Georgia on My Mind

We're in Georgia--I think. Actually, we may have hit Florida by now. We stopped at a gas station to take a dump. This was our first dump for the motorhome and boy was that fun. The connection came loose and **** splattered in an EPA nightmarish situation. Thankfully, my hubby thinks fast and a repeat of the Exxon Valdeez was averted by flipping off the valve. We hosed down the stench and laughed for a while. Thankfully, the propane fill-up wasn't a similar experience.

Then my hubby decided that he would follow in his father's footsteps and get out the bucket of soapy water and wash down the front of the motorhome--and both sides--and the back...and the golf cart on the trailer we're pulling. Yep, we're sparkling clean.

Indiana Jones

Tonight at dinner the kids were talking about how the monkey gets poisoned in the first Indiana Jones movie. We talked about it for awhile, along with some wonderful dinner conversation about how a butcher cuts up meat. Thankfully, the meal was almost over. During our chat, 3 year old Sinatra was prattling on about something. Eventually, I tuned in to what he was saying..."Grandpa Jones poison the monkey. Yeah, he do it."

Indiana Jones! My parents live in Indiana--ha!

Poo Crackers

During the holidays, Jon came home with goodie baskets that vendors had brought to him as gifts. Among these was a local treat: a sleeve of Moravian cookies. These wafer thin, crispy cookies are wonderful with tea or just to munch. They almost look like crackers because they are so thin.

When I opened the package, Sinatra asked for a cracker. I gave him one and he skipped off to the playroom, happily munching. The others saw him with the cookie and came running. "Can we have some crackers too, Mom?" I handed them around. Shakespeare didn't care for the taste and spit his out with all the drama of a poisoned victim. "That thing tastes like poo!" he shrieked between gags. Everyone under the age of 10 erupted in laughter. I chuckled. From then on, Moravian cookies were called "poo crackers" in our house. Even Sinatra asks for them by name--"Poo cracker, Mommy?"

Soon after the dubbing of the poo cracker, a home school family from our local community announced a field trip opportunity to Mrs. Hanes' Moravian Cookie Factory. During the announcement, Shakespeare's eyes got big and he turned and caught my eye. "Poo cookies?" he mouthed.

So, this Wednesday we made our way to Mrs. Hanes' Moravian Cookie Factory. Mrs. Hanes' Cookie Factory's claim to fame is that they still roll, cut, and package all their cookies by hand. That's right, by hand. The only machines they have are a tape machine in the packing room and a dough mixer that mixes 700lbs. at a time. The factory is still owned and run by the Hanes family and they have such pride in their product.


That woman sits there all day packing wafer thin cookies. Fun. They said that she counts them by the feel, not by number, and that when she weighs them she has almost always gotten it right. "What kind of guy takes a job in a lighthouse?" Extra points to anyone who can name that movie.

We paid $2 per person for the tour. That covered the cost of the 6 cookies that each person got to sample at various points in the tour. At the first stop, Shakespeare thanked the woman for the cookie then looked back at me with wary eyes, as if to ask, "Mom, is this going to taste like poo?" He was delighted to find that lemon was safe.


Here is their 700lb. capacity dough mixer. All I could think about was how glad I was not to have one at my house. It looked like something one of my children would climb into to take a spin.

The next stop was chocolate--another good cookie. Butterscotch, sugar, not bad. Ginger, a bit spicy. Then the piece-de-resistance...Black Walnut. Ah ha! We found the poo cracker!

On our way out, we bought three packages: lemon for me, chocolate for the boys and ginger for the girl. We've been munching for days and no one has gagged yet.



Notice the rolling floor behind the kids. All those women stand there kneading and rolling all day. They all wear headphones and listen to books on tape and music. I would want one of those rubber mats to stand on. The day we visited, they were cutting out bunnies and chicks for Easter.

To get your very own poo crackers visit here.

The Plea

When we were in Florida a couple of weeks ago we saw this:



I actually deemed it picture worthy--why? It's ridiculous! At least this one was tastefully done: no airbrushed Incredible Hulk or "I eat cars for breakfast" bumper stickers. The big U.S. flag might be a bit much but...Hum, "tasteful monster truck"--it just doesn't add up. Anyway, this particular monster caught the attention of the boys in our van--Popcorn and Sinatra. Sinatra was concerned when he heard that it was a monster, but Popcorn kept going on about how cool it was. Jon egged it on and said that maybe he would trade in his truck for a monster truck like that one.

Weeks later:
Popcorn was lying in bed the other night after prayers and looked sad. "Dad," he pleaded, with a sober face, "I don't want you to trade in the van for a monster truck." Jon could hardly contain himself enough to answer the kid. "Okay, Popcorn. We'll keep the van."

I don't know. Maybe getting five young ones in and out of a monster truck wouldn't be so bad. After all, I like to sit up high when I drive. Maybe they have mini elevators. Tempting.

The Mongols Take Up a New Line of Work

Mom: "Who tried to make Ivan the Great pay tribute?"

Shakespeare: "Ummm. . . mmmm . . . lawyers?"

Mom: "Very good guess, but no--the Mongols".

Got to Laugh

(This is supposedly a true account, recorded in the police log of Sarasota, FL.)

An elderly Florida lady did her shopping and, upon returning to her car, found four males in the act of leaving with her vehicle.

She dropped her shopping bags and drew her handgun, proceeding to scream at the top of her lungs, "I have a gun, and I know how to use it! Get out of the car!" The four men didn't wait for a second threat. They got out and ran like mad.

The lady, somewhat shaken, then proceeded to load her shopping bags into the back of the car and got into the driver's seat. She was so shaken that she could not get her key into the ignition.

She tried and tried, and then she realised why. It was for the same reason she had wondered why there was a football, a Frisbee and two twelve-packs of beer in the front seat.

A few minutes later she found her own car parked four or five spaces further down.

She loaded her bags into the car and drove to the police station to report her mistake.

The sergeant to whom she told the story couldn't stop laughing.

He pointed to the other end of the counter, where four pale men were reporting a car jacking by a mad, elderly woman described as white, less than five feet tall, glasses, curly white hair, and carrying a large handgun.

No charges were filed.

Moral of the story?

If you're going to have a senior moment . . . make it memorable.