Jan Thacker

Well, they'd never let me on the Chopped cooking show but I've always been a fairly decent cook. Except for roasts. He buys them, I cook them, we try to chew them. Sometimes we throw the hunks into the meat grinder and try to make the tough-as-shoe-leather meat somewhat edible in a sandwich.

Somewhere over the years I decided it wasn't me at all. "It's the cows!" I told Troy. "They just don't make cows like they used to!" He raised an eyebrow.

Well, he hauled home a four-pounder the other day. Instead of my old standard roast-cooking method I Googled it. I selected one of a few million recipes. It was titled something like Mother's Famous Pot Roast. Well, most mothers are good cooks, at least when I was a kid, so I dragged the roast out of the fridge and followed directions.

First you sear the thing on all sides in a smoking-hot frying pan. Then you dump it in a pot and place it in the oven preheated to 425. It sounded a bit too warm to me but what the heck.

After a half hour you take it out, flip it over, and turn the oven down to 300. And cook it for four or five hours. Wait! FOUR of FIVE HOURS?! Well, this was just crazy.

After an hour I took it out and temped it. It was just the right temperature but I had to almost use a hammer to get the thermometer through the meat. A nail through a 2x4 might have been easier. This was a really really bad cow, maybe some 40-year-oild bull that stumbled into the line leading to the a cow party limo, (We're going on a road trip! We're going on a road trip!)

I decided to just stick with the Mother's recipe and put it back in the oven. Four hours later... Omigosh! It was the most delicious, most perfect, most edible, most amazing, roast ever. So tender I think Troy had tears in his eyes.

As most of you know... Christmas is coming. Oh, yes it is! I'm still doing pet portraits. The pastel portraits, created from your photos, are 11x14, matted, and in a 14x18 frame. Let me know if you're interested. I love doing them!

So, what did I do this weekend? Well, I launched a new book. “Hannie and the Squatter” is now available on Amazon, both soft cover and Kindle. Here’s the back cover copy:
***
So, what do you do when you go to a funeral in another state and come home a week later and a squatter has taken over your house and farm?
After learning the alarming news from a neighbor, at three in the morning 48-year-old Hannie Woodsong creeps up her driveway, rummages in the barn to unearth an antique pistol, sneaks into her own house, and finds the bedroom he’s in.
Then she flips on the light, slaps the wall so hard a picture crashes to the floor, points the gun at him, and screams, “STICK ‘EM UP!!”
But now that she’s captured him…
What do you do with a dirty rotten lowdown squatter?
Well, sometimes life is full of surprises, twists and turns, strange encounters, and surprises seem to lurk around every corner.
Hannie and the squatter both have stories untold, anguishes hidden, yearnings unfulfilled, and lives that need changed.
Does she lower the gun?”
***
Writing “Hannie” was a delightful experience. It flowed easily and the characters came to life so readily. Reuben, dear precious Reuben, especially revealed himself to me. Sometimes you really want to meet your characters in person, and I know that sounds quite strange. I hope at least some of you will support my writing. For those who are so faithful and buy every book, well, I just love you guys!!

The Book Party

We had the best time last Saturday night. Our first book party to celebrate National Book Lover’s Day. It was in August but it took a while to get a date where all 34 of us could attend. The house was full and the laughter and chatter carried down the block. My sister, Judy, helped putting it all together and Troy was the official Bingo caller.

We had a baked potato bar, tons of desserts, had bookmarks for everyone, played Bingle and gave away 40 prizes, and did a drawing for a monstrous gift basket. Judy even created a gorgeous throw and pillow to go with it. For the Bingo players who didn’t win I handed out tiny gold trophies as participation awards.
The best part was the book exchange. From the youngest, at age two, to the oldest we drew names. It was so much fun shopping for “my person” and to see what everyone else got. The book givers obviously put a lot of thought into the books they selected. The rules were it could be a new book, used book, a book from your collection, or just any book.

I’m hoping to make this a yearly event. It was just a delightful time with all these people I dearly love. The sad thing is I didn’t get one photo. Not one!

Did you know...

Counting scientific words there are over a million words in the English language. Average person knows about 20,000 words, uses about 2,000 different word a week and speaks about 16,000 words a day.

Well, I've been with people who can speak more than 16,000 words a day. They can rattle that many in a few hours. And then there are the ones who don't speak much at all, making you feel like you need to fill in the empty space. They sit back comfortably and watch as you make a total fool of yourself. I like the chatterboxes.

Classified ads can be a hoot!
Illiterate? Write today for help.
Auto Repair Service: Try us once, you’ll never go anywhere again.
Dog for sale: Eats anything and is fond of children.
Stock up and Save! Limit one per customer
For sale: Antique desk suitable for lady with thick legs and large drawers.
Man wanted to work in dynamite factory. Must be willing to travel.
Three-year-old teacher needed for preschool. Experience preferred.
Girl wanted to assist magician in cutting-off-head illusion. Salary and Blue Cross
Dry Cleaner Shop: We do not tear your clothes with machinery. We do it carefully by hand.
Tired of cleaning yourself? Let me do it.
Vacation special: Have your home exterminated. Get rid of aunts.
We will oil your sewing machine and adjust tension in your home for $1.
Man, honest, will take anything.
Used cars: Why go elsewhere to be cheated? Come here first.
Our bikinis are exciting. They are simply the tops!

