As is true of most of you, I have a regular mailman. He borders on being obsessive-compulsive, which I love.
Now by that, I don't mean he washes his hands before he delivers my mail. I mean he has NEVER given me someone else's mail. Ever.
When we have a package, he rubber bands the rest of my mail and puts it all by my front door if we aren't home. The banded mail is in order of size, so when you pick it up it doesn't slip out of your hands.
He comes about the same time every day, varying some when the mail is heavy with all the junk mail you get at certain times of the month.
That is how we know when there is a substitute when our regular mailman, (who from henceforth shall be referred to as Donnie, because a: "Donnie" is easier to type than "our regular mailman", and b: that's his name) the substitute (who from henceforth shall be referred to as Sub) is always way early.
Last Friday, Sub came way early and caused Husband to have to drive 14 miles or so to the post office because we had something that had to be mailed that day, and Sub came before he got it out to the mailbox.
First of all, I can't believe that the Federal Government gives their employees vacation time. I mean, shouldn't that be, like, illegal or something? Isn't our mailman routine important?
An example of why Donnie should never have a vacation day: after the mail route was run Friday, all was chaos on my road and the surrounding roads because people went to their mailboxes (early) and found strange things.
Now I don't mean like a sheriff's badge and a candy bar, Sub ain't whacko, I don't reckon. Just lead footed.
Take for instance what happened to the people who live far down the mountain directly behind us. I call them New Adults because they are around Daughter's age and have built a new house and are practicing on how to be grown up. As they should be doing.
But, bless their hearts, they had three pieces of mail in their box that belonged to other people. They were out trying to deliver this mail themselves, concerned that it had not been given to the right person. They knocked on my door because they know Daughter and had high hopes I could tell them where a person lived. I had never heard of this particular person, and told them the correct thing to do was to write in angry red letters, "Not at this address, Bozo, and neither are the other three pieces of mail you stuck in my box." and stick it back in their mailbox for pick up the next day.
Sub comes flying down the road, like he/she is trying to win a Speedy Gonzales contest (I think I even heard "Ariba! A'dele! A'dele" once), dashing around, poking mail, willy-nilly into whatever mailbox is handy.
Or maybe Sub thinks, "Aw, these poor folks didn't get no mail. Wait! I know! I'll give them this one, and this one!"
Sub must go back to the post office panting for breath from the vast distance covered, and all the poking hither and yon.
So, I propose no vacation time for mailmen. That would save all the money the post office has been whining about.
And Donnie would be the savior of our mail world.
Oh, and if Donnie is sick? Just don't deliver our mail that day. Please. I beg of you.
Fishing? Pah! He can fish when he's sixty-five.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Monday, July 29, 2013
Friendship
I have spent the day with one of my very best friends.
We've known each other since sixth grade. We were both raised here, but I guess because she went to a "country" school and I was a townie, our paths just never crossed.
But when her little elementary school was closed down and all the kids in that "settlement" were bused to town, there she was.
As kids we fished together, camped together, ate together, wrote stories together, sang together, and talked.
A lot.
After high school, our paths drifted apart, and although we saw each other from time to time, we were no longer best buds. Nothing bad happened, just time.
Then about sixteen years ago, Family was looking for another church. We walked into this church (where we still attend) and there she was. She was the piano player and thrilled to see me, as I was her.
Our friendship picked up right where it left off, and we haven't turned loose.
It's so good to have someone who is a peer. Spiritually, we pray for one another, we consult one another, and we hold one another accountable when necessary. We share books, ideas, life stories, and food, of course.
She is like a drink of cool water. I don't have to have my guard up about anything. I don't have to watch what I say, or be concerned she won't 'get it'.
She always gets it.
She shares birthdays with my daughter. She helped my daughter learn to drive.
We stay abreast of each other's families and health problems, woes and joys. We have grieved together and for one another, but we have rejoiced, too.
So, today was like sixth grade. She told me about her latest fishing trip, we talked about writing, we talked about music, we ate together, and we talked.
A lot.
I thank the good Lord for friends.
Where would we be without them?
We've known each other since sixth grade. We were both raised here, but I guess because she went to a "country" school and I was a townie, our paths just never crossed.
But when her little elementary school was closed down and all the kids in that "settlement" were bused to town, there she was.
As kids we fished together, camped together, ate together, wrote stories together, sang together, and talked.
A lot.
After high school, our paths drifted apart, and although we saw each other from time to time, we were no longer best buds. Nothing bad happened, just time.
Then about sixteen years ago, Family was looking for another church. We walked into this church (where we still attend) and there she was. She was the piano player and thrilled to see me, as I was her.
Our friendship picked up right where it left off, and we haven't turned loose.
It's so good to have someone who is a peer. Spiritually, we pray for one another, we consult one another, and we hold one another accountable when necessary. We share books, ideas, life stories, and food, of course.
She is like a drink of cool water. I don't have to have my guard up about anything. I don't have to watch what I say, or be concerned she won't 'get it'.
She always gets it.
She shares birthdays with my daughter. She helped my daughter learn to drive.
We stay abreast of each other's families and health problems, woes and joys. We have grieved together and for one another, but we have rejoiced, too.
So, today was like sixth grade. She told me about her latest fishing trip, we talked about writing, we talked about music, we ate together, and we talked.
A lot.
I thank the good Lord for friends.
Where would we be without them?
Saturday, July 27, 2013
A Work of Art
I worked for several years with a man named Art.
He was a big, strapping guy, well over six feet tall. In fact, everything about him was big. His personality, his movements, his voice.
He was one of the therapists in my office. I often would tell him he needed to use his inside voice, for I could hear him through a closed door and down the hall.
He would laugh his big laugh, hug me from the side, and say, "All right, Mama. I'll try."
Although Art was old enough to be my daddy, he called me mama. He said he'd never had a boss like me. Said I knew exactly how to be a boss, and that was just like being a good mama. I knew when to love, I knew when to discipline, I knew when to say 'good job!', and I loved all the staff.
Now, those words were his, but it is true, I love(d) them all. I didn't think of them as my children, though, sometimes it was a little hard not too. They were professionals: nurses, therapists, doctors, secretaries, van drivers and techs. And every one one of them, for the most part, did an excellent, professional job.
Many of them are my fast friends, even today.
Art was a southerner, but not a southerner like me. He was a Mississippi bayou southerner.
His past was somewhat mysterious. I knew he'd been a minister in the church, that he had a really crazy wife (she tried to run him down with the car while their little children were with her), and that somehow because of her insanity and accusations directed toward him, he left the church - or was asked to leave.
We talked some about our spiritual, Christian beliefs. He told me once I was one of the deepest people he'd ever met, I knew more than I let on about spiritual life. That came from discussions I won't go into here.
We also shared books.
He was so proud when my first book, 'Falling', was published, he couldn't wait for them to arrive. So he ordered one off Amazon. I think he was just tickled he could order a book by me off the Internet.
He came to the book signing, hugging every woman twice and more if he could get away with it.
The day he died just about broke my heart. You see, Art also had a big vain streak. He was not about to admit to his severe health problems, therefore he did nothing about them.
He was on his way to work and had to pull over. He was able to call 9-1-1 from his cell phone so an ambulance could get him to a hospital.
He died very shortly afterward.
He had called me about two weeks before when he was in town. He wanted me to meet him for lunch, but I was not well that day, and was still in my pajamas. He had to get back somewhere fairly quickly and couldn't wait on me to get ready. I even suggested he could get us food and come out to the house, but he said he was too pushed for time. "Now, I love you, darlin', we have to get together soon, you hear?"
I agreed. Made him promise to call me on his way in so I could get ready next time, not to spring it on me. He laughed and promised that's what he'd do.
That time never came, of course.
I went to his house for a memorial service by invitation of his family. I received a phone call from one of his cousins who was going through his address book. She found my name, checked out my relationship to him through a person she and Art knew who also knew me, and told me she wanted me to attend.
He owned a little house that he was very proud of. He'd remarried late in life and loved her very much, but she had died just before I was introduced to Art. So his house, and all that was in it, was going to some family that really had no interest in most of his belongings.
They had his pictures everywhere. Man, he was a real looker in his youth! He was Mister this and Mister that in high school, and no wonder. Stories were told, most of them funny.
Neither of his children attended. He'd been estranged from them for many years.
Some of us sat around and pieced together parts of his mysterious life. He had shared a little piece with one person, another little piece with someone else. We ended knowing a lot more than we did, but nowhere near who he may have really been.
Towards the end of the evening, the family announced they wanted us to browse Art's bookshelves and take whatever we wanted.
I was looking for my own book, thinking I'd like to have it with what I had written to him on the inside cover. But his cousin said one of the young girls in the family had already chosen it, and I said for her to keep it by all means. She told me they had found the book on his bedside table.
For some reason, my eye was drawn to a particular book, and I pulled it from the shelf. On the inside cover, written in Art's large scrawl the words: "Recommended by Kathi Hill as a must read". I got chills all over my body, because there were hundreds of books to choose from.
Leave it to Art to find a way to tell me good-bye.
Good old Art. I loved him so, and I miss him still.
I hope I see him again someday.
I hope he's where he can use his big old laugh and outside voice all the time. I don't think God would mind.
He was a big, strapping guy, well over six feet tall. In fact, everything about him was big. His personality, his movements, his voice.
He was one of the therapists in my office. I often would tell him he needed to use his inside voice, for I could hear him through a closed door and down the hall.
He would laugh his big laugh, hug me from the side, and say, "All right, Mama. I'll try."
Although Art was old enough to be my daddy, he called me mama. He said he'd never had a boss like me. Said I knew exactly how to be a boss, and that was just like being a good mama. I knew when to love, I knew when to discipline, I knew when to say 'good job!', and I loved all the staff.
Now, those words were his, but it is true, I love(d) them all. I didn't think of them as my children, though, sometimes it was a little hard not too. They were professionals: nurses, therapists, doctors, secretaries, van drivers and techs. And every one one of them, for the most part, did an excellent, professional job.
Many of them are my fast friends, even today.
Art was a southerner, but not a southerner like me. He was a Mississippi bayou southerner.
His past was somewhat mysterious. I knew he'd been a minister in the church, that he had a really crazy wife (she tried to run him down with the car while their little children were with her), and that somehow because of her insanity and accusations directed toward him, he left the church - or was asked to leave.
