The Sound of Quibbling

HAHAHAHA! Sorry - I'll have control of myself in a second... Last night Rick, Mommy Nancy & meself attended the Davis Musical Theater Company's (DMTC) production of "The Ton of Der Equal Opportunity in Der Hinterland", otherwise known as "The Sound of Music".

I'm being silly with the title; I was tickled that one of the infamously musical Von Trapp Children was a child of color, being Asian. Such casting is old for the DMTC, but dang it, if it still doesn't tickle me. I mean, I can't help wondering what Mrs. Von Trapp told the Mr. when his Aryan daughter turned up looking somewhat un-Aryan. HAHAHAHAHA! Yes, I'm silly, but you already know that. I know that Hans would have found such totally unsurprising - the Polish leaning eastern bits of the Reinland were long ago invaded by Attila the Hun & his ravashing hoards. To this very day, now and again the Asiatic genes pop up and little Freidrich or Inga appear with straight black hair and narrow slanted eyes. Sort of Mother Nature's way of jumping out from behind a shrub and shouting, 'Booga Booga!'

DMTC's cast doing their Doe Rae Me's

Now, back (sort of) to the topic of The Sound of Music. My titterings over the casting was something of a needed distraction for me. I only just read a Salon.com article on what is called The Quiverfull movement, which reported on religious groups that believe women should bear children until either their ovaries run out or their lives do. So during the play it occured to me that the dearly departed original, Mrs. VonTrapp (pre-Maria) whom I never gave a thought to before, had met her end due to Mr. VonTrapp's Quiverfull leanings. Ok, I realize that back in 1930-something the lack of family planning was not The Quiverfull. Back then it was just called 'life as usual', or rather 'life w/o birth control'. Come on, there must have been something available. Anyway, thinking on it made me wonder why, if Captain VonTrapp loved his first wife so much, why didn't he ease up on the procreation side of things - I know, I'm just saying...

Ok, I'll shut up on that tricky topic. So Mrs. Lincoln, other than that, how was the play?

Fun! It was the usual adorable musical. Maria had an angel's voice and was not old enough to drive anything but a tricycle. The Captain VonTrapp was a tad stiff, even after Maria was to have softened him up a bit. The kids were adorable and the best test of the play was that it was very, very, v-e-r-y difficult to not sing out loud. I was reduced to soundlessly mouthing the words. "Up on a hill a lonely goat heard La-eee, o-de-la-ee...O-de-la-eee..." You remember the rest.

The Journey Home Through Air-brushed Hills

The end of a Hen Party is always a bit of a downer, but on the other hand, driving over hill and dale on back roads can really cheer you up. The hills and fields were festooned with great sweeps of yellow and white , with the occasional patch of periwinkle and/or blue.

Nancy enjoying the colorful vista
I recognized some of the flowers, such as these Fiddlenecks.


Common Fiddleneck

Fiddlenecks
I guessed these white flowers were either Meadow Foam or Popcorn Flowers - they are the latter.


Popcorn Flowers

Red Maids, which actually look more like Fushia Maids, but there you go

Too pretty for only one name:
Frying Pan / Sierra Gold Cups/ or Lobb's Poppy - whew!

Look at this - doesn't it look as if some impressionist artist has swept a brush along and up the hillside?

Nancy insisted I photograph this beautiful little hillock
Ok, vow to self: MUST do some more wildflower hunting before the summer heat sets in and all the green stuff turns to brown crispies.

Hen Party in the Hills, Day II

Saturday morning the Hens took their sweet time getting out of the roost - bed - the sun was very nearly up by the time we gathered in the kitchen for our country breakfast (that would be bagels and cream cheese).


Morning Hens in their 'jammies'

Ingrid's incredible blood orange/tangerine juice
For us Hens, breakfast is not a lightly taken meal, but a lavish feast during which the coffee flows, the baked goods and fresh fruits collide, the baked eggs (my new speciality) crack, or some such, and the air is rent with goo-gobbers of gossip. We're Hens, what else would one expect?

It was near onto noon we were finally all dressed and ready for an obligatory Slug Hike into town. I stalled, but succumbed to the exercise at the last minute, figuring it was either go along and enjoy the fresh air, or else allow my behind to permanently fuse with the couch fabric. I'm glad I went, it was lovely, cool, with plenty of snow & picturesque cabins & scenery for gawking at.


The flock setting out on its hike

Stopping mid-village to pose with Mr. Potbelly Stove, a warm hearted local

Visiting an antique shop in the heart of Shaver Lake Village
We stopped by a couple of antique shops and one art gallery. I lollygagged behind the flock. Then my cell phone rang, followed by Nancy racing up to me, to drag me off to see this Rorschach's test of an artistic dress dummy in an antique shop.


A lovely exhibit of frail cameos or a painfully pinned display of horror?

Nancy shows off her refined crayoning skills
All in all it really was a perfectly lovely Slug Hike (I won the race, in the SLUG category of course). Loads of pretty things and sights to look at.

As the day waned we decided it was time to celebrate Ingrid's birthday. For the occasion, Robbie baked a cheeky little chocolate cake. I say the cake was 'cheeky' because it looked so totally flat and unassuming, right up until it hit your tongue, at which point your noggin exploded and your brain thought it won a ticket to Chocolate Land. The best we could get out of Robbie was the cake contained like 2 spoonfuls of flour, the rest of the ingredients being chocolate and finely ground almonds or other nuts. Well, I never! And apparently I ought to more often.


Robbie lights her chocolate confection

Ingrid blows out the birthday match after
which our taste buds demanded satisfaction Finally it arrived - our last day at Shaver Lake. We opted for a quick breakfast of leftovers (saving me the hassle of waffle fixing)The weather had warmed up a bit so the snow pack was a tad soft, and I, 'she-of-mass-gravity' kept sinking knee deep into the snow. Blast!
Anyway, I drove us off for a quick pilgrimage to the Village's true namesake - Shaver Lake.

The flock posed with Shaver Lake in the background
I must end this saying that we had all expected Fran to be with us for the weekend, but though she'll always be a much loved hen, she is no longer with us. Thoughtfully, early on in our weekend, Nancy placed photos of Fran and the rest of us in happier times around the cabin. I found I couldn't look at the photos without feeling distraught - avoidance seems to be my primary coping method; it's no wonder I relate so well to chickens.
So though not present in body, Fran was present in spirit. The merry making rang tad flat without Fran's witty comments and laughter. Gawdamnit, but we missed her.