Off my bucket list--trip to Hot Springs Village

At my advancing age, I hate to admit to any kind of mis-hearing, mis-understanding or forgetfulness, because folks (including myself) might think I was on the edge of dementia. But I’ve discovered that younger people have memory issues, too.

In late June, a sister from Virginia reserved a condo for a week in Hot Springs Village. We other sisters who lived as close as Benton and Little Rock, were asked to spend a day or two with Barb before the big family reunion over the July 4 weekend.

Since I travel to Hot Springs about every Monday to a writers’ group, I decided to go visit Sis while I was that close to The Village. I had directions from Malvern Avenue to Highway 7. Barb had sent directions to the condo, either from the East gate or the West gate.

After the meeting which ended at 12:30, off I went, down Malvern to Grand Avenue, across it till I came to the intersection with Central. I knew my way to Hwy 7 from there. What I failed to realize (and herein lay the problem) was that Hwy. 7 made a sharp turn north, but in my searching for the HSV sign, I missed the Hwy. 7 sign. Soon, I was on Hwy. 5 headed to the East gate and, eventually, home. But I wasn’t going home.

OK, no need to panic. The East gate was ahead of me. I drove and drove and drove. Then I saw a green sign, “Balboa Gate, 2 miles.” Whew! I knew that was also an entry into the largest gated community in the U.S. But there were a lot of other things I didn’t know.

Driving in behind two vehicles that were entering the gate, I noticed both drivers held a card out to a meter and the gate obediently opened. OMGosh! I didn’t have a card! But as I pulled up, a miracle happened: the gate opened!

Another “whew!” and a whispered “thank-you-Lord,” and I relaxed and began reading my directions—which, unbeknownst to me—were of no avail. But I followed them till I got to a place where I had to turn right or left––a dilemma, because it wasn’t in the directions. No signage, either, at the intersection of Andorra and Desoto.

I pulled into the parking lot of a Lutheran church and called Barb. Carolyn was already at the Los Lagos condo, so between the two of them—one holding the phone and the other reading a map––and me driving with one hand t an ear and one hand on the steering wheel in those unfamiliar, mountainous, curvy roads, I finally made it—an hour after I’d left the Garland County library.

They had waited lunch, so we had a light repast of tuna salad, tomatoes and crackers. Plus, big laughs at my recounting of travel travails. A swim—in the Adults Only pool––then a stint in the hot tub refreshed us, since the heat of early summer was already upon the land.

That night, Barb opened a new box of Mexican Train dominoes, which we all three learned to play.  Carolyn lost and I won!!

 

               

               

               

 

               

               

               

 

Cats: who's the boss?

Greye joining me in the "Square" this Sunday morning

 

A column in the Saline Courier last week by Gene Lyons, one of my must-read writers, was titled “Humans don’t domesticate cats.” Aha, thought I, here’s my next blog. Though I won’t allude to any erudite sources as he did, I have plenty of empirical evidence that agrees with the headline.
 

A month before hosting the family reunion, I’d returned from a week in Piggott. The cats, Greye and Bibbs, were outside that week, fed every two days by Daughter. Since one of the relatives was allergic to cats, I thought (again), “Why not keep the cats outside until after the reunion on July 4?” Surely, that would alleviate any further buildup of dander. I would sweep well and wet-wipe the back of the upholstery where they used to sit.
 

Done.
 

But they were not happy campers, uh, cats. Greye, named for his color, brightened by patches of white here and there, has been with me the longer. He’s a sweet cat and loves to be brushed under his chin. He often closes his eyes as if in ecstasy. But he isn’t a lap cat like Billy’s first feline, Elizabeth.
 

 Greye used to lie on any available rug or floor pillow. After his month outside, he has chosen to sleep nestled against two wooden feet of the old, columned dining table. Now and then, when I’m in the kitchen, he’ll pad in and meow. I know he’s ready for a brushing. He hasn’t yet done what a poet/writer friend said her cat did once: brought me the brush!

 

Bibbs, on the other hand, “fixed” as early as was possible, must have a dreadful memory of the experience. He keeps his distance, and when he’s down from his favorite haunt—the attic—he skitters away when I come around. Despite this, he didn’t like his outside confinement. Don’t tell the relative this, but two days before the event, Bibbs stealthily positioned himself so that when I opened the front door, he could slip in. Which he did.
 

 Oh, my. I quickly opened the attic door and he zoomed through it. “You’re here until company leaves,” I hollered after him. Taking food, water and a small box of litter to the head of the stairs, I closed the door firmly. That night, I heard him yowl. I opened the attic door, hurried to the front door and opened it, and he flew outside as fast as his tabby legs could run.

 

I was saved. My relative was saved.
 

After the reunion guests left, I called the cats up. Of course, being their own bosses, they took their sweet time. When I held the door open, both were a tad hesitant, but wanted inside badly enough that they took the chance. Bibbs still prefers the attic and Greye, the table legs. Their sustenance, etc. is at the back of the house, and, obediently, I see to their every need. Bibbs will never see the inside of a vet’s office unless he is so sick he can’t resist my blanketing him for the trip. I CAN still get Greye inside a carrier, thank goodness.
 

