing yoga. Just don’t hold your breath for that.

News flash and P.S. – Walmart sells mumus. Maybe I’ll have to give one a try…and wear it over my yoga pants.

Blogger’s note: According to folks posting on a gardening site I follow, it’s time for the invasion of Japanese beetles again. I’ve learned a lot since this post was originally written. No longer do I use pheromone traps to keep the nasty critters away from my flowers and veggies. And about those green tomatoes I socked away for winter? I’m still trying to find where I hid them.

This has been a bad year for garden vegetables. Like we humanoids, they have been operating under pandemic parameters for the past two growing seasons.

That was my trite observation as I wrapped two buckets of green tomatoes in newsprint this morning and carefully tucked them in a box to take to the basement. They will ripen down there in the dark and taste pretty sweet in the middle of a Kansas blizzard.

Another tired and trite reflection: Anyone who tries to grow their own fruits, vegetables, or flowers when they have other primary passions and compelling work is either…

A–Stupid

B–Has extra money to throw away

C–Loves being tortured and challenged with only minimal rewards

D–All of the above

Of course, the answer, at least for this pretend gardener, is D.

Please help me! I’ve fallen in the garden and can’t get up!

I wish someone had been taking a video of me early this fall as I tripped over a wad of rubber garden hose and then a landscape timber while trying to rescue a potted Mandeville plant that was looking sickly. As my foot caught–first on the hose–then on the timber, I felt my body tilt at 45 degrees and travel for a full 20 feet. I never let go of that potted flower until finally hitting the ground and sprawling on my right side… on the wrist already plagued by carpal tunnel from my real daily occupation of putting my own or client’s stories on a computer screen.

It was one of those scenarios we may have played out as a child. You look around to see if anyone witnessed it so you can send out a tearful SOS. Seeing no one, you realize there’s grass soaked with dew and chiggers underneath you. You see a flash of the television commercial where a feeble, white-haired elder cries weakly, “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

 Determined to not be that commercial, and to avoid wearing a call button around your neck for the rest of your life, you just pick yourself up. Still, there’s a nagging sense that this might require an X-ray, or at least an ice pack.

As the soreness sets in, I wonder why in the world I’ve continued to garden this year?

Was it only for the aesthetics…the sheer enjoyment…the fleeting appreciation of the beauty of the flowers and the way they enhance curb appeal?

Did I grow vegetables just so I could boast of the flavor of a pot of homegrown green beans cooked with new potatoes and flavored with bacon and onion?

Is this just a genetic compulsion that began when my mother sent her slave children (me, mostly) to the garden at age 13 to weed so that she could feed us homegrown green beans and sliced tomatoes?

The year 2021 has not been kind to this gardener. I’m thinking it might be time to give it up and let the weeds have everything and the containers go bare next season. I don’t have time to put gardening on my “passionate about this” list and be more professional and intentional about it.

Yes, I know. I should practice perseverance. But the pandemic and all my other to-dos have made me realize that it just might be time to begin using discretion…it being the better part of valor and all.

Plagued with pandemic pests In case you ever wanted to see a closeup of a Japanese beetle. You’re welcome.

The gardening obstacles we faced this year have not made this hobby fun:

•The pandemic has fueled a return to digging in the dirt for a lot of folks the last two seasons. That led to a renewed interest in canning all the bounty, which led to a shortage of canning supplies.

• Prices for bedding plants were a lot higher this year, fueled no doubt by continued pandemic labor shortages and trucking issues. The cart loaded with tomato plants and flowers that we shoved through the checkout at Home Depot caused us a bit of sticker shock.

• Plagues and pests showed up at our garden this year–big time. They included

–Japanese beetles. I never knew about these nasty things, so had to learn to set out tree traps with pheromones for the romantically inclined bugs.

–Rose rust and mildew—the roses never bloomed this year

–Something strange in the garden soil I bought

–Tomato cutworms

–Squash bugs

–Lima beans that just kept blooming but never put on pods

–Grasshoppers that ate all the foliage on my hibiscus flowers

–The intense heat

–Constant watering…if you didn’t, everything wilted.

–Beets and lettuce that never, ever get planted in time and then blast in the searing Kansas sun.

–No true spring–just winter followed by summer.

At least the grapes were good this year. I admit there were a few successes…

The moonflowers bloomed, even though they were planted late and I never expected them to.

The irises and lilies and peonies were lovely, as usual.

The store-bought petunias looked great…when I remembered to water them every day.