We talked some about our spiritual, Christian beliefs. He told me once I was one of the deepest people he'd ever met, I knew more than I let on about spiritual life. That came from discussions I won't go into here.
We also shared books.
He was so proud when my first book, 'Falling', was published, he couldn't wait for them to arrive. So he ordered one off Amazon. I think he was just tickled he could order a book by me off the Internet.
He came to the book signing, hugging every woman twice and more if he could get away with it.
The day he died just about broke my heart. You see, Art also had a big vain streak. He was not about to admit to his severe health problems, therefore he did nothing about them.
He was on his way to work and had to pull over. He was able to call 9-1-1 from his cell phone so an ambulance could get him to a hospital.
He died very shortly afterward.
He had called me about two weeks before when he was in town. He wanted me to meet him for lunch, but I was not well that day, and was still in my pajamas. He had to get back somewhere fairly quickly and couldn't wait on me to get ready. I even suggested he could get us food and come out to the house, but he said he was too pushed for time. "Now, I love you, darlin', we have to get together soon, you hear?"
I agreed. Made him promise to call me on his way in so I could get ready next time, not to spring it on me. He laughed and promised that's what he'd do.
That time never came, of course.
I went to his house for a memorial service by invitation of his family. I received a phone call from one of his cousins who was going through his address book. She found my name, checked out my relationship to him through a person she and Art knew who also knew me, and told me she wanted me to attend.
He owned a little house that he was very proud of. He'd remarried late in life and loved her very much, but she had died just before I was introduced to Art. So his house, and all that was in it, was going to some family that really had no interest in most of his belongings.
They had his pictures everywhere. Man, he was a real looker in his youth! He was Mister this and Mister that in high school, and no wonder. Stories were told, most of them funny.
Neither of his children attended. He'd been estranged from them for many years.
Some of us sat around and pieced together parts of his mysterious life. He had shared a little piece with one person, another little piece with someone else. We ended knowing a lot more than we did, but nowhere near who he may have really been.
Towards the end of the evening, the family announced they wanted us to browse Art's bookshelves and take whatever we wanted.
I was looking for my own book, thinking I'd like to have it with what I had written to him on the inside cover. But his cousin said one of the young girls in the family had already chosen it, and I said for her to keep it by all means. She told me they had found the book on his bedside table.
For some reason, my eye was drawn to a particular book, and I pulled it from the shelf. On the inside cover, written in Art's large scrawl the words: "Recommended by Kathi Hill as a must read". I got chills all over my body, because there were hundreds of books to choose from.
Leave it to Art to find a way to tell me good-bye.
Good old Art. I loved him so, and I miss him still.
I hope I see him again someday.
I hope he's where he can use his big old laugh and outside voice all the time. I don't think God would mind.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Birthday Parties
Attending birthday parties come and go in one's life, I think.
When I was small, I had a few. Not like the extravaganza I've seen in the last few years, but more like my mother baked a cake, bought some ice cream, invited four or five kids to the house and voila'! A birthday party.
As I was a little older, I think we played pin the tail on the donkey for a prize (a candy bar, maybe). I also had a Bull Winkle cardboard cutout that came with rings. You tried to throw the rings on his antlers for points. Different antlers had different points.
We dressed up for the parties, girls in dresses and boys in clean pants or shorts and shirts.
When I became a teenager, I didn't have parties much. Turning sixteen, my mother cooked all my favorite foods and invited my boyfriend to eat supper with us. I think I asked for homemade fudge instead of cake.
Then there were no more birthday parties to attend that I recall until I had Daughter. We had family birthday parties when she was little, with a few friends thrown into the mix.
When she was a preteen it was having girls spend the night.
As a teenager, she wanted to go out to eat and shop.
So, the parties stopped again.
My nephew had a baby a few years ago, and we are going to his second birthday party tomorrow. I think it will be mostly family in attendance.
As far as I know, there will be no hired musicians, giant animals walking around, pony rides, or anything else. Just food, a few presents, and lots of talk amongst the adults.
Now, that's my kind of party.
When I was small, I had a few. Not like the extravaganza I've seen in the last few years, but more like my mother baked a cake, bought some ice cream, invited four or five kids to the house and voila'! A birthday party.
As I was a little older, I think we played pin the tail on the donkey for a prize (a candy bar, maybe). I also had a Bull Winkle cardboard cutout that came with rings. You tried to throw the rings on his antlers for points. Different antlers had different points.
We dressed up for the parties, girls in dresses and boys in clean pants or shorts and shirts.
When I became a teenager, I didn't have parties much. Turning sixteen, my mother cooked all my favorite foods and invited my boyfriend to eat supper with us. I think I asked for homemade fudge instead of cake.
Then there were no more birthday parties to attend that I recall until I had Daughter. We had family birthday parties when she was little, with a few friends thrown into the mix.
When she was a preteen it was having girls spend the night.
As a teenager, she wanted to go out to eat and shop.
So, the parties stopped again.
My nephew had a baby a few years ago, and we are going to his second birthday party tomorrow. I think it will be mostly family in attendance.
As far as I know, there will be no hired musicians, giant animals walking around, pony rides, or anything else. Just food, a few presents, and lots of talk amongst the adults.
Now, that's my kind of party.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
The Torture Chamber
That's where I've been.
Oh, you can call it the dentist's office if you so desire. But you are wrong. Dead wrong.
My self don't do too good on that there chair (read torture seat) they have anyway, and I am paying the price right now.
But I have been treated so roughly, I even broke a fingernail!
No monkey.
First, they make you fill out the same forms you filled out last time you were there, three years ago. And you have to sit on their awful waiting room chairs to do it, twisting and turning this way and that.
Of course, they are just getting you warmed up.
Then you are taken back by a chatty little thing, all Miss Sunshine of the Week.
Do NOT let that fool you.
She takes you to a room and throws lead over your chest, stuffs your mouth full of posion, runs like h-e-double toothpicks and pushes a button.
Forty times.
Then she makes you open your mouth like you are a python or something, and starts talking, asking you all sorts of questions.
Really? How do I answer those with all that stuff, including both her gloved hands, shoved in my rather small mouth?
She tells you what a goooood job you are doing taking care of your teeth, but that there is a teensy weensy bit of plaque build up.
Then comes the pick ax.
The question you have for her: Is now do I even have any teeth left?
She then attempts to drown you, multiple times.
Then comes the sweeping compound.
Remember sweeping compound? When I was in elementary school, in the old school, as well as my grandfather's grocery store, the floors were wood. And they used greasy, gritty stuff they sprinkled on the floors before they swept them. It kept anything from getting away from the broom.
That's what they use on your teeth, only it's pink instead of green.
Next is the floor sander. Where they find one that small, I don't know.
More drowning attempts.
Meanwhile, my hair has been smashed, mashed, pushed, pulled and parted in ways I didn't know it could be parted.
And you just know you got ick all over your face.
Then the dentist comes in, joking around in his goggles and surgery mask. How do I know he is who he says he is?
He gazes at your teeth, a little hammering here, a little hammering there. He looks hard at the x-rays, glances at the clock - tee time! And tells you to keep doing whatever it is you're doing, your teeth look great!
Bye-bye!
I am limping back to the front, about to give them my life savings. (When I was a kid, check ups were free!)
That's when I notice I've broken my nail in all the meelee.
The receptionist takes my credit card, hands it back smokin', and asks do you want a six month appointment?
Not on your life, sister.
Oh, you can call it the dentist's office if you so desire. But you are wrong. Dead wrong.
My self don't do too good on that there chair (read torture seat) they have anyway, and I am paying the price right now.
But I have been treated so roughly, I even broke a fingernail!
No monkey.
First, they make you fill out the same forms you filled out last time you were there, three years ago. And you have to sit on their awful waiting room chairs to do it, twisting and turning this way and that.
Of course, they are just getting you warmed up.
Then you are taken back by a chatty little thing, all Miss Sunshine of the Week.
Do NOT let that fool you.
She takes you to a room and throws lead over your chest, stuffs your mouth full of posion, runs like h-e-double toothpicks and pushes a button.
Forty times.
Then she makes you open your mouth like you are a python or something, and starts talking, asking you all sorts of questions.
Really? How do I answer those with all that stuff, including both her gloved hands, shoved in my rather small mouth?
She tells you what a goooood job you are doing taking care of your teeth, but that there is a teensy weensy bit of plaque build up.
Then comes the pick ax.
The question you have for her: Is now do I even have any teeth left?
She then attempts to drown you, multiple times.
Then comes the sweeping compound.
Remember sweeping compound? When I was in elementary school, in the old school, as well as my grandfather's grocery store, the floors were wood. And they used greasy, gritty stuff they sprinkled on the floors before they swept them. It kept anything from getting away from the broom.
That's what they use on your teeth, only it's pink instead of green.
Next is the floor sander. Where they find one that small, I don't know.
More drowning attempts.
Meanwhile, my hair has been smashed, mashed, pushed, pulled and parted in ways I didn't know it could be parted.
And you just know you got ick all over your face.
Then the dentist comes in, joking around in his goggles and surgery mask. How do I know he is who he says he is?
He gazes at your teeth, a little hammering here, a little hammering there. He looks hard at the x-rays, glances at the clock - tee time! And tells you to keep doing whatever it is you're doing, your teeth look great!
Bye-bye!
I am limping back to the front, about to give them my life savings. (When I was a kid, check ups were free!)
That's when I notice I've broken my nail in all the meelee.
The receptionist takes my credit card, hands it back smokin', and asks do you want a six month appointment?
Not on your life, sister.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
He's Out To Get Me
The reason I didn't blog yesterday was because I was busy learning something. Which is: why they call urinary tract infections "raging".
Boy howdy, I reckon.
I wanted to throw my husband from the car and be the driver, mashing the gas pedal to the floor and getting to the doctor's office faster than he was bothering to drive. At the moment, I didn't give a hang about speed limits. I guess I thought there would be a medical cure at their door, plus, if you've ever had this malady, you know I had to go, and badly.
All of a teaspoon. And again in fifteen minutes or less. And again...
At any rate, I did start on an antibiotic and am better enough to sit here and blog.
But what I'm really concerned about today is that I've been receiving mail from a "Mr. Pig." For some reason this unnerves me.
