Holding Patterns

Life here on Planet Jefferson

2012-01-28T07:40:00.000-05:00

We love living out in the country. It's not just the quiet, it's the neighbors and the woods, the songbirds and the wildlife. Granted I am not to keen about going walkabout at night anymore. The woods are close and dark and deep. At night I hear what I swear are coyotes. If they aren't then our neighbors have some good dog impressionists. I'm not so wild about getting up to highway 151 and having to dodge the hunters standing along side the road, shotguns laid across arms waiting for the dogs to chase the game out onto the road to them. No, I'm not fond of that at all. But all in all, we are far enough away from the road to enjoy our own gathering of the wild and free. We put out corn to feed the deer and the doves, the squirrels and the rooster. Yes, I said rooster. Dudley and a small herd of guineas (I know, guineas come in flocks, but these came in a herd, I promise you,) showed up one warm spring day two years ago. Now, Dudley once belonged to the neighbors on the other side of the woods, he and his guinea friends. They came to us when a drove of dogs killed off the rest of their flock. They traveled through our woods and begged for sanctuary. Sanctuary they received. The beautiful red rooster had no tail feathers left, he was lucky to escape with his head on his shoulders. He was greeted by the cats and they protect him as she sleeps on the porch rail or on the glider. When he sleeps on the glider, they gather around him to keep him warm, sleeping with him. The guineas live in the plum thicket. We had 13 when they first arrived, and sadly we are now down to 4.
I used to wonder what was happening to them. I worried that dogs were making off with dinner right under our noses, but I don't think that is the case. We have spoiled them so that every morning when we take the dogs out for their morning constitutional they run to the shed waiting on us to throw out their seed. They will even gather at the porch steps if they think we have dalllied to long inside. I started throwing them cold cornbread to the point that now I bake it even when we don't want any. But getting back to the shrinking herd...they come to the koi pond, claiming it as their watering hole and just make themselves at home in general. Now if they're at the pond and I'm trying to drive around to park, they come rushing out to greet the truck. They rush the truck and refuse to move til I get out and shoo them away. I used to hear my grandmother say that chickens would drown from looking up at the sky to see what that wet stuff we call rain might be. Was she worried about their sensitivity or what? When I see that these creatures won't even get out of the way of a truck, I have to say it...guineas are stupid. I can't figure why they are smart enough to know where the feed comes from, yet not smart enough to get out of traffic...so we're down to Dudley (who most certainly is smart enough to stay out of the truck's way) and four guineas. I love those stupid birds. Think I'll go make them a hoecake of cornbread.

Attn: SMARTHOMEPLANET.COM

2011-12-06T09:22:00.000-05:00

Attn: smartplanethome.com

Ref: The Original Personal Pie Maker

Okay, so the mini pie baker that I ordered from Cook.com arrived yesterday. I spent this morning sipping coffee made by my Keurig coffee maker and munching on a doughnut from my mini doughnut baker. All in all a pretty fair morning between me and my gadgets. I was reading the hand book on the pie baker and discovered something fairly important...you don't even have to be fairly bright to figure out THAT the recipes in this handy dandy little hand book simply won't fly. Okay so I understand not to touch the hot plates because they are (duh) hot. I learned that at an early age, you know, more than fifty years ago. I understand that not all people who order this product are the sharpest knife in the drawer, so I understand the safety issues, okay? I also agree that you really shouldn't immerse the unit into water in order to clean it. Again, "duh". I am pretty sure I know not to use it while otherwise occupied (like say going to the grocers in the next town to buy the pie filling that might work in this thing...explanation following:)

I have read each and every recipe in my handbook provided by your company. I read them two or three times, in fact. I kept looking for the part where you actually cook the filling. I mean really people...just as it is important to tell some folks not to touch the hot plates or immerse in water or go off and leave the thing plugged in while you are in the next town over, it is equally important to tell the self same folk that pie fillings are to be cooked. I kept waiting to see the instructions to mix and put in pan and cook til thickened, then cool ... you know, every canned pie filling (fruit anyway) has one thing in common. It has been cooked...but I could read this handbook from now till doomsday and I would never see those instructions...and since when would I freeze a pumpkin pie before eating? It actually says this: 1. In a bowl mix combine all pie filling ingredients and mix until well blended. 2. place baked pies in the freezer and allow to harden prior to eating. Who writes these manuals? And more importantly, what country are they written in? I should pay more attention to where the things I buy come from, so I have only myself to blame. I only bring this to your attention because I am bringing it to my readers' attention at the same time. My readers are blogging friends and subscribers to The Cheraw Chronicle Newspaper, (a weekly paper in our county for many years for whom I am a columnist)...and all of them are smart enough to know that you would need to cook pie filling before putting it into the raw pie rounds as this calls for. And since pumpkin pie shouldn't be consumed frozen they disregard that bit of info immediately. I, in fact, believe that any or all of them could improve on your lousy little handbook in about five minutes...so, what I found from the handbook provided me with a good laugh and the instinct to throw it directly into the garbage...the handbook, not the pie maker...I'll reserve that option for after I've actually used it. Come to think of it, the only thing I'd keep the handbook for would be a coaster for my coffee cup...the coffee made by my Keurig...and my blog address is http://sandimcbride.blogspot.com/

I only resort to this because I've tried clicking on the Contact Us bar as shown on your site and it simply brings me back to the Google screen...just hoping this email address of info@smartplanethome.com works...I won't hold my breath. I'll just have another cup of coffee and a doughnut.

Dear Santa, May I have a Word?

2011-12-02T10:28:00.004-05:00

So if you recall, last week I was talking about the big book of computer info called "The Complete Book of Computer for the Complete Idiot." And as you recall it's main use is as a door stop. A $69.99 door stop. Well, after I had learned what I needed from it, I sort of wore out my EMachine. Everyone was after me to get a laptop. I am not sure what I had against it, but I was not a happy camper with a laptop. I wanted what I was accustomed to, that tall tower and big a** monitor that took a special computer desk to sustain its' weight. So in 2008 Santa did the unthinkable. He brought me a laptop and I sort of pouted about it. Okay, so I just out and out refused to even try it for the first week it took up residence. Then, when the EMachine refused to cooperate at all, I opened the laptop and began to try it out. I hated the little pad that replaced the mouse and Mac heard me all the way down in the garden..."I HATE THIS THING!!"
It's a lucky girl I am, because Mac knows a good bit about computers, he's built his fair share, including all the ones we have used. He built my EMachine. He came in and went into his office and came back with a mouse. He plugged it into the USB port (now I have to be honest and tell you that I had written down UBS till Mac corrected me...it stands for Universal Serial Bus). The computer picked it up as new hardware and installed it. I hesitantly approached the computer, and placing fingers on keyboard, began to type. I used the mouse for the things the mouse has to do and was in love. Oh yes, I love my laptop. I was on that laptop hours at a time. By the end of it, I had written a book, and had it published. Also, I was not the only one who loved that laptop...Sonny our Russian Blue loved it too. When I wasn't on it, I'm afraid he was. And then something awful happened. Sonny and I loved my laptop so much that we actually loved it to death. Yes, we killed my laptop. I don't know how we killed it, but suffice it to say that it became overheated and decided to blow itself up. Sigh. I handed it over to son Michael who had it for several weeks. "Exactly what did you do to it," he finally asked. That was when he returned it to me as being a hopeless case. I think it should be purrfectly clear that Sonny has denied all culpability in this. He claims he was in his cola box, and has the proof. So right now I am using Mac's laptop and he has ordered me to keep it closed and turned off and Sonny's presence is not needed upon the case. Poor Sonny.

