Woe is Me

I've hardly blogged the past several days, because it is hard to think, even about something silly, maybe especially about something silly, when your brain -pardon me - is full of snot.

I've  been sicker than sick and it finally traveled south to my lungs.

So now I'm on an antibiotic, an inhaler (hate, hate, hate, loathe), a decongestant and some other stuff.

I can tell the illness is getting better, though I have no energy and am enjoying the side effects from the antibiotics.

Husband started getting sick Saturday, so he went to the doctor this morning and they put him on the same antibiotic I am on.

Our church probably thinks we've become one of those families that show up every great once in a while to warm a pew.

I could go on, but you get the drift.

And if you are like anyone else I've spoken to lately, you don't feel so good yourself.

Later.

Second Round

I was so happy when I was over my sinus infection enough to go to the concert.

I noticed that my throat was a little sore as we were headed back to the car after the concert.

I have been smacked up the side of the head for the last few days with some I-don't-know-what, and Daughter has it, too. I won't go into details about the nasty symptoms, but it's respiratory and in the head, so you get the general drift.

All I've done is cough, sneeze, snort saline and blow. And sleep. Not at night. At night I'm up every dang hour on the hour. But during the day I can't stay upright.

Friend brought me a "home remedy" for the congestion and cough.

I now know why the Indians called it "fire water".

One teaspoon did me in. I just thought I was a staunch teetotaler. Whoo-wee!Never again. Apple Brandy, honey, and lemon juice. It smelled like fingernail polish remover. I should have known if it smelled like that I should take five paces back. But I am sick!! My judgement is off.

Husband laughed.

And another thing about this illness. I think I can get up and do something, and I start with good intentions. I really do.

But I can't seem to finish anythi

What a Night!

Wow.

Husband, Daughter and I went to a concert last night.

Boy howdy.

Joy: An Irish Christmas was at the Cobb Energy Centre last night and they took the word energy very seriously.

Their 'back up choir' was none other than the Jubal Choir. And if you've ever heard the Sons of Jubal or the Jubalheirs, you know ain't nobody ever had a back up choir like that. Their string orchestra was with them, consisting of violins and and bass.

For a short time, there was a children's choir up there, too.

I was saturated with the music.

Mandolin, Uilleann Pipes (the Irish Bagpipe), Irish Whistles, Bodhran (the Irish spring drum), Harmonica, Guitar, Lute, Piano, Violin (mostly played as a fiddle, if you know what I mean), Percussion, Celtic Harp, Bass, electric and upright, Banjo and last but not least, the slap stick.

There were Irish jigs. We sat, we stood, we sang with them, we listened to them. We laughed at some silliness and became tearful at the awesome reason Christmas exists.

Even if you haven't heard of Keith an Kristyn Getty, you've probably heard the new hymn, "In Christ Alone". Mr. Getty is a man who has decided we need more than the contemporary pop and worship songs, and felt led to go back to the hymn type songs most of us were raised on.

We heard Christmas music that was new to me, straight from Ireland. And many of the old favorites we know by heart.

There was passion, humor, story telling at it's best and worship through music like I'd never heard before.

We loved hearing the Irish brogues, and I know if I hung out with them much, I'd be havin' a wee brogue meself.

And did I mention the surprise guest who came and chatted with us, sang with us and played a mighty fine mandolin,himself?

Some guy who's won fourteen Grammies. Name of Ricky Skaggs.

What a night!

What music!

What a Savior!

Thinking Back...

I have a blouse that is at least thirty-one years old.

I still wear clothes that are older than Daughter.

So, sue me. As long as they don't have holes in them, and I still like them; I don't really care if they are "out of style". If I'm going to spend money, I want to spend it on house stuff, if it's for me.

Anyway, I actually wore this blouse the other Sunday under a Christmas vest. The blouse is made from the green and red plaid cloth that everyone is familiar with. It has a high collar and a bit of ruffle down the placket in front.

The reason I smile every time I see this blouse is because of this little story:

Husband and I had been friends for a while. After my horrific divorce, he called me a few weeks later to say he was sorry. Someone from our work had called him to tell him about it. (He was living in a different town). We talked a couple of times, even went to the mall and got muffins.

But our first "real" date was to the movies.

I wore that blouse because it was close to the Christmas season. I put on a pair of my good jeans and waited for him to arrive.

He knocked on the door, I threw it open, and there he stood.

In a button down shirt, made from exactly the same green and red plaid cloth my blouse was. He had on his good jeans, too.

We stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

Deciding what the heck, we went dressed just alike, calling ourselves the Bobbsey Twins. (If you don't know who they are, you are too young to be able to read).

Of course, his brother-in-law and nephew were there. I'd never met any of his family. I wonder what they thought about our attire...

His shirt is long gone. I think he outgrew it.

But you know what?

I think I'll wear that blouse every Christmas season until I can no longer fit in it, or it just plain wears out.

Memories are a good thing, no?

What?

Sick.

Obedience training for the dog (or is it for us?)

Hard proof copy of new novel coming in and finding problems...not knowing if it will get here before Christmas.

Taking Mother to the doctor.

Daughter getting whatever it is I have. (Mongolian Strangle, I think).

Cats being terrified of dog.

House in uproar.

Wrapping presents.

