Ode to a Dead Mouse

Oh, you dirty, rotten mouse!
You done gone 'n stunk up my house.

We know exactly where you went,
You crawled way up in the floor air vent.

And now instead of home sweet home,
It smells like a nasty dead mouse tomb

Did you get lost, depressed, or stuck?
You got in, but out, no luck.

We can't reach or even see you,
But we can smell you, man, phew-ee!

I wish  you'd found somewhere else to die,
But in our vent you'll forever lie.


R.I.P.

But I still hate meeses to pieces.

It's a Jungle Out There!

Yesterday morning I was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast. Husband pointed to the edge of the wood. There was a flock of wild turkeys. I counted eight hens and a tom, all very sedately moseying along, pecking and searching for their own breakfast, I suppose.

I really enjoyed watching them. It was a peaceful, calming scene.

A few hours later, I was working (ha) on the computer and Husband says, "That bear is back!"

I jumped up and he ran in the room. We almost collided. I was reaching for  my camera, he was reaching for the air horn.

I glimpsed out the kitchen window, and hollered, "No! Don't blow the horn! it's a mama with babies, I want pictures!"

Daughter was vacuuming in the foyer, and when Husband told her there was a bear, she yelled, "Where?" brandishing the vacuum cleaner hose around as though she might suck the bear up and pop it into the canister.

Anyway, pictures were taken from the foyer window, but when my stupid flash kept coming on, I ventured outside on the porch.

I was very quiet, and watched mama and her triplets amble along in the  yard, working their way up to the front. The wind was blowing straight down on all of us, which is why I guess she didn't smell me.

The smallest  cub kept falling behind, he seemed to have his head in the clouds. He even sat down on the little rock wall and ate a few wild flowers while his two siblings and  mama came on up the hill.

It wasn't until she came out of the rose garden toward me on the porch that I decided she was waaay too close and I needed to step back in the house.

Did ya'll know bears are really big when seen up close? (I was asked today how much she weighed. I'm not a good judge of weight, but she had to be at least four hundred pounds. The cubs were, from the smallest one, twenty-five to the largest, forty pounds.)

Even though she was "looking" straight at me, she never saw me until I moved. That startled her. She took her chrirren and run.

At the edge of the wood, she turned back, stood up on her back legs, leaned against a tree and raised her head, looking for me, I think.

Then she turned, following her cubs.

Not two hours later, sitting at the table for supper, two does came out of the woods and feasted on wild flowers, exactly where the bears had been.

I'm gonna start charging admission.

If I have to pay to see them, they are gonna have to start paying to see me.

Turn about is fair play.

Husband: Sherlock Holmes, Kung Fu Extraordinaire

Husband goes on all the time about how observant he is, he is "Kung Fu Master" one minute and Sherlock Holmes the next.

As if.

We were conversing a few days ago and he asked me if I'd seen a picture of Nephew with a girl and another couple. I asked, "The girl with the hot pink hair?"

He studied a moment. "I didn't notice her hair."

Naturally, I thought it must be another picture. I mean, who wouldn't notice hot pink hair, Sherlock Holmes notwithstanding.

So I pulled up the picture on facebook. He looked at it. "Oh," sez he, "I guess I wasn't paying attention."

Good Lord!

One thing I don't  have to worry about is getting a new hair style and fretting that Husband won't like it. Heck, he ain't even gonna notice it!

This opens up my world to a whole new realm of possibilities.

How do you think I'd look with a Mohawk? Or dreadlocks? How about platinum blonde? Or jet black?

Wow.

The possibilities are endless.

But even if Husband never noticed, I ask you this:

Is the world ready for me with a half black, half platinum Mohawk in dreadlocks?

 You can tell me.

I can take it.

A Birthday Salute

Today is my mother's eighty-fourth birthday. She was born in 1929, a terrible  year by historical standards for the financial world.

