Amazing, Unbelievable, Fantastic and True

I know that all of us, including animals, were affected because of the fall (mankind's, not mine). And I believe that in the New Heaven and the New Earth everything, including animals, will be restored to their intended status, and will have their origional skills.

And I also believe that we get glimpses of these abilities here, on this old Earth.

For example, there is Paya. She is an elephant. And she paints. And I don't mean houses. Well, maybe that too. But I have seen video of her painting flowers and even a self portrait.

I kid you not.

This is something I cannot do. I have some talents, a little singing, a little writing, a good eye for color and scale. But I can't draw, paint, sketch, etc.

SIGH.

At least her butt is bigger than mine.

Road Kill

I bet when people see this title, they'll beat a path to my virtual door.

Here in the rural south it is a common thing to see something in or on the side of the road that's been hit by at least one car.

I have only hit one thing in my driving years (that I am aware of - bugs and stuff don't count). A puppy was running to and fro, all over the road. I came to a complete stop until the pup ambled off into the weeds on the other side of the road. Just as I started up, he came flying back into the road and I bumped him with my tire. He yelped and went running back up the bank, into a yard.

I started crying, but went on to work. As soon as I got there, I told them what had happened, and that I was going back to that house and see if the puppy belonged to them and if I needed to take it to the vet.

A man came out of the house. The puppy would not come out of his dog  house, but the man said he'd seen it and it was fine, not to worry. I gave him my name and number, but he never called me.

I hope I was more traumatized than the dog.

Now, a deer hit me once.

It had come across the road, and was standing with that fearful look in its eyes, so I stopped. She went on down the bank. Then she bolted back across the road and slammed into the rear of my car! I was terrified she'd skidded under the car and was lying there, so I eased the door open, but she was gone on across the road.

She never called to see if I needed to see the vet.

I worked with a guy who had a very sensitive belly, and if he saw blood of any kind, he threw up. We were on a field trip with a van load of clients, when up ahead we could see something red and gory looking up ahead, in the middle of the road. He started gagging and looking for something to vomit in. As we approached the 'roadkill' we discovered it was a dead watermelon.

He stopped gagging immediately. I guess  his sensitivity did not extend to killed fruit.

A therapist I worked with left early one morning to go to a meeting across the mountain. He came back that afternoon and looked upset. I asked him what was wrong, and he sat down, all sad faced, and told his tale.

Seems that morning he was going around a particularly severe curve on the mountain and two stray dogs were in the middle of the road, eating roadkill. Well, he didn't get stopped fast enough and he hit them.

They say you are what you eat.

It gets worse.

On the way back across the mountain, he came into that same curve. A buzzard was eating the dogs....and he hit and killed the buzzard.

That man was never the same.

My grandmother, on the other hand, drove like a race car driver, swerving all over the roads, trying to kill poor opossums. I don't know what they ever did to her.

Sometimes hitting things are life endangering. Friends hit a big old bear on the way to church. The bear ran off, wounded for sure, and their truck was dented badly. Luckily they didn't wreck. Unfortunately, the bear was hurt and dangerous.

And it seems some people want to be roadkill. They walk with traffic, in black clothes, at nighttime, on the side of the road. Let me tell you, it may not  hurt them, but they've almost given me a heart attack!

And these bicycle riders in their unbelievably tight clothes? Are they crazy? Riding on roads that are so curvy  they are invisible until you are upon them.

If any of them favor a possum, they better watch out. My grandmother could be just around the corner.

Southern Comfort

I know no other way of life except the Southern way of life. And I don’t care to know another way of life. But unfortunately, the south has been inundated with the you-know-who and it shows.

The Northern invasion ruined a lot, not just Atlanta.

Especially, and sadly, our food. (And I'm not even going to get into what those EYE-talians and them from JAY-pan, etc. have done to our food. Do you know they don't even serve potatoes with their meals??)

I’m sure you’ve heard the old saw about the Yankee who is down south and about to order breakfast. When he asks about the special of the day, the waitress mentions grits. He says he doesn’t know what that is, and he’ll just skip it, but she insists it comes with the special. So, he says, “Well, I guess I’ll try it. But since I don’t know if I’ll like it, I’ll just take one grit this time.”

Speaking of grits, I was raised to eat them with butter and sugar. My South Georgia friend was raised to eat them with butter, salt and pepper. And of course, there’s the messed-with grits, with cheese and stuff put in them.

People cannot leave good enough alone, apparently.

Growing up, for breakfast at one grandparent’s house, you had biscuits, sawmill gravy (raise your hand if you know what sawmill gravy is), and eggs, fried. Fried how depends on how busy my granddaddy was cooking the meat. They might be sunny side up, they might be runny as the creek in the back yard, or as hard as a rubber ball. Didn’t matter, you ate them. There was also bacon, sometimes sausage. Homemade blackberry and apple jelly and butter were always in the center of the table.

At my other grandparents house there was oatmeal first. Didn’t matter if you disliked oatmeal, you ate a bowl of it before you got your biscuits, scrambled eggs and bacon.

At home, breakfast was whatever I got thrown at me on the way to school.

