Time Warps

I don't know if it is because I am growing older (by the second), but I keep forgetting about time moving forward.

For instance, I still think of my house as "new".

It was built in 1987, except for the sun room, which was added on a few years later, which one I can't remember.

Some people, because it is a pseudo Victorian, think it is the real deal and built more like in 1895. That's a true compliment.

I realized how my thinking goes, because coming down the stairs early (for me) this morning I noticed how the tread is worn right down the middle of the oak stairs.

The stain is lighter there from almost twenty-seven years of use.

In other ways that time is getting away from me:  Daughter. She should be about twelve by my reckoning. But she somehow has arrived at age twenty-three.

And seeing peers whom I haven't seen in some years. Man, are they old, are what? How come I still look about thirty-five(ish)?

Oh, it's because I always look in the mirror fully clothed except for my glasses.

Works every time.

And why is my mother turning into a frail, elderly woman? Not just a geriatric, but really old.

I am now the geriatric, almost.

And my baby brothers?  How dare they have another birthday tomorrow that gets them extremely close to fifty years of age.

And my nephew,  my sweet little boy nephew, has a child of his own now who looks just like him. And by that I  mean the way he should still look.

I'm telling you, Methuselah ain't got nothing on me.

Those Things We Are Thankful For Most

I only added the word most in order not to end the title with a preposition.

Anyway, On Facebook, where many of you are members thereof, some kind soul started a countdown to Thanksgiving Day. By starting on November first, find something to be thankful for each day. One was to post what that was each day on their wall.

I decided that was an excellent exercise in really thinking about the good in my life, so I did it this year.

Daughter has done it before this year, as have many others.

So, much to my surprise, the thing I was most thankful for come the Big Day, was when Great-Nephew (age 2) peed on Husband (age 64).

Why, you may ask, was I most thankful for that?

It made us all laugh. Well, maybe not Great-Nephew, he was just rushed off to the bathroom for dry clothes.

Great-Nephew was snuggling on the couch with Husband, busily spelling words (like intelligence) and then using it in a sentence. This exercise is an app. on his mama's telephone. This is done by a two year old with a paci in his mouth, who as I said earlier, isn't quite one hundred percent on his potty training.

But he was so comfy cuddling and sharing with Husband, he waited too long to start yelling, "Tee tee! Tee tee! Uh-oh! Oh no!"

He can perform word exercises on the phone app. better than he can spew it back out. After all, he's only two. I get about every third word he says.

But laughter, innocence, family gathering - isn't that what thankfulness is all about?

Brother of Many Surgeries could have easily not been with us. Last week it was determined he wouldn't be well enough, but then, lo and behold, he was. Breathing heavy, showing his scar because he had twenty-five of his zillion staples removed Tuesday (and a drain tube).

Who wouldn't be proud?

And Mother. She is eighty-four years old with a lot of physical problems. (Duh). Not sick, just aches and pains that are hard on her.

Thankful? You bet.

For babies that make us laugh (even though Husband left early very suddenly), for brothers that make it through yet another surgery, for mothers who may be elderly but are still hanging around for another season.

And you.

I'm thankful for you.

Once Upon a Time, Long, Long Ago...

When I was a very small child, before my great-grandmother got 'the breast cancer', the family had Thanksgiving at her house.

She and my great-grandfather lived pretty much like they had always lived - except they had electric lights in each room.

Memories are vague, because I was so young, but this is what I do remember:

We ate later because the men were killing a hog. By Thanksgiving, it was always cold enough to do this.

The dining room had lots of  natural light, and the double french doors were always open to allow the heat from the wood heater that sat in the middle of the living room floor, to heat this room too.

The table was long and full of my mother's aunts and uncles and their children.

I was the only great-grandchild, the Princess.

My seat was an old, green high chair, whose tray had been removed so it could be scooted right up to the table.

There was about a million vegetables that had been canned or stored in the cellar for a bountiful meal.

We had baked hens instead of turkey.

All of it was cooked on a giant wood cook stove, with lard, real butter (that she churned herself), cream from the cow, and eggs from their chickens.

Mama Hill, my great-grandmother, always made me pop taties. They were called this because she sliced potatoes very thin and fried them until they were so crisp they popped when you chewed them.

And she made them just for me, the Princess.

After dinner, Papa Hill would get out his fiddle and stand in front of the stove in the front room. I would sit in the floor, looking straight up at his pale blue eyes and snow white hair. His overalls were pressed, as was the white shirt he wore underneath them.