So, this is going to be my letter to Santa. I'm sure he reads the Chronicle...after all, he has letters to him published in it every year. So here goes...Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is a new laptop with cat repellent implied...I've been pretty good all year if you don't count the mornings and evenings...thanking you in advance...Sandi So, what do you think? I'll let you know if he agrees that a new laptop is in my future. Cross your fingers for me, will you?

2011-11-30T12:01:00.000-05:00

Mother-in-Law (mother-in-lawwwww...)

Once I wanted to be the best mother, ever. I'm not sure if I ever quite attained the lofty level of BME, but it sure wasn't for want of trying. I learned the differences between what they wanted, what they needed and what they just absolutely had to have no matter the sacrifice. Okay, so the last thing didn't rear it's ugly head quite as often as they insisted on it, but I did eventually level the playing field and work through the problems. When they were little, it was much easier. I could simply tell them no or get the object of their affection on the qt and surprise them. As they got older, that became harder to do. Just this weekend we were looking at some pictures of them at the age of 8 and 9 just after Santa had made his stop. It showed the boys with their creatures of selection (transformer creatures of the day) and Wallace says, "oh yeah, I remember those...I was poking around in your closet to see what I could find and there they were...I hated I had done it, there were no surprises." I never knew that. It cured him of snooping, I think, but it sort of messed that Christmas up for him. As they attained teen hood, it was so much harder to do what was best for them and harder to say no. Since I was a LEO with the Sheriff's Department, I knew every cop in every department in every town including the Highway Patrol. They couldn't get away with anything that I didn't hear about...eventually. One of the SCHP patrolmen had a nickname for Michael...Road Warrior. He slipped up and called him that when he didn't know I was anywhere around. I got the story of how he came to get the nickname...two stops in as many nights by the same trooper...and no consequences. I can't say I agreed with it and told him so. Of course I had to confront Michael with it as soon as we were both home at the same time...and it slowed his little Chevy down for a time. Wallace had already taken care of his own speed problem by nearly losing control of his , just trying to see how fast the Trans Am would go. I learned of this after he was married the first time. I wished he'd kept it to himself. Being a semi-believer in the string theory, I sometimes wondered what had happened to them in those alternate lives the true string theory believers often speak of.

So, I wanted to be best mother ever...not quite there...and now trying attain BMilE or Best Mother in law Ever status. It's an uphill climb. My son Michael is married to the lovely Anna and they have our only grandchild, Arianna...I do not poke my nose in their business even when they invite it. I never liked either my parents or Mac's trying to mind our business and I promised myself that I would not do it to them. When it comes to holidays, I remember how often I wished I could be with my family during Thanksgiving and Christmas, but usually we were to far away to be with either. We spent two Thanksgiving's with his family because he was a Navy Recruiter in their home town and we were there. We spent two with my family because we were in Charleston which isn't far from my family. It all worked out. But I remember how I felt as a daughter and I realize that my daughters-in-law must feel the same way. Therefore, we have Thanksgiving on Saturday so we can all be together. It's a compromise, but one which I am willing to make. My older son Wallace presented us with our future daughter -in-law over this holiday season. We were quite pleased with his choice. She seemed pleased with our situation of Thanksgiving on Saturday and we all had a great time, especially Arianna (who was looking forward to having a new Aunt in the family...though she is not so sure she wants any cousins any time soon...she's sort of used to being the ONLY grandchild.)

So, I'm going to be a Mother-In-Law again and I couldn't be any happier...I just hope that this song doesn't end up as ring tone for either of my girls!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2mujNA7CRk

Over the River and Through the Woods

2011-11-22T07:26:00.001-05:00

Over the River and Through the Woods
If you ask, most people would probably say that Christmas is their favorite holiday of all. Not me, though. Thanksgiving has always been my favorite and I know it is because of my Grandmother. We all adored Mammy. She could do no wrong in our eyes. Her approval was all we craved and her understanding was all we wanted. No matter where we were living when we were children, Mama always made sure that we were in Chesterfield at Mammy and Daddy Dwight's house for Thanksgiving. We would drive all day and half the night, roll out of that car and race to the screen porch where we would be gathered up in the loving arms of our Grandmother. She would quickly hustle us off to bed upstairs with blankets warmed by the little pot bellied stove in the kitchen. It was the most marvelous feeling in the world to snuggle down in one of the big old double beds upstairs, toasty warm under the covers, but our noses would be chilled by the artic like cold of the unheated bedroom we loved.
The next morning all the cousins would arrive to hugs from their Aunt Deferris and Uncle Mike and we'd race around outside and play like there was no tomorrow. Inside the Aunts and Mammy would be catching up on all the news, the Uncles would be talking about world events and President Eisenhower...I think Daddy Dwight was always secretly proud that he and the great man shared a first name. After a full day of catching up, the adults planned the next day's big meal. The turkey was sitting stuffed and ready on the freezer on the screened porch. His day in the oven would come early. The shelves were lined with Pecan pies, caramel cakes, fruit cakes and a 12 layer cake that defied gravity by remaining upright. Once again, the baths would be had, the blankets warmed and we were bundled off to bed to dream of the coming feast.
We heard the business of the day long before we beheld it with our very own eyes. I could hear the rustling of aprons on dress skirts, hear the pans clanking against the oven racks as the tom turkey was slid into its depths. The water was running into the sink to begin the seemingly never ending washing up of pans and utensils. We would lie in bed listening to Mammy and Mama while they talked and compared recipes. Their laughter was pure music, the melodic notes climbing up the stairs and around the corner then race to the bed where we lay, warming us with the sound. Soon we would all be up, the rest of the family would arrive and the Aunts would lay the tables...one for the adults and then the children's table. I always thought how exciting it would be to eat with the adults in the dining room, the conversation washing over me like honey.. . But today I would give anything to go back to the childrens table with the cousins who were like sisers and brothers, to the laughter that filled those two rooms to the rafters. I would love to see again the cranberry colored plates and the stemmed glassware sitting on pristene white starched tablecloths, the silver very properly placed by each plate. But most of all, I'd love to feel my grandmother's arms around me again. Now that would truly be a Thanksgiving to remember.

The recipe for Pumpkin Dump Cake...easy peasy...

1 (18.25 ounce) Betty Crocker Supermoist yellow cake mix
1 (20 ounce) can pure pumpkin
1 (12 ounce) can evaporated milk
3 whole eggs
1 cup white sugar
3 teaspoons cinnamon
3/4 cup butter, melted
Directions
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees and grease a 9x13 baking dish.
2. In a large bowl, mix pumpkin, milk, eggs, sugar, and cinnamon until well blended. Spread pumpkin mixture in prepared baking dish.
3. Sprinkle cake mix evenly on top of the batter. Pour melted butter over the top of the cake mix. Bake 50 minutes.
4. Cool. Top with whipped cream or ice cream.
I use sugar substitutes like Splenda and sugar free kool whip as a topping...great for the dieters and the diabetic members of our family....
Happy Thanksgiving to all!!