Having a Christmas Party  Sunday night at the house.

Not having any cards mailed.

Insurance Co. giving us a hard time because they made a mistake.

Company I've done business with for years giving us trouble over a faulty item.

Film at eleven.

Alone

I usually don't blog on Sunday.

I am never alone on Sunday, but today I am, so there you are. I thought I'd blog.

Husband and Daughter are at church. I am missing Husband's - what I'm sure will be stellar - performance in the Christmas play. He is a "middle-aged farmer" and if that ain't stretching the truth, I don't know what is.

I started feeling sick night before last, but I thought I was having an allergic reaction to the dust on the tree we had brought up to decorate. I'm allergic  to household dust, which usually just comes in handy for an excuse not to be able to dust.  If it isn't stirred up, it doesn't bother me.

But then, as the day drew longer yesterday, I got sicker and sicker. Ran a fever last night.

I think I have a raging sinus infection.

Yay, me.

No problem that we have a Sunday School Christmas party right here at the house this afternoon.

Thus far, I have missed the Thanksgiving service at church, which included a meal and communion. I have missed several church services and Bible studies lately. I  missed a play we had tickets for. I missed the WMU Christmas dinner.

There are probably other things to add to the list, but I stopped keeping track.

At this afternoon's party, I shall just be quiet and good and smile a lot.

This, too, shall pass and I'll be well again.

But for now, I'm alone.

On Sunday morning.

I have to believe it's getting better, a little better all the time....

Maybe things are calming down a little.

The puppy seems to be finally catching on. She's had a lot to figure out. Riding in a car the first time. Coming into a house the first time (and not wanting to go out for fear she was staying out). Seeing a cat for the first time. Going to the vet for the first time.

Poor baby.

But she now knows when she goes outside it is for potty and fun; she will be coming back in.

Cats are here to stay, and they are very strange animals.

The crate is a place to rest; we will not leave her in it all the time, like a pen.

She knows the commands sit, heel, and no.

Not bad for just a few days.

She's a very smart girl, and if our backs hold out, I believe we just might make it.

I'm Back..

Praise the Lord and pass the taters, Mama's home.

We've had a terribly stressful week, not knowing what was going to happen to my mother; if she was going to have very serious surgery.

More has happened this week than you can shake a stick at, and frankly I have a blur in my brain.

I've tried to do a few things at the house today, and found myself starting and stopping and not getting a whole lot done.

At least we got some laundry done and the plants watered and some vacuuming...maybe we can get this joint cleaned up before the Christmas party we are supposed to have here on Sunday afternoon.

Oh, and did I mention, in the middle of all nights at the hospital, all days at the hospital, worried sick, my back HURTING, that we got a puppy?

I didn't?

Well, pardon me.

She's a full blooded American Bulldog. Half Johnson bloodline, half Scott bloodline, whatever that means. She's eight months old, and cute as a button and wild as a buck.

I ain't had a moments peace since she got here.

I called the obedience school, but they haven't called back. I figured somebody warned them.

Say hello to Bonnie. Be glad I got a picture that's this good. Took about ten.

Good news: My mother is home - weak, but better and on the way to recovery.

Bad news: My family is totally bonkers.

What were we thinking?

She's so stinkin' cute....

Bonnie, I mean. Although my mother can be pretty cute, too.

Mother Said There'd Be Days Like This

You may or may not have noticed that I have not blogged in several days.

Life can be so complicated sometimes, that blogging and other enjoyable things come to a halt.

Mother, as we speak, is in the hospital, and I, along with most of my other family, have been right there with her.

She has an intestinal blockage, which ain't good news no matter how you look at it.

We'll know either tonight or in the morning if surgery is imminent, and odds are, according to the doctor, surgery will be necessary since her body has not been able to pass it on its own.

Brother of Many Surgeries and His Wife both have the flu, and have anxiously called often for progress or lack thereof because they can't be present.

I know from experience, that is harder than long waits at the hospital.

Prayers appreciated for us all.

It's December .... Already

So today is the first day of the last month of 2014.

You may be asking: how the heck did that happen? How did we even get to 2014 in the first place?

I dunno.

My baby brothers turned fifty years old today. I don't know how that's setting with them, but it's setting pretty old to me.

Christmas will be here in a flash, and I can barely move. If I don't stay over this mess with my sacroiliac, I don't know what I'm gonna do. I think I'm better and WHAM it's like I've been hit with a baseball bat. Twice.

Daughter is having finals this week, so you can figure the mess she's in.

Husband is going to see a man about a dog tomorrow.

No, really.

I don't know if we will get it. We all had high hopes we'd go as a family to look at the pup, but with my back and some commitments I have, I know I can't do it all. And Daughter, as I have said, is having finals this week.

What the situation is, is this: someone somehow has to get unbusy, unpained enough to put up the dang Christmas decorations.

Any volunteers?

Only one string attached:

You got to clean the house first. I ain't having no decorations put up with nasty underneath.

Gimme a call if you're interested.

Food, Glorious Food

Thursday was a wonderful day, and the food was exceptionally good.

I ate a lot. A little too much. (shut up)

Yesterday was leftovers heaven. Made for a good dinner.

Today...we cooked at dinner, with no leftovers from the day before.