The person who seems to have taken over my FB is Jan Thacker Hopkins. This person has a lot of my posts on her site. I can't tell you how upsetting this is.

So... I seem to have been really hacked this time. A friend just told me she has received messages from "me" that were sort of replicates of the Nigerian scams to get money. If you get a message from me telling you how you can become rich, it is NOT ME! I haven't yet figured out myself how to get rich.

Please, if you do get one of these messages, report it.

In the news today was a story about a couple of German tourists who used paint guns to put more color into the Joshua Tree National Park restrooms, signs, and other places. They had a jolly good time being artistic until they got caught. Oh, the outrage in the comments!

It took me back to when I was in Germany decades ago with daughter Lisa. One gorgeous sunny afternoon Lisa and I hiked to a castle high on a hill. The dirt path was narrow and steep and even though I was in fairly good shape I huffed and puffed and thought I just might die right there and she'd have to roll me back down the trail.

At the top, we broke out of the trees and into an expansive meadow. The castle remains were gorgeous with sunlight striking rock that had been carefully placed in the 1500s. Only the walls remained but they were tall and elegant with tiny peep holes here and there.

We were the only people admiring this huge castle and marveling at the history, the people, and the stories the walls could tell. We walked around the ruins and then....

On one of the majestic walls, spray-painted in huge red letters were these words: LET'S PARTY!! USA!!!

I felt half sick knowing one of my fellow Americans had so defaced this historical edifice and in doing so had furthered the opinion that we are "ugly Americans." How sad that is.

The Dump Man
When I saw the picture of this guy my mind instantly went to The Dump Man. He looks just like him and I knew I needed to paint him. What a weird and interesting fellow he was.

We had the most interesting dump in Whitefish, Montana, and when Dad made a trip there my sister Judy and I always tagged along. The dump was on a vast plot of land south of town, and was smelly, fly-ridden, and creepy. Cats roamed, scavenging birds flocked, and I’m sure there were conclaves of furry rodents hiding just out of sight.

Maybe it was the intense fragrance that made it seem dark and foreboding because it really was kept tidy. Even at my young age in the early 1950s it seemed paradoxical with lush and gorgeous birch trees outlining its trashy and rotting existence.

But for Judy and me, our focus was always on The Dump Man, the sort-of caretaker of the place. He was tall and lanky with white hair and startling blue eyes.

He had a “store” right in the middle of the dump on a flat area not far from the entrance. The perimeter was defined by rows of bald tires. A couple of decrepit chairs and carefully placed upended apple boxes gave credence to the store’s furnishings. A few cats cozied up and seemed to call it home.

Saleable items were all sorts of things… a staggering line of old Lamps leaning on one another like drunks, an array of shiny dented hub caps, shoeless dolls with staring eyes and frightful matted hair, picture frames, bottles and jars, and rimless tires that still had a scrap of tread left.

The Dump Man always had a fire going. It was maybe the fire that kept his face, hands, and arms blackened. I always marveled that the only things about him that were clean were his eyes. His eyes were the beautiful sapphire blue of an early fall sky. We never just drove by and waved. Dad always talked with him. Judy and were too open-mouthed and staring to capture any bits of conversation.

I’ve always wondered who he was and why he was always there. The journalist in me wonders if the Whitefish Pilot ever did a story on him, because he surely must have had one to tell.

I am still in recovery. Might need counseling. Or a bottle. Certainly need to pray. Why?

Yesterday I decided to cut down some birch tree saplings that keep popping up in the flower bed. I spotted a saw next to the back door and how it got there I don’t know. Probably left there after camping. It’s a nifty little folding saw in a red canvas case we kept in the airplane survival gear. I brought it in the house and put it on a bookshelf.

When Troy came in from another part of the house I lifted it up and said, “Will this work?” And then all hell broke loose.

A snake darted out from the saw case, slipped past my hand and landed on the floor, a writhing slither of horror. I shrieked and ran in circles as it furiously wriggled and squirmed all over the floor and then darted under a display case. Ever-calm Troy told me to watch and see if it came out from under there while he went to get a hanger to scoot it out.

Broom in hand (brooms are perfect in an emergency), I kept yelping I needed to run get Dave, our next-door neighbor. Not that I thought Dave could do a better job than Troy at snake-removal, but I didn’t want to be in the house at all. I wanted Dave to fill in for me. I’d go hang out with Florence, his wife, during The Snake Roundup.

We couldn’t find the snake and I was terrified it was loose in the kitchen, behind the refrigerator. I declared he either find that snake or I was getting a motel room. Or, heading to the airport and booking a flight to Alaska where there are no snakes. The thought of a snake loose in the house made me, literally, feel nauseous and light-headed. (I know a lot of people will think this is absurd but we all have our foibles.)

When I spotted a tail whip out from the bottom of the display case Troy calmly pulled out the snake while I fled to the bedroom to try and rid myself of the scene with him holding the thrashing thing. t’s seared into my brain.

Afterwards Troy kept saying, to hopefully calm me down, that it wasn’t a big snake, just a small little thing no bigger around than a finger, but I kept screeching back it was a SNAKE. I hate them. Just absolutely positively hate them.

And now, after writing this, I keep thinking about the saw that sat on that bookshelf for at least 15 minutes. What if…? No! Don’t even go there. Please, mind, don’t even go there.