Family Reunions

2011-11-18T07:33:00.000-05:00

Family Reunions

Here in the South (you'll notice that the South is capitalized due to her importance) while we may not have a monopoly on Family Reunions, we certainly make a big deal of them. I've often thought it was because of all the Scots/Irish bloodlines in our history that makes it so important. Our family clans feel the need to get together and touch base on what everyone is doing, who they've married (thus bringing in new blood into the clan) and to ramble through the Family Cemetary to speak to all our forefathers and foremothers, let them know we're still here and they still matter. I've had a fascination with our family cemetary since I've had recallable memory. WHen I was a child I liked nothing better than to ramble through the graves and listen as my Grandmother told me the history of those who rested here.
This past October 15th, not only did Mac and I celebrate our 43rd wedding annivesary, we attended the Douglas Family Reunion along with younger son Michael and wife Anna. Most importantly, our Grand Daughter, Arianna, was attending her first ever reunion of our family. Dinner, which is always wonderful and no one goes away hungry from these things, was followed by the adult family members recalling reunions past at Big Granny Douglas's wonderful home on Douglas Ranch Road. We've held them at the Church for a number of years now, but they always included the trek to the Douglas Family Cemetary even back then. I saw that Arianna and some of the younger cousins had made their way to the cemetary, so I joined them. Arianna was standing at her Grandmother Grace's (Douglas Valverde) gravesite and asked who else she was related to (and who now resided )in this wooded glen. I pointed out her Great and Great Great Grandparents, her great great Aunts and Uncles, cousins and all the other relatives she would never know except by the stories we could tell her. I've never found our family cemetary to be spooky in the least. It's simply a place where the sleeping lie in another dimension, listening for voices in another room. I look forward to seeing all the family members as they take their younger generations through and point out who lies where and share memories of their own past with these family members of yesterday. Yes, we certainly make a big deal of our Family Reunions...and it's not always about the food.

Veterans Salute

2011-11-11T08:52:00.000-05:00

They say that the newspapers of the world will soon be a thing of the past, that with the internet news so available to breaking news there will be no need for the printed page. You have Kindle to read books, no smell of ink and tree to feed your senses. But The Cheraw Chronicle and Chesterfield Advertiser will continue to do what they do best...bring you news of today and yesterday and yesteryear...one thing they do well is honor our Veterans. For all of you who aren't really sure when we began this holiday, here is a short blurb on the why and wherefore.

Veterans Day is an annual United States holiday honoring military veterans. It is a federal holiday that is observed on November 11. It is also celebrated as Armistice Day or Remembrance Day in other parts of the world and falls on November 11, the anniversary of the signing of the Armistice that ended World War I. (Major hostilities of World War I were formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918 with the German signing of the Armistice.) Courtesy of my History Teacher Mr. Phil Chewning.
Look at some of the pictures that we have here honoring the Veterans of Chesterfield County. Most of them served during a time of war...WWI, WW II, Korea, Vietnam, and both of the Middle East conflicts one over one still going on. Most of them were mere children when they entered the service of our country. They were as young as fifteen some of them. Or they were seventeen like my husband Mac. I remember my grandmother making the statement that it is always the young who rise up to protect the country of old men and women. Never is that more evident than today. The pictures of those so young that we have lost recently make me want to weep. At a time in their lives when they should be playing football, going to college, dancing the night away or just living their lives without worry of gunfire or explosion, instead we are bombarded with the news of the dead and injured. So, this is not a day for sales or merriment but a time of celebration, celebration of the unselfish men and women who gladly serve our nation and in turn, us. Thank you, all you brave young men and women, those who are now no longer young those who are no longer with us and those who will show up at the recruiters offices and offer their services and their lives to protect the this land we love. Thank you!!!

Going Home Hungry

2011-09-10T11:57:00.000-04:00

Wednesday afternoon Mac and I went to see Daddy and take him some Bojangles chicken for a late lunch. I rang the bell several times, but got no answer. Mac looked in the car port off the garage and told me the car was there. I got my key out and after a perfunctory knock, I unlocked the dead bolt and entered. I guess we were about to interrupt his afternoon nap, because there he was, sound asleep! I turned the tv down and he woke up instantly. He was surprised to see me standing there and asked if Mac were with me. I told him that Mac was busy eating figs off the tree, but would be in soon. Daddy was looking at me intently and then announced that I should eat some of the chicken or go make a sandwich that I was too skinny. I laughed at that and told him I intended to lose another ten pounds. That got a reaction! I yelled for Mac to come in, that Daddy was fussing at me. We had a nice visit and left him happy and content.

Yesterday (Friday) Mac and I took a trip to Hartsville for some shopping and ended up at Applebees for dinner. Now, we usually eat at the Smokehouse on Friday night but since we weren't going to make it there in time, I decided to have babyback ribs. Mac got crunchy fried shrimp. Mac quite enjoyed his shrimp, but the ribs were inedible. They had been cooked an hour past a fare thee well and had a sauce much to sweet for human consumption not to be dessert. They had such a crowd that trying to get our server's attention was next to impossible. I promise you, we never have that problem at the Smokehouse! Finally the server mosied over and I told her that the dinner was not what I expected. She promised to get the manager and left. Mac had now finished his meal and mine still rested nearly untouched in front of me. The manager finally came over and took my complaint. She offered to bring me another serving but I said thanks but no thanks, more of the same usually didn't work well for me. She offered any other meal. I told her that since Mac was now finished I would feel foolish eating while he sat and watched. I had just spent a half hour shoving dried meat morsols around my plate, while he ate. She offered dessert. I asked if she had anything sugar free. Well, of course not. I told her to just take my meal off the ticket. She was very nice and kept apologizing for the poor quality of the ribs and assured me she'd just finished (you'll pardon the expression) raking her cooks over the coals. But the worst of it, even worse than going home hungry from Applebees is this, Daddy will not be happy about his perceived skinny baby not eating. Maybe he still has some of that chicken left.

Back to Black

2011-07-25T12:37:00.001-04:00

I often wonder what happens to talented young people when they hit their twenties. They've been told all their lives how wonderful they are, their art, their music, their intellect is so far above the norm that they stand out in the crowd. They not only stand out, they stand head and shoulders above it. When does that constant idolization of family and then new made fans become not enough? It seems that suddenly the more bizarre the behaviour the more outrageous the appearance the less the talent shines. I first heard Amy Winehouse several years ago. I can't remember what she was singing, it may have been Back to Black or You Sent me Flying...but her smokey jazz voice brought a faraway feel to the heart. You could listen to her, close your eyes and imagine yourself in a speak easy of the 30's or or in a front row seat at a high class night club. If you glanced behind you there would be other patrons dressed to the nines, band box bright. And through it all, Amy's voice was the tenuous thread keeping you rooted to the dream. Hers was not a rock voice, it was mellow and liquid and had she not fallen on drug addiction we would be listening to her long into the century.
There was another artist I admired, also not a country artist, not a jazz singer...a rock singer like almost no other. Janice Joplin lived life high and hard from the beginning, it seems. Of course the one I remember her for the most was Me and Bobby McGee...Janice could belt out a song like no body's business and when she was gone, there was no one like her ever again. She too was twenty seven years old. She too couldn't kick the habits of her youth. She too was missed almost immediately, her record sales going up. Like Amy's. Amy's record sales have gone through the roof. That's because there will be no more, no more smokey throated liquid lyrics sometimes emotional, sometimes slightly vulgar sometimes to vulgar for airplay, but no more all the same. I wish that the love and adoration of family and fans had been enough. I hope that lessons of her shattered life will serve as a warning for others in the same position. Sadly, it won't be.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QpuL7FpDeMA&feature=related

How many pecks in a bushel?