I am worried it has something to do with all the pork chops, pork roasts, pork bar-b-cue, bacon, ham, etc. that I consume from time to time. Not a lot, mind you (are you listening, Mr. Pig?) but maybe enough to get a stern warning from one Mr. Pig.
I imagine him to be more sized like Mr Hog. With a tire iron in his hoof. Mean, squinty little eyes and those huge tusks that wild bores have.
Don't let that jaunty little grocery store advertising hat fool you.
He's there, and he's looking for me.
Boy howdy, I reckon.
I wanted to throw my husband from the car and be the driver, mashing the gas pedal to the floor and getting to the doctor's office faster than he was bothering to drive. At the moment, I didn't give a hang about speed limits. I guess I thought there would be a medical cure at their door, plus, if you've ever had this malady, you know I had to go, and badly.
All of a teaspoon. And again in fifteen minutes or less. And again...
At any rate, I did start on an antibiotic and am better enough to sit here and blog.
But what I'm really concerned about today is that I've been receiving mail from a "Mr. Pig." For some reason this unnerves me.
I am worried it has something to do with all the pork chops, pork roasts, pork bar-b-cue, bacon, ham, etc. that I consume from time to time. Not a lot, mind you (are you listening, Mr. Pig?) but maybe enough to get a stern warning from one Mr. Pig.
I imagine him to be more sized like Mr Hog. With a tire iron in his hoof. Mean, squinty little eyes and those huge tusks that wild bores have.
Don't let that jaunty little grocery store advertising hat fool you.
He's there, and he's looking for me.
Saturday, July 20, 2013
The Cat's Meow
Our house cats give us endless hours of entertainment as well as pain in the butt type behavior. Sometimes we sound like a house for the insane, occasionally screaming out, "NO!" "Stop!" "Don't!" "I'm gonna kill you!" and other such terms of endearment one speaks to their pets.
But we love them. They are each as individual as they can be, which is astounding. Other cats I have owned (ha) have been as different from these as they were from one another.
I remember reading that the 'big' cats are the lions, tigers, jaguars and leopards. Other wildcats may be just as big, but they are not in this category because these four roar and do not purr.
All other cats, big and small, purr.
All totalled, there are thirty-six wildcat species, at least at the moment. DNA testing keeps changing that number.
I have seen lions, tigers, jaguars and leopards. They were in zoos or circus acts. I also saw ligers once on a safari ride. These poor cats look rather like wanna be lions, with partial stripes and partial manes.
Makes you wonder what the parents were thinking...
I guess, in reality, somebody somewhere just wanted to prove or accidentally proved that cats can intermingle and mate.
To that I ask, have you ever heard a female in heat?
What male cat could resist shutting that up, whatever the cost to the species?
I have also seen Bobcats and mountain lions in the wild, and a black panther (that accidentally got loose) at the circus. Thank God they cornered him quickly, that was one angry animal!
There are also, at the moment, eighty domesticated breeds.
I cannot imagine how you could make eighty cats in the domesticated category look so different from one another that they would be considered their own breed. I mean, eighty? Wow.
Having said that, the three breeds we have in our home are quite different looking from one another. Frost, a white American short hair (mutt) has thick hair that feels sort of like a crew cut when you pet him. Eli is a white Maine Coon. He has three different layers of fur, and feels like silk when you pet him. He is longer, taller and bigger boned than Frost. His ears are bigger and tufted. his jaw is much more square. His tail is as long as his body and very fluffy, whereas Frost's tail is fairly short and slim, like a whip.
And Mimi? She's short, cobby, with semi-long hair that feels fuzzy when you pet her.
They sound different from one another (and our two Maine Coons sound different from each other), and act different in personality.
I figure Lily, who was a queen in a cattery, probably produced at least fifty kittens in her life there. And I think that is probably a low estimation. Are any of them just alike? I somehow doubt it.
So, if God can make this one little thing (big thing, if it's a lion) so different from its litter mate, yet so much alike (have you seen a tiger play with a ball?), it's no wonder we are so different from one another, yet so very much alike.
The next time you see a cat cross your path, whether it's a domesticated tabby sitting in someones yard or a Bobcat sitting at the edge of the wood at dusk waiting to hunt, remember they are very much alike.
Only different.
But we love them. They are each as individual as they can be, which is astounding. Other cats I have owned (ha) have been as different from these as they were from one another.
I remember reading that the 'big' cats are the lions, tigers, jaguars and leopards. Other wildcats may be just as big, but they are not in this category because these four roar and do not purr.
All other cats, big and small, purr.
All totalled, there are thirty-six wildcat species, at least at the moment. DNA testing keeps changing that number.
I have seen lions, tigers, jaguars and leopards. They were in zoos or circus acts. I also saw ligers once on a safari ride. These poor cats look rather like wanna be lions, with partial stripes and partial manes.
Makes you wonder what the parents were thinking...
I guess, in reality, somebody somewhere just wanted to prove or accidentally proved that cats can intermingle and mate.
To that I ask, have you ever heard a female in heat?
What male cat could resist shutting that up, whatever the cost to the species?
I have also seen Bobcats and mountain lions in the wild, and a black panther (that accidentally got loose) at the circus. Thank God they cornered him quickly, that was one angry animal!
There are also, at the moment, eighty domesticated breeds.
I cannot imagine how you could make eighty cats in the domesticated category look so different from one another that they would be considered their own breed. I mean, eighty? Wow.
Having said that, the three breeds we have in our home are quite different looking from one another. Frost, a white American short hair (mutt) has thick hair that feels sort of like a crew cut when you pet him. Eli is a white Maine Coon. He has three different layers of fur, and feels like silk when you pet him. He is longer, taller and bigger boned than Frost. His ears are bigger and tufted. his jaw is much more square. His tail is as long as his body and very fluffy, whereas Frost's tail is fairly short and slim, like a whip.
And Mimi? She's short, cobby, with semi-long hair that feels fuzzy when you pet her.
They sound different from one another (and our two Maine Coons sound different from each other), and act different in personality.
I figure Lily, who was a queen in a cattery, probably produced at least fifty kittens in her life there. And I think that is probably a low estimation. Are any of them just alike? I somehow doubt it.
So, if God can make this one little thing (big thing, if it's a lion) so different from its litter mate, yet so much alike (have you seen a tiger play with a ball?), it's no wonder we are so different from one another, yet so very much alike.
The next time you see a cat cross your path, whether it's a domesticated tabby sitting in someones yard or a Bobcat sitting at the edge of the wood at dusk waiting to hunt, remember they are very much alike.
Only different.
Friday, July 19, 2013
The Nose Knows, No?
I cooked dinner today. (please, hold the applause.)
I had decided on bar-b-cue chicken. Now, I mix my sauce up with whatever strikes my fancy, and, although it is never the same, I'll have to say it's never turned down by my family.
So I was rummaging in the fridge for whatever, and saw one of those little plastic cups you get when you eat take-out food at home.
Looked like bar-b-cue sauce, and I thought that would add some interest to whatever else I chose.
Fortunately for me, and for the rest of my family, when I took off the lid I smelled of it.
It was a very dark chocolate sauce.
Now, I love chocolate as much as the next person, but I'm not sure the world (or at least my house) is ready for chocolate chicken.
But now that I've said that, it don't sound too bad! Hey! Won't the fair be here in a few weeks? Don't they sell fried Twinkies and crap like that? What better for the main meal than chicken (fried, of course) with a warm chocolate sauce poured over it? You could use chocolate gravy to go on the mashed taters.
I have actually seen a recipe for chocolate gravy. You eat it over biscuits, I reckon.
The importance of smell is pretty big in the kitchen. My eye couldn't tell the difference between a rich, dark tomato based sauce and a rich, dark, chocolate sauce. But, boy, my nose could.
I've looked at meat, and it's looked okay, but when I smelled of it....urk.
I've looked at exotic food and thought it looked okay, but when I smelled of it...double urk.
Our noses are pretty good. To breathe fresh mountain air, a baby's skin, the pages of a new book, the first rose of summer....
They save our lives sometimes, too. Smoke, poisonous fumes. I think danger has a smell all of it's own, sometimes.
Anyway, between Daughter and myself, we had fine chicken along with a yummy squash casserole, mashed taters, crowder peas, salad and rolls.
I'd invite you for leftovers, but there weren't any.
I had decided on bar-b-cue chicken. Now, I mix my sauce up with whatever strikes my fancy, and, although it is never the same, I'll have to say it's never turned down by my family.
So I was rummaging in the fridge for whatever, and saw one of those little plastic cups you get when you eat take-out food at home.
Looked like bar-b-cue sauce, and I thought that would add some interest to whatever else I chose.
Fortunately for me, and for the rest of my family, when I took off the lid I smelled of it.
It was a very dark chocolate sauce.
Now, I love chocolate as much as the next person, but I'm not sure the world (or at least my house) is ready for chocolate chicken.
But now that I've said that, it don't sound too bad! Hey! Won't the fair be here in a few weeks? Don't they sell fried Twinkies and crap like that? What better for the main meal than chicken (fried, of course) with a warm chocolate sauce poured over it? You could use chocolate gravy to go on the mashed taters.
I have actually seen a recipe for chocolate gravy. You eat it over biscuits, I reckon.
The importance of smell is pretty big in the kitchen. My eye couldn't tell the difference between a rich, dark tomato based sauce and a rich, dark, chocolate sauce. But, boy, my nose could.
I've looked at meat, and it's looked okay, but when I smelled of it....urk.
I've looked at exotic food and thought it looked okay, but when I smelled of it...double urk.
Our noses are pretty good. To breathe fresh mountain air, a baby's skin, the pages of a new book, the first rose of summer....
They save our lives sometimes, too. Smoke, poisonous fumes. I think danger has a smell all of it's own, sometimes.
Anyway, between Daughter and myself, we had fine chicken along with a yummy squash casserole, mashed taters, crowder peas, salad and rolls.
I'd invite you for leftovers, but there weren't any.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
A Day In the Life
Today has been a most interesting day.
Taking my mother for her post-op visit, we had good news, things are progressing with her eye well.
The doctor we use for eye care has been seeing us as patients since Daughter was seven or so. I have seen him go from his late twenties to his early forties, and Daughter takes every opportunity to remind him of how "old" he is. It is a running joke between them.