He always had a little stick or a pipe protruding from his mouth.

All the adults sat around in whatever they had drug into the room, and enjoyed the music.

I was carried to the car for the long ride home back to town, sleepy, then asleep.

Happy Thanksgiving to each of  you, and here's hoping you have a precious memory to see you through when holidays may not be so great.

If you don't, you are welcome to mine.

Because they couldn't be any better than these.

Coming to a Table Near You

You can feel it in the air.

The frenzied pace of millions of women trying to get their act together at the last minute because everyone expects the Thanksgiving meal extravaganza right on time.

The trick for my family is the dressing. See, my mother doesn't have a recipe for dressing. She has just "made it" in the past.

I think her Aunt maybe taught her how.

Last year, Daughter and I stood by like drones and did exactly like she said to do, as she can no longer do it all by herself.

You'd think after doing it with supervision, one could do it alone, but it's far more complicated than that.

Dressing is one of those things that tastes different with every person. It's a lot like biscuits or cole slaw. There is just something in the individual's make up that makes the food.

My goal is to come close to Mother's. I don't anticipate surpassing it, because I love her dressing better than anyone's on the planet, and I've  had lots.

So, tomorrow Daughter and I will journey down to Mother's and begin.

Pray for us all.

Happy Thanksgiving, in advance, just in case I don't make it through.

I'm on a Roll

I've been writing a book since January. It has been worked on slowly, not at all, and sometimes in a frantic pace to get it all down just like I am seeing it.

For the past few days, the pace has been frantic. I don't like being pulled away from the book, and as of right now I'm out in the studio and darkness has fallen.

But I figure if I can just get in a few more paragraphs...I can sleep tonight.

Or remember more stuff and jot it down furiously.

I know when I 'm in the midst of everything because the characters are intense. I may cry or laugh while I am typing a particular scene.

So, pardon me if the blog is short.

At least it's sweet.

Gone Fishin'

As those of you who read my blogs regularly already know, Tobias died recently. (See what happens if you miss a blog?  You don't get this important information in a timely fashion!)

Blogger Takes A Moment.

Don't  make fun of me, that fish lived with us for over two years.

Anywho, Husband brought home a new fish yesterday (or was it the day before?)

He asked me what did I want in a fish, and I said I wanted one that looked young and was very colorful.

So, off he goes fishing.

So to speak.

Husband says he picked out the youngest one he could find (read that little, and I do mean little). He marches to the check out and the cashier says, "Oh, I see you picked out a male."

Now, Husband happens to know that the females are much less colorful, but he likes to play innocent, so he asks, "How do you know it's male?"

She points to the lid of the carton in which the fish is swimming. It says, "MALE".

Why Husband tells this stuff on himself, I'll never know.

Anyway, he is a funny looking fish (no, I don't mean Husband. That's for another blog entirely). He is very small, and he has an extremely undershot jaw,(the fish, people, the fish!) more than any of the others we've had.

I named him Tyke,  much to the dismay of Daughter. Hey, if she doesn't like it, she can get her own fish.

Say hello to Tyke:

Brotherly Love

I just got back from visiting Brother of Many Surgeries. (This is his Indian  name now.)

He looks like a one track railroad from stern to down below where he wouldn't let me see. Let's just say they cut him as fer as they could cut.

The staples are starting to pull at his skin, the drain holes are pulling at his skin. He is very uncomfortable.

Plus he is having wild body temperature changes, one minute burning up, the next freezing.

Do you suppose they took so much out this time he is in  menopause? 

Nah.

I am being silly because I am tired of being afraid.

Afraid that this time, he might not make it.

But he did, and I hope fervently it is the last surgery he ever has to have. I hope he can live many years and be healthy, finally.

I am so confident I made a batch of spaghetti and took it to them for supper.

If my cookin' don't kill him, nothin' will.

Armageddon! Or: Taking Two Cats to the Vet

When you have Maine Coon cats one thing is bound to occur: matting. (notice the two t's, please)

Eli doesn't tolerate combing very well, and Lilly will let you, just not under her where her belly is. This is the first year Eli has had a full winter coat, so this is the second time in less than two months that I've had to have some mats shaved from his underside.

Lilly was given a crew cut several months ago, so she just now has had a few mats that needed shaving.

The adventure of putting her into a carrier is best left untold.