2011-07-11T10:20:00.002-04:00

Last year, Mac said he wasn't going to plant so many tomatoes. This was after our tomatoes were like zuchini in that we couldn't give them away. I canned and froze tomatoes and wrapped green ones in newspaper and stored them in the pantry. We were eating tomatoes at Thanksgiving. He grows some really great ones in these things he call "growtainers". They hold two plants each. He has four of them. The tomatoes get to be softball and bigger size. They make great sink sandwiches. He has the makings for four more of these growtainers out there. Okay, so that's eight tomato plants already bearing. But wait! He has nearly an acre planted in melons, beans, Armendian melons (a great cucumber), eggplant and peppers...we have strawberries (still putting on fruit) and YES we have TOMATOES. There are Celebrity, Mortgage Lifter (three different varieties) and lord knows what else. He even has some grafting stock to try grafting. Like we don't have enough already.
I saw this little marvel of a gadget on The Price is Right. It was called a Tomato Press. Okay, so lots of you already knew about this thing, but I didn't. So this weekend, I used it for the second time. I put on a big pan of boiling water and started blanching the baskets and baskets of tomatoes that were sitting on every available space in the kitchen and dining room. I just plopped the tomatoes, skin and all, into the hopper and started turning the handle. Out poured lovely tomato sauce. I put the skin and seed back through and got more juice...I worked for nearly an hour and ended up with ten quarts of lovely tomato for use in sauces of all kinds. And it made a pretty good juice, too.
I have just spent the last two hours watering the garden. I have watered the fruit trees and all the tomatoes, the strawberries and the eggplant. I watered the peppers (bell and HOT) and the flowers even got some attention for a change. Done with the front, I turned the hose over to Mac and came inside for a cup of coffee! Mac is down in the big garden watering now. I went down to take him a cold drink and he was shaking his head. "What's up?" I asked him. He looked around at the forty+ tomato plants (including the three he had planted on Saturday) and said "I'm not going to plant so many tomatoes next year." I nodded wisely, but a mental eye roll was what was going on in my head. Yep, I've heard that before!

A 4th of July Tribute

2011-07-03T22:15:00.000-04:00

I've often found it odd that almost every national holiday on our calendar is accompanied with a blow out sale. It seems almost obscene to hear the commercials this year while we celebrate our Nation's birthday. So many have died to protect our liberties and while I find parades and picnics, cookouts and family gatherings to be the very soul of the day, I have to ask. What is it with the sales? Today we celebrate our country's birth, her peoples contributions to the safety of others and we mourn the loss of all the men and women who shed their blood for her and for us. I am including in todays a post an original poem I wrote several years ago. Also, I am including a link to the song Arlington, by Trace Adkins. You may not be a country music fan, but only a stone would be unmoved by this...no, on second thought, that stone would weep. TO listen to it go here: http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=arlington+trace+adkins&aq=0&oq=Arlington

She buried her son today
by Sandi McBride

She buried her son today,
That is why she sits in the dark with her cloak of grief pulled tightly around her. That is why her eyes are empty, turned backward toward the past where he still plays , laughs...lives.
She buried her son today.
There is no consolement you can offer her that will lighten that grief and melt that capsule of ice that surrounds her heart and freezes her soul. She means no disrespect in her failure to acknowledge your carefully chosen words, your outpouring of support. At the moment she can not bring herself to reach out to you and accept your living warmth...she hugs her pain selfishly to herself separating herself from all but the one who was taken from her forever, the words God and Country an anathema for now.
She buried her son today.
And in her torment wonders had he lived, what great things he may have done to make a name for himself in this world, so that someone other than she remembers his name in years to come. What beautiful flashing eyed girl would have captured his heart? (His heart now beating in anther's chest, giving hope to some other woman who sits in some other room daring to smile because maybe, just maybe, her child would live to see another day.)
She buried her son today.
He was not her whole world, but a great portion of her world had revolved around him. There will never come a day that her thoughts will not turn to memories of his birth, his first steps, his first ballgame, his first love. She will forever see his sweet smile and clear unclouded eyes. (Eyes now viewing the wonders of the world while looking out from a strangers face.)
She buried her son today.
And just for a moment marvels that the things she loved about him still live on, that while they could not help her beloved boy maintain life, somewhere out there her darling's heart still beats, his eyes still see. But her grief lifts just for a moment. She knows that she will rejoice in his gift to mankind and his beloved Country in the future. Just not today. Today she buried her son.

In Simpler Times

2011-06-17T09:09:00.002-04:00

We hear it all the time, "I'd love to go back to simpler times and live life the way it was intended". In fits of madness, I have said the same thing myself and I actually lived in those simpler times. Funny, they didn't seem so simple at the time. We had no microwave, our radios came from Japan and were called Transistors (and I loved mine even when it couldn't pick up a channel that was right down the road...Donnie Goodale was the disc jockey. Whatever happened to Donnie? I should google him and find out. Now that's not something I could do back in the simpler days. There were no cell phones. Our telephones had party lines and that's where a lot of folk got their news about their neighbors. It put a whole new spin on the term "eavesdropping". There was no a/c and when we had heat waves like we are in now, we kept every light in the house most determinedly in the OFF position, kept the drapes drawn to keep out the heat and the rooms with their high ceilings were actually cool. Well, coolish I suppose.

We ate our main meal at noon and called it dinner. We still call the noon meal dinner even though we eat far to much at what is supper and should be a light repast to get us through til breakfast. When did all that change? It probably didn't change for the farm families still out there, and I've tried to change us back to the old time way of eating. It's a hard job to change a generation of habit, I've found. We had no microwaves to make the preparations of meals a bit easier and faster, but we did have a toaster. It mainly burned the bread when you weren't looking and we all learned to spot the signs of scraped toast. We hated the taste of burnt toast at first then got used to it till I have to have mine so near burnt that it could use a bit of scraping. Where I once had to pile that homemade jelly on to give it an acceptable taste, I find that I now have to have that slightly scorched taste to make breakfast taste like breakfast.

Given all that, I can remember hearing my grandparents complain that times were changing to fast and they wished they could go back and live when times were simpler. Overhearing this, I would wonder how far they wanted to go back. No electricity, no cars, I mean how much more simple could life get than we had it in the 50's and 60's! I know one thing, I don't want to go back to simpler, I like my a/c, my fast truck, my cd's and dvd's, my microwave and dish that gets me 500 channels (but only shows three shows at one time that you'd admit to watching). No way would I go back to simple. That is proven to me every time we have a storm so severe that we lose power! For the first half hour we talk about how people used to live without power (this while we're looking for the nonexistent candles) for the next hour we're on the phone calling the power company to make sure they know what's going on...you know, power is out come fix it NOW. If it lasts for more than a couple of hours, boredom usually drives you to take a nap or fight. If the nap wins over the fighting everyone is glad that no one had to go to jail. That in itself is a good thing. So, simpler times anyone? Please Lord, NO.