Thanks to Gene Lyons for the idea. Maybe I can return the favor one day.
 

Yeah, when cats obey!!

 

 



Blogging about the Couch family reunion, July 3, 4, 5, 2015

From 2 towns in Virginia, 2 towns in Florida, New York, Oklahoma, Oregon, and 7 places in Arkansas, we gathered at sites close to "the old home place," now known as Couchwood. Shirts had been designed & ordered. (above)

 



 

The first event was a pool party on Friday evening in the Quapaw Quarter area of Little Rock. After a day of rain and storms, Mother Nature took her blustery self elsewhere--just in time. Guy and Cliff hosted a scrumptious meal afterwards.

 





                               Marlee H., Meredith and Hazel V. Chris H.

Saturday's weather dawned clear and dry. Grillmaster Eric's family arrived first laden with Lisa's famous banana pudding and Lainee's grape salad. In all, 37 folks roamed the one acre--from the backyard, through the house/kitchen/dining room/ living room spilling onto the front porch, and visited till lunch.


Bennett H. (second youngest at 1 year) enjoyed Great-Aunt Trisha's  gardening wagon.

Burgers, brats and dogs--plus Pensacola shrimp--and all the "fixings" you can imagine were devoured. Homemade ice cream and watermelon topped off the meal.

Jake and Brian B., Cliff B.,  Chris-Lisa-Marlee H. at the outside table.

 

Bill and son Kevin C.

 

 Afterwards were games of horseshoes, kiddy rides and Billy's old, but washed, toys, and inside, more visiting and looking through memorabilia. Oh, yes, and picture taking

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Bill, Carolyn, Beverly, Barbara and me (eldest) and Carter B. (3rd from the youngest).

 

 

My sons, Eric and Gordon in the side yard.

 

The third event was a fish fry at the Little Rock home of Beverly & Buddy Villines. Again, good food, visiting and watching the finals of the important soccer game.

 

Gordon P, Carolyn, Lynn, and Jenn B. after the meal.

 

We failed to get a picture of the entire family, but everyone was in someone's photographs. We did want to mimic the '94 picture, even without Thurman, so, before we broke up for the weekend, we managed this photo of the siblings. Perhaps we'd better not wait another 21 years to get together.

                               Left to right: Guy, Carolyn, Beverly, Bill, Barbara and moi (Pat)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Barely into summer, yet ready for July 4th

from Google Images

 

 Geez! 97.3 degrees at 4:30 p.m. on the 3^rd day of summer! And the same prediction for the following day. Wouldn’t you think we would gradually, gradually move up to that temp? Oh, wait. Temps have  climbed since late spring. These playful seasons—they delight in teasing, joshing with us. Mother Nature is behind all of this, I’ll bet.

What? Global warming, you say? Sigh. It certainly seems so. Or perhaps I have a short memory for temps during the past summers.

 

Except one: 1980. It was excruciatingly hot. Especially in a small, frame, rent house on a hill in Bryant. Central heat and air? You gotta be kidding. No wonder I looked for a house to buy. (Don’t ask.)

 

On the day last week I typed this, the temp climbed higher—to 97.7 with a “feels-like” temp of  111. And on the 3^rd day of summer! My three window ACs in the front of the house labored. The one in the living room put out enough water for a nice-sized herd of cattle. Thankfully, though, only two cats drank from it. The flower beds and porch plants got the rest. Oh, and the five chickens I’m babysitting, uh, hen-sitting.

 

Speaking of summer’s heat, a friend/ colleague who lives close to Tucson said it was 100 degrees after 9 p.m. out there. And, that June was the hottest summer month. I’d never heard that. Had you? I figured it got hotter as the summer progressed. Hmm. What is that “lucky old sun” doing up there? “With nothing to do, but josh with those peasants down there.” (Apologies to Haven Gillespie for the parody.)

 

One more item, then I’m through harping about summer. From a poem, “Dozing on the Porch with an Oriental Lap-rug,” by Richard Tillingast, 1969, are these three lines:

 

 “…it is four in the afternoon

 a cold June so far

 cold enough for a fire . . .”

 

(from an anthology, The Wesleyan Tradition of American Poetry: Four Decades,” p 100.)

 

July 4: the day on which former presidents Thomas Jefferson and John Adams and James Monroe died. Stephen Foster, popular song writer, was born the day Adams and Jefferson died, and George M. Cohan claimed July 4, 1878, as his birth date, which was actually July 3. (from The Trivia Encyclopedia by Fred L. Worth, p. 134.)

 

“O beautiful for spacious skies, / For amber waves of grain, / For purple mountain majesties/ Above the fruited plain! / America! America! / God shed His grace on thee, / And crown thy good with brotherhood/ From sea to shining sea!” – written in 1893 by Katherine Lee Bates (1859-1929: Educator and poet).

 

May your July 4^th celebrations be full of deep appreciation of what blessings and possibilities we have available in America.