But supper has been a different story.

Daughter is saving one piece of dressing and her aunt's special corn for her supper when she gets out of the tub.

There's enough turkey for one more sammich.

A few green peas, a spoonful of cranberry sauce, that's about it.

There was a little bit of giblet gravy left, which I put on top of the little bit of mashed potatoes left and that was my supper. It's the best giblet gravy I've ever had, and I have told my sister-in-law that. She  made it, she gets the credit.

In the morning there will be little or no signs of the Thanksgiving feast we had, which is probably true for most homes. Surely on day four it's history for almost everyone.

Most of us are ready to move on to roast beef, hot dogs or a nice juicy steak by Sunday.

Let's just hope all the pastors out there recognize who's who in the congregation as they waddle in tomorrow.

A few pounds can change a person's looks, you know.

Art Made Perfect

We have a framed print hanging on the first landing in our foyer. It's one I have always liked from the moment I saw it. When I saw it; I knew I had to have it.

It is slim and long, just right for the space.

The name of the painting is "Posting a Letter" and was painted by Albert Ludovici, 1850-1932.

Beautiful, isn't it?

Imagine how impressed I was day before yesterday when the painting was suddenly improved.

Husband came in the kitchen with a more than usual perplexed look on his face. "Have you ever noticed - " he started. "Never mind. It's a visual. Come with me."

He took me to stand at the stairs and look up at the painting. Imagine my surprise when I saw a foggy, white, harvest moon shimmering up in the middle of the painting's sky.

It was beautiful.

Husband said, "I thought to myself 'how could I have never noticed that beautiful moon in the painting before?' ." (We've had it over 25 years). "It's so perfect."

Then he had gone to stand in front of the painting to get a better look, and the moon disappeared.

It was light from the sun, somehow casting a perfect moon through one of our windows.

We don't think it had ever done that before.

And let me tell you, the harvest moon had all the darks and  lights you can see on the moon when it is large and bright.

We stood there and watched it move slowly across the painted sky.

Just like a real moon.

And now, of course, when I look at "Posting a Letter", something seems to be missing from it. That dreamy, hazy, milky harvest moon made the painting perfect.

Life imitating art.

Or was it the other way 'round?

Thank Ye Lord

O Lord, bless the blood and the flesh
Of this the creature you gave me.
Created by Your Hand as You created man,
Life given for life.
That me and mine may eat with thanks for the gift.
That me and mine may give thanks for
Your own sacrifice of blood and flesh,
Life given for life.





Old Scottish Prayer

A First

Warning: Some dialogue may appear to be whining.

There has never been a Thanksgiving that I haven't been able to hoist the old big girl step-ins and go to work helping prepare the feast to come.

Except this one.

I am better - say even 60% better. But I know if I go to help Mother and Daughter, I will plummet quickly and begin the old writhing and grunting and moaning I have enjoyed so these past four days.

Do I feel guilty? Oh, yes. Yes, I do.

Mother is eighty-five years old. Daughter is used to being told what to do, certainly by me. But she is prone to wander, Lord, I feel it.
Texting, facebooking, sneaking a youtube in on occasion. And the television will be on, because Mother doesn't know how to run a household without it chattering in the corner.

I know Daughter is grown. Uh-huh. And I know Mother tends to move you out of the way and take over when it comes to the kitchen stuff. Boy howdy, does she.

But I also know Mother ain't able to shoulder it, no matter how bossy she can become. And I'm not sure Daughter can stand up to her Nanny.

I could not have stood up to either of my grandmothers. I would  have been left in the dust, dazed and amazed, trampled by walkers in the race to get her done.

But maybe Daughter is made of stronger stuff.

Lord, let's hope so.
 

Short Story

The short story:

I am stove up, bad.

Yesterday, for the first time in my life, even just before emergency back surgery to keep from being paralyzed (cause who would want that?), I couldn't climb the stairs.

It still hurts today, but not as bad - I stayed zonked on muscle relaxants yesterday, and a little today.

I am about to climb the stairs - carefully! - get ready for bed, and take a muscle relaxant.

We all better hope I am fit as a fiddle by Wednesday, because that is make a wash tub full of dressing under the eagle eye of my mother day, as well as a bunch of other doings to prepare for the big Thursday.

Later, dude.

Habits

During this past summer, I got into a habit.

Our raised gardens are to the side of the garage, and I got in the habit of meandering over to them every day on my way to the studio, which is the back part of the garage.

I'd look to see what was growing, what was budding, blooming or producing fruit. And if that fruit (or vegetable) was getting big enough that we could soon pick and eat.

It was a pleasant stop, to stand in the breeze and contemplate what we might have for supper in the not too distant future.

There is something very satisfying about a garden - knowing where something comes from, eating what you grew with your own hands. Well, Husband's own hands, anyway.

Usually, even if I'd only been out in the studio a few minutes, I'd find myself in front of the garden again before traveling back across to the house.

It's November. I still find myself veering over toward the garden, although it's all brown earth now.

But in my mind's eye, I can see the green stalks shooting up, the red tomatoes peeking forth, the big yellow blossoms of squash quivering in a summer breeze.

It won't be long - a blink of an eye, a snow flake or two - and some of us will be looking summer square in the eye again.

And, well, some of us won't.