A Mailman by any other name

2011-05-26T12:59:00.000-04:00

The mail has always fascinated me. From the time I was a small child, I wanted to be the recipient of mail I could hold in my hand, mail where my name appeared in the little glassine window proudly proclaiming that this piece of mail belonged to me and me alone. Once after coming upon a postage paid advert card in one of my grandmother's magazines, I carefully filled out the details, including my name and Mammy's address and phone number then popped it into the mail box. I didn't get mail from them, but my grandparents got some rather annoying calls for years from them trying to sell hearing aids to my perfectly hearing elders...and after all that, for me still no mail.

It seems that no matter what town you live in, your Post Office is one of the first places of which you want to know the location . You actively hunt down that (usually) brick facade, the familiar Eagle insignia posted on the wall with the words United States Post Office. The grounds are well kept and nice shrubs usually skirt the front of the building. The towns in our county are lucky to have some lovely examples of architecture. Chesterfield and Cheraw especially come to mind. It would be a pity to lose these buildings to progress. They have meant so much to so many people over the years, from the Mail Carriers to the workers behind the counter, always smiling always friendly and available to give information you might need. They've even helped with directions to unfamiliar places.

As a young Navy wife, the mail carrier was always someone I looked forward to seeing come up our walkway as he delivered mail from Mac who was often far from home aboard a ship. I wouldn't wait to get inside the house to open the letters that arrived but would rip them open and begin devouring the words right there on the porch before I turned to walk back into the house, mail still clutched in ever tightening fingers. This was my link with someone I loved and missed.

The singing group Alabama had a song out about the rigors of mail delivery that covered the history of America's mail service from the Pony Express right up thru delivery in space. At the time no one had heard of e-mail or even dreamed of it. In the cities I lived in here in the US they were Letter Carriers, in England they were Posties (and walked right in the front door to lay the mail on the entry hall table) and of course collectively they are mostly known as Mailmen, weather they are male or female. I was in awe of our Rural carriers who could sit in the middle of the front seat, drive the car while reaching for the mail bundle at their side as they pulled up to the mailbox without knocking it down. Here in the south we of course know our Postmen by name. In Chesterfield it was at first Scott then it was Bonnie...here we have Jimmy. Their cars are personal vehicles with many miles on the odometers. Sometimes we see the familiar mail Jeep, but not often. Don't get me wrong, the job is still hard the hours still long, the roads still rough and it's not one I'd want to take on myself. I had still much rather be the recipient than the deliverer. Do I appreciate our Postal Carriers? You're darned right I do...here's to all the Jimmy's out there, still doing the hard work.

All In the Merry Month of May

2011-05-09T13:22:00.000-04:00

I am not sure why it is so, but the month of May is not one of, but my most favorite month of the year. I start looking forward to it in April when the words "April showers bring May flowers" is on every body's lips. It's the month when all the trees are fully clothed, blossoms have pretty much begun to turn to fruit and best of all the Strawberries are in season. I find myself in McBee at least four times during May, headed for the Strawberry stands...(you notice I did not say patch...I'm afraid if I picked my own I would eat far more than I deliver to the shed to be weighed and paid for). May is so lovely and cool in the mornings, you can get your yard work done without suffering heat stroke and so warm in the afternoon that a fit of lazies washes over you like honey from the comb. Sitting on the porch can bring on a case of the dozies for sure, a cat in my lap and a book in my hands, a tall glass of iced tea at my elbow. Even the word "May" gives you a warm feeling...yes you may, mother may I, which puts me in mind of the games we played in childhood that had nothing to do with a game of wii. Mother May I, Red Light Green Light, Red Rover Red Rover and best of all was "Coming to See".

How many of you remember the game of Coming to See...it was a game we played inside and out...we would build little houses under the elm trees at Mammy's house blocking out our little dirt wall bounderies. We'd set up little table and chairs made from stumps and pieces of tree limbs, describe our imaginary curtains to our neighbors who "came to see" us. Our little houses were always close together and extremely visible in our mind's eyes. As cousin Becky described her gingham curtains hanging at her kitchen window, I could see the blue in the check and knew that a white ribbon held them back for the sun to shine in. As cousins Kay and Crystal came to visit me I would proudly point out the new breakfront I had lately installed to hold the dishes that were made of leaf and pebbles in fact, but porcelain in imagination. We played all this under the canopy of Elms next to Mammy's house. But if it was raining, we played just as happily in the three bedrooms upstairs, only we had actual furniture to display, not the gossamer furniture designed and distributed totally from our imaginations.

May 12 is also Mama's birthday. And I remember the Strawberry pie that she made for us with the first batch of strawberries that came into the house. Mama was such a great cook, I don't think she ever made anything that wasn't perfect. For her birthday I'm going to give you a gift from her since she is no longer with us to receive a gift. I'm sure she'd be quite happy with this arrangement. So, here's Mama's recipe for Strawberry Pie. Keep in mind that you can substitute the sugar with any sugar substitute you like. I use Splenda, but whatever you prefer. Happy Birthday, Mama

Mama's Fresh Strawberry Pie

4 cups fresh strawberries

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 cup sugar (or splenda works just as well)

1/2 tsp baking powder

Line a baked pie shell with 2 cups of fresh strawberries and take the remaining 2 cups of berries and cook with the cornstarch blended in with the sugar and baking powder until clear and thick. Pour the cooked berries over the fresh ones after it has cooled. Top with whipped cream. This will be the only Strawberry Pie recipe you'll ever crave!

If it's Spring, can Summer be far behind?

2011-05-02T07:53:00.002-04:00

If it's Spring, can Summer be far behind?

I spent my Sunday afternoon doing something I've looked forward to for weeks now. I packed up the winter clothes to banish them to the back room closet for at least six months! Gone are the days of sweaters and scarves, coats and boots, earth tones and dingey grays. I checked each garment carefully for any repairs that may need doing, making sure they were pristine clean for their banishment. The ones who were candidates for the ragbag were tossed carelessly aside, no longer repairable or even wanted. I took down the button tin from the top shelf and prepared to cut the buttons from those ragbag frocks. I remembered Mammy's (my grandmother) button tin, a big old coffee can (Lousianne Coffee with Chicory) which we loved to plunder through as children. She had such beautiful buttons in the depths of that can, they were like minor works of art. I remember her going through the buttons to add to a blouse she or my mother might be making and she would match them in size and color though not in appearance and make a blah blouse a wow blouse. Very innovative, was our Mammy.

So, now the winter things are packed in a box and ready to be put into the back of the closet. Funny how my Spring clothes get hung on the rail, not packed into boxes. It would be like packing the sunshine away to hide those sweet pastels and bright yellows in a box. I drew out the first of them, a warm yellow blouse with soft pale yellow slacks. I pulled it to my face and smelled the lavendar and rosemary sachet that had kept them company all winter and fall. It made me smile. I don't suppose the youth of today think about making their own sachets when they can just go into the nearest store and buy them. Or can they? Do they even know what a sachet is? Do they know how to make that little envelop of linen, stuffing it with dried herbs and spices so to scent your delicates or your closet?

