Adventures with Geannii

  Good Grief It’s a Bow Uncle Ronnie gave Dad a bow set — bow, quiver, arm guard, the whole works. Dad was so proud you’d think he’d been knighted. He took that bow out and showed everyone. If the mailman had lingered too long, he’d have seen it too. Uncle Ronnie was serious about bow hunting. It was his passion. (He was later accidently killed while hunting — the thing he loved most besides his family.) That bow set wasn’t just sporting equipment. It was a piece of him. Then one day… it was gone. Not the guns. Not the ammo. Not the jewelry. Just the bow set.  Dad always believed someone in the family had taken it, he was heartbroken.  He looked like someone had stolen his dog, his truck, and his last slice of pie all at once. Fast-forward to my senior year. I took an Arts and Crafts class — which was a mistake, because we were pouring ceramics and our greenware kept cracking like we were running a pottery graveyard. I knew exactly why: we left it in the mold overnight. B...

   One Wild Ride We had a twin-sized air bed on the top bunk—over six feet from the bunk to the floor. It seemed like a good idea at the time, until the cell phone started ringing. Naturally, it was on the top bunk. Up the ladder I went, but just as I reached the top, Van turned a corner. Now, we weren’t pulling a trailer, which meant the ride was already "bobtail" rough. (Which is trucker-speak for 'bouncing like a pogo stick' because there's no trailer weight to smooth things out). We were also on a very rough gravel road, hitting every rut and bump at about 35 miles per hour. I was instantly off-balance—one hand, one foot, the rest of me swinging out into space like a confused circus monkey trying to cling to the ladder. I managed to scramble onto the bunk for safety, or so I thought. The airbed didn't offer safety; it offered a launchpad. The bed turned into a trampoline. I wasn’t just bouncing; I was a rag doll in a carnival game. I hit the ceiling, then...

    Most people think 80,000 pounds of steel and rubber can handle anything. They’re wrong. On an Oregon mountain pass in February, physics doesn't care about your cargo—it only cares about who’s in charge. And on this day, it definitely wasn't us. I have a fear of driving — or even riding — on icy roads. I didn’t always feel this way. When I was first married, DH was driving a propane tank. He was bootlegging… me. We crested over a hill — a 20 % grade — and at the bottom was a railroad track. The cross arms were down, lights flashing, warning of a train. The road was solid ice . We were in low gear, but eighty thousand pounds of propane and truck don’t care about low gear. Gravity grabbed us by the ankles and yanked us straight down that hill.

  Clothes were scattered along I-5 for miles. At first, it was just a single shirt lying in the shoulder. Then a pair of jeans. Then a sock — just one, because of course it was. You’ve seen it on television: clothes flying out of an upstairs window when a man is in big trouble. But this wasn’t TV. This was real life, and somebody’s laundry was telling a story. I could picture it perfectly. Huge fight.

                                                Welcome to the second half of the funeral that felt more like a comedy tour. In this act, we move from midget giraffes to 'Peasant hunts,' and my grandsons— Capt'n Chaos and Sir WhatTheHeck —officially earn their titles. Catch up on the morning's madness here before you dive into the dinner disaster.   Act III: The Chaos Continued (The arrival of Mom Ralston in spirit)   After the funeral, we all met at a restaurant just like Mom R. had requested years ago. She’d always said she didn’t want a somber dinner; she wanted us to go out, eat good food, and have a good time. I remember asking her, “You know you aren’t going with us, right?” Anita just shrugged and said, “I dunno… I think she plans on it.” Honestly, she might as well have been sitting at the head of the table, because the whole thing turned into a ci...

                                                       Unrestrained Travis   Act I: The Methodist on the Sidewalk The Warning We were all dressed in our funeral best—looking less like a grieving family and more like a local band that had just lost its lead singer. I looked at Travis and gave him "The Talk." “Travis, just behave for today.” He didn’t even blink. “I’ll try, but I’m not making any promises.” The Crime Scene As we walked up to the Apple Barrel, a guy from the Subway next door was out on the sidewalk with a massive industrial mop. Travis stopped dead. “Is that how you get rid of unwanted customers?” The guy looked up, exhausted. “No. It was here when I came to work. No idea what happened.” Travis walked into the café and announced to the table, “Did you see all that blood? That guy is mopping up huge puddles of it.”