She is an only child and never suffered because of the Great Depression. Her grandparents were farmers and loggers and one grandmother was a mid-wife.

They made do, I reckon.

Her mother had rheumatic fever as a little girl and was told to never have children, because of the damage it had done to her heart. Obviously she ignored that, twice.

She had a miscarriage before she became pregnant with my mother. She was alone in a cafe' that she and my grandfather owned. A drunk man came in and attempted to rape her. Although he was unsuccessful because of my grandmother's fight, she miscarried later on that day.

My grandfather set out to kill the man, but he disappeared into the mountains, never to be seen again.

Anyway, Mother was one cherished little girl.

She was involved in everything in high school. She was on the staff of the annual, she was in the glee club, she was one of "our queens", she was also on the first squad of cheerleaders the high school ever had.

She was married to my father from age twenty-two to age almost fifty-nine when he passed away.

They kept it a secret for several days, both going back home to their parents house.  She got a friend to spend the night with her before she got the  nerve up to tell her parents she had married.

You see, my daddy was a bad boy. A rebel. Not someone her dear old dad would have picked.

Oh, well.

After my father died, realizing my mother was still a fairly young woman, I approached her with the idea that if she ever wanted to date, I wouldn't object.

She looked at me like I was crazy. She said, "I love your daddy and would take him back tomorrow if he could be healthy, but  honey, I am done with men."

And so she was.

Except for, of course, two sons, a grandson, a son-in-law and now that grand great-grandson.

I guess that's enough men in any woman's life.

So here she is at year eighty-four.

Time really has flown, and I know time is shorter -  not just for her
- but for all of us.

That means we are to  live it to the fullest, to be the best we can be and to honor others.

So if your mother or father is still living, don't forget:

Honor thy mother and father so that thy days may be long....

Mama must of done a good job.

"Bearing" It All

Our town seems to be in the middle of a coup.

By black bears.

Two photographs of a mama bear with her sweet toddling quadruplets in tow were in the local paper last week. She was on South Main in the insurance parking lot and marching down the sidewalk in another.

Maybe she was buying school supplies for the little darlings.

This I know: black bears can be dangerous. And if you are a mother to quadruplets, and the daddy has split, you are already in a bad mood.

Townsfolk: watch out.

I was told yesterday by a friend that one night this week her daddy was deep in thought, framing a picture. He heard someone at the door, and absent mindedly opened it.

There was a black bear standing there, on his hind legs.

Selling Avon, maybe?

He hollered and slammed the door. (Her daddy, not the bear)

The bear was after the hummingbird feeder hanging up in the eave next to the door, they think.

My mother's friend told the story about her daughter driving up to her house and a big black bear was sprawled on the porch, lying across the opening of the front door.

She started to  blow the horn, but realized if her husband heard it and opened the door, the only thing between the bear and husband would be air. Instead, she called him on the cell phone to warn him. Then she blew the horn.  But the bear didn't budge, he was resting, after all.

The only thing left: she left.  She visited with her mother until her husband called a few hours later to say the coast was clear.

I'm told visitors who stay in cabins complain they don't get to see a bear, and they want to. They think they are 'cute' and want to take pictures, the closer the better.

You've read previous blogs (well, at least I hope you have) about our bear adventures at my house. I am on constant alert every time I go out the front door, and make plenty of noise while I make my way to the studio.

I figure if the neighbors are home, they worry about my mental state, as I shuffle and whistle and clap my hands, make odd noises, and burst into song from time to time.

But so far, I have arrived at the studio unscathed.

Now, yesterday, I stepped outside of the studio to stretch my legs and saw out of my peripheral vision something moving quickly in the woods. I barely moved my head to see, and it was our fox, trotting busily along, obviously with a destination in mind.

I wasn't afraid. After all, there were several yards of ground between us, he'd run if I startled him, and he only weighs about twelve pounds, I'd say.

That doesn't mean he couldn't hurt me if cornered, but I don't have plans for that.