Despite my complaints, there must be something that compels gardeners to dig in the dirt every year. Next spring, I’m sure I’ll be off to a greenhouse for bedding plants, forgetting I took a nasty fall and battled so many pests, along with the challenges of pandemic gardening.

And if this aging body should not allow me to garden, I’ll take a spring trip to a greenhouse, just to smell the dirt.

The moonflowers and hibiscus flourished…when they weren’t being attacked by beetles and grasshoppers.

The post Pandemic gardening: Beetles and green tomatoes appeared first on NewTricksforoldDogs.net.

I harvested more green tomatoes than red in my pandemic garden this year.

This has been a bad year for garden vegetables. Like we humanoids, they have been operating under pandemic parameters for the past two growing seasons.

That was my trite observation as I wrapped two buckets of green tomatoes in newsprint this morning and carefully tucked them in a box to take to the basement. They will ripen down there in the dark and taste pretty sweet in the middle of a Kansas blizzard.

Another tired and trite reflection: Anyone who tries to grow their own fruits, vegetables, or flowers when they have other primary passions and compelling work is either…

A–Stupid

B–Has extra money to throw away

C–Loves being tortured and challenged with only minimal rewards

D–All of the above

Of course, the answer, at least for this pretend gardener, is D.

Please help me! I’ve fallen in the garden and can’t get up!

I wish someone had been taking a video of me early this fall as I tripped over a wad of rubber garden hose and then a landscape timber while trying to rescue a potted Mandeville plant that was looking sickly. As my foot caught–first on the hose–then on the timber, I felt my body tilt at 45 degrees and travel for a full 20 feet. I never let go of that potted flower until finally hitting the ground and sprawling on my right side… on the wrist already plagued by carpal tunnel from my real daily occupation of putting my own or client’s stories on a computer screen.

It was one of those scenarios we may have played out as a child. You look around to see if anyone witnessed it so you can send out a tearful SOS. Seeing no one, you realize there’s grass soaked with dew and chiggers underneath you. You see a flash of the television commercial where a feeble, white-haired elder cries weakly, “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

 Determined to not be that commercial, and to avoid wearing a call button around your neck for the rest of your life, you just pick yourself up. Still, there’s a nagging sense that this might require an X-ray, or at least an ice pack.

As the soreness sets in, I wonder why in the world I’ve continued to garden this year?

Was it only for the aesthetics…the sheer enjoyment…the fleeting appreciation of the beauty of the flowers and the way they enhance curb appeal?

Did I grow vegetables just so I could boast of the flavor of a pot of homegrown green beans cooked with new potatoes and flavored with bacon and onion?

Is this just a genetic compulsion that began when my mother sent her slave children (me, mostly) to the garden at age 13 to weed so that she could feed us homegrown green beans and sliced tomatoes?

The year 2021 has not been kind to this gardener. I’m thinking it might be time to give it up and let the weeds have everything and the containers go bare next season. I don’t have time to put gardening on my “passionate about this” list and be more professional and intentional about it.

Yes, I know. I should practice perseverance. But the pandemic and all my other to-dos have made me realize that it just might be time to begin using discretion…it being the better part of valor and all.

Plagued with pandemic pests In case you ever wanted to see a closeup of a Japanese beetle. You’re welcome.

The gardening obstacles we faced this year have not made this hobby fun:

•The pandemic has fueled a return to digging in the dirt for a lot of folks the last two seasons. That led to a renewed interest in canning all the bounty, which led to a shortage of canning supplies.

• Prices for bedding plants were a lot higher this year, fueled no doubt by continued pandemic labor shortages and trucking issues. The cart loaded with tomato plants and flowers that we shoved through the checkout at Home Depot caused us a bit of sticker shock.

• Plagues and pests showed up at our garden this year–big time. They included

–Japanese beetles. I never knew about these nasty things, so had to learn to set out tree traps with pheromones for the romantically inclined bugs.

A bunch of squirming, trapped Japanese beetles…the pandemic version of Beetlemania.

–Rose rust and mildew—the roses never bloomed this year

–Something strange in the garden soil I bought

–Tomato cutworms

–Squash bugs

–Lima beans that just kept blooming but never put on pods

–Grasshoppers that ate all the foliage on my hibiscus flowers

–The intense heat

–Constant watering…if you didn’t, everything wilted.

–Beets and lettuce that never, ever get planted in time and then blast in the searing Kansas sun.

–No true spring–just winter followed by summer.

At least the grapes were good this year. I admit there were a few successes…

The moonflowers bloomed, even though they were planted late and I never expected them to.

The irises and lilies and peonies were lovely, as usual.

The store-bought petunias looked great…when I remembered to water them every day.

