Buy the postcard.

No matter where you go — African safari, Mediterranean cruise, Great Wall of China, or family reunion in Wichita —  travel is often tough. Here are some things I’ve learned:

Take your rattiest underwear and toss it out as you go, every day. You’ll buy new when you get home.

If you’re prone to motion- or sea-sickness take gingersnaps along. They don’t make you sleepy like Dramamine does, plus they’re good with a restorative cup of tea.

Take packets of hand cleaner. Besides hands, they can be used to clean iffy toilet seats, get the sticky off a restaurant table, or bugs off the windshield.

Carry neatly folded lengths of toilet paper in plastic baggies. How awful is it to conduct your business in an enclosed stall and then realize there’s no t.p?  This goes double in some countries where they hang the loo paper on the outside of the door. If you forget to take some before you go inside, well…! I’m just sayin’, BYOTP.

Blue Buff bandana.

Blue Buff bandana.

Bandanas made of seamless loops of stretchy polyester microfiber — Sahalie Buffs® — are indispensable. They come in riotous designs as colorful as a giant box of crayons. They contort to keep your head and neck warm when the weather turns cold, sop your sweated brow when the temperature soars, and become a hat or headband if you have a bad hair day. What more can I say? Oh! no, I do not own shares in the company.

Wear your most vertsatile earrings and leave all the rest at home. Limit other jewelry to one necklace, one bracelet, one ring, one watch. Less is less.

Don’t take a garment you’ll only wear once. Plan a color scheme and stick to it. A few neutrals, a pop of color, and you don’t have to worry about what goes with what.  Everything goes!

If you have limited time and you stop to take photos of everything, that means you aren’t seeing anything Buy. The. Postcard. If you must have a picture of you with Big Ben, put yourself into the frame quickly, then look at the sight you’ve paid thousands of dollars to see.

Sunrise, Bryce Canyon, Utah. There was no postcard, so I broke my rule and took the photo myself.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxSunrise, Bryce Canyon, Utah. There was no postcard.

Our shadows, ourselves.

Do I buy the postcards? Yes, but…when you’re lucky enough to be in a beautiful place that you know you’ll never see again, it’s hard not to snap a picture or two, especially with the instant gratification a digital camera provides. I do have a way to take “selfies” that aren’t so “in your face” though. Watch:

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Perfect piece of pie.

Superior pie-baking runs in my family though I didn’t inherit the skills my dad’s cousin had, nor those of my mother, her sister, or their mother.

My loyal daughers say they love my pies, and my granddaughter says mine are the world’s best! They’re OK, sometimes they even border on good, but they’re never as good as those made by my female ancestors — Cousin Pauline, Mother Neva, Aunt Dorothy, Grandma Agie.

My pies look like rabbits nibble the edges, then hop across the top.

The recipe on the Crisco label is my guide, although I add a dash of baking powder to the flour. Dad married another excellent pie-maker after my mother died — the baking powder was Martha’s hint.

Though I roll the crust firmly, gently, it never ends up a soft smoothed circle like my mom’s did. No matter how carefully I place the crust in the pan, I have to patch it with scraps of dough pasted in place with ice water. Every November, in spite of threatening to buy our Thanksgiving pies at the local bakery, or to use store-bought crusts, I always return to “from scratch.”

Last weekend, I decided to make the annual July Fourth blueberry pie to honor what would have been my dad’s 105th birthday. I used my little tin pie pan, halved the pastry recipe, but almost doubled the berries. I made my usual botched mess of the crust. But into the oven it went with foil wrapped lightly around the edges until the final few minutes.

I set the timer and headed to my desk. Two hours later, I returned to the kitchen. Why was the oven light on? OMG! MY PIE!

Yes, I’d set the timer, but I can’t hear it unless I’m in the kitchen! I expected to see a charred mess when I yanked the door open. It was slightly browner than usual, but not burned. I let it cool, stuck a little American flag in it, and we had it for dessert after our hamburgers/potato salad/corn-on-the-cob feast.

Best darned pie I’ve ever made! Martha Stewart would pooh-pooh me, but I think I’ve found the secret to a good pie: stick it in the oven and fuhgeddabodit.

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xxxx’Art by Mrs. Steitz’ web grab.