Pensacola, Florida, is the home of the Blue Angels. Everything is named “Blue Angel This” and “Blue Angel That.” They frequently fly overhead when practicing. On the weekends they’re usually out of town delighting some other city with their aerobatics.
In addition to watching the Blue Angels, there are many cool things to see and do, not the least of which is the National Naval Aviation Museum. The museum is massive and takes two to three hours to complete – and it’s free! Got to love the free.
I don’t know enough about the specifics types of aircraft on display, so I’ll dazzle you with a slideshow of my excellent slowly improving photography skills. *grins*
Despite the large number of photos above, there is much more to see in the museum. Twice a week the Blue Angels do a practice and autograph session. I highly recommend it to all who venture to Pensacola. Visit the Blue Angels and the museum daily, 9am to 5pm, at 1750 Radford Blvd.
On today, Black Friday, I am not shopping. I need groceries at the moment, but I’d rather not brave the hordes of frenzied consumers after they’ve spent a sleepless night in a lawn chair in front of some big box store because they are hell-bent on saving a few bucks on the latest/bigger/faster/shinier piece of equipment.
As a subtle protest to consumerism and our conditioned “need” to have the latest/bigger/faster/shinier piece of whatever, today’s post is mostly brought to you by the Amish, people who make a practice of avoiding such pursuits.
This made me laugh when I first saw it: a barn for the Amish buggies – at Walmart!! Yes, the Walmarts in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, are different that all the other Walmarts I’ve visited across the country.
Amish buggy barn at Walmart in Ephrata, Pennsylvania.
A couple Amish Jokes:
Two fellers were in desperate need of cash, but admittedly were a bit cowardly.
So the one suggested they break into the Amish market.
The logic being that since the Amish were non-resistant, even if they were caught, no harm could befall them.
Thus they carried out their plot.
However, just as they were breaking into the cash register, the owner turned on the lights and confronted them, a shotgun pointed directly at them.
Calmly, the Amish man said, “Boys, I would never do thee any harm, yet you are standing where I am about to shoot.”
An Amish woman and her daughter were riding in an open buggy one cold, blustery January day.
The daughter said to the mother, “My hands are freezing cold.”
The mother replied, “Put your hands between your legs. The body heat will warm them up.”
So the daughter did, and her hands warmed up.
The next day, the daughter was riding in the buggy with her boyfriend.
The boyfriend said, “My hands are freezing cold.”
The daughter said, “Put them between my legs, they’ll warm up.” But, wait! There’s more…
This wasn’t my first time… I’ve been down before. Twice. But my trip to Indian Echo Caverns in Hummelstown, PA, is the second time in my life I’ve been underground. It was cool, literally and figuratively speaking.
This is the pond/lake! The blue color doesn’t show up as well on film, but in person it’s a lovely light turquoise.
Like many caverns in the Mid-Atlantic states, Indian Echo Caverns is a limestone cave. Cut through Beekmantown limestone, which is over 440 million years old, they were formed through the erosive properties of water. As time progressed, geological forces led to an “uplift” of the surrounding limestone, eventually allowing more and more water to flow through the formation. As the water flowed over the limestone, it began to create small crevices, these small crevices led to larger ones, and eventually, over a series of millions of years, it created the caverns as they are today.
The temperature inside the caverns is 52 degrees year around.
‘… 52 degrees year around.’ See? It’s “cool.” *rim shot*
Texas and Southern US saying, “That dog don’t hunt.” Meaning: This idea or excuse won’t work, this thing doesn’t work correctly. The expression originated in the American South, where dogs are commonly used to hunt. Also put as “that old dog won’t hunt.” It originated in the late 1800s. – according to The Web.
A neighbor with a stick-and-brick (that’s full-time RVer lingo for “house”) went on vacation. He asked me to take care of his chickens and barn kitties. (“Barn kitty” or “barn cat” is country lingo for cats that live outside your country house to help keep down the rodent and snake populations. They’re fed some kibbles, but generally not treated like a revered pet. Sometimes they’re socialized, but not usually allowed inside the main house.)
Actually, my neighbor didn’t care so much about the barn kitties (welcome to the south), but he did care about the chickens (again, welcome to the south). The chickens that don’t lay eggs.
“Do we LOOK like we lay eggs? Yeah, we fooled the guy who bought us, too.”
There are eight hens and one rooster. Eight of them are physically capable of laying eggs. Five of the hens are old enough – over seven months – but they don’t lay eggs. There’s got to be something wrong with them.