And another thing that’s been ruined is chicken. There was, in the not so distant past, no such thing except fried chicken. And now there’s chicken whatever. I admit some of it is good, but it’s a lot like sin: good going down, and fun while you’re at it, but awful when it's keeping you awake in the middle of the night because it was just too spicy a thing for how God made you. 

Stay away from both as much as temptation will allow.

And tea. Dear lord. When I was growing up, you had tea. If you were fortunate enough to go to a restaurant you ordered tea. Not hot or cold, not sweet or (please don’t make me say it) unsweet(ened) tea. And you didn’t have to worry about a nasty old lemon hanging off the glass, either. If you wanted something icy cold to drink that tasted like lemon, guess what you ordered?

Like, duh.

If I wanted to horrify Yankee kin, I could say words like okra and squash.

And remember eating watermelon straight from the branch, (as in creek) where it had been kept in the frigid stream all day so it would be cold by mid-afternoon when July was an inferno?

What about homemade ice cream from an old wooden, hand cranked thing that only a grown man could turn toward the very last?

No soft drinks except “co-cola”, Nu-grape and  Nesbitt’s Orange. “Pop” was what your cap gun did.

And contrary to popular belief, not everything was cooked with lard. 

Some things were cooked with butter.

So there.

Don’t you dare sit there, all smug, and tell me food is much better for you now.

Really? Why did my grandparents live to be eighty-seven years old? That’s right. Lard is a preservative. It’s a pretty tightly kept secret, so I’ll ask you not to pass it along.

The you-know-who folks might get ahold of the information, and then where would we be, Scarlett?

They’re annoying enough as it is.

  

Check: Mate

A few days ago, Daughter commented on a married couple she knows. She said they didn't 'match' physically, but she could tell they really loved each other.

Which got me to thinking. Most of us have/had this ideal person in our heads that looked like we wanted our mate to look like.

But looks don't always pan out to what is important in the final scheme of mating. (Really. If you are under seventeen, I know you don't believe it.)

If looks were the only thing, wiry short little guys would almost never get a girl. And tall girls would be banned from the dating scene except for the basketball team.

I don't think for one minute that Beauty sighed in her thoughts and daydreamed about Beast "I want to marry a guy who has a snout and wild boar fangs."  Uh-huh.

And the Prince in Sleeping Beauty? You think he daydreamed of a girl who just laid there and couldn't talk?  Uh, wait....bad example. Maybe he did.

Moving right along.

Husband said he always thought he'd marry a petite, dark haired girl. I am tall and blonde.

I always went for the blond type guy: exhibit A

I need to take a moment. Whew!

Husband is (okay, was) very dark haired. He has the blue eyes, though. 

My point is (surprise, you probably didn't think I had one!) when we get to know someone, we fall in love with the inside not the outside. 

Husband, whose mama was petite and dark haired, was one of the best mama's in the universe. I may not look like her on the outside, but we are a lot alike on the inside. She was one of the best buddies I have ever had. I think that's because we were alike.

And, I think that's why husband fell in love with me.

When that happens, it doesn't matter if you are the tall girl and he is the wiry little guy. So what? You both love mystery novels, eat tomato sandwiches for breakfast and laugh at serious movies. Who cares how tall you are.

If you haven't found Mr/Miss Right yet, maybe it's because  you're looking in all the wrong places, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

There's Something Bugging Me

They’re everywhere. They are taking over my house. They are in my windows, on my mirrors, counter tops and tabletops. They are on my sink, in my tub. They fill my light fixtures and soap dishes. They are running laps around the cat’s water dish.

If you don’t dodge ‘em, they’ll fly right into you, as though you are an inanimate object.

They are kinda cute, at least at first. But after being bitten by one, their ugly side showed up. I wanted revenge but didn’t want to take out innocent victims and I couldn’t tell which one had done the biting because they all look alike.

There, I said it.

I’m really beginning to be annoyed by ladybugs. And I use the term “lady” lightly.

My cousin said they fell into his soup and he ate one. He says they’re bitter. I don’t know if he meant the taste or because he ate one of their legions.

And guess who buries their dead? Every morning a fresh crop of corpses are there needing to be swept up. 

They don’t even care about their own!

But the final straw has come.

I had just had my bath and put on nice, warm, clean sweats. I sat down to do my hair.

Now that I have a giant scar on my back from surgery, I cave in a little there,  so when I raise my arms, the elastic from the sweats don’t stay snug to my body…there’s a little opening…see where I’m going with this? Suddenly I begin to feel a tiny tickle, a gentle crawling sensation on my, um, uh, bottom.

How do I say this delicately? I reach into my undies and pull out a dang ladybug!

Pervert!

Masher!

Gross!

This has got to stop!

People unite!

Honey, Where Did You Put My Sledgehammer?

The conversation started innocently enough. The four of us women were discussing something about husbands, and got sidetracked as to  how they can't seem to find anything or keep up with anything.

You know the drill. "Honey where did you put my sledgehammer? I'm sure I left it right here. What did you do with it?"

Now, this puts the wife in a dilemma. First off, we never touched the stupid sledgehammer, we didn't put it anywhere. But because we have eyes that are connected to our brains, we know where it is,we can see it directly in our husband's path.

Right where he left it, of course.

Even when you tell them that's where they left it, they are always suspicious that because you knew where it was, you moved it!