Eli goes willingly, every time. He even lays around in our carrier sometimes when he is ambushing another cat or hiding from Daughter.

But the carrying on in the car on the way to the vets is earsplitting! And you should hear the cats, too!  HA!

And it is creepy to see cats pant. Only dogs should pant. They look wild. Ears laid back, teeth bared...skeery.

Eli weighs seventeen pounds now, and Lilly is a solid eleven. Toting them in and out ain't no easy chore, either.

Signing in and waiting is interesting.

One lady brought in a very reluctant dog. The woman opened the door and stood there, holding a leash with something obviously on the other end, but I thought the dog was never gonna make it. When she did finally scurry in, what we saw a  was a very fat Pug who looked like it was going to burst into tears. Her curly tail was tucked between her legs.She hid under the bench at the door, then hurried to get to the next bench so she could hide under it and sit behind her owner's legs. Occasionally, she would peek out, look exceedingly worried and hide again.

Her name was (get ready) Sassy.

Then a woman came out of one of the examining rooms, crying. I mean really crying, funeral home crying. And she had no pet in her arms. But they sat down to wait....

I said a prayer for her.

They took Lilly back, trimmed her and brought her to us. I went back with Eli. He's my baby,you know, and he does better.

It's true. He stares at me when they are buzzing him. If he loses sight of me, he struggles.

The vet tech said she'd seen cats be so afraid they were running laps around the room, trying to find a way out. And these cats were on the ceiling. And I quote: "I don't know  how they can climb straight up a wall, but they do it."

When I came back out an older gentleman was there with a young, boisterous setter of some sort who was barking loudly every fifteen seconds.

Each time old Sassy cringed and trembled.

We paid, we left, we got home.

Until next time.

Belief in Oneself

I've been singing in public since I was fourteen years old. I love to sing. In fact, I sing all the time.

I've been told I have a good voice. I was urged to go to college and major in voice.

That was not my calling, and I believe you must be driven if you are to make something like that your life.

Obviously, by now, I have  heard myself sing.

But when I listen, all I hear are the mistakes. That note was a little flat. My voice wobbled too much at the end. I breathed at the wrong place. I sang the wrong word!

You get the picture.

I don't have a lot of faith in the beauty of my voice.

I still sing. I feel sometimes the nudge of the Holy Spirit to sing a particular song, and I hope I don't ignore those nudges, no matter what they are about.

But writing is different. Don't get me wrong. I am well aware there are better writers out there. Many, many they number.

The thing is, I don't mind reading what I've written. I go back after something is "cold" and re-read it and often times am pleased. I think, "Did I really write that?"

I'm not sure why I am so confident about one talent and not so much about the other one, when I'm given compliments about both.

Maybe it doesn't really matter how I feel about either one of them.

I just need to keep on doing what God instructs me to do.

He'll make beauty out of the beast when He chooses.

What's That On Top Of Your Head?

I got  my hair done today. (And you thought this couldn't possibly be such an interesting blog!)

I left home at 1:30 and got back home at 4:00. Of course there was a side trip to the garage because of a little engine light concern, but never mind that.

And, of course, I had to eat chicken fettachini in the middle of getting my hair rolled.

And the trip is an hour, if you count both ways.

So, let's say it took an hour and  a half for my hair to cook and be curly all the way to the roots again.

That got me to thinking. How long do you think women spend on their hair a year? Curling, straightening, cutting, adding extensions, coloring it darker, bleaching it lighter, shampooing, conditioning, drying, styling, moussing, spritzing, spraying, fluffing and who knows what else I've left off, like teasing, pleading and begging.

And this doesn't even count talking to each other about our hair and what goes on or does not go on with it. And looking through style magazines and websites.

And we have to contend with our husbands going on and on about our hair, so that takes an additional, what, five minutes a year?

(When I mentioned my hair was dyed brown when we got married to get rid of the frosting I hated, Husband said, and I quote, "Your hair was brown when we got married? Huh.")

How long do you think men take a year doing and thinking all things regarding their own hair?

Now, I know some boys spend an enormous amount of time, but it's usually a phase, and the next time you see them their hair is back to its normal color and it's short. Because, they tell you, that other stuff was too much trouble. (I believe the whole stage was more about independence and rebellion than it was about hair, anyway.)

And men, as they get older and get balder, do seem to obsess about that, and may spend extra money on stuff that guarantees hair thickening magic. But they go bald anyway, then they shrug their shoulders and shave their head.