But if that had been a bear lumbering down the path instead of the fox?

I would have been afraid.

Because my mama didn't raise no fool.

Make sure yours didn't either.

A Real Eye Opener

Yesterday was my more or less yearly eye check up. I say more or less because I wait until I open the last pack of contact lenses before I make the appointment. I don't wear the contacts every day anymore because: a. I am lazy and b. I am lazy.

Schlepping around in glasses at home is far easier than putting contact lenses in my eyes.

Also going on at my house yesterday, was a fellow installing a new light fixture in our bathroom. The guy came at  8:30 a.m. so we all, including him, thought he'd be done well before time for me to get ready to leave for  my appointment.

Only he wasn't.

So I gathered stuff like toothbrush and washcloth and contact lenses (because I wanted them in for the eye testing) and got ready in our downstairs  half bath.

He finished in time for me to dress hurriedly and leave.

At the doctor's he put a whole chemistry lab full of drops in my eyes, including the dilating ones- you know- the ones that make you look like those little aliens with great big eyes.

After an exam and discussion of what to do, I picked out frames for new sun glasses for when I didn't have in my contact (notice I said contact), ordered more 'leftie' contact lenses, gave her my credit card (or was it library card?) I was so blind, I couldn't tell.

Daughter is starving and I fumble around but alas! I have no glasses. I remember they are on the little console in the half bath. Alone and forgotten.

I can't put my contact lens in, either. Too much laboratory stuff in my eye.

So Daughter and I head off to Honey Baked Ham for a sandwich. I am further blinded by sun glasses, which, of course, I must have. Because if I didn't have them on, one look into my eyes and  you'd see the back of my head.

No monkey, they were that dilated.

My vision was so poor I felt nauseated. I could barely see further than my hands in my lap. Beyond that was a very blurred world.

As time passed, this got more and more disturbing to me.

I thought about all the people of the world who don't have eye glasses and who see (or don't see) like I was experiencing,  only every day of their life instead of for a few hours.

It was awful. I have always feared going blind, and my fears are well founded.

So the moral of the story today is: Never, never take  your vision for granted. Take care of your eyes. Get yearly exams and do what the doctor says.

And stay away from sharp objects.

You could put your eye out.

Eatin' Out

For three years, Husband has wanted to take me out to eat to a certain eating establishment. He knows I love me some steak, and they are reported to have the best.

So today, since I had to go to the doctor's down Atlanta way, we decided we'd have lunch there. We knew it was a pretty pricey place to eat, so we figured the  noon meal would be a whole lot cheaper.

May I say, "Lord, help."

We ate there for the first time, and it will be our last.

Don't get me wrong. The staff are as nice as if they've known you all your lives. They call you by your Mr. or Mrs. with warm friendly smiles.

There is no cheesy music of any kind playing. The tables are set with fine linen and silver and crystal.

The steak was really, really good. I've had as good, but I ain't complaining. The potatoes were wonderful. The salad was meh. The tea was southern sweet.

Husband said his food was great. Daughter said hers was too.

It was the bill that was hard to swallow.

Perhaps we had bitten off more than we could chew.

I won't bother to tell you how much the total was, because, fact is, I'm ashamed to say.

Husband decided to visit the men's room before we left, and as he walked from the table, he raised his arm a little, and I burst into a fit of giggles.

"There goes Minnie Pearl," I said to Daughter.

She frowned at me, took one look at her daddy and giggled too.

He had a nice, large, cardboard price tag hanging from his arm pit.

We became fairly, uh, amused.

When he came back we gently told him by making fun of him.

He, too, became amused and we were all laughing so hard it probably  was - okay - was inappropriate.

I expected someone to come up and say in a low, cultured voice, "Excuse me, but ain't ya''ll got no couth?"

Alas, we did not.

But we paid our bill, adding a pretty good tip, in a a stiff upper lip sort of way.