Of course, if you simply say, "I haven't moved your sledgehammer," and leave it at that, someone (him) will trip over it, and there's an irritating trip the the ER.

We had friends who had a two year old little boy. One Saturday morning, the husband dropped by the office where we were getting some last minute stuff ready for a trip. After chatting for a few, I asked about his wife. "Oh,' he said happily, "She's in the front yard reading." I asked how Jason (their child) was letting her do that, as two year olds don't let you read much. He spazzed out, his lanky arms and legs literally going in four different directions, his eyes popping out of his head, just like a Saturday  morning cartoon. "Oh no! I forgot! I left him at the hardware store!" And he ran out, leaving Husband and Myself stunned. (The kid was okay, one of the ladies sat him in the floor with pots and pans and a wooden spoon, figuring somebody would remember him eventually. I guess she was married.)

My own husband forgot our child more than once. But it was forgetting to pick her up from somewhere, not leaving her behind. Being a female child, she knew better than to let him out of her sight if they were alone in public.

And of course, there is the losing stuff syndrome.

My husband routinely loses his keys, wallet, phone, camera, watch, wedding ring (hmmmm), and glasses - all twenty-five pair of them.

If I made a list of all the things he's lost, say, in the last three months - well, I just can't.

I'm writing a blog, not a novel.

I honestly can't say I never lose something. There are times (like this morning) when I misplace something for a few minutes. This  morning I was getting ready to go to a doctor's appointment and my shoes disappeared. I remembered going into the closet and getting them, but they weren't on the dresser, floor or bed.

First thing, I asked Husband if he'd taken my shoes somewhere, because when something of mine disappears, 95% of the time, he's the one who has absconded with it.

But this time he said no, so I retraced my steps and remembered I'd put my dirty socks in the basket, on top of the dryer. Sure enough, there were my shoes.

If  Husband had lost his shoes, we would have to go buy a new pair.

Once, he lost the entire ring of keys: office, home, car, safe deposit box, etc. and his dog tags, which were attached to the ring.

He found them the next year. Apparently he'd dug a hole to plant a rosebush. Rosebush died, he dug it up, and voila'! Keys!

It's a mystery, most things he loses, though. I mean, our house just ain't that big. Where the heck is all that stuff? Is there a black hole just to the left of our bedroom?

I wish I knew.

Valentine's Day Actually Falls on February 19

Okay, okay, maybe it doesn't. 

But I've been busy, see. I wrote my husband a sweet little song on the real Valentine's day, but I can't sing it to you, so I thought I'd share a poem I gave him a few years back.

Ready? Maybe you can give it to your spouse next year. You can say, "Here's a Valentine's poem Kathi wrote for you."

Here goes:

In light of all the days gone by,

And hopefully, those to come,

It seems a mite too trite to try

To explain my feelings some.

But however trite it just might be,

Feelings I do feel,

And what I really want you to see

Are the ones that are so real.

Not when I’m angry, sad, or blue,

But the ones that never move.

The ones way down, deep and true,

Ones I never have to prove.

What we call love, or matched for life,

The strong and sturdy stuff,

That gets you through the times of strife.

If nurtured, it’s always enough.

God given as it can only be,

Strong and brave and full,

The love He gave to you and me,

Can’t be voided or null.

We must remember in all ways,

The gift of wedded mates,

To treasure each and every day,

Not wait till it’s too late.

To say I love you, yes I do!

Valentine’s Day or not,

This love will have to see us through –

Sometimes, love’s all we’ve got!

My Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Everyone is supposed to get their fifteen minutes of fame.

I figure if I squinch all mine together I have already used mine up.

For your entertainment pleasure, I wish to list them in chronological order.

I'll wait till you get your popcorn.

Now, I won't mention my birth, being the modest person that I am. Although I'm pretty sure it made the papers.

Shortly thereafter, though, I was the first baby to ever be enrolled on the Cradle Roll at the First Baptist Church. That is pretty amazing.

I taught Bob how to walk, even though I was only a year old. He was three months younger than I (still is, actually) and he wanted to pull my  hair so badly, he walked after me.

I said a lot of adorable and cute things that mesmerized my parents, both sets of grandparents and one set of great-grandparents. Most babies can't do that.

My first grade teacher's birthday was the same day as mine. Wow.

I was robbed at seven. Someone stole my little purse because they had  heard I had lost a tooth during reading. It was true. I guess the dirty rotten thief though they could fool the Tooth Fairy.

I quit school at age eight. See previous blog.

At nine, I was going to be in a ballet recital. My tutu and multi-colored feather duster had already arrived. We had practiced till our little toes were exhausted. The song was "Frenchie, the Little French Maid." We were to sing as we danced. I still remember the first line to the song, which is "I'm Frenchie, the little French Maid, ladadadalada." Pretty racy for a bunch of nine year olds.

Our teacher ran her car under a transfer truck the week before the recital and broke her neck. She survived, but the ballet recital did not.

I sang my first solo at age fourteen. No one knew I could sing at all, so when I woke everyone up at the children's Christmas concert by trilling "Gesu Bambino", it was pretty thrilling. For me, anyway.

In high school I was on the six o'clock news. Our "Found Generation" singing group sang at one of the malls in the metro area and the local newsman came and talked to us and filmed us. When they showed me singing a solo, t here was a voice over telling about us. So much for, you know, actually hearing me sing.