So, what's the deal with us females? It's not learned, we are born that way. I mean, little biddy girls go around wanting stuff in their hair, want it braided or brushed.

Maybe it's because, as the Bible says, it is our crowning glory, I don't know.

But I do know it's not to please our man. Not really. (see above)

I think it's about looking good for other women and also maybe trying to obtain some look that in our head would make us prettier. Or younger.

I wish I was brave enough to say the heck with it, cut it really short and forget about it.

But you know what?

I just can't.

Speaking of Time Travel...

I have always been fascinated with time travel. I read a book in fourth grade (which is still my favorite book) and it involved time travel.

I read every book of fiction I can get my hands on about time travel. Some of them are really, really good books.

According to quantum physics (maybe, I don't claim I'm right), Time is a straight line, and if you could stand outside of it, you could see everything going on at the same time - past, present and future.

Warning: Rabbit trail - That sort of explains how we can have free will and God still know everything that we will do. He stands outside of time, and if He is looking down on time, so to speak, He could see it all occurring.

Anyway, in theory, if one could learn how to manipulate time, we could travel within it. That could come in really handy if we go off the grid.

'Off The Grid' is the new catch phrase (to me, anyway). It means everything technical will collapse and your cell phone will become a paper weight and your computer will be even more useless than it is now, if you can believe that.

But if we go off the grid and some nerd is bored so badly because of this he figures out time travel, we could go back and reminisce about what it feels like to have air conditioning when it's 90 degrees outside and all your bedrooms are upstairs.

I've always thought it would be neat if I could go back and watch my grandfather as a child, living close to where I live right now. He might have even walked this land. I know the Cherokee did, we found an arrowhead.

Wouldn't it be fun to see how the forests here looked before everyone began chopping them down?

Or watch your daddy ask your mother to marry him?

Or see yourself as a newborn?

Of course, if we could travel back, we could also travel forward. But I ain't too keen on that. I think the future needs to stay cloaked in mystery unless the good Lord shows us something.

And when He does that, it always means some hard work for me.

But maybe the most useful thing to do with time travel would be to have the opportunity to say I love you, or I'm sorry when you didn't at the time you should  have.

So, just in case time travel never shakes down, may I take a moment to say to those near and dear to me: I love you.

And if I've ever hurt you, I am sorry.

Time Travel

Let's go back in time so a tale can be told.

Let's go back to yesterday.

We were headed for the big city! I was finally going to see Brother, he of terrible surgery and oft times life threatening daring do. I had not seen him since before the surgery and I was excited. I got his wife some peanut M&M's and the the paper with  my column in it.

Ready, set, wait a minute.

See, our dog had a terrible seizure and she had a hard time coming out of it. We had to wait around a little, take her outside several times, make sure she was okay.

And of course, there was the cleaning up of the mess from seizure, putting dog cover in the wash, etc.

We have a brand new, super dooper DEE LUX GPS that Husband used to get us to Emory. He carefully typed in Emory University Hospital at Decatur's address.

Checked it twice, because a. He is prone to errors and b. He is O. C. D.

I am dressed in my layers, leggings, onesie, wool socks, heavy jeans, sweat shirt, etc. because when I am sitting still my legs get worse due to poor circulation. And while I am prone to hot flashes, the lower half will still freeze.

Down the road we go. A little later than anticipated, but still plenty of time.

About Canton I begin to hurt so badly I confess we have to stop and get something for my stomach. I am on a strong antibiotic for the bladder infection that resulted from the kidney stone last week, and the medicine is killing my gut.

Husband bat turns into Publics, Daughter agrees to run in. "Xanax, right?"

"Ye - NO! Zantac, not Xanax!"

Off she flies, and hurries back with Zantac and Sprite in hand.

We continue down the road. By now it is well past lunch time and we decide Steak N Shake is a great idea. After a terrifying U-turn that Husband makes for no apparent reason other than because he can, we get to Steak N Shake, shook up.

Husband suddenly remembers he forgot to give Dog her mid-day seizure medication.

What a wonderful time to forget that! I cross my fingers Dog doesn't have a seizure and do you-know-what all over the rug.

The waiter seats us, hands us our menus, tells us his name (Josh) and then looks at me and says, "I want to know about your book."

I'm stunned. Flattered. I'm famous! Wow! How does this kid know about my books? Daughter's face looks like I am feeling.

