Mark My Words

One day last week, we discovered that it was raining. No big deal normally…but in this case, it was raining inside the house.

Err, that’s not good.

Specifically, Tara was cleaning like a madwoman in anticipation of Ilsa’s visit. She actually took time off work to get the house in shipshape order. I told her she didn’t have to go to all that trouble (not that blog buddies aren’t worth a clean house), but she insisted a good top-to-bottom cleaning was long overdue. In the basement, she discovered a pool of standing water atop our wood stove, and puddles of ashy water behind it. Upon further inspection, we found water streaming down the stove pipe during a downpour.

This led to a few panicked moments as we envisioned extensive roof repairs, hazardous mold in the attic, dollar signs floating away before our eyes. At the very least, we needed to call a chimney inspector to figure out what was going on.

And then I remembered the mysterious object I found in the yard a couple of months ago. After those terrible April thunderstorms that knocked down trees all over town and pushed the Rock River over its banks, I was walking around the property, surveying potential damage, when I stumbled upon a round piece of metal lying in a flower bed next to our garage. I had no idea what it was or to whom it belonged, so I tossed it in the trash, figuring someone’s junk had blown into our yard courtesy of the 70-mph winds that tore through town one night. Suddenly, I just knew it had been the chimney collar from our roof. And when the chimney guy came out a couple of days later, he confirmed that we were missing a chimney collar from the roof.

Ain’t hindsight a bitch?

Luckily, the part was in stock. And the cost of the repair, including labor, wasn’t too bad at all. More like $ than the $$$ we had feared. Whew! He had a new chimney collar in place, caulked and sealed up, in twenty minutes–and less than two hours before it began pouring again. This time, the rain was restricted to the outdoors, where it belongs.

Honestly, if Tara hadn’t gone on that mad cleaning spree, we might not have noticed any water in the basement for months. It’s a good thing we caught it when we did (and a bone-dry May turned out to be a blessing in disguise).

Home ownership: it’s not for the faint of heart.

A Day at the Moo-seum

Saturday was my town’s annual Dairy Days at the Moo-seum celebration. As the literal birthplace of America’s Dairyland, Fort Atkinson takes its milk and butter and cheese very seriously. And its cows. There’s a reason we have eight cow statues displayed prominently around town!

The centerpiece of the Dairy Days event is the cow parade. For the past two years, I have told Tara, “We have to see the cow parade!” And yet, how many cow parades had we actually seen during those two years? Zero, zilch, zip, nada. Something always came up.

This year, I vowed to go, come hell or high water. Well, the chimney collar was back in place, so NO EXCUSES. Showing our support for this prestigious community event was important to me. I have grown to love our adopted home, and am trying to take part in more of our town’s events.

So, when 12:45 rolled around, I announced it was time to head over to the Hoard Historical Museum and National Dairy Shrine. “Let’s get a moo-ve on!” I said, because really, is there such a thing as too many cow puns?

The parade emcee didn’t seem to think so, ’cause she was really milking it, too. Including a knock-knock joke that had me in stitches (though probably just because I’m easily amused). The cows were there, all five dairy breeds, marching down the street in front of a modest but enthusiastic crowd. Some had to really be cajoled into marching, vocally expressing their displeasure, but eventually all got from Point A to Point B and back again.

Was it every bit as exciting as I’d imagined? Err…not quite. The parade route was only half a block long, and there were no clowns or jugglers or trombonists or unicyclists or candy-throwing firefighters as you might find in any parade worth its salt. There were floats…but they were the ice cream variety, for sale on the museum grounds. It was pretty modest, as far as parades go. But I’m glad we went! The weather was idyllic, I learned a few new cow facts, and most importantly of all, I felt like a part of the community in a way I hadn’t before. Like, okay, you have to go to the grocery store and the post office and the gas station, but taking time out of your day to watch a bunch of 1,400-lb. bovines shambling down the street is purely an extra-cow-icular activity. I was thrilled to be amongst the (admittedly small) masses.

Tara, on the other hand? I’m not so sure. “I’m glad we finally got to go!” she said. Which sounds promising…but then she ruined it by adding, “Now we can cross it off our list and never go again!” Tsk, tsk. Udder-ly rude.

So as not to leave you in suspense…

Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Cowgo.
Cowgo who?
No…cowgo MOO.

That’s funny, right?