I was on the six o'clock news again in my twenties. I worked at the state capital and they were filming our work area because when one of the machines had been pulled out for repair, giant (and I do mean screaming, climbing on  your chair giant) cockroaches crawled out. That's what they were saying when they showed me at my desk.

After my first book came out we were eating at a restaurant and a starry eyed teenage girl asked if I'd written a book. I admitted t'was I. Then she waxed poetic about how wonderful the book was. After we sat down, I tried to figure out how she knew I was the author. That book did not have a picture of me anywhere. My husband went back and asked. "Oh," she said. "It's because she is Anna Kate's mother."  Well, that's who I always am, Daughter's mother or Husband's wife, or Mother's daughter. Take your pick.

But here are my three greatest moments:

Getting a phone call wanting to purchase my book because they wanted the perfect gift for a woman's birthday. You see, she was turning one hundred years old and still read and wanted my book. She read it too!

Being at a Vacation  Bible School assembly and caring for a blind girl while her guardian left for a moment. When we began to sing, she leaned into me, listening intently. I pointed my voice toward her until we finished. As soon as the song was up, she looked anxious and said she had to go to the bathroom, right now! As I started out to the aisle, her guardian showed back up and rushed her off. But the little girl had waited too late, and she had to put on dry clothes. When scolded, she said, "But I couldn't stop listening. She had the voice of an angel." I get tears in my eyes when I type this.

And lastly, when I went back to check on sales at a store, the lady told me some little boy had come in and asked about my books. He was alone. He picked out a book, purchased it, and left. They were astounded that some kid would come in alone and buy my book.

Me too.

Pretty amazing fifteen minutes, huh?

You Can't Judge a Cat by Its Pedigree

I might as well get it right out there: we have four cats. I know, I know. Can't figure out how it  happened, myself.

Frost is a white American Short hair. That's a fancy way of saying he's just a plain old cat who happens to be white. (and this one happens to have it made, as you can see.)

Mimi is a torti medium length furred something. I think she is part Persian because of the round eyes and longish fur. The most remarkable thing about Mimi is she is dumber than a box of rocks.

Lily is a white Maine Coon. She is an old cat. We adopted her when she was nine. She was raised as a Queen in a cattery, that is, a kennel. Her sole reason for living was to reproduce. She was a good mama, but she was not a pet. She had been petted, and her physical needs cared for, but she was skittish, somewhat wild (still is) and did not trust us at all. That has slowly changed, but she will never be a 100% pet. She has a pedigree a mile long. She's the big cat your right. Pan, the unreal cat, is on your left. Pan sleeps a lot.

And last, but not least, (to say the least) is Eli. He is also a white Maine Coon. We've had him since he was a wee babe, picked him out of the litter of three and brought him home at age two months. He is now a little over two  years, and will grow until he is five years old.

Here's the thing: Our two "alley cats" aren't alley cats at all.  They will eat nothing but dry cat food.

Our two pedigreed cats are pigs.

You have to guard the table or Eli will steal your food. He is so tall  he can sit just under the rim of the table, raise up on his hind legs and throw a right cross into your plate, nab a bite with his big old mitts and have it swallowed before you can yell, "Eli!" He also eats his dry food, Frost's specialized dry food, and wet canned food. In other words, whatever isn't nailed down.

He also turns over waste baskets, digs into the garbage bags, and rolls around in the dirty clothes. Gross.
If you look closely at his photo above you'll see he has dirt all around his cute little pink nose. That's from grubbing in my houseplants.

And Lily eats out of the dog dish. She's gonna get killed one of these days. If I see her doing this with Molly (the bulldog) within sight, who by the way is trembling from her cute little snout to her stub of a tail in total indignation all the while, I will get Lily out of the way.

This morning Lily ate leftovers I'd put in Molly's bowl. Noodles, a green pea, some broccoli and carrots. She also loves leftover mashed potatoes. This is a CAT, people.

Perhaps the reason they are the way they are has something to do with the legend that Maine Coons are partly Lynx. Look at Eli's picture and you can see, visually, why folks say that. If you  live with them, you can hear why too. It's unnerving.

I guess what I'm saying is if you want a sweet, dainty, docile kitty, get a mutt.

Or a small dog.

I Do NOT Talk Funny

Several years ago, when the mental health field was booming, and I was frantically trying to hire therapists to fill new positions, I got a call from a woman in California who was moving to Fannin County with her husband. They'd vacationed in the mountains here and fell in love with the countryside.

I returned the call and had to leave a message.

She did get the job, and we are still very good friends, some twenty years later. But she confessed that she replayed my message over and over, and she and her husband would laugh because of my heavy southern accent.

I hired another woman who was raised in Kentucky, but not the hills of apparently, and took to the city life of Atlanta like a fish, until she met one of "us" and fell in love.

She was a prissy little thing and made fun of the "I reckons" and "cain't, ain't, and ya'll". (I remember, after a couple of years of living  here, she slipped and said reckon. She slapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide, and then screamed.)

I worked with a nurse from South Georgia and it irritated her to no end that everyone was "fixin'" to do something, as in, "I'm fixin' to go to town, does Big Granny need any more snuff?"