She ran errands for us while Mother was having her exam. He came out with us, and he heard me say Daughter should be there to pick us up soon. His eyes lit up and he said he needed to see her. I said, "Really?"
"Yes," he said nodding solemnly. "I have to test her."
"About what?"
"Her dedication to me." And as he said it, he brought out from under the counter a giant Nerf gun. "She has to shoot Secretary."
Daughter called about that time and I told her the good doctor needed to see her, to come into the clinic when she arrived.
Meanwhile, Doctor got Mother behind the counter and my dear, elderly, sweet (ha) Mother shot Secretary four times! (He took a picture, see it at your right.)Secretary was holding up a folder in front of her face, just in case Mother actually hit her. Before the last shot, Mother said, "You can put that down, I'm finished." She was still doing a dead aim right at Secretary.
I will say the waiting room was empty except for us, it was their lunchtime.
I guess boys will be boys and old women will be - hmmm. Mean as a bank robber.
Then I got a call from a friend who has been having some pretty serious health problems, and I'd e-mailed him urging him to let me know how he is doing.
He talked briefly about his own health and promised to let me know the results of things when he heard. But he was chomping at the bit to tell me about a mutual friend who'd had some pretty terrible stuff going on.
Suffice it to say she had a bad accident and hurt her head and back. So she had a scan to see what all the back injury entailed. But when the doctor called her in, he reported they'd found a tumor.
I've heard about this kind of thing over and over.
A calamity occurs and when the person is being treated for it, a hidden, more serious thing is found.
I guess God uses whatever He chooses to bring attention to the big deal.
In my life, it seems I get all in a tizzy about something, and in the end, that's not the important thing I should be dealing with. I've completely overlooked what God is trying to tell me.
God has to get our attention sometimes in ways we wish weren't so hard. I understand that He knows best. I also understand we never do.
We do need to "fear not" and know that "He is with us always". We need to lighten up and truly believe He has it under control. We need to trust Him with our lives.
Our fear always comes from worrying that His will ain't gonna be our will.
Turn it over to God, let Him handle it, and play more.
Be more like my good doctor, no?
Now, where did I put my Nerf gun....
Taking my mother for her post-op visit, we had good news, things are progressing with her eye well.
The doctor we use for eye care has been seeing us as patients since Daughter was seven or so. I have seen him go from his late twenties to his early forties, and Daughter takes every opportunity to remind him of how "old" he is. It is a running joke between them.
She ran errands for us while Mother was having her exam. He came out with us, and he heard me say Daughter should be there to pick us up soon. His eyes lit up and he said he needed to see her. I said, "Really?"
"Yes," he said nodding solemnly. "I have to test her."
"About what?"
"Her dedication to me." And as he said it, he brought out from under the counter a giant Nerf gun. "She has to shoot Secretary."
Daughter called about that time and I told her the good doctor needed to see her, to come into the clinic when she arrived.
Meanwhile, Doctor got Mother behind the counter and my dear, elderly, sweet (ha) Mother shot Secretary four times! (He took a picture, see it at your right.)Secretary was holding up a folder in front of her face, just in case Mother actually hit her. Before the last shot, Mother said, "You can put that down, I'm finished." She was still doing a dead aim right at Secretary.
"I can see you in the mirror!" Secretary said, not falling for it.
Daughter came in asked, "What does the old geezer want?" She refused to play.
I guess boys will be boys and old women will be - hmmm. Mean as a bank robber.
Then I got a call from a friend who has been having some pretty serious health problems, and I'd e-mailed him urging him to let me know how he is doing.
He talked briefly about his own health and promised to let me know the results of things when he heard. But he was chomping at the bit to tell me about a mutual friend who'd had some pretty terrible stuff going on.
Suffice it to say she had a bad accident and hurt her head and back. So she had a scan to see what all the back injury entailed. But when the doctor called her in, he reported they'd found a tumor.
I've heard about this kind of thing over and over.
A calamity occurs and when the person is being treated for it, a hidden, more serious thing is found.
I guess God uses whatever He chooses to bring attention to the big deal.
In my life, it seems I get all in a tizzy about something, and in the end, that's not the important thing I should be dealing with. I've completely overlooked what God is trying to tell me.
God has to get our attention sometimes in ways we wish weren't so hard. I understand that He knows best. I also understand we never do.
We do need to "fear not" and know that "He is with us always". We need to lighten up and truly believe He has it under control. We need to trust Him with our lives.
Our fear always comes from worrying that His will ain't gonna be our will.
Turn it over to God, let Him handle it, and play more.
Be more like my good doctor, no?
Now, where did I put my Nerf gun....
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
As Tiime Goes By
I had lunch with a friend today. We do this about three times a year because she works. Maybe when she retires we can see each other more often. Although, if her retirement is like mine, she can be even busier if only she allows it.
Anyway, she brought a picture with her, which she gave me. (Thank you again, if you are reading!).
The photograph was taken in 1974. There is a big snowfall going on, so snow flakes dot the picture. I am standing under a tree with lots of clothes on. I have my cat in my arms. He looks terrified. He was a house cat and never outside, but I had wanted a picture taken of us in the snow, so out he went, but only for a few minutes and he never left my arms.
I remember this photo being taken like it was three years ago instead of thirty-nine years ago. I am twenty years old. My hair is long and straight. Time or the development of the photo has discolored my hair some, it looks like it has a red tint to it, which it never has.
My face is so young! I look sweet. I am obviously in love with the cat. He is about two years old, at the most, not quite full grown.
When this cat was twelve years old he was taken from me, and I won't speak more of that because I like laughter in my life, not old nightmare memories.
But Husband knows the story, and he has searched for some time to find a cat whose temperament, size and color would be as near as he could get to replace my cat of yesteryear. Husband was successful, this cat looks amazingly (or maybe not so amazingly) like the cat I had then.
I think Husband wanted to help heal a wound, and it has. I don't dwell on this "wound" much, for it is unhealthy. But I did love that cat, and I had him for a long time. All the way through my twenties. You can imagine the hole that was left in my heart.
And my cat now? He is a lot like cat number one. They resemble each other in a remarkable way. He is very protective and territorial of me, as my other cat was. But my present cat is a little wilder, my other cat let me bathe him ( although he hated it). I think he would have let me do anything to him.
Not so with the cat I have now. He doesn't like to be brushed, he cries out like you are beating him, and he will use claws to get away if you don't let him down after just a few strokes of the brush.
Ah well, he isn't a reincarnation. He's just a cat.
But a wonderful, lovely cat, at that.
Thank you Husband.
I love you, too.
Anyway, she brought a picture with her, which she gave me. (Thank you again, if you are reading!).
The photograph was taken in 1974. There is a big snowfall going on, so snow flakes dot the picture. I am standing under a tree with lots of clothes on. I have my cat in my arms. He looks terrified. He was a house cat and never outside, but I had wanted a picture taken of us in the snow, so out he went, but only for a few minutes and he never left my arms.
I remember this photo being taken like it was three years ago instead of thirty-nine years ago. I am twenty years old. My hair is long and straight. Time or the development of the photo has discolored my hair some, it looks like it has a red tint to it, which it never has.
My face is so young! I look sweet. I am obviously in love with the cat. He is about two years old, at the most, not quite full grown.
When this cat was twelve years old he was taken from me, and I won't speak more of that because I like laughter in my life, not old nightmare memories.
But Husband knows the story, and he has searched for some time to find a cat whose temperament, size and color would be as near as he could get to replace my cat of yesteryear. Husband was successful, this cat looks amazingly (or maybe not so amazingly) like the cat I had then.
I think Husband wanted to help heal a wound, and it has. I don't dwell on this "wound" much, for it is unhealthy. But I did love that cat, and I had him for a long time. All the way through my twenties. You can imagine the hole that was left in my heart.
And my cat now? He is a lot like cat number one. They resemble each other in a remarkable way. He is very protective and territorial of me, as my other cat was. But my present cat is a little wilder, my other cat let me bathe him ( although he hated it). I think he would have let me do anything to him.
Not so with the cat I have now. He doesn't like to be brushed, he cries out like you are beating him, and he will use claws to get away if you don't let him down after just a few strokes of the brush.
Ah well, he isn't a reincarnation. He's just a cat.
But a wonderful, lovely cat, at that.
Thank you Husband.
I love you, too.
Monday, July 15, 2013
The (Wo)Man in the Mirror
I am not really what I appear to be.
Don't get all excited and think you are about to hear the scoop on good old me.
This blog is about you too, my friend.
My hair has help. I have some caps on my back molars. I have glasses/contact lenses. I have undergarments that hold up and in and whatever else they can do (unfortunately now, they don't do a very good job, but at least there's effort.)
I have razors. Moisturizers. Nail clippers and files plus the other fancy stuff you may use. Ever use make-up to make your lashes longer and darker, your lips shiny, or your skin smoothed out free of blotches and your cheeks rosy?
I have deodorant and access to soap and warm water every day.
Good shampoo.
I'm sure you are getting the picture.
Think of what you would look like, say one hundred and five years ago (I just pulled that out of a hat.)
Then go back to "middle-class" living in London in the 1800's.
Yikes.
What would you look like?
Let me help: If you are much over forty, your hair would more than likely be grey. Your skin would be very wrinkled, like we think of really old people looking today. You would have lots of teeth missing, and those that remained would not be exactly pearly white. You'd be hairy in places (like your face, and I'm talking to you, girls) that we don't want hair to be.
We wouldn't smell all that great.
And worse, much worse: we might be hungry a lot. And because of that, we'd be humped over.
Don't get me wrong, I'd still love you just the same. And I hope you'd still love me...
Remember the old skit with Phyllis Diller where she and her husband (played by maybe Harvey Korman?) are home after a party and they are gossiping about all the phony people at the party? While they are talking, they are looking in the mirror, getting ready for bed. She takes off her wig, her false eyelashes, a bridge, contact lenses. He removes his toupee, hearing aids and corset.
They never see the hypocrisy.
Aren't we that way when we judge or criticize others?
Why, yes. Yes we are.
So, take a look in the mirror.
I don't know about you, but me?
I've got a lot to work on, and I don't mean washing my face one more time before bed.
I'm talkin' to the (wo)man in the mirror...