My niece, Jana, bought three guppies for her three kids and set them up in a little fishbowl. One day, they got a floater. A fish passed away. Jana did what every good mother does: held a solemn toilet-side funeral and flushed the dearly departed. Down to two. A few days later, Jana walked by the bowl… and there was only one fish. No floater. No hiding. Just gone. She looked down at three-year-old Miss Chief — the only witness on the scene — and asked, “Sweetie, what happened to the fish? There’s only one.” Miss Chief looked up with pure innocence and said,   “It’s in my belly.” Jana blinked. Surely she misheard. “…What did you say?” Miss Chief repeated, slowly, helpfully: “It’s. In. My. Belly.” Horrified, Jana asked, “How did you catch it?” Miss Chief demonstrated: dipped her hand in the bowl, scooped up an imaginary fish, shoved it straight into her mouth. Gobble gobble gobble. “In my belly.” This was not some frat boy that swallowed a goldfish on a dare. This was a toddler ...

                If you saw my last post about my broken glasses , you know my depth perception was shot. This story is proof that I probably shouldn't have been allowed out in public that day.     Early one January morning, I had just loaded our laundry in the washing machine, then I walked into the driver’s lounge, minding my own business and clutching my coffee like it was an emotional support animal. A man was sitting there, putting his Christmas present together. The “barrel” rested on a rack while he tried to attach the “butt” of a rifle. Now, my brother used to build rifles from kits, so at first I didn’t panic. I just thought, Huh. Someone else with a hobby that requires instructions, patience, and a willingness to lose small screws. But then I noticed… he had a woman’s nylon pulled over his head, the toe tied in a knot at the top.

                                                    No place to set my glasses while I got dressed, I set them in the safest place possible: My seat. Then I forgot, and sat on my wire framed glasses. The plastic line snapped, the lens fell out, and I realized I only needed them to… see. A minor detail.    Being in a truck pulling a 53-foot trailer, we can’t just pull into the local Optometrist and say, "Hey, I need help." So I bought super glue. Because nothing says “responsible adult” like fixing your own eyewear with a substance that can permanently attach you to your seat.    I put a tiny dot of glue on the frame. We hit a bump. That tiny dot turned into a glob the size of a toddler’s tear and ran straight down the lens like it was sliding down an icy mountain. I tried to wipe it off—which only smeared bits of paper towel and a thick la...

                                                 (This is from 2005 being a preacher's daughter, this was a fun write while traveling 65 mph in a semi.)   The view from the passenger seat of a semi-truck is mostly highway and horizons, but today, it’s all about the river. Seeing the massive concrete walls along the Columbia in Washington always brings back the memories of when my dad had  a dam job.     He was a dam worker who made a lot of dam money on a dangerous dam job. It was a good dam construction company , too--solid dam insurance benefits , solid dam supervisors , and a whole crew of hardworking dam men who took their  dam responsibilities seriously. The dam workers had some heavy-duty dam tasks . They had to make sure there weren’t any dam cracks in the dam cement , because one tiny dam crack could turn into a big dam ...

When you're trucking across the country,  the first thing you look for at a truck stop is the bathroom. But as any traveler knows, public restrooms have a secret code of etiquette. Ladies, we all know the rules—the ones no one teaches us, but we follow like gospel. Rule #1: The Long-Distance Stall Strategy. If you have to do more than a quick tinkle, you go to the very last stall. As if distance alone can hide noise, shame, or… aroma. Rule #2: The Pre-Surgical Seat Scrub. Once inside, you scrub the seat like you’re prepping for surgery. Antibacterial wipe, elbow grease, the whole ritual. So there I was — fifteen empty stalls to choose from — and out of pure habit I marched straight to the end stall. Just in case. You know… noise. Smell. Humanity. I’m sitting there, panties around my ankles, when suddenly the stall door next to me SLAMS.

                                        E.C.O.L.O.G.Y I’ve been living on a truck for week now. I marked that day in my memory as the moment I officially lost my sanity. Take two people who have sorta been married for 28 years. He lived on a truck.   She didn’t. Now shove them together in a cab the size of a walk in closet for twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, months at a time. “One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus” hits different out here. And “Give Me Forty Acres and I Won’t Kill This Man of Mine” becomes less of a song and more of a daily affirmation. We’re starting the new year in Oregon.  Do you know why Oregon is so clean and green? Let me tell you — I spent four of my formative years here. Every year, twice a year, they made us watch a film about Lake Erie catching on fire. Not metaphorically. Literally burning. While other kids learned reading, writing, and...