Of course, much of the world doesn't understand that one southern accent is different from another southern accent. North Georgia people don't talk like Atlanta people and neither population talks like South Georgia. And that's just one state!

But those Yankees I speak of from time to time either think we sound 'cute' or 'stupid' or 'amusing'.

I really don't care anymore. In fact, if I'm speaking to someone of that mind set, I'm afraid I pour it on as heavily as I dare without them catching on that they are being toyed with.

When I was younger and my place of employment worked with northern folks a lot, via the telephone, I loved becoming Scarlett O'Hara. These fellas actually thought we all lived in antebellum mansions and wore hoop skirts to dinner parties. I didn't tell them any different, even though I don't think I'd ever seen an antebellum mansion.

Ah, but revenge is sweet.

The California girl? She reckons and ya'll's all the time.

And Miss Kentucky? (who is also still a dear friend) The same.

And she raises chickens.

Give us half a chance, and  ya''ll will never be the same.

How to Really Pray in Church

As I mentioned the other day, I pert near cut the top of my durn thumb off, and I've been aggravated ever since!

How's that for Southern talk?

I did this to get you ready to talk about church, and in a way a lot of Yankee ladies would NEVER do.

Okay, so I got this hurt thumb and for the first time in I don't know when, I wind up going to church without family.

I'm very cold natured, (ok, except when I'm having a hot flash, see previous blog) so I put on my new tights, and then pull up  my "onsie" over them. I don't really  know what they are called, but that's what you call them on babies. For women's wear, the top has a bra made into it, and it fastens in the crotch. It fits sort of like a lacy bathing suit. I wear them when I'm going to be sitting a long time because it helps my back.

I put on my warm little sweater that has the tiny pearl like buttons in the back. My daughter had to button them for me, because with my bum thumb it was a no go.

I teach Sunday School, and afterwards, as usual, I go to a pew, put down  my Bible, purse, and other stuff, and head for the ladie's room.

I get in the stall, drop my dress pants and realize I can't get the hook and eyes unfastened on my onsie because of my dumb thumb. I consider stripping from the top down, because after all, I'm in a stall and no one can see me.

But I can't get those tiny little pearl like buttons unbuttoned.

Now, I have many close friends at my church, in fact we are all a pretty close knit bunch. But not so close as I'd ask someone to unfasten my onsie, being where the fastner is located and all.

"Okay," I mutter to myself. "I'll just have to wait."

I pull up my dress pants and  leave the ladie's room with a full smile - even though a little forced - on my face.

As the sermon progresses, I become more uncomfortable. Then more uncomfortable.

Did I mention I am on a diuretic?

And that, dear reader, is how to really pray in church.

Knife Fight - Knife Won

This is the second time I have injured myself with a knife.

The first time was some years ago. I had a brand new paring knife, after  my own mysteriously disappeared. I figure it got accidentally thrown out with scraps or something.

I picked up a brand new one at Target, which my husband disliked on sight. Now, he isn't a feelie person at all - I'm the one who usually has bad vibes about stuff.

Anyway, I was at home alone and slicing potatoes. I promise you, it somehow stabbed me in the webbed part between forefinger and thumb. And when I say stabbed, I mean it went in several inches. I was okay until I actually looked at the wound, then I found myself getting light headed with black spots before my eyes. I prayed I could make it to the couch before I fainted. I had a huge gap in my hand that was pooled with blood and I could see white stuff way down in my hand.

I had a feeling this wasn't a good thing.

I was praying about what to do. I knew I couldn't drive - heck, I couldn't get off the couch - so I said, specifically, "Lord, tell me what to do."

He said, "Call Glenda."

Glenda was a woman I had supervised through another supervisor for years. Now, this was a little while after I retired, but I picked up the phone and told the secretary I had an emergency and to get Glenda out of the meeting.

Even though I wasn't their boss anymore, I had been for a hundred years, so she obeyed me without question.

I told Glenda what I had done. She said, "Tell me your full name, your birth date and as close as you can as to the time you were born."

I happened to know that because I was teased all my life that I ruined every body's Sunday dinner by being born at 12:35 p.m.

She told me to give her a minute or so and the bleeding would stop.

We hung up. In one minute the bleeding stopped.

Just like that.

She is the daughter of the seventh son of a seventh son or not, and I know it sounds superstitious. I must have heard that she could stop bleeding at some point - I guess. Anyway, God knew she could do it through Him and told me so.

I would have never in a million years believed it myself. Well, I do now, of course.

It never hurt till I went to a surgeon the next day. They did stuff that you wouldn't do to a loved one, then stitched it up, bandaged it, said I'd start hurting really bad in about twenty minutes, and sent me home, giving me an appointment at some date to get the stitches out.

You can't really see where it happened, because the scar looks just like one of the wrinkles in my hand.

David took that knife, tied it up, taped it up, put it in several bags and taped them up, and took it to the dump. He said, "It's not going to hurt anyone else. I told you that knife was bad."

Go figure.

So, Saturday I was using a new serrated knife and, once again, slicing potatoes. Husband asked me something, and I turned slightly and the blade went straight through said potato and about a quarter inch into my thumb in about a half inch cut.

It probably needed a couple of stitches, but I didn't wanna go, so we've butterflied it and I change the dressing every night.

