Adventures with Geannii

  Stardew Valley Music Has Been Turned Into a Symphony Stardew Valley is this cozy little farming game where people willingly spend hundreds of hours watering pixelated turnips like they’re running a vegetable empire. They chop trees, smash rocks, attend festivals where everyone pretends to be normal, and try not to collapse from exhaustion before the sun sets at 6 p.m. Too stressful for me. I retired after my character nearly died because I was running late from a festival and forgot to check the time. 

 Robin, my daughter-in-love, invited me to join them and her brothers for the Stardew Valley Symphony. I’ve never been to a symphony before. I had questions — lots of questions. In my mind, a symphony is pure elegance: white-gloved ushers guiding guests to velvet seats, soft golden lighting warming the room, formal gowns and tuxedos drifting through the aisles, and music that promises sophistication before the first note even plays. BUT — and I do mean a big but — these are gamers. Do they know what a real symphony is? Do I know what a real one is?   I’d seen symphonies on television and once attended a very proper choir performance in Cincinnati. We dressed nicely for that. Shoes were involved. So naturally, I wondered if we should shop. They arrived all the way from Hobbs, New Mexico, and we all met at their grandmother Shirley’s house. The kids didn’t even take time to unload at the motel — they were starving, we were starving, everybody was starving. “Just follow me to Hef...

Why is it that the moment pipes freeze or the electricity goes out, my entire body decides it has a broken arm? Or a broken leg. Possibly both. Suddenly I am incapable of doing anything. Cleaning mirrors? Absolutely not. Sweeping the floor? Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have water. Well… I do have water. Just not in the bathroom. And the hot water is frozen solid, which feels personal. This whole saga began when a wild animal crawled under my house and tore out the insulation like it was auditioning for a home‑renovation show called Extreme Makeover: Rodent Edition. Then my washer sprang a leak. I didn’t notice until the carpet and the cheap particle‑board floor under the dresser had turned into oatmeal. When I pulled the carpet back, the floor had melted away. I could see the ground under my house. That is not a “feature.”  That is a horror movie. I called Rick, my handyman. He said he’d get to me soon. Not wanting a critter to stroll into my bedroom like it pays rent, I slapped a ...

  The Kitten Chronicles: How I Accidentally Became a Cat Landlord We have two darling little kittens — outdoor cats, feral cats, “don’t touch me, human” cats. Their older brothers survived last winter outside like tiny Viking warriors, so I figured these two would be fine. But I still bought them a heated cat house. A whole tiny Airbnb with a warming pad specifically designed for feral cats. Because apparently I’m running a luxury resort for animals who won’t even let me pet them. One morning I was playing with them through the glass window — my version of “interactive cat parenting.” Jimin looked over his shoulder, froze, and bolted. I stepped outside to see what scared him. Mama cat screamed — a sound that could summon demons — and she was standing over little Jimin’s body. No life left in him. A strange feral male cat stood there like he owned the place, challenging me. I grabbed a shovel and ran him off like a furious pioneer woman defending her homestead.. Well. “I am NOT havi...

                                                         🎄 Christmas Day on the Pontoon Christmas at home this year… what a concept. I was not thrilled. No big adventure, not even a tiny one. I’m not afraid of flying — I’m afraid of flying on small planes that need repairs “signed off on” instead of actually fixed. (That blog is below. Buckle up.)  Survivor: Holiday Travel Edition I put the tree up in October, stockings hung, the whole house looking like a Hallmark movie… but no adventure in sight. My smoked turkey was thawed, gifts wrapped, stockings filled, cards sent — and still nothing planned for Christmas Day. I even invited Marvin and his new bride Rhonda over for dinner. They had “better plans.” Well thanks a lot. At least pretend to invite me. They did not. Then Monday rolls around and Marvin calls: “Plans changed. Wanna bring th...

 Last year, JoDee and I decided to fly to Colorado for Christmas with our siblings. Sounds simple, right? A sweet little holiday getaway? No. No, it was not. It was an episode of Survivor: Holiday Travel Edition, and we were the unwilling contestants. I didn’t realize Tulsa wasn’t an international airport until we boarded what was basically a flying shoebox — maybe 50 passengers total, two seats on each side, and the kind of plane where you can feel everyone breathe. But hey, we made it to Denver just fine. Then the real fun began. We waited. And waited. And waited some more for our connecting flight — the one that “barely made it in” because of mechanical problems. Comforting. Truly. And then, as if the universe wanted to test our commitment to Christmas spirit, they boarded us onto a 15‑seater. Fifteen. I’ve seen minivans with more structural integrity. We’re buckled in when the announcement comes: They need a mechanic to sign off on the problem. Sign off ? SIGN OFF ? How about…...