So there I was, bringing out the bright colors and hanging them on my side of the closet and in walks Mac.

"So, whatcha doing?" asks he.

"Packing up the winter stuff, bringing out the summer stuff, " I reply. Oh, I was doing so much more than that. He could never understand.

He looks at his side of the closet, the jeans, the khakis the dress pants and long sleeved shirts mixed with the short sleeved shirts, the belts and ties. He snorts a laugh and wonders aloud why HIS side of the closet never gets the attention that mine does.

"What's the point?" I ask. "You're sort of a guy for all seasons. A one size fits all..." Lets face it, I gave up on getting him to wear bright colors and yes, even pink, years ago. In the long run, his refusal to wear fashion gives me more time to play on my own side of the closet! I'm a selfish wench!

The Baptisms

2011-04-25T08:59:00.002-04:00

Week before last we held a Baptism at Douglas Mill Baptist Church. It was the first Baptism to which I've been witness since returning to my home Church. Actually, just walking in the front door door is forever a source of amazement to me. It is so very different from the Church of my childhood that it boggles my mind.

I spent every summer with my Grandparents, Dwight and Nancy Douglas, from a small child into my teens. I was a Summer Baptist, you understand. A Catholic girl when at home with my parents, a Baptist girl when with the elders during the summertime. The Douglas Mill of my childhood had broad planked wooden floors and hard backed pews, burned oil in a big old oil burner for warmth in winter and wooden window sticks for air conditioning to cool you in the summer...oh and those wonderful Miller Rivers Funeral Home fans on a stick for constant movement of said air. The pulpit was a simple wooden stand to hold Preacher Entzminger or Preacher Giffen's Bible, a simple wooden chair to rest in during singing. We had Deacons but they took up the offering and as far as I can remember never sat either side of the Preacher during the Sermon.

So, last Sunday I was witness to a Baptism that took place in the Baptismal water that is directly behind the Pulpit. Preacher Wayne had accepted that Harley and Will knew their hearts and had accepted Christ as their Savior and proceeded to make their knowledge Word. I watched them along with other family members as these two young people made their way into the water and Preacher Wayne took care of the rest. I couldn't help but remember the days when Baptisms only took place in late Spring and Summer. The entire congregation would walk down to Douglas Mill Pond and the Preacher would take the person down into the pond water to baptize them. In my mind I see them dressed in white sheets, but I'm sure it was Baptismal robes only worn for this special occasion. I can hear the singing as we walked down to the pond, the voices rising with pure joy as we went, I AM A POOR WAYFARING STRANGER.... listen to Trace Adkins bring it home...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXX0S9P1SUo&playnext=1&list=PL68A5F68E91A00717

So, now in our little church by the roadside (where everyone is someone) we have stained glass in the place of plain window glass, the carpet is appropriately red, the pews offer comfort rather than rigidity and the Pulpit is still plain but oddly lovely. There are three chairs behind the Pulpit, one for the Preacher and one each for the Deacons, though I've never seen a Deacon sit there. We have central air and heat and no longer can you raise a window to get a breeze. But that's okay, there are ceiling fans to keep that air moving. But still, I missed my little Miller Rivers Funeral Home fan of long ago. My grandparents and Uncle Gary and Aunt Edith (Douglas) would be so pleased to see the changes that a constant congregational offering has wrought. It's such a lovely little Church that anyone would be happy to attend the Services. But I can still see the original rough draft and can smell the honeysuckle scent that came through the upraised windows, held open with simple wooden sticks. I can see my grandmother on the second pew, fanning a grandbaby with that little fan. I can feel the texture of the religious tracts she kept in her Bible, the ones we would read when the Preacher's sermon became to long and complicated to keep our attention. My favorite was always the one about the man who wept because he had no shoes till he saw the man who had no feet. Yes, our little Church is lovely, but my memories of how she was are precious to me. Nostalgia causes lumps in throats and hitches in hearts. I wouldn't trade the way Douglas Mill Baptist Church is today for that church of long ago, but the memories, I wouldn't take a million dollars for a one of them.

Daddy and the Lady Banks Rose

2011-04-21T06:57:00.004-04:00

We moved back to Chesterfield County in 1989 after Mac retired from the Navy. I had told him that since I had followed him all over the world for so many years, it was time for him to follow me, and that I was going to Chesterfield. Like any sensible man, he followed. My parents were happy that we were settling nearby and that they would get to be closer to their grandsons.

Mama, who was a master gardener in all but degree, was eager to share her plant knowledge with Mac and me. She took us all over their massive yard pointing out the beds of roses, the scattering of daffodils in the woods and in particular the Lady Banks Rose that was growing up the side of the garage. She had planted it as a stripling about 12 inches high and had pampered it and babied it for six years. Now in January, she was anxious to show us how she had placed brackets on the garage to secure it to so that it was 15 or so feet up and then swagging down. She told us the blooms this year would be spectacular and it would occur around Easter. I shared in her excitement and everytime I went to visit was greeted by the site of the bare limbed Lady Banks. I would go over and examine it for signs of first leaf.

Okay, now Daddy had a pair of loppers that he used to trim the trees to keep their branches from assaulting him when he was riding the mower or driving the car down the drive. He loved those loppers. They weren't much to look at as loppers go, but they were kept lovingly oiled and ready for action on a hook on the wall inside the garage.

Weekends starting in early spring were dedicated to neatening up flower beds, opening garden plots out back for the veggies that Mama grew with pride and aplomb and general yard work and weeding was carried out. Our younger son Michael enjoyed spending weekends at his "sweet little Grandma's". He didn't mind helping out there, though I couldn't get him to turn his hand in the yard at home. I would go to pick him up and take the chance to admire the Lady Banks and ooh and ahh over the new leaves it was putting on. It really was going to be glorious this year, I could tell. So one warm Saturday morning, I took Michael to spend the day at Grandma's. Daddy was out and about, no suit and tie but dressed in his yard work gear, a well worn pair of khaki shorts an old plaid shirt and faded green hat on his head. Oh, and loppers in hand. He had trimmed the magnolia tree limbs and was clearing the circle of dead branches and weeds that Mama and the kids had pulled. He waved at me as I dropped Michael off. I glanced at the beauty of the Lady Banks and dreamed of having one like it one day.

So it's about 4:30 that afternoon when the phone rings. On the other end, Michael is breathless with something akin to fear. "Mom, you've got to come here quick, Grandma is going to kill Grandpa!"

Okay, now having heard Mama threaten to kill Daddy at least 100 times a year for most of my life, I'm not getting so excited over this piece of news. Stifling a yawn, I ask him casually "so, what did Grandpa do this time?" A tremble

was in voice, he couldn't hide it. "He lopped off Grandma's Lady Banks." I sat straight up, rigid with anger of my own.

"Go tell Grandma to hold on I'm on my way."

"So you're gonna stop her?" he wanted to know.

"Oh no, I'm going to help her!" I told him, a deadly calm in my voice. I heard him yelling "run Grandpa run!"

Okay, so we didn't kill him. But Mama took his loppers away. He was not allowed to use them without strict supervision and only when Mama saw the need of them. Funny, but she didn't feel the need of their use for many years after that...
oh and ps:
yes, I do have a Lady Banks Rose, she is 10 feet high and no one but no goes near her with anything sharper than a camera lens.