Don't get all excited and think you are about to hear the scoop on good old me.
This blog is about you too, my friend.
My hair has help. I have some caps on my back molars. I have glasses/contact lenses. I have undergarments that hold up and in and whatever else they can do (unfortunately now, they don't do a very good job, but at least there's effort.)
I have razors. Moisturizers. Nail clippers and files plus the other fancy stuff you may use. Ever use make-up to make your lashes longer and darker, your lips shiny, or your skin smoothed out free of blotches and your cheeks rosy?
I have deodorant and access to soap and warm water every day.
Good shampoo.
I'm sure you are getting the picture.
Think of what you would look like, say one hundred and five years ago (I just pulled that out of a hat.)
Then go back to "middle-class" living in London in the 1800's.
Yikes.
What would you look like?
Let me help: If you are much over forty, your hair would more than likely be grey. Your skin would be very wrinkled, like we think of really old people looking today. You would have lots of teeth missing, and those that remained would not be exactly pearly white. You'd be hairy in places (like your face, and I'm talking to you, girls) that we don't want hair to be.
We wouldn't smell all that great.
And worse, much worse: we might be hungry a lot. And because of that, we'd be humped over.
Don't get me wrong, I'd still love you just the same. And I hope you'd still love me...
Remember the old skit with Phyllis Diller where she and her husband (played by maybe Harvey Korman?) are home after a party and they are gossiping about all the phony people at the party? While they are talking, they are looking in the mirror, getting ready for bed. She takes off her wig, her false eyelashes, a bridge, contact lenses. He removes his toupee, hearing aids and corset.
They never see the hypocrisy.
Aren't we that way when we judge or criticize others?
Why, yes. Yes we are.
So, take a look in the mirror.
I don't know about you, but me?
I've got a lot to work on, and I don't mean washing my face one more time before bed.
I'm talkin' to the (wo)man in the mirror...
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Eye See
When I was in sixth grade my class took a test. A short while later, a strange lady came to the door and called my name and another student's name and asked that we please go with her.
It seems Billy, the other student, and I had failed this test and we were being given letters to take home to give to our parents to inform them of this.
Of course, when we came back to the room, everyone knew we'd failed. I'm sure the others were busily thinking up names to call us as soon as recess came around.
You see, it was an eye test.
I immediately began to rebel inside. I was not, I thought to my self, going to wear stupid glasses.
This was a time when almost no child wore glasses. I think maybe one girl in my class did, but I'm not even sure of that.
I reckon lots of children walked around half-blind back then. Either that or kids have glasses now at the blink of an eye.
I was soon taken to an ophthalmologist who did a very thorough examination and determined that although I was near sighted, it was not severe enough to wear glasses - yet.
It wasn't until eighth grade that I was given reading glasses. I only needed them for blackboard work, or if I had to sit way in the back for something - say, church, or a concert, or a play.
That wasn't too bad. I always tried to make sure I was up front in class so I didn't have to wear them. I ignored the other times.
Then suddenly, when I was about twenty-nine I couldn't see the television clearly even with my eighth grade glasses.
This scared me and I went to the doctor. He examined my eyes and was pretty alarmed himself. He was concerned that my eyes had so suddenly gotten worse, and feared I'd be in bi-focals before I was thirty if this decline continued at the rate I'd reported.
Bi-focals? For a twenty-nine year old? I thought not! (see how much I matured between the ages of eleven and twenty-nine?)
I wore the glasses all the time, except when I ate. For some reason I couldn't tolerate that.
Then I got contacts. Wow! Magic. I could see perfectly. Better than with my specs.
Now? Either my contacts need changing or I'm getting so lazy I don't care and just slap on my glasses.
Maybe both.
I'm due an exam and I guess he'll tell me what I need.
I read without the aid of anything because I'm so near-sighted the "arms-aren't-long-enough" syndrome never happened. But three feet out, everything is a blur.
I was thinking about all this because my mother had a cataract removed last week, and Holy cow! She has to have a million drops put in every day. A friend is staying with her for two weeks, which I appreciate. That way no one is having to keep the roads hot back and forth to administer said drops.
She can already see much better.
I read (without my glasses) that people with "sky eyes" get cataracts more often. That means those with grey or blue eyes. "Earth eyes" are green (like mine) and brown.
So maybe I'll be saved from failing, yet again, another eye test.
I don't know how much more failure I can take.
It seems Billy, the other student, and I had failed this test and we were being given letters to take home to give to our parents to inform them of this.
Of course, when we came back to the room, everyone knew we'd failed. I'm sure the others were busily thinking up names to call us as soon as recess came around.
You see, it was an eye test.
I immediately began to rebel inside. I was not, I thought to my self, going to wear stupid glasses.
This was a time when almost no child wore glasses. I think maybe one girl in my class did, but I'm not even sure of that.
I reckon lots of children walked around half-blind back then. Either that or kids have glasses now at the blink of an eye.
I was soon taken to an ophthalmologist who did a very thorough examination and determined that although I was near sighted, it was not severe enough to wear glasses - yet.
It wasn't until eighth grade that I was given reading glasses. I only needed them for blackboard work, or if I had to sit way in the back for something - say, church, or a concert, or a play.
That wasn't too bad. I always tried to make sure I was up front in class so I didn't have to wear them. I ignored the other times.
Then suddenly, when I was about twenty-nine I couldn't see the television clearly even with my eighth grade glasses.
This scared me and I went to the doctor. He examined my eyes and was pretty alarmed himself. He was concerned that my eyes had so suddenly gotten worse, and feared I'd be in bi-focals before I was thirty if this decline continued at the rate I'd reported.
Bi-focals? For a twenty-nine year old? I thought not! (see how much I matured between the ages of eleven and twenty-nine?)
I wore the glasses all the time, except when I ate. For some reason I couldn't tolerate that.
Then I got contacts. Wow! Magic. I could see perfectly. Better than with my specs.
Now? Either my contacts need changing or I'm getting so lazy I don't care and just slap on my glasses.
Maybe both.
I'm due an exam and I guess he'll tell me what I need.
I read without the aid of anything because I'm so near-sighted the "arms-aren't-long-enough" syndrome never happened. But three feet out, everything is a blur.
I was thinking about all this because my mother had a cataract removed last week, and Holy cow! She has to have a million drops put in every day. A friend is staying with her for two weeks, which I appreciate. That way no one is having to keep the roads hot back and forth to administer said drops.
She can already see much better.
I read (without my glasses) that people with "sky eyes" get cataracts more often. That means those with grey or blue eyes. "Earth eyes" are green (like mine) and brown.
So maybe I'll be saved from failing, yet again, another eye test.
I don't know how much more failure I can take.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Back in the Saddle Again
After thirty-one days of not getting to go on my walks each morning, I was dreading excited to get back and walk like it was exercise.
You can tell when it is just exercise and not walking, because you aren't really going anywhere, and you wind up where you started without bags of purchases or library books or something to show for your walk.
At least where I walk is a beautiful place. It's right by the river, and today we saw a Great Blue Heron. It didn't seem to mind our presence, but finally got a little antsy and carefully picked up it's skinny little legs and moved carefully to the other side of the river. It had been standing on a dead tree, probably looking for fish. I tried to take a picture, but I only had my phone which is old and really just a phone, the pictures it takes ain't nothing to brag about.
Other than the bird, the highlight of the walk was Husband's straw hat blew off his head and floated down the river.
We saw a deer on the way there and three on the way back.
They were regular deer, not the Black Tailed loner deer I have in my yard. She's either on vacation from South Georgia or someone set her out. Husband says when rutting season starts the bucks won't care. I guess he's right.
Last evening Daughter and I were returning home and saw about six deer on the side of the road, grazing. The two closest to us were bucks, very young, their someday racks only four inch velvet stubs.
On the way toexercise walk, I also saw a grouse, a beautiful bird. It was so large, I at first thought it was a turkey hen, but I realized it didn't look "right". Husband said it was a grouse, so I looked up images, and sure enough, it was a Blue Grouse.
Today is the day for large, blue birds.
My sister-in-law and her husband are in Africa right now (Hey ya'll!). He reports on, and shows pictures of wild beasts and unusual, beautiful wildlife.
But I have concluded: you don't really have to go much past your own backyard to see amazingly new stuff every single day.
I just need to carry my camera more often, like my kin in Africa does.
God's creatures are everywhere. I'm glad. It's makes myexercise walk more pleasant.
Man, I have got to start believing it's fun again...
You can tell when it is just exercise and not walking, because you aren't really going anywhere, and you wind up where you started without bags of purchases or library books or something to show for your walk.
At least where I walk is a beautiful place. It's right by the river, and today we saw a Great Blue Heron. It didn't seem to mind our presence, but finally got a little antsy and carefully picked up it's skinny little legs and moved carefully to the other side of the river. It had been standing on a dead tree, probably looking for fish. I tried to take a picture, but I only had my phone which is old and really just a phone, the pictures it takes ain't nothing to brag about.
Other than the bird, the highlight of the walk was Husband's straw hat blew off his head and floated down the river.
We saw a deer on the way there and three on the way back.
They were regular deer, not the Black Tailed loner deer I have in my yard. She's either on vacation from South Georgia or someone set her out. Husband says when rutting season starts the bucks won't care. I guess he's right.
Last evening Daughter and I were returning home and saw about six deer on the side of the road, grazing. The two closest to us were bucks, very young, their someday racks only four inch velvet stubs.
On the way to
Today is the day for large, blue birds.
My sister-in-law and her husband are in Africa right now (Hey ya'll!). He reports on, and shows pictures of wild beasts and unusual, beautiful wildlife.
But I have concluded: you don't really have to go much past your own backyard to see amazingly new stuff every single day.
I just need to carry my camera more often, like my kin in Africa does.
God's creatures are everywhere. I'm glad. It's makes my
Man, I have got to start believing it's fun again...
Thursday, July 11, 2013
This, That and the Other
Daughter thinks I'm a little nuts because I talk to the tomatoes in our garden. You see, they are all big and green. There hasn't been enough sun to turn them red, and I'm worried they are going to rot or fall off the vine. I just told them to hang on, that the next two days are supposed to be sunny and that's what they need.
What's wrong with giving a little encouragement to our maters?
Last night we were trying to round up Lily, our geriatric cat. All four legged (well, all two legged for that matter) sleep upstairs.