      The Ground Moved (Literally) February 2024 began with a small gentle rocking that quickly turned into a hard-shaking rattle and roll. EARTHQUAKE! If that wasn’t enough to scare the heck out of me ( make you drop to your knees praying for forgiveness!! ), toss in a good old-fashioned thunder, lightning, and hail storm. Welcome to February. The groundhog didn’t see his shadow this year… I’m sure the weather had something to do with it. When he came out, all that storming and shaking scared him right back into his hole for another six weeks. It did me. Bag Lady at the Expo One of my friends — let’s call her Brenda — dragged me out of my cozy, safe comfort zone and forced me into the cold, cruel world. Sure, I need a swag bag full of junk, right? I promised myself I would not bring home anything I didn’t need. I need nothing. Yeah, right. This year, I started with my free reusable little bag — already kinda full of pens, chapstick, and candy. Then EXIT Realty ...

    Waking Up Naked and Afraid Darlin’ Daughter, Brandy came down with COVID and was quarantined upstairs in her room. To keep us all connected, Darlin’ Son-in-Law  Rob, set up a little face chat from the living room with him and the boys. Somehow, the conversation turned to pillows. Rob said, “We should buy new pillows every year. Drool is a breeding ground for all kinds of undesirables. Hey Brandy, show your mom your pillow.” Naturally, I expected to see a bed pillow. Nope. She pulled up one of those travel pillows and wrapped it around her neck like a giant orthopedic collar. The first thing out of my mouth? “Doesn’t that kind of hinder the romance department?” The look on Rob’s face—eyes darting, lips twitching—told me he had ten jokes lined up in his head, and not one of them was appropriate for a family call. Smart man. Instead, he quickly redirected: “Hey Zak show Mema your leg!” Smooth escape, Rob. Smooth. Zak lifted his pant leg and—oh my word—there was...

The Desk That Broke My Back (Almost) We’ve been cooped up for months — or at least it feels that way. So when I spotted this beautiful solid wooden desk at a thrift store, I just knew I had to have it. (Thankfully, it wasn’t made from particle board, or I doubt we’d have ever gotten it into the house in one piece.) In the store, it looked perfect. I imagined it sitting neatly under my window. Reality, however, had other plans. We (my sister JoDee and I) managed to wrestle it out of my little Equinox. Don’t ask me how we got it in there to begin with — some miracles are best left unexplained. Next came the real challenge: up the seven steps into the house. All went surprisingly well… until step number five. That’s when the edge of the desk caught on the toe of my boot. To get it past, I had to lift it up and over my boot, while also climbing another step. That’s when I felt my back give. Did I stop? Of course not. Like any stubborn woman who thinks she’s superwoman, I gritted my...

   I got a phone call from my dear ninety-year-old mother-in-law. “Jeanne, I’ve been praying for you every night.” Me: “Oh, that is so sweet of you. I can always use prayers.” Mom: “Has Pam lost her mind?” Me: “WHAT? No! She lost her husband… not her mind.” (I had completely forgotten about the Christmas letter I sent out this year. I added it below.) Mom: “But she is trying to kill you. I’ve really been praying for you—now I know why.” Me: “WHAT? NO! WHAT??” Mom: “We got your Christmas card…” Me: “Mom! It was a joke! She wasn’t really trying to kill me. It was meant to be funny.” (I didn’t mention that it was actually all true. She would never understand.) Mom: “Oh good. I’ve been really worried you’d go back and visit her… with her trying to kill you like that.” Me (banging my head on the table): “No, Mom! It’s all good. It was just a joke. She did NOT try to kill me…” Mom: “Okay, that’s good. I’m still praying for you.” Somebody needs to, for sure. Note to self...

                          The exact moment I realized my breakfast consisted of exactly 32 calories."   Camping is the life—especially when I’m the guest and others are responsible for all the work. We woke up to the sound of high winds rocking the camper, then… a huge crash! The awning. Yes, the awning. We had left it up, because why be sensible when the night is warm and balmy? It had been so hot that we hated following the “no generators after eleven pm” rule. We suffered in… not silence exactly, we were having a major flopping competition, twisting and turning to find some relief, drenched in sweat, like we were sleeping in a sauna. Finally, a bit of relief as the wind quickly cooled everything down. And then—the huge crash! Oh no! The awning pole was bent just a little. Not catastrophic… yet. Clint, Pam's #4 son swooped in like a  superhero and helped us get it down and put away.  Sweet Clint always...

  I'm at  The World’s largest Tri-State-Gas Engine and Tractor Show in Portland Indiana with one of my best friends, Pam.   I did not know the woman had a secret desire toward me.... yeah... that's right... To KILL me.    First we go to the Dollar General all is well until I round a corner and have a giant spider dangled in front of my face!! I screamed and jumped back; my brain tried to reason with my heart... it's a fake spider!     She just had to buy it to go on the front of our golf cart. It is NOT FALL... it is NOT time for Spiders to be in season.  I didn't question her, she is my friend, it is her golf cart and now her spider.   She let me drive I think she likes having a chauffeur.    All is going well, until someone we passed said, "Hey did you know you have a spider on your windshield?"  I was looking to kill me a little spider on my windshield... ARGH. Then I realized he meant the big hairy one. Yeah, that one....