Despite my complaints, there must be something that compels gardeners to dig in the dirt every year. Next spring, I’m sure I’ll be off to a greenhouse for bedding plants, forgetting I took a nasty fall and battled so many pests, along with the challenges of pandemic gardening.

And if this aging body should not allow me to garden, I’ll take a spring trip to a greenhouse, just to smell the dirt.

The moonflowers and hibiscus flourished…when they weren’t being attacked by beetles and grasshoppers.

My first eyebrow wax From shaggy to tame in one swift pull on a piece of duct tape…instant facelift ! (Except this is probably a picture of a guy instead of a 71-year-old female. You get the idea)

“How about an eyebrow wax today?”

“Say wha…?”

With my head immersed in the salon sink, those words offered casually by my stylist were a total shock after a relaxing scalp massage during my bi-monthly color and cut.

She must have been taken aback by the look of pure panic above my paper mask.

“Have you never had an eyebrow wax?”

“Never, ever, ever,” said the woman who avoided anything that might involve the slightest hint of pain, discomfort or surprise. Just ask the optometrist who tries to dilate my eyes, or the ENT who attempts to stick a tube up my nostrils. Forget about a COVID swab to the nether reaches of my brain. It didn’t happen. I stayed home during most of 2020 and wore my mask religiously, so as to avoid that nose-to-brain thingy.

“It will make you look younger. Really. It will take years off your face. I promise.”

Well, in that case, I was willing to give it a try. After all, at 71, why not live dangerously. I’ve had to give up my dreams of hang gliding off the cliffs of Oregon and jumping horses like I imagined while watching National Velvet as a girl. If getting rid of shaggy eyebrows is the only daring deed I have left in me, let’s do this thing.

Eyes shut, I feel something warm touch my brow as my potentially-soon-to-be-ex-stylist paints the wax on those intruding hairs that I’d never noticed (thanks to being nearsighted and all). I start babbling about being sure that I’d had my eyes gouged out in a former life and explain that’s why I end up nearly slouching out of the optometrist’s chair every time he even comes near me with eyedrops.

Soon I notice myself in the same semi-prone position, this time halfway out of the salon chair. Sudden… startling… hot… white… heat.

“Holy crap! You didn’t warn me!”

“If I had, you’d have been all tense, and it would have really hurt.”

“Okay. You did say it would feel like a band-aid being pulled off. I guess it wasn’t all that bad.”

I settle in for the rest of the ride, ready for whatever she has left to give me on the other side.

There was no such thing as a bikini was when I lived in Brazil in the 1970s.

Thank God I am way past the age of bikini waxes.

Last time I dared put on a bikini was 1973, on the beaches of Brazil, and I don’t think they even did waxes in that country back then. Although they later gifted the world the infamous thong (and I don’t mean the ones we were wearing on our feet back then).

And a final daring dental appliance fitting

For an encore daring deed, I went to the dentist today and had a new piece of hardware installed in my mouth.

The genesis of the five-point dental bridge: eighth grade at Grandview Junior High School. I had an abscessed molar. I could see the pus pocket on the exterior of my gum. I’ll bet my breath by that time could have knocked out anyone I happened to have a conversation with. Must have finally managed to talk to my mother because I landed in a dentist’s chair for the first time ever. He extracted the painful piece of flesh-covered enamel and I was certainly glad to see it buried in bloody gauze in a metal wastebasket.

Eventually that gaping hole got filled by a crown. That, only after getting married and being able to afford advanced dentistry. But pregnancy, a busy career and junk food does things to tooth enamel. The crown came off while eating taffy and a cavity caused the tooth next to it to become abscessed. Extraction number two. Hole widens. In comes spider partial number one to the rescue…a cute little plastic thing that clips into my mouth and fools me into thinking I don’t really have a hole there. After eight years, it wears down and out. Spider partial number two gets manufactured by the lab. At age 70, spider partial just isn’t chewing up my Longhorn Flo’s filets like it should. When my ship comes in in the form of the sale of some real estate, it’s time to put the final hardware in my skull.

Only an archaeologist will know. If I don’t open wide, you’ll never be able to see my new 5-point bridge .

As the dental anesthesia wears off this afternoon, imagine my relief in knowing that when archaeologists dig up my body (assuming I don’t opt for cremation) they will marvel at the dentistry of the 21st century.

I’m just so glad that I decided to live life on the edge after coming out of the pandemic of 2020.

I got my first eyebrow wax. I now have this wonderful new five-point bridge (five teeth in all). I can now easily chew a nice steak. It’s just too bad that I can no longer digest beef.