Busy, Busy

Besides taking two of the cats to the vet today, I have been reading the manuscript copy in book form (on the computer) to make sure it's okay.

It's not okay.

There were a few mistakes a friend caught, at the last minute.

I realized, in looking at the name of chapters, I had goofed, and spent last night working (already in bed) as to how I was going to fix it without a huge do over.

I figured it out.

But my brain is tired.

My body is tired.

I think I'll go to bed early. (If I go to bed much earlier than usual, I might as well not get up.)

I still ain't called my mother today, so I better do that first.

Later, gater.

The Rest of the Story

Now, what was I saying?

Oh, yes.  Food cravings. We all have them, it is not exclusively for pregnant women.

So, what do you do about them? I read where if you ignore the craving, it goes away.

Eat a celery stick if you are craving a Snickers bar. I'm sure it works. I like celery better than Snickers, anyway.

Don't you?

I think willpower plays a lot into this. You either ignore cravings or you give in to them.

Yes sir, all it takes is willpower.

And somebody has apparently taken mine.

Cravings

Do you ever crave certain foods?

Daughter was craving an egg and cheese biscuit for days, but was a: too lazy to make it herself and b: never able to get to town to actually purchase the biscuit at a fast food place before they stopped serving breakfast.

I have been craving a blackberry cobbler for days now. Yes, I have the makings. Yes, I know how. Yes, they are good. Yes, they are - uh -

This blog  has been interrupted for an emergency exit from the page.

More information at a later date will be revealed.

Thank you for your patience.

Quirky

If you want to know the meaning of the word quirky, watch a cat.

We have four, as you know. They are each very different from one another, but each very, very strange.

Lilly, our elder, is almost fourteen and has some chronic health issues. We call her "Darth Vadar" because of the way she sounds. She does some typical Maine Coon things, like scooping up food and water into her paw and using it like a spoon. She also gets carried away sometimes and begins splashing in the water until the floor and her face and chest are drenched.

She also loves potatoes to the point if I am serving mashed potatoes or potato salad in particular, she will circle the table, bellowing at the top of her considerable lungs until she is fed.

Maine Coons are also famous for their chirps and trills instead of meows, and we also call her a Wookie because of the sounds she makes.

And she snores like a bumble bee buzzes.

Next is Frost. Frost is exactly twice the weight he should be. When we rescued him from the shelter he was svelte. He'd also not been fed enough for a while, so when we brought him home he clearly had an eating disorder (I ain't kidding). He would be in a deep sleep, suddenly jump up and run to his food dish in a panic, just to make sure there was food available.  And he took advantage of it, so like he's a pig like cat. The vet says she has one of those, too, and there isn't much you can do when you have multiple cats - especially if  you still have growing cats, as we do.

Frost also worships Husband. If Husband goes out the door at night (when he walked Molly before bedtime), Frost would hop up on the sewing machine, part the blinds with his paw, and cry pitifully until Husband came back in. He follows him around a lot, interested in anything Husband might be doing.

He likes to play "slaps" with Daughter - he lies on his side, she puts her hand out, and tries to withdraw it before he can slap at it with his paws. If they play too long he wins regardless because he bites her.

He nurses and kneads fuzzy blankets, but is embarassed if he gets caught.

At the vet, he is a holy terror. They tell me when Frost has a vet appointment, the office goes on "high alert". He growls, he spits, he backs up, he threatens, he bites, he fights. When he had a kidney infection they wanted a urine sample. So they put him in the kennel for the day. They were about to close, so they called and said he refused to urinate, we might as well come get him.

When we arrived, the vet tech got him out of the kennel to put him back in his carrier, and he promptly peed all over her. Let's just say there ain't no love lost between the staff and our cat.

Then we have Mimi. Or rather, Daughter has Mimi. She is a torti colored mix, the kind of cat who looks long haired but doesn't have tangles and such. She is dumb as a box of rocks.

She is also clumsy, which doesn't become a cat - but she starts to jump up on stuff and misses, she lies on the edge of the bed, rolling around and thump, there she goes off into the floor. She  never learns. She has a high pitched squeak that turns into a croak every fall when her allergies act up.

She's also very skittish. At the least little noise or movement, she jumps a mile.

Lastly, is my boy, Eli. When we brought Eli home he was a two month old, two pound kitten. The first night he crawled into bed with me, snuggled up against my neck and went to sleep. He still does that, four years later, except the only thing that fits up against my neck is his head. He wakes me up purring sometimes. I will wake up on my side, and he'll be lying the whole length of my torso, and then some. I don't know how long he is because he's afraid of the tape measure (go figure). But he is weighing in at almost twenty pounds, and still growing for a  year or so. Lord, help us.

He is the alpha cat (and has been since he walked in). At two pounds, he sauntered up to the food dish, made a teeny tiny noise, and the adult cats ran away. I kid  you not.

He still has a teeny tiny voice, which is comical, but the other cats don't see anything funny about it. They growl, hiss and run when he "talks" to them. It sounds sweet, but apparently is anything but.

I call him my "white shadow" because he thinks he has to be wherever I am. He's even gotten in the shower with me a few times. He sits toward the back of the tub and blinks while he gets misted.

 He comes when I whistle, he loves to play catch and chase. Maybe he thinks he's a small dog.