Then Josh continues, "It says to ask, so I figured I better." He says this as he stares at my bosom.

I, too, look down. I have on my sweat shirt that says: Ask About My Book. Oh.

Moving right along:

After eating, we sit in the parking lot so Husband can turn on the brand new super dooper DEE LUX  GPS and check the address. Twice. (See above)

He says he's making absolutely sure the address is right, because we don't want to go to Emory University Hospital Midtown.

The brand new super dooper DEE LUX GPS takes us to Midtown.

We are now at the tip of the beginning of Midtown rush hour. I'm hurting like a son of a gun, and we know if we can even figure out how to get to 85, we are going to be in bumper to bumper traffic all the way to the hospital.

We have a decision to make: Try it or admit our defeat. The other mitigating factor is this: Daughter has an engagement with a friend that she feels she needs to honor.

She's meeting him at the funeral home.

Sigh.

So I pull up the old big girl drawers and call Brother's Wife. I tell her where we are and she says, "Oh. That's not good."

I tell her of Daughter's previously promised engagement and for her to get there on time, we need to turn around and go home.

She understands.

I am very disappointed. (Not that she understands, but that I don't get to see them)

So we turn around, head home and see the lovely flashing signs that a wreck has all four lanes blocked up ahead and to take an alternate route.

Seriously?
Isn't that what we've done all day?

Fortunately, as we creep forward, the wreck is cleared and we go home.

So close, and yet so far away... sniff.

Dog is fine. Carpets are dry.

I am in pain and exhausted.

And, in trying to stack my pillows on my bed, I knock Jesus to the floor.

Don't ask.

All You Need Is Love

I suppose some couples are more compatible than others.

I also know opposites attract, and sometimes with disastrous results.

There are couples who look like each other.

And there are couples who are totally opposite in looks from one another, but are a lot alike in personality.

Husband said he always thought he'd marry a dark haired petite woman.  (His mother) I am tall and fair, so he failed miserably. But: my mother-in-law and I  were a lot alike in personality, so I think he got what he was looking for after all.

Me? I've always gone for the blond guy. And Husband, who is now more salt than pepper, had hair that bordered on black. (So I'll have a "blond" after all!)

What drew me to Husband in the first place? Laughter. We often laughed at the same time, and we laugh together every day.

I think that goes a long way in any relationship, unless you are the odd duck who has no sense of humor, and if you are, I can't imagine why you would still be reading my blogs, because they are fraught with silly.

Last night said it all for us when it comes to compatibility.

I knew, of course, we like the same room temperature, the same amount of covers on the bed, etc.

But last night, we were lying side by side, both of us with a book. My cat, Eli was sprawled across my chest and belly, where he often snuggles before I sleep. And may I say last night, his higher body temperature felt really, really good.

I happen to glance sideways, and there was Frost, another of our cats, sprawled across David's chest and belly, looking smug about his copy cat behavior.

Two giant white cats, lots of covers, a good book each.

Do we get along, or what?

Suffering Amongst Us

My poor old brother has suffered a lot, and continues to do so. I have everybody I even remotely know praying up a storm (I hope) that he will get well, for goodness sake.

Of course, this has my elderly mother worried sick. She can't be there, she isn't able to ride that far, walk that far, or even stay, which of course, since he is still in ICU they wouldn't let her anyway.

As you know, I had me a kidney stone a few days ago, which resulted in lots of infection, which has resulted in them powerful antibiotics.

Which has resulted in all sorts of problems.

I woke up in the  middle of last night curled into the fetal position with pain right smack dab where an old ulcer used to live.

I knew I had to have food. But Daughter saw me, and went downstairs for me, and brought me a sugar cookie and a glass of milk.

Awwww.

This worked for about three hours, and I awoke again, in more pain than before. I went into the bathroom and slung junk asunder under the sink until I found a bottle of Zantac and took myself a pill.

In about twenty minutes the pain eased enough for me to go to sleep.

Today has been uncomfortable, but I hope I can tolerate the medication, because I need to get rid of the infection.

However; I am swolle up.

If you ever wondered what a fifty-nine year old woman looks at five months pregnant, I'm your poster child.

And it ain't pretty.

You know it's bad when your sweat pants are too tight.

But in spite of all the misery, there is good news: The doctors have found what the problem is with my brother and hopefully can correct it now.