Husband muttered the whole time this was Sean Hannity, WSB radio talk show host's fault, because he's the one who yammers about how good the food is at this place all the time.

I suggested he call Mr. Hannity and tell him how poor we are and see if he'd reimburse us, but Husband nixed that idea, so I guess we'll be paying the old piper when the credit card bill rolls in.

Just remind me next time Husband has a great idea about eating at a restaurant recommended by a multi-millionaire to ignore him.

'K?

BANG!

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1966: from "The Sonny Side of Cher" her second single "My Baby Shot Me Down"

I was five and you were six
We rose on horses made of sticks
I wore black you wore white
You would always win the fight

Bang bang you shot me down
Bang bang I hit the ground
Bang bang that awful sound
Bang bang my baby shot me down
I sang that song at the top of my lungs, as I did every Cher song I memorized when I was twelve.

For the record (no pun intended)  I was never suspended from school.

I guess I've led a charmed life.

Terrifyingly Bored

We canned 26 quarts of green beans today.

If you have ever embarked on this endeavor, you know of what I speak.

Terrifying because of that dang pressure canner.

Boring because you have to wait....and wait.

I don't even own a pressure cooker, because I'm scared of 'em.

Why? Well, my grandmother used them to cook with. However; she'd leave the kitchen and talk on the telephone or whatever, and the next thing you knew there were green beans  hanging from the ceiling.

Things like that scar a person.

The pressure canner we use belonged to my (wait for it) great-grandmother.

She died in 1965. At age 87.

So, the canner has a wee bit of age on it.

Mother says, "I just hold my breath every year and hope it works."

Well, I just hold my breath every year and hope I live through it.

The boring part is waiting for the canner to build up enough steam to put the little thingie on the hole so it can jiggle.  You continue to be bored as you wait for the pressure to get to ten and try to keep it there, juggling the heat of the eye all the time. You have to wait twenty-five minutes after that, turn the heat off the canner, wait for the pressure to go down to zero, open the lid and wait some more until somebody thinks it's safe enough to pick up the hot, hot jars and set them on the towels on the counter.

We did this little process four times today.

We'll have green beans to eat this winter.

And I got sausage, biscuits and a fried egg with homemade blackberry jelly for breakfast.

That was neither terrifying or boring. It was the silver lining of the day.

Beans

Ah am tard.

Got a bushel of beans yesterday.

Today: I have strung 'em and broke 'em.

Doesn't sound hard, but when you  have my body, it is. My poor Mother who ain't in any better shape than me helped.

So did Daughter.

Monday: We will wash 'em. look 'em, wash 'em and look 'em again.

Then we'll pack 'em.

Salt 'em a little and fill the  jars with water.

Put the lids on the jars and

Can 'em.

And listen for that precious pop that means success.

Ta da!

Bossy and Bull

Walking this morning, there were cows grazing placidly across the river. One bovine looked at me thoughtfully as I walked by, slowly chewing her cud. 

Cows are big. 

Anyway, it reminded me of a poem I wrote a few years back.

I apologize in advance:

All the cows were layin’ quietly down on the ground,

Except for old Bossy, who stood lookin’ around.

Most the ladies were wantin’ to just take a nap.

But Bossy looked like she was fixin’ to snap.

Earlier that day, old Bull had crossed her path.

He’d snubbed her, ignored her, and raised up her wrath.

And since that mornin’ she just couldn’t be set.

She spent the rest of the day stirrin’ up a fret.

Some of the girls tried to get her to chill,

Knowin’ that milkin’ time would help out until

Bossy could get a grip on her mood,

Or have it out with that old Bull dude.

But milkin’ time didn’t come fast enough,

And when Bossy saw Bull again, things began to get rough.

She eyed him and lowed way down deep in her throat,

Then startin’ right for him, bellowed at the old goat.

All eyes were upon the bull and the cow,

Cause they knew something terrible would happen now.

The struggle was fierce, a battle to mourn.