I now know where the term "sticks out like a sore thumb" comes from.

They were thinking of me when they said it.

I'm a Bookaholic

Anyone who knows me very well knows I'd rather read than eat.

 Unless I'm hungry, of course.

I remember wanting to read, and the first books to influence my life were the "Dick and Jane" series, which taught me to read by the  method of memorization. Worked great, I might add.

I remember being around seven and seeing this fat book in the children's section and my heart rate kicked up. Could it be? Could there be a big book I could read? It was "The House at Pooh Corner" by A. A. Milne. I was indeed allowed to check it out and take it home.

I thought  I had arrived.

The next book that stands out in my memory is one that changed my life. At least my reading life. "Tom's Midnight Garden" by Philippi Pearce is about 'time-slippage', or what we would call today time travel. This is my most favorite book of all time, and I read it to my cousin, my brothers, my daughter, and even did it by chapter as an afternoon group at work.

I've been hooked on time travel books ever since. There are wonderful ones, (Diana Gabaldon, where is that next 'Outlander' series book?), and some very bad ones, which of course shall remain nameless.

Stephen King captured my attention with "Salem's Lot", but the best he ever has done is "The Stand".

There are precious books, books I wouldn't trade, (even for food), one of a kind books that, after I read, can't wait to call my friend and say "You have GOT to read this one!"

I have a list of my favorites, and I share them with anyone who asks.

With my physical limitations, I truly don't know what I'd do without my good friends, books.

It puts a dreamy look on my face, right now, as I think about the four new library books husband brought to me just a few hours ago.

See ya later, I got stuff to do!

Praying for a Little Grace

I have a friend who has at least three jobs...and one of them happens to be a school bus driver.

If you want your child to be on a safe bus, a good bus, this is the one. Of course, you may  have to move so your child can be on her route,  but hey, anything for the kids, right?

Anyway, some years back, she was told a few weeks before school was to start that her route was changing. In fact, a road was being added to her route, which would make the route start one half hour earlier. She was already getting up at 5:00 a.m. The road was not a county road, in other words, no county school bus was supposed to even be on that road, much less running a route.

But (and I bet you never saw this coming) someone with some 'pull' said do it anyway, and she was told, 'do it anyway.'

She fussed and fumed. Ranted and raged. Pouted and pleaded.

She had to do the route.

That morning, she was mad as an old wet hen. She told God in no uncertain terms this wasn't only not fair, it wasn't right! She probably called down rain or something else on the politicians who were breaking the rules and the family who was insisting it be done.

Toward the end, as she neared that road, she began to pray, "Well, Lord, it looks like I have to do this. I don't need to take it out on the boy (whom she had heard was a real brat, and I wonder why), so what I'm asking for now is not fairness, but a little grace. Please give me a little grace to get through this without acting any way but the way You would act."

Much to her surprise, before she got to the boy's house to pick him up, she came upon a house with a woman and a little girl standing out front. She said the little girl was the cutest thing you ever saw. She was petite with long dark hair, and a sweet dress, and tiny little Mary Jane's on her feet. She looked to be about five years old.

My friend stopped the bus and opened the doors. She saw the tiny backpack and excited look on the child's face. "Well, hello!" my friend said. "And what is your name?"

The little girl looked her square in the eye and said, "I am Grace."

Well, well.

My friend said she was trying not to start squalling right there in front of everybody, when the mother approached with tears in her eyes. "You don't know what this means to me," she said. "I start a new job today, one that I've needed for months. I didn't have any way to get Grace to school at the right time. I prayed and prayed that God would send someone to help me, and the next week I read in the paper the bus was coming out this way. Thank you so much!"

The child Grace became, and still is, a very important part in my friend's life. She has watched this child grow into a beautiful young woman, full of the Lord's grace. And  my friend help teach her about that grace.

You see, God takes what man means for evil - breaking the laws to self satisfy, for instance - and turns it into something  marvelous for His glory.

Amazing Grace. We all need to pray for a little of it, every day, I'd say.

Preparing for Disaster

You know the gloom and doom talk nowadays. That our economy is on the verge of collapse, and we will have to survive like they did way back when.

Now, no one says when was, but I figure they are talking about eatin' squirrels, possums, rabbits and (sob) Bambi.

I don't want to eat any of the above. Squirrels are rats with tails, possums are UG-LY, rabbits and deer, are well, precious. Stop making fun of me, I can't help it.

Don't get me wrong, I'll eat them every one, though, if I am hungry. We  have a small garden, but nothing that would get us through a winter. Maybe through November. Without Thanksgiving. Hey! We have wild turkeys too....

Anyhow, I've been thinking on one thing that is surely easy to do, and that's make soap.

See, I'm saving all the slivers and chunks and puttin' 'em in a jar. I figure when I get enough, I'll, uh, do something and make a bar of new soap!

Brilliant, huh?

I just gotta figure out how to make the bar...

Also, I'm really thrifty with my clothes. Daughter was looking at a picture of us when she was a newborn, asleep on my chest. She said, "Hey, isn't that the shirt you have on right now?" Sure enough, it was. Daughter is twenty-two years old.