So, there you have it. This is the circus we live in.

Pray for us.

Poet's Corner

Have you noticed how every male over age twelve is suddenly growing a beard? I feel like Duck Dynasty has taken over the dang world. 

Unfortunately, I ain't one for beards. Never have been. So I go around thinking, "He would be so much better looking if he'd just shave."

This turned into a discussion with family a few minutes ago, and I saw fit to write a poem.

So, hang on and bear with me: it's short.

Guys can be weird
When it comes to a beard.
Sometimes it's a waste
To hide a handsome face.
But, on the other hand,
Depending on where you stand,
Some men - like Santa Claus,
When shaven, would give one pause.
But I still say for most fellas,
Whether it's black, brown, red or yella,
If you'd shave it off you'd look much sweeter.
So the gal of your dreams, when you meet her,
Won't have to wonder and ponder and guess,
If your face is handsome or one ugly mess!

That is all. Resume your lives.

Baby It's Cold Outside

You may have noticed a change in temperature. It's c-c-c-cold outside. The wind is blowing like it's mad about something and it was sleeting earlier at my house.

Unless you have been under a rock, I'm sure you've heard all the dire predictions for this coming winter.

For instance: colder temperatures and wetter weather (snow, ice) than we've seen in decades. No balmy interludes as we are accustomed to.

I read in two different articles we could expect temperatures as low as thirty degrees less than what we usually have.

So, if our average temperature is 45 degrees, we should expect 15 degrees?

Do you have your long johns, boots, flannel, wool, gloves, scarves, hats and corduroys ready?

And that's just a trip to the porch to fetch wood for the fire.

BRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!

Saying Thanks

Thank you - to all of you who have served our country.

Southern Writers and Their Pretend Counterparts

I have just finished a book by an allegedly southern author.

She is not.

She may say she lives in the south, and maybe she does. But I bet she hasn't lived here more than a few years, and that as a middle age adult.

She 'thinks' she's got us down pat, and truly believes she can write a southern story.

She has people who will publish her, praise her, and even hang out with her. Those who hang out with her perhaps have hopes that the people who publish her and praise her will publish and praise them. Heck if I know.

What I do know is something she doesn't: Southern can't be faked.

I don't imagine I could move to Boston and live for a few years, then write a book and sound like I was born and bred there.

I was insulted, amused, embarrassed and ashamed while reading this book, depending on what page I was on.

Since when do Southern people end sentences by saying 'yous'. Huh?

And how do we can fresh-picked-out of the garden-out back-tomatoes in December? (This book is supposed to take place somewhere in the mountains of north Georgia.)

And how are we supposed to be out working in the garden in January? Sitting on the front porch? In the heat, I might add.

If southerners have any education at all, they surely don't write and spell like they sound...

Unless, of course, you are a character in a person's book who thinks they do.

Lord help us all.

What if folks who do not know any better buy books written by people like her and take it home and believe that is who we are?

The belief of who we are, how we act, how we think, how smart we are, etc. is already skewed enough.

As she proves.

Imposter!

May I Take Your Order, Please?

There is a certain fast food restaurant in town that has a little quirk.

You almost never get what you order when you order through the drive-thru.

Apparently, they got enough complaints to put up a sign that says, "PLEASE CHECK YOUR ORDER BEFORE DRIVING AWAY!"

Okay, well, fine. But sometimes there are people waiting behind you and you just count and make sure there are the same number of things in there that you ordered. Because  once I got home with no food for me-but they got everyone else's correct.

For instance, say you order a cheeseburger, a chili dog, two orders of fries and an ice cream.

You get home and you have a chicken sandwich, a cheese sandwich, onion rings and the ice cream if you happened to have notice they didn't give it to you before you drove off.

The other day I ordered food and a chocolate milkshake and a vanilla milkshake.  The woman gave me the bag of food, which Daughter checked while we waited on the shakes. The bagged stuff was correct. Then the lady hung out the window, "Here ya go! One chocolate and one strawberry milkshake!"

"Uh, I ordered vanilla, not strawberry."

I swan, she looked me right in the eye, then rolled her eyes and snatched the strawberry shake back. I finally got my vanilla.

One time we got an extra order of fries.

The other morning Mother and I had to have blood work done early, and of course by the time it was over we were starving. We pulled into the drive-thru and I ordered two egg and cheese biscuits.

When we got to her house we had two egg and ham biscuits.

So, next time I'm at the drive-thru, when they say 'May I take your order, please?' I'm gonna say, "Nah. Surprise me. You always do anyway."

It's called going with the flow.

Spoons

If you gave me lots of money and turned me loose in a department store, I wouldn't go to the shoe department, the clothing department, or the sports department.

I would head straight to the home decor.

I am a sucker for quilts, china, towels, pillows, rugs, etc.

When I was a very young adult, I found a flatware pattern that I fell in love with. I saved up my money and when Service Merchandise Mart (remember them?) had a special sell, I purchased a serving for four.

I wanted more, because I wanted to have enough matching stuff to have company over.

My grandparents got wind of this and purchased me a serving of six for Christmas.

They look the same, but the set they purchased is much heavier. You can lift a fork from each piece, one in your left hand and one in your right hand, and tell a good bit of difference.