 World’s largest Tri-State-Gas Engine and Tractor Show in Portland Indiana. Forty acres (at least) of flea markets, tractors, and engine exhibits. If you don’t know you need it, you’ll find it here. I kept reminding myself: I need nothing. I am downsizing. I am only window shopping. See what treasures other people once thought they couldn’t live without… and are now hoping to unload on someone else. Then I found it. A child’s iron. An actual working one. I picked it up and showed Pam. “This is exactly like the one Dad brought home for JoDee. She was about three. I was the much more mature age of six.” That little iron plugged into the wall and got hot. Very hot. Mom warned us: “Do not plug it in. If you forget it in a pile of clothes it could catch on fire, and we’ll all die in our sleep.” One day, JoDee was suspiciously quiet. Mom sent me to check on her. I opened the bedroom door and there she was: ironing clothes, little iron plugged in. “Mom said you can’t plug it in!” I yelled...

Reality check: No cape, no paparazzi, and I'm pretty sure I heard the cat groan during the second verse of Yankee Doodle.  Who doesn’t dream of playing on a Baby Grand Piano? In my imagination, the paparazzi were snapping photos, fans were fainting in the aisles, and a spotlight followed me like I was a rock star. I imagined myself in a sleek black dress with a dramatic cape. I’d flip it back, glide to the bench, and sit down ever so gracefully. The audience would hold their breath, waiting for the first note like it was the unveiling of the Mona Lisa. What would I play? Mozart? Beethoven? Or the William Tell Overture —because nothing says “heroic entrance” like the Lone Ranger theme blasting through a recital hall. Heart racing, fingers poised, I prepared to unleash a symphony the world would never forget. My six childhood piano lessons—yes, six!—had finally prepared me for this moment. Then I struck the first note. ‘Yankee Doodle!’ Wait… what? Did I just… oh no. My fingers ha...

 Pam’s adult kids always make me feel welcome when I visit Indiana. Really sweet. This last trip, her son Spencer—invited us to dinner at Texas Roadhouse. Which is already funny because Texas Roadhouse is where you go if you can’t afford therapy. Unlimited bread rolls? Yes please. I came for the cinnamon butter, but I stayed for the accidental kidnapping confession. Now, before dinner, Pam casually mentions, “Oh yeah, we stopped by your house earlier. Took a little self-guided tour.” Spencer dropped his fork. “ YOU went inside my house?” This man looked like the police had just asked him if he owned a shovel and a suspiciously large backyard. I quickly jump in, “No, no, no—we didn’t go in to see if you clean. We just looked around a little. I loved the Harley Davidson room with the two motorcycles in it.” Because nothing says bachelor pad like, ‘Forget a sofa—let’s just park the bikes indoors.’ But Spencer is still panicking. His girlfriend’s staring at him like, do you l...

                                       "Last known photo of me before my organs moved to Ohio"  This year Pam invited me to Indiana for the World’s Largest Tri-State Gas Engine and Tractor Show. Yeah. Because nothing screams “bucket list” like antique carburetors and old men in overalls. Forget Paris, forget Rome. Portland, Indiana—baby, that’s the dream. I went up a few days early to hang out with Pam. She loves shopping… unless it’s Wal-Mart. Every time John and I said, “Let’s go to Wal-Mart,” she groaned like we’d suggested a colonoscopy. “NOT WAL-MART.” So, instead of shopping, Pam decided: “Let’s get Calvin to take you for a spin in his ultra-fast race car.” Now this car is a Mach 1. 480 horsepower. Six-speed. Rev-matching transmission. Posi-traction rear end. Basically, if a midlife crisis and a death wish had a baby—this is it.  And apparently, I'm the babysitter. I...

"The Tybee Trio plus their tag-along. Proof that I survived the 'stranger' phase and actually got invited back for more chaos."    This year I’ve been invited to go with Pamela and her family to the World’s Largest Tri-State Gas Engine and Tractor Show in Portland, Indiana. Last June, Pamela had invited me along to Tybee Island, Georgia, with her husband John and their adult son Calvin. We’d only met a few times before, always with my husband by my side. That Tybee trip was my first time traveling with them after losing my husband in February 2022. I remember sitting in the backseat of their pickup with Pam, crossing state borders at ninety miles an hour, when she leaned over and said slowly: “You know we are basically strangers.” I hoped it was just a friendly reminder, not a threat. Should I ask her to drop me at the nearest bus station? Instead, I smiled and nodded. By day two of Tybee, Pamela had food poisoning. The bathroom became her best friend. She po...

  "The face you make when Mema shells out $65 and all you get is a shark's-eye view of your own misery." The long Covid really messed up my vacation plans this year. My grandsons were supposed to spend the entire summer with me. Instead, I got them for the last week of summer vacation. Better a little time together than none, right? I dragged them—kicking, screaming, and clutching their laptops like they were life support machines. “We’re going to do something FUN!” I announced. Their blank stares said, Yeah right, Mema. e got up early and headed to the aquarium. It was a Tuesday in July, which I thought was perfect. People should be busy working, or vacationing somewhere nice like Branson. Wrong. We pulled into the parking lot and were greeted by about ten school buses. Why? School isn’t even in session! And then I spotted the senior citizen buses. Great—kids wired on sugar and retirees running on coffee, all in the same building. What could possibly go wrong? At least ...