We are in great shape at our house as long as the propane gas and the gasoline last. We have a gas hot water heater, a gas log fireplace in the sun room (which is really just a big old heater) and my cook stove is gas. The gasoline run generator can operate our water pump, refrigerator, two plug-ins, and the overhead lights in the kitchen.

We have a wood burning "real" fireplace in the living room.

And we have some beans in the pantry.

Okay, I admit it: we are unprepared for the collapse of the world as we know it. A few months, no problem.  After that, well, folks, bring on the squirrel gravy, dandelion salad and turkey, deer and bunny.

I'll be dressed for the event, and washed up.

As soon as I figure out how to  make the soap into an actual bar.

And I bet google can tell me!

Oh, no.

We won't have google anymore. Or facebook. Or blogs.

How will I ever be able to tell you about my life as a pioneer?

I have a feeling you won't have time to ask.

Which Of These Things Is Not Like The Others?

In less than a span of a two week period, John Travolta, Christie Brinkley, Oprah Winfrey, and little old me were born.

So, which of these things is not like the others?

Is it John Travolta because he is the male?

Is it Oprah Winfrey because she is of African decent?

Is it Christie Brinkley because she's cute as the dickens, even when she's pushing sixty?

Nay.

'Tis I.

Because, when compared to these other birthday celebrants, I am a pauper. I probably don't have one tenth the wealth of any one of these other birthday babies.

But that's okay. I have, from what I observe in the news, a  much better life.

I am stable. I  may not be as cute as Christie, but I bet I'm more content with my looks. There's not much I can say about old John that says stable, so we'll skip him. And Oprah? She can't decide what her religion is. Maybe it's just the religion of Oprah. I don't know for sure.

I know who My Redeemer is. I know which man I love. I know I have raised my child to the best of my ability, and my family, although not perfect, all speak to me.

I have so many friends it  makes me dizzy. And they are really friends. I don't  have to question if they want to be close to me because of my money.

I've had e-mails, phone calls, and facebook messages all day wishing me a happy birthday. Phone calls from Texas and Oklahoma, messages from Indiana and all over  here 'bouts.

Makes me richer than John, Oprah and Christie, all together. Eat your hearts out, trio.

I'm the one who's got it made.

Ummmm, Cake!

There can be a lot of negative said about upcoming birthdays, at least once you get out of your twenties. (Remember those?)

I remember my sixth birthday, because Vicki, my neighbor, gave me a plaid umbrella just my size and it was raining.

I remember my sixteenth because my mother cooked a huge supper and my boyfriend was invited over to share it.

I remember my twenty-first because I was so upset that I was, somehow, more of an adult than I'd ever been before.

I remember forty because my stinky brothers put a big old ad in the newspaper, you know the kind "Lordy, lordy, look who's forty".  And my then sister-in-law put together a huge album of my life thus far.

For the last several birthdays, a tradition of sorts has been made. I get an Italian Cream Cake. Now, I remember the first time I tasted one of these. I thought it was the best thing I'd ever put in my mouth!

But the bakery that  made them (from scratch) eventually closed down and that was that. Until somehow or other I found out Beverly made Italian Cream cakes. From scratch.

She's a person who loves to cook, especially bake. You know the kind. You change churches because of her. Every time there is a dinner at her church, she cooks. So, I mean, what else can you do?

So, for the last several years, as part of my birthday, my husband purchases an Italian Cream Cake from her. I share, of course. Daughter gets a piece and Husband usually two pieces. Then I put a padlock on the cake holder and all's well with my world.

Anyway, a tragedy has occurred. Her oven broke down. Slap up and quit. She's had parts ordered for weeks, and the repairman came yesterday, but alas, he has to order even more parts!

So my birthday Italian Cream Cake, (from scratch), may wind up being my Valentine Italian Cream Cake. From scratch. Or maybe even my Saint Patrick's Italian Cream Cake. From Scratch.

I know I can get through this. I'm a big girl (shut up), and mature and know that it's just a few days difference.

Pray for me, people. Pray for me.

Never on Wednesday

Wednesday I will be far too busy to blog.

I will have Bible study in the morning, a massage directly afterwards, dinner, a quick rest, and then AWANA at church, where I do counsel time with the kids. 

That is, of course, if it doen't sleet, hail, snow, freeze ice, or tornado conditions pop up.

That's why I almost never blog on Wednesdays. But I'll also be preparing for Thursday, which of course, as you all know, is my birthday.

Ahem.

Well, now you know.

How could I be this old? I mean, as far as I know, I've been here for the whole thing (well, except when I was asleep during back surgery, and who wants to be present for that?).

I look back  on childhood events (mine, not my daughter's) and they are clear as a bell. I can close my eyes and smell the inside of my grandfather's car. I can feel the way the skinny, big steering wheel felt in my tiny  hands, and the button you pushed called the starter. I remember sitting in the back seat with my feet sticking out in front of me, and dreaming about the day my legs would be long enough to bend and my feet hit the floor. He sold that car when I was eight or nine.

I can hear the church bell that rang every Sunday morning and woke me up from summer slumber. And I have fond memories of the man who rang that bell and gave chewing gum to all the little ones. He was the only  man who actually wanted to stay in the nursery on  Sundays.

I can see the town as it was, not as it is.