But I guess you could say, she took the bull by the horns.

Now Bull is a meek fellow, shy and reserved.

And Bossy made sure he got all he deserved.

But if you want to know how I think it all ended,

I think old Bull got just what he intended.

Cause I see him smile when nobody is lookin’,

It seems like Bull loves what old Bossy is cookin’.

She bats them long lashes at him when he’s near her,

And he nudges her neck, so he doesn’t fear her.

If you wait long enough you’ll surely see

A little old calf trailin’ ‘long, makin’ three.

Nothin’s as sweet as observin’ the endin’

When you know happily ever after’s not pendin’.

It's Already Happening

Yesterday morning Husband and I went walking along the river. I felt a stiff breeze waft through my wet corkscrew (although still beautiful and blonde) hair and thought to myself, "That feels like the fall of the year."

I looked up, and lo and behold, five or six leaves came floating down.

This morning, when I was in the shower, I looked out the transom window (on the second floor) and at the very tippy top of the oak tree what did I see? That's right, red leaves.

So, I guess fall is on its way. You could certainly feel it in the air this morning.

Our summer has been not very hot, but very, very wet. All the 'old timers' used to say if it rained the first day of Dog Days it would rain every day until Dog Days was over. 

That's certainly been true this year. It had not rained all day  yesterday. As I was coming to bed, Husband raised his  head and said, "I think it just started raining." 

And it had. It rained for just a few minutes, as if to say, "There, I've rained today."

Then it stopped.

I've seen no rain today, but I will be more surprised if it doesn't than if it does.

I ain't complaining, mind you. 

I HATE hot weather. July to mid-August is the only time of year I don't like Georgia weather. 

And this year?

No hate from me.

I  hear people asking, "Does this mean we are going to have a bad winter?"

Beats me. 

But you know what I always say, "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."

Runs far, far away.

Happiness is Fleeting

I called the library this morning to see if they had a book I desperately need.

You see, I am reading (or gobbling up) Craig Johnson's books. One must read them in order, as they are about the life of a small town sheriff.

I have two books that are to be returned, one I checked out and one I have on the sly from a friend (you know who you are). She read the book in one day, so I got it from her after church Sunday and finished it yesterday. It is still getting back to the library seven days before it's due, so if there is a person in line for it, they will be thrilled and none the wiser that I got to read it.

Anyway, the girl at the library said they did indeed  have the book I wanted, if I didn't mind large print. (I didn't ask her, but why would anybody mind large print?) I told her Husband would be by this afternoon to get it.

I was  happy! I could start a new book, one that I really, really was looking forward to!

In  less than five minutes the phone rang. It was the Library Lady. She said she'd looked everywhere and could not locate the book.

I was not happy.

Somebody needs to call the Li-burry Po-leece! I  mean, really. Has someone snuck off with my book without checking it out at the desk? Don't they  have detectors at the library doors for those thieving rat finks?

Anyway, see what I mean? Happiness is fleeting.

I believe we can have that deep abiding peace and joy Christ talked about. I have it, in fact, whether I'm happy or not.

And I also think God doesn't care whether we are happy. Many times He puts me in situations that makes me pretty unhappy. Growth and discipline aren't always fun filled, you know.

But I have His peace.

I wouldn't trade that for all the happy in the world.

Fat Cat In Da House

Four years ago, when we rescued Frost from the shelter, he was a svelte two year old. He weighed in at eleven pounds.

This is a young Frost break dancing on the kitchen floor. Go, boy, go!




He could jump way up to catch things, he was very active and affectionate.

But he had this little problem that we  noticed right away. He was anxious about his food dish. He could actually be in a deep sleep, wake up as if panicked and run to his food dish to check the food supply there.

We knew the family that took him to the shelter had to give him up because they had both lost their jobs and couldn't afford him anymore. It was obvious he'd been loved and taken care of, but I began to wonder if they'd held on to him a little too long, and he'd not be given enough to eat for a while.