But if you look in my spoon drawer, it doesn't look like I care if it matches or not.

Because there you will find a dozen different patterns of spoons, and I love each and every one of them.

When Husband's father was still alive, he got a kick out of going to restaurants that were closing to pilfer through their close out sale. He loved junk stores, too. And he always bought the spoons.

He gave us a bunch of them once, and we have enjoyed them ever since.

Every time I use one, wash one, or dry one, I think fondly of him.

I miss him still.

Remember Well

Do you remember the first time you voted?

I remember it well.

I turned eighteen in 1972, which was the first year a person could vote unless they were twenty-one.

I remember being taught about that privilege in American Government class, then loaded up in a school bus and taken to the court house to register to vote.

I felt a great deal of awe and pride that I was given this responsibility so young. I read the newspaper and talked to my daddy about who was running, what they stood for, what I should consider.

Then, I voted.

I have voted consistently since that year.

I remember the last time I voted, too.

I sure hope you remember it; I hope it's in your short term memory bank.

Confessions of a Slob

I admit it; I'm a slob.

Before I retired, no one knew I was a slob. Husband barely knew it. He thought I just dressed that way on house cleaning Saturdays or really bad sick baby days.

But in my heart, I was always dressed like that.

After I retired, I stopped wearing make-up to the grocery store (gasp).

Then I fell, and my whole appearance went to pot.

At first it was because I was in so much agony.

Then it was because I had surgery.

Then it was because I was recuperating from surgery.

Then, I like, you know, never recuperated from pajamas.

Today I am dressed thusly: granny drawers (I know, I know, T.M.I.), sweat pants that are too short (they were a good brand, but drew up length wise. If they'd drawn up like any self-respecting sweat pants in a sideways fashion, I could have given them to Daughter), a man's undershirt, a t-shirt and a sweat shirt. No mention of a certain undergarmet to go under the shirts, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Plus socks and house shoes that I've taken to wearing everywhere, unless it rains.

I will say in my defense that the shoes look like  soft leather moccasins. Sort of.

When I do go to town, or church on Wednesday nights, I wear appropriate clothing, except for the shoes, of course.

I wear make-up and dress clothes on Sunday morning.

I'll wear them if anyone wants to give me an award, have a dinner in my honor, or any other such wonderful thing.

But you really have to mean it.

Snow Day

Well, the only thing on anybody's mind today (here) is the snow. In the South, it was a peculiar sight, as the leaves are in their full glory.

At my house, they got rained on, frozen, and snowed on. It was quite pretty this morning, All dazzling color topped in pristine white. The wind has blown off the snow and they are making a big noise with their frozen selves, whipping around furiously.

It's very cold, the wind chill is supposed to make it feel like it is in the low teens.

So, we have the first fire of the season, and of course, I am loving it.

I admit, two of the things that make me feel like a child are snow and fire in a fireplace.

The other is seeing Santa.

I'm making vegetable soup and cornbread for dinner this afternoon. And of course, sweet iced tea.

This could turn out to be a perfect day.

After all, I get to sleep an extra hour tonight before getting up for church, too.

Eeny Meeny Chili Beanie, Happy Happy Halloweeny

Thinking back on my own childhood Halloween trick or treat excursions, I am amazed that I don't remember one single costume I wore.

It seems they were always purchased at the dime store, and had scratchy outfits to match the sweaty, plastic masks.

Generally, I had to wear a coat over the mess, anyway.

In early years, I was given a big brown paper sack to fill up. It never entered my mind to decorate it up.

Later, either as my parents became more prosperous or somebody had a great idea, I had a plastic pumpkin or bright orange bucket to hold out.

But I do remember many of Daughter's costumes: Mini Mouse, a cat, a clown, a Pink Power Ranger. And then came the years of a princess, a princess and of course, another princess. This year she was Mario from the video game.

I've seen a snowy Halloween or two, and tonight they are saying we are going to have another one. Up to an inch or so.

We'll see.

If so, I can't wait to use the fireplace for the first time this season.

Anyway, take a moment to think back on the magical, exciting times you might have had. A time when it was an innocent thing to trick or treat and not fraught with evil or demons or fear of razor blades in your Red Delicious.

Keep warm,  ya'll.

When Disappointment Knocks

When someone promises you something, and they don't follow through, it hurts. There is also anger, disappointment and other emotions that may hit you, willy nilly, for days, weeks, months or even years.

You know the kind I'm talking about. Someone you believe in, someone you trust, fails you. They make a promise, then they break it. 

And that breaks your heart.

Oh, Amazon.com, how far you have fallen in my eyes.

They promised, dang it, that my bicycle horn would be here yesterday. Just in time for the costume I was wearing last night.

Has it even come yet, a day later, I ask you? 

Why, no. No it hasn't.

But they say a picture is worth a thousand words:

                     A Sad Harpo Marx who has no bicycle horn.

But life goes on. 

I reckon.

Exasperating Expiration Dates

Expiration dates are a big deal around this house.

Daughter is nearly a freak about the whole thing, taking the dates as the absolute gospel. I tell her when she wants to start buying all that food she thinks should be thrown out, she can throw it out. I remind her I ain't poisoned her yet, and don't intend to, unless she keeps up the blather about the expiration dates.