My first column is coming out in the local paper "The Best of Ellijay Blue Ridge Jasper".

A very popular store in Blue Ridge is taking one of my books, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" to sell because they think it will do great.

Daughter  has responded to antibiotics and her throat doesn't look like Armageddon anymore.

See? There is always a silver lining.

Or two.

A Woman's Crowning Glory

This week Daughter's hair is red.

Really red.

Last week it was sorta reddish brown.

Before that...hmmmm....Well, it's been dark brown (big mistake), reds, platinum blonde, (bigger mistake) and her natural color with highlights, the best in my humble (and totally ignored) opinion.

I think her natural color is a soft, dark blonde with lighter blonde highlights, which she embellished for a few years before she went plumb wild.

Luckily, she has thick healthy hair and nothing seems to faze it.

Me? My hair? Well, I've never strayed too far from my natural color. Twice darkened it because I'd had it frosted, and hated that it looked like (to me) grey  hair instead of blonde. Yes, I did it twice. So sue me. So my wedding pictures and Daughter's baby pictures have me sporting brown hair.

Otherwise, I've kept it about a shade lighter, because my dark blonde hair has a tendency to dull, especially in winter.

But I've kept my so-straight-you-could-plumb-a-house-with-it hair curly for thirty years. I think about stopping, but to tell you the truth, I really like it curly (hence thirty years) and don't want to go back to straight.

So I ask you: Is there a woman on the planet that loves her hair? The color? The thickness? The length? The curliness or straightness thereof? The greyness?

Or is it true what I've heard: Every woman wants some kind of hair they just don't have from nature.

And if that's true, why don't we like what we got when we were given out hair genes?

It's truly a  mystery to me.

Think on this, dear reader, and if you know the answer, let me know.

What a Doll

People are often fascinated by the question, "What are your earliest memories?"

Husband says he can remember almost nothing until first grade. I've had a lot of people tell me that.

I have some memories at age two - three, and maybe that's unusual.

One of them, probably all of them, come from an unusual or somewhat traumatic event.

Our neighbor two doors down was one of Daddy's best friends. They'd been raised together (in fact they were both living in the houses they were raised in).

He wasn't married, nor did he have children, so he became my slave.

Since he had no one to take care of or to shower with gifts, I was the little girl that he knew he would never have.

Mother says I was probably two, pushing three when he bought a doll for me.

I remember this doll vividly. I think I probably had it until our house burned when I was seventeen.

She was a cloth doll, with ridiculously long legs. Her arms and legs ended in soft round "mitten" shapes, and she had a bonnet sewed onto her head. She was dark blue, and her mittens and bonnet flap were plaid. She came with a little removable apron that was the same plaid.

Her face was the soft, pliable plastic that some dolls used to have and she had a little fringe of blonde bangs. Her face was sweet, with large round eyes, painted on eye lashes, and a rosebud mouth.

But there was something very different about this doll.

Oh, I had a small Betsy Wetsy doll that if Mother let me, (which she did not do very often because of the mess), I could stick a bottle of water in its mouth and she peed it right out. My cousin had a baby doll that if you turned her upside down she made a sound that sort of sounded like "Mama". Kinda.

But this doll? She was touted as the first talking doll.

If you felt of her back, you could feel a hard, round object, and on the outside of her body was a crank. And when you turned the crank, she sang, "Rock a Bye Baby."

Which terrified me. I hated that doll. Neighbor's face was crestfallen, Parent's were embarrassed, but there ya go.

I remedied the situation.

Adults kept trying to convince me to "just hold her".

Nope.

But when they gave up and began to converse amongst themselves, I got the doll and went behind the couch and tore that sucker up.

I loved her dearly after she was  mute.

The adults were rather upset, but oh, well.

You can't please all the people all the time.

After all, it was my doll, right?  

It's Raining Men er I mean

It's Raining Men Leaves!

For at least two days, non-stop, it has poured leaves. And still there are more on the trees.

I've never seen it quite so fierce or constant.

I suppose (maybe) it's because we had solid green until the cold spell, late, and then BAM! everything changed at once.

So I guess they are all dropping at once.

My cats are delirious. They stalk from window to window, tails swishing sixty miles an hour, watching them fall from the sky. I don't know if they think they are birds, or what. But it is certainly keeping them entertained.

Eli sat in the bathroom for five minutes, looking up at the skylight. He would cry, look at me expectantly, cry, look up, cry. I have no idea what he was expecting me to do, but he clearly did not like what was going on.