My own daughter was born "just yesterday". I've explained to her the reason it is so hard for  parents to turn loose of their children is because we remember all of them. The them that couldn't hold up their head, didn't have a tooth to their name, and couldn't have walked if their lives had depended on it. Because their lives depended on us.

Building our new house - that was yesterday, wasn't it? Or was it twenty-six years ago? Eh, same difference.

And I wont' believe it if you tell me my daughter has been out of high school almost five years. And that I've been out forty. HA! You  must be talking about my mother. 

Yes, my friends are looking old. They are under a lot of stress, that's all. And I'm supposed to be looking old, being a dang cripple and all.

My tiny, tiny premature nephew will NOT be turning twenty-nine next month. He's about three, isn't he? So what if he has a little one himself.

And  my baby brothers are pushing fifty. Some babies they are. But I remember the day they were born, and believe you  me, nobody was expecting twins, especially our mother.

I guess there's no way to hold on to any given moment, they are wisps that slip through our fingers the second they occur. 

But we can be sure and remember them.

So, you'll excuse me if I don't blog on Wednesday. 

I have a lot to do, you see.

Held by a Murderer

You know, you meet a lot of different kinds of crazy folks working in the  mental health field.

And I'm not talking about the patients.

My husband worked in the metro area when our daughter was born. He took a few weeks off to learn how to be a daddy, but when the end of the month came, he had to fill out paperwork, so we all journeyed down to his work place. His co-worker who was there, and between clients, came out to the lobby and cooed and ahhed over our new baby and held her, reminiscing about her own children when they were babies.

She seemed like a pleasant sort, my husband had been in workshops with her (once she was his sparing partner when they took a self defense course), and they had chatted some.

A few months later she got fired.

Seems she was in the emergency room dealing with a client and happened to glance up at the television. "Oh, that movie is about me." she said.

The movie was about a woman who murdered her next door neighbor. With an axe.

Now, I ain't going into more details than that, because I don't want identities to crop up and get all in my face for telling stuff. Although what I'd be telling would be a mystery, since there was a movie and all.

Anyway, she got fired because she lied about have a criminal background, not because she murdered someone.

I mean, when you work for the state, there has to be some morals and ethics!

Upon hearing the story, the first thing I screamed was, "She held my baby!"

Life is weird. You never know who you're gonna meet next.

Just always check 'em for weapons.

The Snowman Cometh

It's beautiful here. About three inches of snow, and it continues to come down, taking turns with big, fat, sloppy flakes and then the hard little serious ones. It's a balmy 31 degrees, no wind....yet.

I prefer the wind stay away, I like electricity and I've already gotten used to having it back, after 22 hours of doing without a few days ago.

Snow reminds me of my grandmother, always. If it snowed, she called me, no matter the hour. She loved snow, she made sure I slipped, slid, and froze my way to her house so we could make snow cream. Yum!

The evergreen outside my window is coated in white, and it makes me want to recite poetry. Come back! I won't, I promise.

I do feel so close to our Creator when it snows, though. He done good when he thought up snow. The pristine beauty, the way it makes everything so silent and almost reverent.

I am a Southerner, and I romanticize snow. Yankees usually see it as an aggravation, and not much else.

My Yankee cousin visited in the winter once, and I woke her up at seven to make her look outside at the snow. She thought I was nuts.

Eh, maybe I am, a little. At least when it comes to snow.

I know this is a short blog, but I got to get myself back to the window and snow watch before it gets too dark to do so!

And The Day Continues...

I believe I left off my trials and tribulations about yesterday with my husband swearing to never let our dog out of the  house without a leash again.

Let's see...we couldn't get the generator started. Husband called our dear friend, Eddie who is a master fixer-upper as well as a bi-vocational preacher.

He has painted, plumbed, built, put in windows, and done electrical work for us. He's a good man, and I think he gets a kick out of almost everything that goes on at our house.

Gee, I wonder why.

He takes my husband's word that the generator has plenty of oil and gas, and that it just stopped working after two hours of perfect performance.

They lift the generator, huff and puff up the mountain, load it on his truck and Eddie takes it to the mechanic.

In less than an hour he is back with the generator. There wasn't enough oil in it.

Now, in my husband's (the therapist/artist, hint, hint) defense, you could still see oil. Apparently the manufacturer got fed up with folks burning the motor up by using all the oil and continuing to let the thing run, then wanting a refund or a brand new generator. So they rigged it that if it got one iota too little oil, it simply shuts down.

Eddie came in the house, talking about this, and one thing led to another, and I sort of mentioned the Saint Bernard incident from earlier in the day. Trying not to laugh, he told my husband he hoped he'd learned his lesson.

Husband was assuring him he certainly had!

I noticed Eddie kept glancing down at husband's feet. Finally he asked him to raise his pants legs a little.

Well! And this coming from a preacher, no less!

Apparently he had seen a glimpse of husband's socks.

They were Mickey Mouse Christmas socks.

Eddie asked, "Are those your daughter's?"  HA!

No, no, they are husband's.

Husband and I began to titter, then giggle, then outright guffaw.

Eddie never cracked a smile.

I suggested husband and I lay out of our church Sunday and hear Eddie preach.

Eddie nodded his head in the affirmative.  "Sister, I now have my entire message planned out."

Amen, and amen.