Husband usually shoos Lily up. She trots up the stairs, I talk sweet and open the door for her, and in she comes. But he couldn't find her. He asked me did I see her. I said, "No, but I hear her."
Husband said no, that was him making a noise, and he'd go back to the sun room and look again.
I was a little distracted because Molly, our dog, was lying in the foyer, not moving. Her eyes were open, she wasn't blinking at all,and I couldn't see if she was breathing. I sweet talked her, I whistled, I called her in a stern voice, and nothing worked. I thought she was dead for sure, because she's really old and has a lot of health problems.
Meanwhile, Husband said he gave up, Lily must be hiding. So I tried the last thing, It's the last I do, because we have not one cat who comes to "Kitty, kitty".
But I did it anyway. Molly, the dog, raised her head and looked at me. I truly think she has species identity issues.
Well, at least I found out she wasn't dead.
So, I open the bedroom door, and there Lily is, behind me, in her new little bed, a canvas bag she has fallen in love with. I said, "How in the world did you get in here?"
And I promise you, as Scarlet O'Hara is my witness, the cat looked up and winked at me.
We live in a madhouse.
(Now, I know at this point you are beginning to envy my life. Stop it right now. That's wrong to do, and you know it.)
The last thing is one of those weird experiences you have that has no explanation. I was calling someone and as the voice mail picked up and said, "You have reached this number," I realized I had dialed the wrong number so I hung up. As I started to dial the correct number, my phone started ringing, and it was the wrong number person calling I had just hung up from. I figured I owed the person an explanation, so I answered.
The guy asked, "Is this -" and he said the name of the place I retired from after thirty-one years of service almost ten years ago.
I was speechless. I mean, what are the odds?
I told him no, and he said, "Well, then who is this calling my cell phone number?"
I explained it was a wrong number and I apologized.
I also got goosebumps.
I've spent all day at a friends, then all evening at a meeting. So, I have to go to bed now.
Ponder on without me. But please, don't envy me.
Good-night.
What's wrong with giving a little encouragement to our maters?
Last night we were trying to round up Lily, our geriatric cat. All four legged (well, all two legged for that matter) sleep upstairs.
Husband usually shoos Lily up. She trots up the stairs, I talk sweet and open the door for her, and in she comes. But he couldn't find her. He asked me did I see her. I said, "No, but I hear her."
Husband said no, that was him making a noise, and he'd go back to the sun room and look again.
I was a little distracted because Molly, our dog, was lying in the foyer, not moving. Her eyes were open, she wasn't blinking at all,and I couldn't see if she was breathing. I sweet talked her, I whistled, I called her in a stern voice, and nothing worked. I thought she was dead for sure, because she's really old and has a lot of health problems.
Meanwhile, Husband said he gave up, Lily must be hiding. So I tried the last thing, It's the last I do, because we have not one cat who comes to "Kitty, kitty".
But I did it anyway. Molly, the dog, raised her head and looked at me. I truly think she has species identity issues.
Well, at least I found out she wasn't dead.
So, I open the bedroom door, and there Lily is, behind me, in her new little bed, a canvas bag she has fallen in love with. I said, "How in the world did you get in here?"
And I promise you, as Scarlet O'Hara is my witness, the cat looked up and winked at me.
We live in a madhouse.
(Now, I know at this point you are beginning to envy my life. Stop it right now. That's wrong to do, and you know it.)
The last thing is one of those weird experiences you have that has no explanation. I was calling someone and as the voice mail picked up and said, "You have reached this number," I realized I had dialed the wrong number so I hung up. As I started to dial the correct number, my phone started ringing, and it was the wrong number person calling I had just hung up from. I figured I owed the person an explanation, so I answered.
The guy asked, "Is this -" and he said the name of the place I retired from after thirty-one years of service almost ten years ago.
I was speechless. I mean, what are the odds?
I told him no, and he said, "Well, then who is this calling my cell phone number?"
I explained it was a wrong number and I apologized.
I also got goosebumps.
I've spent all day at a friends, then all evening at a meeting. So, I have to go to bed now.
Ponder on without me. But please, don't envy me.
Good-night.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
A Long Trip Home
Today, my Mother had surgery. It's a sixty-something mile drive and it's one of those trips where you think it will never end. Getting to that town is always that way, and I'm not sure why.
Going over was a bit anxiety producing, as my Mother was pretty nervous and hungry and thirsty. She had fasted since yesterday and her surgery wasn't scheduled until 1:30 p.m.
We got there early. Husband and Daughter left to get us lunch, which we thought we could eat while Mother was in surgery.
First, the place we had all slobbered over was closed down when they got there, and I think a, um, difference of opinion followed.
A place was finally settled on, and Daughter got ice cream for dessert. They handed it to her hurriedly and Husband drove off.
Ice cream sort of exploded all over Daughter because they had not put the lid on properly.
Oh, yes. Our air conditioning fan on the car seems to be dying. Good thing it was only ninety degrees today.
When Daughter got back to the surgery waiting room we weren't there. They had invited me back to sit with Mother while they prepped her for surgery. I knew they'd be looking for me, but figured they could ask around.
Daughter finally showed up, and they let her back with us. She was rather irate and sticky. She isn't feeling well to start with, as she fell all over a restaurant's floor last evening. She's has a sore hip, knee, and shoulder, which has gotten worse as the day progresses.
The restaurant put up a wet floor sign after she fell. How thoughtful of them.
Anyway, the surgery went smoothly, Mother was feeling good when they helped put her in the car. She ate all the peanut butter crackers they gave her and drank a full glass of ginger ale.
On the way home Daughter and I saw a bear at the edge of the wood on the side of the road. He was big and beautiful.
When we finally got home, the odd deer, that my friend says is a Black Tailed Deer, was in the yard. They live in South Georgia and are rarely seen in North Georgia. The doe is a loner and is eating all our plants. At least she doesn't touch the day lilies. She's very large. I don't have the heart to run her off.
I ate too many leftovers for supper, because squash, potatoes, okra, chicken, and Vidalia onions are too good not to indulge a little.
It was a long trip. I have a lot to be thankful for. Successful surgery, safe trip, bears and deer.
And leftovers.
Going over was a bit anxiety producing, as my Mother was pretty nervous and hungry and thirsty. She had fasted since yesterday and her surgery wasn't scheduled until 1:30 p.m.
We got there early. Husband and Daughter left to get us lunch, which we thought we could eat while Mother was in surgery.
First, the place we had all slobbered over was closed down when they got there, and I think a, um, difference of opinion followed.
A place was finally settled on, and Daughter got ice cream for dessert. They handed it to her hurriedly and Husband drove off.
Ice cream sort of exploded all over Daughter because they had not put the lid on properly.
Oh, yes. Our air conditioning fan on the car seems to be dying. Good thing it was only ninety degrees today.
When Daughter got back to the surgery waiting room we weren't there. They had invited me back to sit with Mother while they prepped her for surgery. I knew they'd be looking for me, but figured they could ask around.
Daughter finally showed up, and they let her back with us. She was rather irate and sticky. She isn't feeling well to start with, as she fell all over a restaurant's floor last evening. She's has a sore hip, knee, and shoulder, which has gotten worse as the day progresses.
The restaurant put up a wet floor sign after she fell. How thoughtful of them.
Anyway, the surgery went smoothly, Mother was feeling good when they helped put her in the car. She ate all the peanut butter crackers they gave her and drank a full glass of ginger ale.
On the way home Daughter and I saw a bear at the edge of the wood on the side of the road. He was big and beautiful.
When we finally got home, the odd deer, that my friend says is a Black Tailed Deer, was in the yard. They live in South Georgia and are rarely seen in North Georgia. The doe is a loner and is eating all our plants. At least she doesn't touch the day lilies. She's very large. I don't have the heart to run her off.
I ate too many leftovers for supper, because squash, potatoes, okra, chicken, and Vidalia onions are too good not to indulge a little.
It was a long trip. I have a lot to be thankful for. Successful surgery, safe trip, bears and deer.
And leftovers.
Monday, July 8, 2013
News From Around The World
1. I sold four books this week. Two of them were purchased by people in the United Kingdom.
Go figure.
2. The White-throated Needletail bird, (my husband was calling it the Pin Tail Tit - what has that man been reading?) has not been seen in twenty-two years. It was spotted in Scotland recently. Birdwatchers gathered in an excited flock to see this endangered species. And there it was! Before their very eyes! The bird flew straight into a wind turbine and was killed instantly.
This explains two things: 1: Why they were/are endangered in the first place, and
2: Why going green ain't always what it's cracked up to be.
3. I recently watched a YouTube video of the 2007 competition for Miss Teen America. (I didn't say the news was current). It was Miss South Carolina's turn. Listen carefully: this girl does NOT have a southern accent. She's a transplant, has to be, or one of those who try desperately not to be who their roots say they are. You can be glad, fellow Georgians, that the sash she is wearing doesn't say GEORGIA across the front. And for that, I praise the good Lord. Listen:
There is probably a lot more news out there right now, but I don't know how much more, dear reader, you can take at one whack.
So, I'll leave you with these.
Happy pondering!
Go figure.
2. The White-throated Needletail bird, (my husband was calling it the Pin Tail Tit - what has that man been reading?) has not been seen in twenty-two years. It was spotted in Scotland recently. Birdwatchers gathered in an excited flock to see this endangered species. And there it was! Before their very eyes! The bird flew straight into a wind turbine and was killed instantly.
This explains two things: 1: Why they were/are endangered in the first place, and
2: Why going green ain't always what it's cracked up to be.
3. I recently watched a YouTube video of the 2007 competition for Miss Teen America. (I didn't say the news was current). It was Miss South Carolina's turn. Listen carefully: this girl does NOT have a southern accent. She's a transplant, has to be, or one of those who try desperately not to be who their roots say they are. You can be glad, fellow Georgians, that the sash she is wearing doesn't say GEORGIA across the front. And for that, I praise the good Lord. Listen:
So, I'll leave you with these.
Happy pondering!
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Which Way is Up? Look, in the Sky! I't s a Plane, It's a Big Old Bird! NO! It's Superman!!
These past few days have been a whirlwind. I thought being sick and in bed for so long was messing up my mind as to being oriented times whatever.