The suspects claim innocence, but the cat looks like he knows too much                                  I wasn't here to witness the mayhem, but I did see the video. My daughter tells her husband and my grandsons, “Mema will be here tomorrow, so clean the house.”   Of course, the boys don’t do a thing. They’re gaming, chilling, living their best lives… until they realize: Mom will be home in ten minutes. DEFCON 1 panic.   What’s their solution? Grab a vacuum? Pick up the laundry? Nope. Genius plan: stage a home invasion. Maybe she’ll be so grateful they're alive she won’t notice the mess.    They blacken Captain Chaos eye with shoe polish, tie him to a chair with a pillowcase over his head, and scatter broken glass from the trash all over the floor. It was a crime scene straight out of CSI: Gamers Edition. And of course, Dad’s filming. Why clean when you can go viral? ...

                                                                                                          My brother Buddy invited me to visit. (He lost his partner of eighteen years just nine months after I lost my husband, so we’ve been keeping each other company.) I love his patio — could practically live out there. Honestly, I actually do whenever I’m with him. One sunny afternoon, Buddy ran an errand, leaving me home alone. Dangerous idea. I really do need a little supervision. Sun streaming through the house, I noticed the kitchen light still on. Being helpful is my hobby… and sometimes a contact sport. I flipped every switch I could find.

                                                                                                   The View from Van’s Hill (I Brought Lunch. They Brought the Silence) Yesterday was the four-year anniversary of Van taking up permanent residence on the hill. I always decorate his grave, take his favorite food, and sit for a while, reflecting on the good years. JoDee packed a picnic lunch to eat by the pond. From his spot, the water sparkles like it’s trying to show off. It’s peaceful, with trees and moving water—the kind of place where you can breathe in the cool February air and feel the world slow down. I have a lot of old friends here. Not all of them, of course; some are still out there living their best lives, but the ones on the hill ma...

  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.  And now someone—some visionary or possibly a madman—decided to turn this into a symphony. A full orchestra. Violins. Cellos. French horns. Suddenly my little pixel farm feels very serious. But the real question haunting me was: who exactly attends a Stardew Valley symphony?

Robin, my daughter‑in‑love, invited me to join them and her brothers for the Stardew Valley Symphony. I’d never been to a symphony before. I had questions — lots of questions. In my mind, a symphony is pure elegance: white‑gloved ushers, velvet seats, soft golden lighting, formal gowns 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 only 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.

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.

  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...

I rang in the new year… asleep in my own bed. My own little bed. I’ve been in so many different beds lately—BY MYSELF, thank you, get your mind out of the gutter—that waking up in my own bed, felt like a luxury resort Christmas round two happened in Amarillo with Montana and Robin, Dec. 27–30. I basically live out of my car or so it seems. Then at 6:00 a.m. on New Year’s Day, I was back on the road again, loaded up and truckin' like a Smokey and The Bandit Reboot.  Destination: a luxury resort. Reality: Brandy’s house. Mission: Christmas, Part Three When I arrived, the boys helped me unload the car. And by 'helped,' I mean they took in three armloads while I rolled in my one little carry-on. By the time we finished, it looked like I was moving in permanently.

                                                         🎄 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:

 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.

Last year, on the way to Disneyland—back when my bank account was still breathing normally and not whispering its final prayers —I casually mentioned to Rob, “I need a new laptop.” Just a simple comment.   A passing thought.   A gentle breeze of an idea. Fast-forward to January 3rd, only days into the new year, and my bank account was already recovering from December’s emotional damage . My budget wasn’t just tight — it was gasping, clutching its chest like it had just run a marathon uphill in flip-flops.  Every time I swiped my Discover card, I swear I smelled smoke. Then Rob unaware sweet unsuspecting Rob asked: “Want to go look at laptops?” I said yes.   But inside?  Inside I was screaming NOOOOOO , sliding down a wall in slow motion like a dramatic soap-opera heroine.