Food is always available because we are a four cat family (Shut up.). I've discussed it with the vet, and she says having a growing kitten, an elderly cat, and a nibbler, there is really no way to monitor Frost's eating. She says one of her cats is a fatty too.

Well, Frost is now a FAT six year old. He weighs sixteen pounds! Our Maine Coon, at present, is much taller, longer, bigger boned, and heavier furred still growing at fifteen pounds.

This is Frost today, trying to break dance, but choosing a much softer surface and never really getting off the ground.


So you can figure where the fat is.

I'm embarrassed when I take Frost to the vet. He has kidney problems, and now he is on a special food, but it isn't helping him slim down. And when they tried to do a CT scan of his kidneys, they couldn't see them for all the fat!!

I may have been a therapist in my former life. And I may have helped people with eating disorders.

But a fat cat?

Not a clue.

Thunder and Lightning

Our dog before our dog Molly was Belle. She was a  Bull Mastiff and the smartest dog we've ever had. If God had "unlocked her jaw" I believe her conversation would have been quite intelligent.

However; she was absolutely, stark raving terrified of thunder storms. She would run to the bathroom and get in the bathtub and hyperventilate.  Of all the places to run, the bathtub, as you know, ain't the smartest place to be. I tried  to tell her she was likely to get struck by lightning in there, but she wouldn't listen. ( And you try moving a 127 pound dog from where she wants to be.)

I thought logically as to why in the heck she'd choose the bathtub, and realized it was because it was a contained space.

So the minute she started getting antsy, we ran and closed the bathroom doors, and  I opened the pantry door. She was fine with this. It was a small, contained space with no windows. I left the door cracked a little bit and there she stayed until all was clear.

I read a lot about this, trying to figure out  how to help her. The theory is, that for most dogs, it's not the thunder and lightning that scares them, it has something to do with the barometric pressure changing.

I decided to see if this was true in Belle's case, so I purchased a CD that was a recording of a severe thunderstorm.

It was a great CD. You could hear the thunder in the distance as it built up strength, moving closer and closer until the storm was right on top of you, the rain heavy and pounding.

I put it on full volume in the presence of Belle, and she never batted an eye. Didn't bother her one bit.

I fell in love with this CD and played it once in a while, just for my own enjoyment.  There's something really sweet about a thunderstorm, a good book, an old quilt, and a corner in which to cozy up and read.

Husband hated that CD. Daughter hated that CD. They said it confused them. They'd think there was a storm, and outside it was bright and sunny.

Oh, for Heaven's sake.

But one day I couldn't find that CD. Husband and Daughter looked at me with their four big old blue eyes and claimed they had no idea where it was.

Someone stole my thunder!

I also have  bird CD's. They hate them too. They say they keep thinking there are birds in the house. Daughter says she keeps ducking, afraid she'll get pooped on from above.

This is a nervous condition caused by a visit to a hen house. We won't go into that today.

I've toyed with the idea of purchasing yet another Thunder CD and playing it in one part of the house, while playing the bird CD in another part of the house, both turned up to full volume.

Cause, you know, I'm just that kinda girl.

First Day of School...1996

Holding my six year old in my lap, her head leaning on my chest as though she wanted to melt into me, gave me instant flashback to her babyhood. Today was a milestone in her life, the first day of first grade. She was having some anxiety, but was not able, or at least not willing, to express any of it, other than climbing onto my lap and holding on for dear life.

I closed my eyes, and if I ignored the fact that her legs were practically dragging the floor, I could imagine her as the helpless infant that existed only a few years ago. I breathed in the smell of her hair, sweet and warm from sleep. I felt tears sting. I wanted this moment to last. But I knew it would last in memory only. So we sat, silent and still.

It passed all too quickly, as these kinds of moments do, and was replaced by the hurried chant of “We’ll be late!” and “Don’t forget your backpack!”.