But there's nothing like being asleep for two hours, being awakened, rushing to a hospital and....waiting.
All night.
After the initial adrenalin rush and the crash into bed, it really becomes confusing. The 4th of July was spent asleep off and on, not that it mattered, as the monsoon season is upon us.
So I've been turned around and confused for a month now. If you see me crossing the street, please rush to help me, even if you aren't a Boy Scout. Thank you.
To try to get in the holiday spirit of doing something fun:
Yesterday we decided to go to the movies. This is no small decision for me, due to my back and legs. But I've always been a sucker for Superman, what can I say.
When I was a little girl, George Reeves was Superman. I loved him.
Then Christopher Reeve came on the scene, and I loved the first movie. The second was okay, and then it just got silly. (Do NOT tell me a man in tights that flies around is silly, okay?)
Dean Cain took over and won my heart in "The Adventures of Lois and Clark". I didn't think he would, because he didn't look like the typical blue eyed Caucasian male. He has a little Chinese in him, and his eyes are small and brown. But he became superman effortlessly and I loved him.
"Smallville" starring Tom Welling was pretty good the first year, but I lost interest because the show was geared for teenagers and I haven't been one of those in a while. Tom and Henry Cavill, who is the latest Man of Steel look a lot alike, by the way. As they should, I guess.
"The Man of Steel" movie was okay. They got the right look for Clark Kent/Superman. Lois Lane was pretty good, although her hair was the wrong color (I'm picky!). But it was about twenty minutes too long. Too many buildings crashing, cars crashing, stuff blowing up, blah, blah, blah. Enough is enough.
Jon Peters directed this movie. You remember him, of course. He started out as Barbra Streisand's hair dresser.
No monkey.
On the way home someone remembered that there had been a Superman movie a few years back. Husband remembered that Ben Affleck played Superman in some movie. Boyfriend (Daughter's, not mine) said, "No Way!" and the conversationalists were unanimous in that no one had watched it. I remember thinking I didn't want to see it, because Ben Affleck is no Superman.
So, this morning I looked it up. He didn't really play Superman in the movie, Mr. Affleck played George Reeves, who played Superman, and apparently did a really good job.
My apologies to negating Mr. Affleck. See what happens when you assume?
Anyway, my next movie, I hope, will be "The Lone Ranger". I have always loved him, too.
They tell me Johnny Depp as Tonto steals the show, and why am I not surprised?
Henry Cavill just better be glad Mr. Depp didn't want the part of Jimmy Olson.
But there's nothing like being asleep for two hours, being awakened, rushing to a hospital and....waiting.
All night.
After the initial adrenalin rush and the crash into bed, it really becomes confusing. The 4th of July was spent asleep off and on, not that it mattered, as the monsoon season is upon us.
So I've been turned around and confused for a month now. If you see me crossing the street, please rush to help me, even if you aren't a Boy Scout. Thank you.
To try to get in the holiday spirit of doing something fun:
Yesterday we decided to go to the movies. This is no small decision for me, due to my back and legs. But I've always been a sucker for Superman, what can I say.
When I was a little girl, George Reeves was Superman. I loved him.
Then Christopher Reeve came on the scene, and I loved the first movie. The second was okay, and then it just got silly. (Do NOT tell me a man in tights that flies around is silly, okay?)
Dean Cain took over and won my heart in "The Adventures of Lois and Clark". I didn't think he would, because he didn't look like the typical blue eyed Caucasian male. He has a little Chinese in him, and his eyes are small and brown. But he became superman effortlessly and I loved him.
"Smallville" starring Tom Welling was pretty good the first year, but I lost interest because the show was geared for teenagers and I haven't been one of those in a while. Tom and Henry Cavill, who is the latest Man of Steel look a lot alike, by the way. As they should, I guess.
"The Man of Steel" movie was okay. They got the right look for Clark Kent/Superman. Lois Lane was pretty good, although her hair was the wrong color (I'm picky!). But it was about twenty minutes too long. Too many buildings crashing, cars crashing, stuff blowing up, blah, blah, blah. Enough is enough.
Jon Peters directed this movie. You remember him, of course. He started out as Barbra Streisand's hair dresser.
No monkey.
On the way home someone remembered that there had been a Superman movie a few years back. Husband remembered that Ben Affleck played Superman in some movie. Boyfriend (Daughter's, not mine) said, "No Way!" and the conversationalists were unanimous in that no one had watched it. I remember thinking I didn't want to see it, because Ben Affleck is no Superman.
So, this morning I looked it up. He didn't really play Superman in the movie, Mr. Affleck played George Reeves, who played Superman, and apparently did a really good job.
My apologies to negating Mr. Affleck. See what happens when you assume?
Anyway, my next movie, I hope, will be "The Lone Ranger". I have always loved him, too.
They tell me Johnny Depp as Tonto steals the show, and why am I not surprised?
Henry Cavill just better be glad Mr. Depp didn't want the part of Jimmy Olson.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way From the Bathroom
You know, when you are sharing a house with ten other people, no matter how big the house may be, things can get kind of harried. Especially when there are only three bathrooms.
Our bathroom, unfortunately, also had an outside door that led straight to the pool. It was a very popular venue. We were also trying to share it with many, many other people, several of them young men (read that boys).
I was always in a hurry while I was in there, a nervous wreck that I had not secured one of the three doors. One does not want to scar a young man by startling him with a fifty (cough, cough, goodness! Excuse me!) person's body parts.
Turns out, that didn't happen, but on our last day I was getting dressed and Husband says, "Wife, Yankee Cousin is here to speak to you."
So I come out of the bathroom pulling up my brand new sailor pants. They were mostly up around my hips. You can imagine my surprise when not only Yankee Cousin was standing there, but Yankee Cousin's Husband was also present.
"OH!" I exclaimed, trying to decide if backing up or turning around was the best way to go....at least I had on lacy drawers.
As I closed the bathroom door, I heard Yankee Cousin's Husband say, "It was nice seeing you!"
HA!
I came back out in a moment, and said, very coolly, in my most sultry voice, "Hello, Sonny." (that's his name, I ain't calling him sonny like a little old lady).
Husband and Daughter both swore that Yankee Cousin's Husband popped up out of no where before they could say anything to me.
Whatever. He's old like me, so it doesn't much matter.
Their boys have no idea how lucky they are that it was their poor old daddy instead of them that saw this debacle.
Vacations are fun, huh.
Our bathroom, unfortunately, also had an outside door that led straight to the pool. It was a very popular venue. We were also trying to share it with many, many other people, several of them young men (read that boys).
I was always in a hurry while I was in there, a nervous wreck that I had not secured one of the three doors. One does not want to scar a young man by startling him with a fifty (cough, cough, goodness! Excuse me!) person's body parts.
Turns out, that didn't happen, but on our last day I was getting dressed and Husband says, "Wife, Yankee Cousin is here to speak to you."
So I come out of the bathroom pulling up my brand new sailor pants. They were mostly up around my hips. You can imagine my surprise when not only Yankee Cousin was standing there, but Yankee Cousin's Husband was also present.
"OH!" I exclaimed, trying to decide if backing up or turning around was the best way to go....at least I had on lacy drawers.
As I closed the bathroom door, I heard Yankee Cousin's Husband say, "It was nice seeing you!"
HA!
I came back out in a moment, and said, very coolly, in my most sultry voice, "Hello, Sonny." (that's his name, I ain't calling him sonny like a little old lady).
Husband and Daughter both swore that Yankee Cousin's Husband popped up out of no where before they could say anything to me.
Whatever. He's old like me, so it doesn't much matter.
Their boys have no idea how lucky they are that it was their poor old daddy instead of them that saw this debacle.
Vacations are fun, huh.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Help! I've Been Kidnapped By The Yankees!
You'd think goin' on vacation in the South I'd be surrounded by southern people. But noooooo. I am in a housefull of you-know-whats.
And of course, one of Them wants to talk about the strange ways of Southern folk.
So, although she has it backerds, and it is they that are quare, I agreed to let her have the floor, so to speak.
Here goes, words from Yankee Cousin:
First of all, when I am down South, I am always in the minority. For once, it is the other way around, and I love it!
Southern Cousin says she is not only Southern, but she is tall, pale, and blonde in a house full of short,dark complected, dark haired women. She stands out like a sore thumb. Gee, I never felt that way at her house. ha!
You want to know the difference between the North and the South?
Let's talk about the way the Southern people speak.
For instance, when a Northern person is talking with another person and you want them to do something, you will say, "What you should do...."
A Southerner says, "What you need to do is..."
A Northern greeting is, "Hi guys!"
A Southern greeting is, "Hey ya'll!"
North: "I'm going to the store."
South: "I'm fixin' to go to the store."
North: "Plug in the TV."
South: "Plug up the TV."
North: "Let's go swimming."
South: "Let's go to the pool."
Southern people leave off all g's on their ing's.
*add by me: Daughter told me she and Boy Yankee Cousins were eating and she asked them to pass the soda crackers. They did not know what that was. She said, "They are right in front of you." (I know she gave them that 'you are stupider than a rock' look she is so famous for. Boy Yankee cousin said, "Oh, you mean the saltines."
But our differences are so insignificant compared to what we have in common: our childhood memories that bond us in our hearts and in our lives. We are a sister to each other, even if blood says it is cousins. We are in tune with one another, thinking the same things at the same time. In many ways, we view the world the same. We know we are going to spend eternity together, which is a wonderful comfort and joy!
Every year I would come down to spend the summer, and I was always afraid that things would be different between us because Southern Cousin was (still is) three years older than me, and I just knew she'd be more sophisticated and not want to be with me anymore.
That never happened. We were able to pick up right where we left off.
Just like we did last night.
And of course, one of Them wants to talk about the strange ways of Southern folk.
So, although she has it backerds, and it is they that are quare, I agreed to let her have the floor, so to speak.
Here goes, words from Yankee Cousin:
First of all, when I am down South, I am always in the minority. For once, it is the other way around, and I love it!
Southern Cousin says she is not only Southern, but she is tall, pale, and blonde in a house full of short,dark complected, dark haired women. She stands out like a sore thumb. Gee, I never felt that way at her house. ha!
You want to know the difference between the North and the South?
Let's talk about the way the Southern people speak.