Husband, who eats like a pig at slop, is finicky about some stuff. I just ignore him. If he doesn't want to eat it, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, he won't starve.

I am extremely careful about certain foods, like meat. I make sure it looks good, smells good, etc. before I cook it. I make sure it is stored well, and if it gets lost in the freezer for too long, out it goes.

When milk reaches its 'best buy by' date, I start the old sniff and sip before gulping. Let me point out that except for Dog Days, milk is usually good several days after that date. After all, as I have pointed out to Daughter ad nauseam, it says best sell by, not best drink by.

I've tried to explain that some things may lose their fizz or their punch. They aren't poison, just flat. And if you must drink it, it's okay, but if you have something else, pour that flat drink down the drain.

Same goes for stale cookies and crackers. They ain't gonna kill you, but they taste blah.

So, I was reading an article about how to keep food for as long as possible. What not to freeze or refrigerate, what to store in plastic, what not to, etc.

And they agreed that the expiration dates for many things aren't when it goes bad.

Some things last months after the date, some years.

Apparently canned and dried beans are with us, lo, even until the end of the earth.

It warns about discoloration in certain oils may mean it's rancid, and who needs that when frying chicken?

But the most interesting thing is honey. Now, I already knew that honey is the 'perfect food' and that it never ruins.

I did not know that they had found pots of honey when they excavated some Egyptian tombs, and it was well preserved and ready to put on a good old Egyptian biscuit.

It seems it never goes bad because of an enzyme in the honey bee's tummy that kills bacteria, apparently forever.

Can you imagine having a party and putting that Egyptian pot of honey on the table and encouraging your guests to eat it?

I'm with Daughter on this one.

Valuables

Many of us, and, being where we live, maybe even most of us, have things that belonged to somebody in our family's past.

I have a rose bush in my yard that was in my great-great-grandmother's yard (a woman I never knew) and possibly even in her mother's yard.

I have quilts, dishes, knick knacks, my great-grandmother's hat, (Daughter is wearing it on the front cover of my book, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree") and even a piece or two of furniture from my grandparents.

But one of the things I value the most is this:

This is a jar of my Papa's marbles. He was my great-grandfather. When he was a little boy, back in the 1800's, the children would roll out clay dirt into little balls, and then bake them in the wood cook stove.

He knew I loved marbles. I collected as many as I could, always purchasing the five cent bag at the store when I could afford it.

One day, he just happened to remember he still had some of his old marbles, and he gave them to me.

They sit in honor in my living room, a testament to childhood.

My Papa's, and mine.

Makin' a List

Plants brought in from porches: Check

Firewood for fireplace: Check

Pilot light lit on gas logs in fireplace in sun room: Check

Flannel sheets, Granny's crocheted spread and quilt on bed: Check

Socks, leggings, wool pants, undershirts, sweatpants, sweatshirts, sweaters, long skirts ready to wear: Check

Pantry full of canned goods: Check

Antique generator still cranking: Check

Good books, soft pillows and lamp light: Check

Willing Hubby to cuddle: Check

Brang it on!

Today's the Day

Today is the day I meet with my publisher to hopefully do the grand finale before sending my new book, "The Year of Nine: Where the Rain Begins" to print.

Who knows?

I've tried to just tell myself I have done my job. The words are finished.

I know we have to work on the cover today, and maybe we can say, "Yes!" and I can turn it loose.

It's not as nerve wracking as it was with my first book. I am more at ease. But it is still an adventure, and one I look forward to.

I hope ya'll will love it, or at least like it a little bit.

But if you don't, be gentle.

That's my heart you're messin with.

All In A Day's Work

Yesterday afternoon I went to a book signing. I had talked to the lady over the phone and had her book, so I was anxious to get her to sign it. She had also mentioned she wanted my books.

She signed hers, I gave her a copy of "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" and she purchased a copy of "Signs from God".

We promised that we would give each other a copy of our new books coming out, and I hurried away to speak at night school at a life skills course.

A friend had asked me to do this, given my old mental health experience, and as I hadn't done anything like that in a long time, (say 13 years or so) I agreed.

The book signing was like having on my new dress. Exciting and shiny.

Talking and listening in a group setting to several young ladies was like slipping into warm, comfortable pajamas. All the skills and intuitive stuff came right back, as though I'd last done a group the day before.

I enjoyed both events, felt fulfilled by both of them.

Ain't it strange how we are who we are for however long we are here on this old earth?

Wouldn't mind doing either one again.

But I will say this: the group wrung me out, as though I'd worked twelve hours instead of an hour and a half. And of course, I paid for it with a good deal of pain from sitting that long.

It felt good, though, to know I had done some good.

The first task was for me. The second for them.

A good day, I'd say.

ARRGHHHHH!!!!

Today was one of those days where everywhere you go, everyone you see is all messed up.

Daughter was going for a flu shot. We got there just as they opened back up from lunch, and already three people were ahead of us. (Did they just sit in the waiting room through lunch, or what?) We knew we didn't have time to wait, because Daughter had a doctor's appointment across town (sorta). We got there with five minutes to spare and waited for 35 minutes in the waiting room. This, I don't like.

They called her back and she put on paper clothes and sat there, freezing for 35 minutes. This, I like even less.