It seems there are more milestones in her life already than I could have ever anticipated before I became a parent, and it amazes me how strongly they affect my emotions. I have been brought to tears by a first smile, a first word, a first step, and a first loose tooth. This child has brought me more joy, more fear (for her), more anger (towards others who were unfair to her) at a deeper, stronger level than I realized I had. I would fight for her, I would starve for her, I would give my life for her. I can think of no sacrifice too great that would keep me from protecting her.

How I will ever survive all the other firsts ahead of us, some of which will be much more threatening to my “motherhood”, I do not know. The gift God gives us in children is a mighty big responsibility for mere mortals, and I am impressed that He ever considered it in the first place. Perhaps He is teaching us with one of the most powerful tools He has – the love of a child – and figures if this doesn’t work, it’s pretty hopeless. For who can resist the fierce loyalty and unconditional love a small child gives to their mother? And who else, other than God, shares those qualities?

My own childhood has memories that stand out in vivid detail, but a lot of everyday life is, of course, forgotten. I don’t know what my daughter will remember vividly and what she’ll only recall as mundane, but my prayer is that what she will remember fully is the bond that can be like no other, the bond between a mother and child. I also know, from my own experience, that this is not fully realized until one becomes a mother. Even then, it is hard to imagine that anyone could feel that way toward oneself. I look at my mother and am amazed that she must have felt that way about me (and does she still?), but as children we assume it is so.

Perhaps when my daughter experiences another first – her first child – I’ll see that look of amazed love in her eyes and be satisfied that we have come full circle.

Until then, I will hold on to each and every first with all my might, storing it away to share with her later, when our memories can ignite in each other smiles from the past and hope for the future children in our lives. 

Hangin' It Up

I got this harebrained idea to take down all the curtains and wash them.

Seriously, I need some  medication. What was I thinking?

Looking back, I think the cobwebs, cat hair and dust added a certain ambiance to the rooms. Truly, it did.

Husband and I were attempting to hang up the blindingly clean kitchen valances in the bay window this morning. Now, as I may have mentioned a hundred times or so, I have issues with my back, and raising my arms above my head is not a good idea.

So, I figured if Husband helped, I'd only have to do this at a minimum. Once again, what was I thinking?

During The Hanging Of Curtains several things happened:
 1. I ripped a fingernail off. You know, where the  nail gets bent backwards first? And you don't think like a Sunday School teacher for a few seconds?
2. I had a hot flash in the middle of it all.
3. I got stung/bit by an unknown bug.
4. The phone rang. The garage, who has our truck because it died, called and someone had locked the keys inside the car. Did we have a spare key? So, of course, Husband stopped The Hanging Of Curtains to begin The Search for The Truck Keys. He looked where we had thrown carefully stored spare keys and began trashing the kitchen with them. He has keys all the way back to the first car he bought at age twelve, when the guy let him drive home - all by himself. Half way home the seat, which was unbolted, fell backward, and my twelve year old Husband was driving down the road with his feet up in the air, his sweet little head resting on the back seat. Husband's Mama was a little upset and had a few words with the car salesman. Husband got his money refunded promptly.

As soon as the kitchen looked like a used key factory after a tornado, the 25 watt came on over Husband's  head and he remembered he had one of those metal box thingies under the truck where a spare key was kept. You see, Husband locks his keys in a vehicle every three months or so, give a month here or there.

Meanwhile, I continued to hang curtains. Including the one Husband had hung prior to the phone call, because he'd hung the curtain wrong side out.

I'm left with a torn thumb nail waaaay down the nail bed, sweaty clothes and muscle spasms in my neck and shoulders.

The curtains look nice though.

My, How Things Have Changed!

When I was about six or so, I got hick'ry switched all the way from my neighbors yard into my house.

Abuse! I hollered (okay, not really, it was more like WAHHHH!) But you can bet nobody called DFACS.

