Author: Cranky Crone

I wonder why when I get gasoline in my car at the 85 octane level and have 30 cents off of the price of a gallon, the receipt shows I paid 30 cents more than the original cost of the 85 octane gasoline.  Definitely, not the reduced rate!  So, I when went into the cashier’s little building, showed him the receipt, complained about the cost, and waited for his answer, he assured me that I had pushed the premium button.  I assured him that I had NOT!  My car does not like premium gasoline.  And, I definitely was not happy.  Nothing changed.  So, the next time I go to that service station (that belongs to my favorite grocery store), I may just take along a black marker and warn everyone who pulls up to that pump to avoid it at all cost!

Have you ever considered what it must be like to be a widow (or, if you are a man, a widower)?  I’ve been a widow for more than four years.  I’ve already told you that I HATE that word – widow.  But, that’s what I am – a widow.  Every form I complete wants to know:  married, single, widow.  I always wonder why the form’s maker wants to know.  A woman becomes a widow with the lack of a heartbeat.

About a week ago, Daughter Number One and I took a short trip into the past.  The Cheyenne-based Big Boy steam engine had been trekking through the middle states, Louisiana, and Texas, with travel to its final state being Colorado before heading home to Wyoming.  The track from the eastern edge of Colorado to Denver was perfect for the Big Boy’s trip, mostly straight with some curves.

I know.  I told you I wouldn’t inundate you with cute pictures and stories about Lady Patricia, my almost five-year-old, white miniature schnauzer, so just consider this an update.  She does some funny little things, this girl.

Lady has found her voice.  For more than a month, she made no sound, at all.  Then, one day (about a month after she came to live with me), one of my Keith’s and I were talking in a part of the house away from where she was.  Her safe space is in her bed on the loveseat in the TV room – or just out of the bed on the loveseat.  When she heard our voices, she barked – as though she was telling me that someone strange was in the house.  That was the first time, ever, that she made any sound.  Since then, she has also started barking when the doorbell rings – either my doorbell or a doorbell on the TV.  I think Katie, our border collie friend, taught her that.

Writing haibun poetry is my favorite kind of poetry to write.  A combination of prose and haiku, haibun is better for me to tell a story than any other kind of poetry.  So, this week’s blog is a haibun of our ride on the Royal Gorge Railroad.  (The Cranky Crone)

Slow and Easy – A Haibun

Slow and easy is the ride on the Royal Gorge Railroad.  Powered by diesel, the ride does not include the soot and grime that accompanies a ride behind a coal-fired engine.  If you’ve taken the Cumbres-Toltec train between Chama, New Mexico, and Antonito, Colorado, or the Silverton Train in southwest Colorado, you know about soot and grime.  Both of those rides pass through beautiful country, but neither of them takes you into the depths of a canyon like the Arkansas River Canyon.  Before the Arkansas River goes crashing through the canyon, it has started somewhere near Leadville, Colorado, fed by winter snowpack.

Eons of time make

A canyon deep and narrow

Run a train through it

Eighty-three years and one month ago, I was born in Cañon City, Colorado.  My mother had all of her children at home, so I was born in the apartment in which we lived.  My father worked for the WPA (Works Progress Administration, a Franklin Roosevelt New Deal program).  That program put food on our table and a roof over our head.  We (not me, of course) lived in that apartment over the Christmas time of the previous year, and my three older sisters all came down with the measles at the same time.  To keep them occupied, my mother gathered up the Sears Christmas catalogs that had been left at the doors of apartments that were not occupied.  Ethel, Jackie, and Marie each had her own catalog to cut out paper dolls of the models dressed in the clothing that was for sale.  And, they had paste (probably made with flour and water); and they played paper dolls.

Ugly houses have begun to creep into our neighborhoods.  Monstrosities that look as though they are from some outer space collection of housing; or the movie, Farenheit 451.  White.  No color other than white.  They resemble structures made from the kids toys, Legos.  In fact, Lego houses would be more appealing than these ugly monsters.  As my mother used to say, their (architects’) taste must only be in their mouth.  I’m proud of Leo (who lives close by) who did not raze a small personalized house to built a behemoth; rather, he added to it in such a way that it continued to fit the neighborhood and, still, give his family more room.

April 15 came and went, and there was no 2020 tax return in the U.S. mail from me.  My accountant was kind enough to file an extension – something that I thought I would never have to do, again.  File an extension.  Time was, when I had a couple of small (very small) businesses, my accountant filed an extension almost every year.  I would start each year with the best of intensions.  This year, I would have all of my tax information to my accountant on time, I would pledge.  But, life happens, and the tax information stayed on the work table without being put in order.  And, so, the accountant would file an extension so I would not be in trouble.  Or, sometimes, I would get the information to him before the April 15, but it was provided so close to April 15 that I know he filed an extension, even then.

A telephone call from Keith (neighbor) reached me in Wisconsin when I was visiting my daughter and her family.  You may remember that I was there with Daughter #1 for the high school graduation of my eldest granddaughter and to help Daughter #3 during her knee replacement surgery.  I loved being able to cook for a small crowd and help where ever I could.  However, Keith said he had just observed a rat leaving my yard, crossing the street, to where his wife Rita’s truck was sitting.

This week I was going to write about the trials and tribulations of the second round of rats in the wood pile.  Then, the daily mail had a letter from Xcel Energy that was so ridiculous, I couldn’t resist making it the subject of this blog.

The letter begins:  “Here is your personalized analysis of your home’s energy use.”  Hmmm…  I wonder who asked for this “personalized analysis.”  Not I.  The letter continues:  “Due to COVID-19, we understand you might be at home more than usual … might be at home more, and the savings tips shown will help you save during this time.”  More about those savings tips, later.