1. Besides left over Easter goodies, what's something currently kept in a basket at your house? Bruiser's shoes and gloves and such are in a basket by the front door. It's far easier to keep track of them that way, especially when his room was in the basement.
2. 'The greater danger for most of us is not that our aim is too high
and we miss it, but that it is too low and we reach it.' ~Michelangelo
Buonarroti
So which one are you...the one who aims too high, or the one who aims
too low? Have you ever seen The Sistine Chapel? Did you know
Michelangelo's surname prior to answering this question? I probably tend to aim too low. Nick has been great for pushing me to succeed--he's so proud of the things I do accomplish.
Nope, I was aware that he had a surname, but not what it was.
3. April 7th is National Beer Day. Hmmm...wonder how that's celebrated?
Do you like beer? Have a favorite? If you're not a beer drinker do you
have any recipes you enjoy cooking that call for beer? We have become beer drinkers ever since Nick started brewing beer. I have found that I prefer darker beers and am not a fan of IPAs or really hoppy beers. Nick has brewed well over 250 gallons of beer in the last three years and most of it has been quite wonderful.
4. When did you last travel somewhere new? Tell us where? How'd it go? We went to the Black Hills and stayed at a campground last August. Now we have been to the Black Hills before, but never at a campground. It was really fun.
5. The value of _________________________is greatly overrated. Technology. And by this I mean ability to be technologically connected at every moment of every day. It's like there's no real concept of privacy any more.
6. What's a pet peeve of yours when it comes to restaurant dining? An inattentive or, conversely, an over attentive waiter/waitress. I like them to be on the ball, but they don't really need to hover either.
7. It's Poetry Month...share a favorite poem, either the title, a few lines you find meaningful, or the whole kit and caboodle.
I've always been a fan of Robert Service, so here's my favorite from him:
The Cremation of Sam McGee
By Robert W. Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
8. Insert your own random thought here. After that long poem, how about I keep this short and sweet--have a great week!
ITTLE Orphant Annie's come to
our house to stay,