I was switched because my buddies in crime, Bob and Meg, and I were in their grandmother's  yard on their swing set singing to the top of our lungs.

Now, the song we sang, for us, was pure bathroom humor. If you recall, that is the top of the line funny for  kids that age. I'm not sure why, but it is a standard truth. I bet kids one hundred years ago snickered about knickers and outhouses.

I certainly had no clue that it  had sexual undertones, because, a: I didn't know sexual from bat and b: I had no idea what an undertone was.

It was apparent the parents knew the meaning to both words, hence the hick'ry switching.

Close your eyes and remember the tune that you always hear the Indian (from India) play on his flute, as he sits, legs crossed, and watches a basket in front of him. Slowly a cobra comes swaying out, all because of that hypnotic tune. Remember it?

Okay, to that tune, here are the words to the song we were singing lustily:

There's a dance in France
Where the women wear no pants
And the  men go 'round
With their britches hanging down.

Now?

Now, it's just a fashion statement saying: Welcome to America! Our youth has lost it's minds and parents close their eyes!

Sigh.

I must be getting old.

Open My Eyes, Lord, That I May See

There is a lot of hatred in this world.

I don't mean the kind like I hate avocados, which I truly do. They can all disappear for all I care.

I'm talking about the hate we seem to have for one another.

Why is this? People, I guess, have wondered this throughout time. Are we afraid of those that are different than ourselves? We must be.

Some folks hate people who can't agree with everything they say.

I'd be one lonely person, myself.

I know friendships, families and churches have split apart over very silly things. I have known churches to break up over music. Not because the music wasn't biblical (In fact, many of the old hymns aren't biblical). But because they had a new beat, or a guitar or a drum was included.

Satan must laugh his butt off sometimes.

All of us have known terrible racial  hatred of some kind in our life time.  It may not have been directed at us, and we may not have participated, but we have seen it.

I got a picture in  my e-mail the other day. Looking upon it literally made my heart hurt.

It is a man in an emergency room who has been badly wounded. He looks like he is bleeding to death. He is lying on a gurney and a doctor is valiantly trying to save him. He is yelling for something, one nurse is turning to someone, telling them to get something, or do something, I'm sure. The other nurses are by the doctor's side, busy. The still photo is full of motion, medical staff moving so fast they are blurred.

All the staff, doctor, and nurses, are black. The man on the gurney is white.

He is wearing a Klu Klux Klan outfit.

Was he conscious  when he got there? Did he see who tried to save him? Or maybe they did save him. I don't know.

I just pray that his eyes were opened.

And I don't mean physically.

Company's A'Comin'!

Yesterday, we peopled our house.

This is a fancy way of saying we had company. Husband used to watch "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" and some rich old coot said "I love to people my house."

Now, I don't reckon I'm a rich old coot, at least I know I ain't rich and I don't think I'm old enough (yet) to be called old, and I think coots are always male, aren't they? Anyway, it's obvious I don't know the correct definition of 'coot', so let's move on.

There is something nice about the anticipation of company coming. The hustle and bustle, the food preparation, the making sure there's enough clean forks and that the glasses don't have spots on them. 

And: my house is really clean. It was so nice this morning to walk through my clean house and just sigh contentedly.

I know it won't stay that way for long. Probably as I sit here nastiness is creeping around the corners, filling up the corners and counters. Oh, well. That's life, as they say.

For another, it's nice to see your house through other people's eyes. I don't mean seeing that the bedroom needs painting, or the smudge you missed on the kitchen floor (which needs replacing, by the way).

No, I mean how they smile at your whimsical stuff, admire the fire laid ready to light come fall, things like that.

I like how everyone gathers in the kitchen, and everyone is talking at the same time, and when they fill their plates they tell you how good it is. 

I like the laughter, the genuine merriment that comes from people who are friends and love one another.


And most of all? I like it that we can pray together, for one another, and mean it.

Do I hear an Amen?