For instance, when a Northern person is talking with another person and you want them to do something, you will say, "What you should do...."
A Southerner says, "What you need to do is..."
A Northern greeting is, "Hi guys!"
A Southern greeting is, "Hey ya'll!"
North: "I'm going to the store."
South: "I'm fixin' to go to the store."
North: "Plug in the TV."
South: "Plug up the TV."
North: "Let's go swimming."
South: "Let's go to the pool."
Southern people leave off all g's on their ing's.
*add by me: Daughter told me she and Boy Yankee Cousins were eating and she asked them to pass the soda crackers. They did not know what that was. She said, "They are right in front of you." (I know she gave them that 'you are stupider than a rock' look she is so famous for. Boy Yankee cousin said, "Oh, you mean the saltines."
But our differences are so insignificant compared to what we have in common: our childhood memories that bond us in our hearts and in our lives. We are a sister to each other, even if blood says it is cousins. We are in tune with one another, thinking the same things at the same time. In many ways, we view the world the same. We know we are going to spend eternity together, which is a wonderful comfort and joy!
Every year I would come down to spend the summer, and I was always afraid that things would be different between us because Southern Cousin was (still is) three years older than me, and I just knew she'd be more sophisticated and not want to be with me anymore.
That never happened. We were able to pick up right where we left off.
Just like we did last night.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Talk Dirty To Me
I believe I've mentioned that when we came home from vacation everything we ever have had, have presently, and ever will have was dirty.
Of course, what follows is an ancient law that comes from the Book of Murphy: "IF thou hast everything thou ownest dirty, thy plumbing will screweth up."
No monkey.
The only thing left clean at my house are some towels, wash cloths, and our bed sheets. We weren't here to use them.
On my third load of laundry the water began to act...funny.
And the first two loads didn't count. They were sheets Daughter took off her bed before we left, sheets the lady that stayed and house/pet sat used, and the second load was beach towels and swim wear. The third load was about half the white stuff that needed washing.
That left the other load of whites, at least two loads of khaki, grey, beige and other non-color things, two or three loads of lights, at least two loads of darks and at least one load of jeans.
Daughter was in the shower when I came in to wash my hands. The water was down to a trickle. I asked, "Why is the water so slow?"
"I don't know," Daughter answered. "But I noticed it."
Did she leap out of the shower, fear in her heart that our well was dry?
HA, I say. She just kept showering. I told her to get her rear end out of the shower RIGHT NOW.
"I'm rinsing off..."
"NOW!"
"Okay, okay. Gee..." Like this was my fault that she couldn't stay in the tub another hour and fifteen minutes.
I screeched down the stairs to Husband.
When the pump to the well has to be checked that is Man Job. One has to go downhill to the cellar in the creepy dirt floor part with a flashlight and bare light bulb as your only friend. Must I say words like giant spiders and scorpions to make you agree?
He looked at me as though I'd grown an extra head. "It's almost dark. It's raining. Couldn't we just turn the water off for now?"
I looked at him like he had grown an extra head. "No. We cannot. It is Saturday. I haven't had a shower since Thursday. We have to drink water. Church is early in the morning."
"Okay, Okay. Gee..." Like this was my fault that he couldn't stay in the recliner for another hour and fifteen minutes.
He came back up with the news that the filter was "pretty dirty", as in filled with mud.
"So, you are going to change the filter? I mean, if you don't we might burn the water pump up." (Read lots of money, here.)
He sighed heavily. "Okay, Okay. Gee...."
Don't make me say it.
So Husband changed the filter, I gave it fifteen minutes, and the water worked great. Of course it was way too late to wash any more clothes.
Coming soon: Toga style church wear from the latest in sheet fashion.
Bed head hair to match.
Of course, what follows is an ancient law that comes from the Book of Murphy: "IF thou hast everything thou ownest dirty, thy plumbing will screweth up."
No monkey.
The only thing left clean at my house are some towels, wash cloths, and our bed sheets. We weren't here to use them.
On my third load of laundry the water began to act...funny.
And the first two loads didn't count. They were sheets Daughter took off her bed before we left, sheets the lady that stayed and house/pet sat used, and the second load was beach towels and swim wear. The third load was about half the white stuff that needed washing.
That left the other load of whites, at least two loads of khaki, grey, beige and other non-color things, two or three loads of lights, at least two loads of darks and at least one load of jeans.
Daughter was in the shower when I came in to wash my hands. The water was down to a trickle. I asked, "Why is the water so slow?"
"I don't know," Daughter answered. "But I noticed it."
Did she leap out of the shower, fear in her heart that our well was dry?
HA, I say. She just kept showering. I told her to get her rear end out of the shower RIGHT NOW.
"I'm rinsing off..."
"NOW!"
"Okay, okay. Gee..." Like this was my fault that she couldn't stay in the tub another hour and fifteen minutes.
I screeched down the stairs to Husband.
When the pump to the well has to be checked that is Man Job. One has to go downhill to the cellar in the creepy dirt floor part with a flashlight and bare light bulb as your only friend. Must I say words like giant spiders and scorpions to make you agree?
He looked at me as though I'd grown an extra head. "It's almost dark. It's raining. Couldn't we just turn the water off for now?"
I looked at him like he had grown an extra head. "No. We cannot. It is Saturday. I haven't had a shower since Thursday. We have to drink water. Church is early in the morning."
"Okay, Okay. Gee..." Like this was my fault that he couldn't stay in the recliner for another hour and fifteen minutes.
He came back up with the news that the filter was "pretty dirty", as in filled with mud.
"So, you are going to change the filter? I mean, if you don't we might burn the water pump up." (Read lots of money, here.)
He sighed heavily. "Okay, Okay. Gee...."
Don't make me say it.
So Husband changed the filter, I gave it fifteen minutes, and the water worked great. Of course it was way too late to wash any more clothes.
Coming soon: Toga style church wear from the latest in sheet fashion.
Bed head hair to match.
A Serious Matter
I don't blog on Sunday, usually. But today I am compelled to do so.
At church today we did the 4th of July thing, saying allegiance to the American flag and then the Christian flag. I am ashamed to say I don't know all the words to one of them, and I bet you can guess which one.
We sang Christian hymns about God blessing our country, and that this county is based on Christian beliefs and laws from the Bible.
A slide show was very nicely done, the song "God Bless the USA" playing while different images were on the screen, including pictures of all the men in our congregation who have served this country in uniform. Husband is one of them.
At the last "And I'll gladly stand up next to you...." the congregation began standing and singing in a spontaneous way.
"God Bless the USA" was sung with heartfelt emotion and then everyone applauded. I had tears streaming down my face.
Not because I was warmed by it, but because I don't believe it anymore.
I don't believe we honor God's word in this country anymore.
I wish I could find the quote of one of our forefathers who basically said this country was founded on biblical principle, God's law, and only godly people would find comfort and fit in, in this country.
I don't believe we are the majority anymore. I believe the country is being changed so that others do find comfort and fit in, in this country.
Those of us who do believe are soft, spoiled, lazy, and apparently apathetic.
People have demanded their rights, above any law God may have set for His creation. No one cares anymore what God has to say about it, as long as they get their right. Their right to do whatever they please. And if you call them on their immorality or their unethical behavior, you are a bigot and you just don't know how to be tolerant.
God has been tolerant of our poor behavior for quite a while now. We have thumbed our collective noses at the Almighty, and it seems to me that folks get braver everyday, pushing 'the envelope' a little further each time. It's as though folks are thinking, "We got away with that, so let's see if we can get away with this."
Well, I have news for you: You don't have any rights. I don't have any rights. The only right we have, truly, are God's "Rights".
He has blessed this country beyond measure. And we have become demanding of it, thinking that no matter what, easy street will continue.
I prayed before our Bible Study started this morning that we would have a revival in this country. I prayed it would begin with me.
Our pastor was stirred this morning in a way I've never seen him stirred. At the end of the service almost everyone was on their knees in the altar.
But to tell you the truth, I just feel sad. Is it too late? Are there people I love that are being swept away by false doctrine because it's what they want to hear? What they have to believe in order to live without God?
The answer is yes.
God Bless the USA.
Yes - but for how much longer?
At church today we did the 4th of July thing, saying allegiance to the American flag and then the Christian flag. I am ashamed to say I don't know all the words to one of them, and I bet you can guess which one.
We sang Christian hymns about God blessing our country, and that this county is based on Christian beliefs and laws from the Bible.
A slide show was very nicely done, the song "God Bless the USA" playing while different images were on the screen, including pictures of all the men in our congregation who have served this country in uniform. Husband is one of them.
At the last "And I'll gladly stand up next to you...." the congregation began standing and singing in a spontaneous way.
"God Bless the USA" was sung with heartfelt emotion and then everyone applauded. I had tears streaming down my face.
Not because I was warmed by it, but because I don't believe it anymore.
I don't believe we honor God's word in this country anymore.
I wish I could find the quote of one of our forefathers who basically said this country was founded on biblical principle, God's law, and only godly people would find comfort and fit in, in this country.
I don't believe we are the majority anymore. I believe the country is being changed so that others do find comfort and fit in, in this country.
Those of us who do believe are soft, spoiled, lazy, and apparently apathetic.
People have demanded their rights, above any law God may have set for His creation. No one cares anymore what God has to say about it, as long as they get their right. Their right to do whatever they please. And if you call them on their immorality or their unethical behavior, you are a bigot and you just don't know how to be tolerant.
God has been tolerant of our poor behavior for quite a while now. We have thumbed our collective noses at the Almighty, and it seems to me that folks get braver everyday, pushing 'the envelope' a little further each time. It's as though folks are thinking, "We got away with that, so let's see if we can get away with this."
Well, I have news for you: You don't have any rights. I don't have any rights. The only right we have, truly, are God's "Rights".
He has blessed this country beyond measure. And we have become demanding of it, thinking that no matter what, easy street will continue.
I prayed before our Bible Study started this morning that we would have a revival in this country. I prayed it would begin with me.
Our pastor was stirred this morning in a way I've never seen him stirred. At the end of the service almost everyone was on their knees in the altar.
But to tell you the truth, I just feel sad. Is it too late? Are there people I love that are being swept away by false doctrine because it's what they want to hear? What they have to believe in order to live without God?
The answer is yes.
God Bless the USA.
Yes - but for how much longer?
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