Dudley Cock of the Walk

2011-04-11T10:46:00.001-04:00

People who follow my blog all know about my cock eyed Rooster, Dudley. He came to live with us when his former owners' dogs tried to eat him sans dumplings. He showed up in the yard, tail feathers ripped out, one wing injured and just in a very sad way. Except for his voice, that is. His voice was as strong and vibrant as ever it had been. Mac very generously went to the feed store and bought cracked corn for bedraggled rooster, but he preferred to eat cat food with the cats. Yes, you read that correctly. Dudley (as in Dudley Doright) has a fan club of cats and and kittens. We haven't decided if he thinks he's a cat or they think they are roosters, but they get along together very well. The kittens will even cuddle up to him to sleep when Dudley calls his day done.

Dudley's tail feathers have grown in so thick and luscious in irridescent colors of green and purple that I feel sure he has a guardian angel in the late Mr Will Eddins. Mr Will raised some of the most beautiful roosters ever seen. And not for any reason other than the sure joy of their beauty. Our old boy never leaves the place, he's cock of the walk and sings all day long. He greets the sun before the sun even thinks about coming up, he hits the hay before Mr Sun says good night. I put out cat food twice a day and Dudley always races me to the food bowl, he and his favorite kitten, SuzieQ. Yes, he has a favorite kitten. The little black ball of fluff often gets her catnap next to Dudley out in the garden where he has scoouched out a warm nest of dirt. The cats are all very protective of their big odd brother. I've seen them gather around him, circling the wagons as it were, if they felt he might be in danger. I've never seen anything like it before, nor do I expect to see anything like it again. Sometimes I think God scatters little jokes amongst our lives to lighten us up. After all, I can't take anything to seriously as long as Dudley has his flock of cats.

Earthquakes and local disasters

2011-03-22T08:30:00.001-04:00

I woke up this morning wearing a blanket of cats. JJ and Hound were wrapped around my head and Pyewackit and Caroline were clinging to my feet. BatGirl had long since gone outside but I could hear her mourning her lack of thumbs to get the back door open to get in, so I got up. I turned on the coffee pot (if you can legitimately call the Keurig machine a coffee pot) grabbed my cup and shooed the furrbies away all the while letting the yowling swearing BatGirl in. I plopped some cat chow in their bowl and demanded they leave me alone. Turning on the tv to catch the early news, I sat down with my coffee and had to swat the crazy cats off me yet again. Mac was getting up, and I heard him telling JJ to get off his feet and leave him alone. "What in the world is wrong with this kitten?" he was asking as he put his cup under the deliverer of wonderful brew. "Couldn't say, they have been very clingy even before I got up. I thought I had an electric blanket on my head, " I told him. The news came up and we sipped and watched.

Charlotte had their normal 2 or three shootings, the usual fire or three, the normal amount of burglaries and even mentioned an earthquake in Chesterfield County. WHAT?! Seems an earthquake of 2.9 hit our county this morning, causing a bit of a shake up, but nothing thank God of the sort that has hit Japan. But still, we don't get earthquakes very often. It's why we don't live in California, after all. We don't want to live where the house shakes and walls tilt and books fly off shelves. So now I know why the cats were so spooked. They were not trying to protect us, I am sure...they wanted to know why we were not up and fleeing the scene. I'm surprised I didn't find packed luggage by the door. Of course there would only be Temptations Cat Snacks and Cat Chow inside...but still. They're pretty smart these furrbies of ours.

Understandably, I wasn't surprised to hear my home county mentioned on national news. Unfortunately it's beginning to be a pretty common occurance. Chesterfield County has been undergoing a barrage of bad press because of some horrendous happenings at our Animal Shelter (tongue in cheek on calling it a shelter) and I will be writing more on the horrible things we have uncovered when SLED is finished with it's investigation of the Sheriff's Office and the officers involved in what can only be called a crime in anyone's book. I want to be able to write without crying. Well, that's all for now, I'm headed out to plant flowers and enjoy this early summer weather. I'm beginning to think there may be something to this 2012 thing since it's only March and we've already had several days of 80+ weather and expect it to hit 84 today. All in all, it's been a pretty exhausting month one way or the other. Hope your day is a good one.

My Love Hate relationship with Facebook

2011-03-21T07:08:00.000-04:00

Everyone was doing it. I heard so many stories about the fantastic features of Facebook, I began to believe the hype. Bloggers were abandoning their blogs for the convenience of it. They were throwing away their marvelous stories to keep up with people they once knew, barely knew, thought they knew or regretted they knew. Heck, some of them they never knew. What's worse some of these new old friends knew things best left forgotten. Quite a few of them were losing their jobs, finding out that free speech isn't quite as free if you are out there talking trash about your employers worker bees. So why, I wanted to know, was everyone so lady gaga over this site. Okay, admitting my folly, I fell into the pool along with the rest, hoping I wouldn't drown, dog paddling like hell just trying to keep my head above water.

After signing up on Facebook, at the urging of blogging friends and family, I had over 90 friends the first day. Mac came along and looked at my screen and asked when I had signed up. "Today, " I admitted "And I haven't even done a lot with it yet." He shook his head and asking of no one in particular, " and how do you get 90 friends in one day of doing not a lot?" I had to admit I didn't know. I mean, yes, I knew a goodly number of these people that I had friended. Most of course were people who read my blog. Some were family. Others were friends of friends who because I knew their friend thought they might like to be my friend. Yes, I was confused too.

Of friends on Facebook, the most unforgiving are family. They will "unfriend" you the moment you disagree with anything they say about anyone also in your family. They are allowed to call your sister (their mother) any number of foul things, and if you try in the least to raise a hand of discipline, (via Facebook wall postings) Bob's your Uncle, you're unfriended! Many of my younger family members apparently missed out on the "airing your dirty laundry" lesson given by my Grandmother, Nancy Douglas. She always preached to us that if we made mistakes in life, they were a family matter and not to be aired in public like so much dirty laundry. Well, I have noticed a lot of dirty laundry wafting in the Facebook breezes. And I wish they would stop it. I have signed off the site twice now, and feeling the urge to sign off once more. I just have one bone to pick with a certain someone about they way they are talking about someone I happen to love dearly. If they don't like it, they can unfriend me. Please.

Where is that lying little rodent hiding now?

2011-03-09T12:59:00.000-05:00

Well I'm over my first flu illness in more years than I care to count. Something went wrong after I retired. My body started working against me. Where before I was like super woman, never getting sick, injuries healing in record time , working twelve hour shifts then coming home to work four more inside and out without batting an eye, to this. (I can hear Peggy Lee singing "I am woman, W O M A N" in the background.) I refuse to let the weather changes make an invalid or a hostage of my spirit, whatever it may do to my body. While my body may cringe at the thought of rain, my spirit knows we need to break the drought that has taken hold of our state. We've started the planting and come wind (OMG the wind!) hell or high water, we're going to get some veggies out of this ground! The peas have popped up, the garlic is doing well and the tomato plants are showing off their little green leaves . I have a feeling that lying little rodent Pauxatauny Phil may be a liar, but we have a heater in the green house, so raspberry to you dear Phil.

