Sunday, May 11, 2008

. . . celebrated all mothers

We will be off to visit my husband's mother on "the farm." My daughter and her family are in Washington, D.C. for the wedding of Andy's cousin this weekend. Betsy told the daycare folks that she was going, and they jokingly asked her if she was attending the President's daughter's wedding. She said she was, and now nothing will convince her otherwise. My son will go with us to Grandma Buek's house out in the country, where the wind, which is blowing like crazy here, will be gale force, because it always is out there. Betty is about as big as my leg, maybe five feet tall and weighs less than 100 pounds. She is a cool and funny lady, besides being a great cook. She is 82, I think, but looks and acts 40 years younger. She walks miles and miles for exercise, delivers Meals-on-Wheels, and knew my dad before even my mom did. Two stories:

(1) Her church offered a tour to Rome; she chose not to go, because she did want all the "old people" to slow her down.

(2) She and her sister Carolyn have an annual tradition of Christmas shopping on the Plaza here in Kansas City. A couple of years ago, they also had their annual tradition of lunch on the Plaza, complete with several glasses of wine. When they left the restaurant to continue their shopping trip, they were feeling real good. They spied some cute clothes in a junior boutique, went in and bought what they thought was just the thing. When Grandma got home, she discovered that she had purchased rhinestone studded low-rise bellbottom skinny jeans. I think she took them back, but if any 80-year-old could have pulled off that look, it would have been Betty.

Playing around on the computer yesterday, I discovered the "collage" button on Picasa -- well, I didn't discover it, I just figured out how to use it. This is so cool and so easy. The picture above is one of the collages I created out of my industrial pictures. It opens up new sources of inspiration. I'm sure I will be able to spend a lot more time messing with this feature. . .

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