It's been an entertainment for me, too.

Other than pacing and racing to the bathroom yesterday, until I passed the kidney stone, I haven't done much.

Now that I'm left with an infection - fever, headache, backache, tummy ache, lying in bed and watching the leaves fall is entertaining for me too.

Okay, okay. It was for about five minutes, then absolute boredom set in and so I whined loudly to anyone who could hear me.

My baby brother gave us a scare last night after doing so well from surgery, but he is stable now, and we are all breathing easier - including him!

I wonder if he can see the leaves fall from his hospital bed. Probably not, being in ICU. He'll come home to bald trees.

Well, I think I'll go back to my well wallowed bed for a little while.

I wonder if it's still raining. Leaves, that is.

And How Are You This Morning?

Brother had a super serious surgery yesterday, and this morning things are well, but he is in a lot of pain.

Daughter stayed over with Mother because Other Brother (who lives with Mother) would be getting in late from hospital stay while Brother had surgery.

Daughter suddenly had a very  high fever in the middle of the night and now throat is "red with white junk on it." to quote Daughter.

She is at doctor's as we speak. Alone, because:

Me, myself got up in the middle of the night knowing something wasn't "quite right". And boy, oh boy, was I right.

Mr. Kidney Stone is having his way with me.

Me (in bathroom): "Hiss. Groan. Moan. Oh, lord! Hiss. Whimper..."

Husband: "Pretend you're at the beach."

Me: "Kiss my butt. Hissssss...groan, whimper."

And how is your morning?

Famous People I Have Known

Jesse James, Michael Fox, William James, Michael Nichols (but not Diane Sawyer), Henry James, Tim Rice (but not Andrew Lloyd Webber), John Hancock, James Taylor, Betty Crocker, Johnny Cash, James Bond.

I was discussing the budget with my boss one day at work, so when my phone buzzed saying I had a call, I ignored it. The secretary, thinking I was wandering around the building somewhere, came on the building intercom speaker and announced, "Kathi, James Bond is on line two for you."

My boss raised an eyebrow and said, "By all means!"

I answered the call in a cool voice, "Yes, Mr. Bond?"

I listened for a moment then replied, "That's correct. It is the men's toilet that is stopped up."

Maybe my title should have been people I have known who have a famous name.

The James Taylor I know doesn't think it's funny when people ask him if he can sing.

Betty Crocker always smiled and said yes, she could cook, but probably not as good as the other one.

Jesse James was my great-great uncle. I always thought when I was a kid how cool it was that I had an honest to goodness outlaw in my family.

Well, obviously he wasn't the Jesse James, anymore than his brother, Henry James was the famous writer of realism, nor the other brother, William, the great philosopher and psychologist (the famous Henry and William were brothers too!)

I don't think it would be much fun to have a famous name, especially a very famous name. Hey, I get annoyed when I google my name, Kathi Harper Hill and get Hill Harper, the actor/writer. I can only hope  that I show up when he googles himself sometimes.

I'm sure it can't be helped occasionally. After all, some famous people have common names: Will Smith, for instance. I bet there are a boatload of them around, and all but one get kidded about their name.

However; if you are expecting a little one in the near future, do them a favor: name them something that doesn't have a famous ring to it.

Sincerely,

Jane Doe

Books

As you know, I love books.

And for the past two days, all I've talked about are books. My books, specifically.

Having written five and working on my sixth, it is exciting to have someone who actually wants to talk about them.

Yesterday, I talked to my publisher, kicking around ideas about upcoming book signings with other authors who have books about Christmas. What a neat idea! Christmas books, cookies, punch, little kids running around, Santa...I don't know, it sort of gets me in the spirit of the season.

Today I talked to another author who was having a book signing in a neighboring county. He introduced me to the owner of the store, who welcomed me, agreed to look over my books for possible purchase and sales, and even invited me to have a book signing there.

The fellow author also told me of another place that sells local author books, which I will check out in the near future.

I'm not much of a salesperson, I don't have a lot of physical stamina, and I can't afford a publicist. So most of my books sell by word of mouth.

And if you have read and like my books, that would be your mouth.

If you are a member of a book club that has speakers from time to time, I'd love to be a guest. If there's one thing I can do besides write, it's talk.

Even if I never sell another book, I will keep on writing.

Because, you know, I have to.