My knuckles are still white and now my eyes have that thing where they think stationary objects are moving.
You know that thing that happens when you’ve been staring at a moving item (in my case the road, or that text crawl at the bottom of a tv screen) for a looooong time and then you stop staring at it and then the stationary objects around you suddenly look like they’re moving?
Yeah. I’ve got that.
And white knuckles.
Holy Dirty Diapers!
I know y’all think I’m brave, but I scared myself. Actually, the crappy condition of the LA freeways scared me. The roads (the 405, parts of the 101, and parts of the 5) were SO BAD I thought I had flat tires. Plural. Seriously. But, wait! There’s more…
For the better, I hope. But I can’t make any promises.
I’m almost officially a gypsy. If all goes as planned by this time next week I’ll have no “permanent home”, and few possessions. Before you start to feel sorry for me, know that I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.
Uhh, what did you just say?? You’ve been looking forward to this?
Remember, I’m here because I’m not all there.
I didn't know you could get them gilded! Next time I'm ordering mine gilded.
For almost two years now I’ve fantasized about getting a motorhome, traveling the country like a gypsy while writing about my adventures. Granted, I often don’t know the difference between a fantasy and a plan. But is there really a difference? Must they be mutually exclusive?
And my dream is about to begin. I bought an RV, and will take possession of it in about a week. I can’t wait! I’m excited, and really hope I can pull this off. But, wait! There’s more…
Holy heart failure Batman! I joined an exercise Boot Camp.
The cat took me for a walk.
In case you don’t know, Boot Camps are a hardcore outdoor exercise program where they run you backwards up hills, and make you do backwards pushups and a ton of squats and other evil stuff. There’s also a strict diet plan that doesn’t include sweets. They’ve set me up to fail.
I don’t know why I signed up. Really. The only thing I can figure is I was under the influence of an overdose of cold/flu medicine at the time.
I believe being “under the influence of cold medicine” is grounds for temporary insanity. Not that I necessarily qualify for the “temporary” part.
This particular Booty Camp is ten weeks long, and it started this past weekend. (I’m calling it “Booty” camp because it’s all about getting my booty in shape.) Needless to say, my booty was bringing up the rear of the booty camp. Thank goodness I wasn’t the very last booty, like I was six months ago. This time there were about 200 people so my odds were better.
“Before” photos were required. Mine are really awful looking – which is why I joined the Booty Camp. If I do well, I may share the “after” photos. Maybe… but they might be awful, too. But, wait! There’s more…
But if you’ve read at least three posts here, you already knew that. Besides, I wouldn’t know how/where to categorize this whole blog, given the limited options provided by Google and Yahoo.
Whatever. Their loss.
Actually, “Whatever” might just be the perfect category.
But I digress. Yet again.
Lately I’ve had this sense of unrest, this sense of needing to GO. Go where, I don’t know, but just to GO. Somewhere, almost anywhere, really.
I have a bad case of wanderlust. This happens to me quite regularly. I do love my wanderlust, it takes me to the most interesting places, on some interesting journeys, and fun adventures.
But it won’t be ignored. Like an intense craving, or more like being pulled towards something. I HAVE to go. I can stave it off for a month or so by spending a day or three at the coast, either Monterey or Santa Barbara. For years that has been enough.
But not anymore. It seems my wanderlust has grown stronger. A trip to the coast only seems to stave it off or a week or two rather than a month or two. Now it calls to me ALL. THE. TIME. Three months ago it was already calling me constantly when I mentioned it in Panic Much? FEAR = F*ck Everything And Run. I still want to get a motorhome, pack in the cat, and all the shit that will fit, and hit the road. I have a list of places I want to see, most qualifying as what I affectionately call Cheezy Americana. And then there are the places like the Grand Canyon, which I have yet to see.
Tumbleweed Tiny House - on wheels!
I don’t own a home, so this would be easy to accomplish. Recently, I saw these…
They’re so cute I can’t stand it. I want one! OMG What a way to see the country. They’re beautiful inside and have many mini amenities. Now I can’t decide if I want the charm of the tiny house, or the full functionality of a motor home.
Having lived in fairly large homes, and in really tiny ones, I learned having a massive place in which to live, but no one with whom to share it makes for a hugely empty home. As long as I have my cat, a nice bed, a comfy chair, decent closet, bathroom, and kitchenette space, lots of light, internet, cell phone, TV, and peace and quiet I’m quite happy.
Being mobile with all that would be a huge bonus. And it seems an excellent cure for my wanderlust.