The doctor had forgotten why Daughter was there and had to run back and forth to get what she needed.

By the time we got outta there, we were near starvation. It was too late to get the flu shot.

After we ate, it was too late to do the other errand.

It took forever at the restaurant, the guy who waited on us apologized (because they weren't that busy) and said something was going on back in the kitchen.

Daughter thought she saw one of the guys who works at the funeral home come out of the kitchen, but she was mistaken.

I still felt kind of funny about my steak.

So I came home an aggravated, disgusted, hurting and tired woman.

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

Get it together, will you people?

Bringin In the Sheaves

There are many things I love about the fall. I love the changing colors, the cooler temperatures, the way the light changes and how it looks early in the morning and early evening.

What I don't love is bringing in plants off the porches.

Every year I talk myself into believing that I don't have as many as the year before and it will be a piece of cake to get them in.

Lord, help.

It is, of course, Husband's fault. He started with a bromeliad or two, and now we have fifteen or so. When he purchased them, he was told they were verrry valuable, because when the mother plant produced a baby, she died.

HA.

Our mothers have two or three babies and seldom kick the bucket.

It is my suspicion that bromeliad heaven is pretty empty because they are still here, producing madly.

Since they are so verrrry valuable, Daughter will be rich in her inheritance. By the time we die, she should have so many it will be impossible to walk through the house.

Most of the plants I purchased this year were caladiums, which I never bring inside, nor do I save the tubers for next year. They begin to droop in October and I toss 'em.

I purchased one fern.

We have moved plants for two days! The sun room looks like a jungle, which is supposed to be good for you, isn't it? I hope we didn't bring in too many spiders, but you never know. We've also brought in lizards.

Anyway, I thought I'd just drop by and whine a little. I ain't able to do anything else.

Not today, anyway.

Fond Memories

Looking back over memory making as a family, I can think of a lot of things:
We have taken Daughter to the zoo, the circus, the aquarium, the fair, the ocean, a virgin forest. We've eaten at the Dixie Stampede, she's  been on a cruise ship, a motor boat and a paddle boat. We've eaten at great restaurants, seen plays and gone to concerts. She's been on a hay ride, gathered eggs, petted sheep, ridden horses and sat on an elephant. We've been inside butterfly houses, old mansions, beautiful churches and wide open spaces.

But one of  my fondest memories comes from a few days without electricity after an ice storm.

It was getting dark, and the electricity still was off, so we dragged Daughter's double mattress down the stairs and put it in the floor, up against the couch in front of the fireplace. 

As the three of us lay there, we talked. We'd left one lantern on, and it made a circle of light upon the ceiling. 

Somebody did a dog shadow puppet within the circle of light, and the next thing you know, a show began.

Now, I am a strict amateur. I can do close to nothing when it comes to shadow puppets. Daughter was surprisingly adept.

Ah, but Husband stole the show, hands down. (No pun intended). As you know, he is an artist. He sketches and paints and given a lump of clay can make a bulldog's scowling face or an ancient oil lamp from Roman times.

Talk about being able to work with your hands: bears, giraffes, elephants, dogs, butterflies, birds, trees, a peacock. 

We probably spent an hour in this endeavor.

Then we snuggled under our many quilts, said a quiet good-night and slept well.

Yep, that is one of my fondest memories.

What's one of yours?

A Modern Fairy Tale

The rains came.

The earth was as though dusk would not end.

Verily, the people of the valley did complain. They protested for their new idols – those they call cell phone and internet – ceased to bring forth.

Thus the people whined with great lamentation.

Harkin to a few who saith, “I shall put a log upon the fire; for it is damp in my dwelling place. Where is my lamp and Grandmother’s quilt?”

Hence, they proceeded to climb upon the couch in front of yon fire with Grandmother’s quilt wrapped ‘round them.

Instead of the new idols; they beheld old magic.
 

A Book.

And the land was silent: Some in sulk; some wherever the old magic took them.

I Want It!

Remember things you wanted as a child so badly you could taste them?

Oh, I remember things, especially particular dolls - Patty Play Pal, Betsy Wetsy, and all the cuddly baby like ones I could see.

I played with cowboys and Indians, marbles, ball and all that boy stuff, too.

But the things I remember wanting the most are the things I never got.

One thing I wanted was a Raggedy Ann Doll. Badly.

So, my mother had our neighbor make one for me.

She was small and had green hair.

Really?

I tried to be graceful and thank her, for she was someone I liked a lot. I'm sure I thanked my mother, too. I have no idea what happened to that doll.

I wanted the real one.

I've made up for it, sorta.

On two occasions, I have found two antique-looking rag dolls that I have purchased:

Ain't they cute?

Another thing I wanted soooo badly was a pedal car. One of my friends had one. His was a fire engine. I didn't care what one was, if I only had one.

I never got one, and now, where they heck would I put it if I had it.

But husband drew some for me:

 

I named them, "Road Trip!", "Away We Go!", and "Put the pedal to the Medal!"

 

We were going to make bookmarks and call the series "A Trip Down Memory Lane".

 

But we never had the extra cash laying around, so it's one of those projects that might happen later.

 

The only other thing I can think of I yearned for and never got was a pony.

 

On that one, I ain't holding my breath.