This has been the coldest and roughest winter in many of our memories, I'm sure. We had more snow than usual, so much in fact that the only state left snowless was Hawaii. I normally love snow. But I love the magical snow, you know, here today gone tomorrow. Not this here today gone next month stuff with which we've been ~~damned~~ blessed. Our peach trees, plum trees and pear trees are all blooming, the apple tree is holding tight buds, and we've had 32 degree temps three days this week. Luckily the low temps don't last long, so I think we may be alright. I can only hope and pray that we stay above 32 til Spring finally arrives for real. It's a scary thought, but that Mayan Calendar thing might be on to something!

And the flu has gone all Egypt on my ass

2011-02-22T12:40:00.001-05:00

I'm sick. Funny, I got the flu shot when everyone was haranguing me over its benefits. Yet, here I am. Temp this morning 101. Better than the last three days orf 103, but still. I'm sick. Mac spent a night in the hospital for rapid (excess of 180) heartbeat again. We spent two full days and a night there with the sick and afflicted all around us. He took his flu shot, too. He's not sick. Yet. However our son Wallace and I are. Sick that is. We have Mac mostly straightened out and on blood thinners (he's doing lovenox right now, or at least I give him the injections twice a day for a week. I crawl off my death bed and warn him I'm to weak to chase him down. He hates needles. He sees I'm sick. He behaves.

I'm sick. I'm sure I got it at the hospital and wonder to whom I would complain about it. It appears I have no recourse but to lie on the couch and attempt to recover. Today is not as bad as Friday was. Friday night was awful. I spent more time in the bathroom than in bed for two days. I did everything at a crawl. Still do. It's taken me 2 hours to write this.

Yes, the flu has gone all Egypt on my ass, I'll be glad when the revolution is over.

Temper Temper!

2011-01-20T17:54:00.000-05:00

The header is my new one for the winter. This is what it looked like for nearly 2 weeks. There was ten inches of snow then three or four inches of ice on top of that and when I looked out the back door I knew we weren't going anywhere. Not anytime soon. Or as my Bubbles (Violet Loxley) would say, if the snow is shiny, it will hurt your hiney.

So we've sort of been stuck in here together for days, getting on each others nerves. War broke out once or twice, but luckily older son was iced in with us and acted as referee. It could have gotten bad, but at least we never lost power. That in itself was a blessing from heaven. We had to go rake snow off the satellite a couple of times but other than that, we kept each other entertained with tales of who had cabin fever to the nth degree, me or him.

Funny how much I love snow. I mean I love our kind of snow, the here today gone tomorrow kind of snow. Then we got Jersey Snow. The snow that is here today and here tomorrow and still here in April. Yes, I've lived through snow where Evil Sister and I had to hack a path from her back door to mine so we could play hours of Scrabble. That was called keeping ourselves sane. And the kids never missed a day of school. The snow was half way up the picture window and they had school. Chesterfield County in 1987 had 1 inch and the school was closed for days. The boys really hated that. A lot.

So here we are, with Jersey Snow, and high winds on top of that. Mac had a colonoscopy scheduled for last Friday, but we couldn't get out to get the solution and tab he had to take. So, it's was rescheduled for tomorrow.

I looked forward to getting out of here on my own Monday. I dressed in my best wool slacks with my cashmere sweater, the beautiful shawl my sister Toni gave me and my fur hat. I looked pretty good, if I do say so myself ,it made my spirits hum. Put on my lipstick, grabbed my bag and hit the porch. Slid three feet to the gate, looking to be sure no one saw me, straighted my hat and walked gingerly to the truck. I was in such good humor!

Now, we have had one insurance company for years, Tricare...most of the meds are mail order, but we get things like this from CVS and have never ever had a problem. I waltzed into CVS Pharmacy, handed over the prescription and went to wander around the store while they filled it. I heard someone calling my name, and got over to the counter as quickly as I could. The lady behind the counter told me that the insurance company had declined to pay because we had other insurance. I asked what DOB she had used. It was the right one. I asked if it was Tricare. It was. She said she would call them to see what might be the problem.

So, she gets someone on the line and begins to explain that the prescription was being turned down for payment and that the customer claimed no other insurance. She was nodding and rolling her eyes and she looked at me and asked if I would like to talk to her. I narrowed my eyes and held out my hand for the phone.

"Now, just what seems to be the problem here?" I asked her.
"Well, " she says, "it appears that you have another insurance that should cover this, madam, and you should use that one before trying to make the government pay."

Remember the little girl in The Exorcist, the one whose head spun around and she began to spit green soup? Well, no, I didn't do all of that, but I did choose my words carefully. "Now, you listen to me, I don't know where you are, but I can assure you that where ever you are, my husband spent a lot of time keeping you safe. It's a pity that a man can put thirty years in the Navy and then you make a statement like that! My husband's time in service has more than paid for any medication or medical treatment that this government, such as it is, provides. We only have the insurance that we have had for the past 21 years the one that you are trying to represent. I suggest you fix this error and quickly. And DON'T CALL ME MADAM!" I handed the phone back to the lady behind the Pharmacy counter. She was smiling from ear to ear. She kept saying "yes, yes, of course. No the customer is still here, we'll take care of it right now."

She hung up as I was straightening my hat again and looked out at me and told me that they had taken the red flag off the account and the order would be filled. Then she started laughing outright.

"Mrs. McBride, I don't know when I've enjoyed a conversation with an insurance company more. And might I say, you looked quite elegant up there on your high horse!" I started to laugh with her, and told her I might need some help getting down from it to insure I didn't do myself an injury. I don't know when I've enjoyed losing my temper more!

The Pie Chart

2011-01-10T20:01:00.001-05:00

As I know a lot of you are aware, I recently celebrated a birthday (on the 7th as it happens). When I got up that morning I felt rested and energetic enough to take the wild tail girlie (a mix of some ungodly breeds of dogs who are apparently site hounds and Heinz 57 doesn't even begin to cover it) for a walk in the early morning dew. I felt 20 something. I may walk with a limp, but my spirit is free of any such affliction. So we walked down through the woods and up the other side and she picked up the scents of rabbits and squirrels, deer and maybe a lynx or two...and dragged me through brambles and wild berry bushes, around pines and between two cedars growing together. When I finally made it back to the front porch, I was a bit winded but other than that in fine fettle. But I felt about 30 something. I unhooked Chase's leash (she is aptly named, believe me) when we got inside and gave her the expected treat. Faux bacon is her treat of choice barring a little ginger mailman with dog safe ingredients baked inside. I looked over at the Keurig and drooled. My very favorite Christmas present, it offers me any blend of wonderful coffees, Doughnut Shop, Kona, Black Silk, French Vanilla...you name it. So I went over to this little gem and putting my cup beneath it's spout, lifted the coffee tub holder and placed my coffee of choice in the slotted area. Black Silk by Folgers. Oh my. Pulled down the handle and saw the red flashing light which read "add water". Cursed the last person to make a cup and not check the water reservoir, and then drew up water from the Brita filter contraption that is attached to my faucet. By this time I had run swiftly through my 30's and the 40's were almost in my rear view mirror. It was only 7:30 in the morning. I brewed myself a cup of coffee without offering anyone else a cup, sat on the sofa with one leg tucked under me and watched the news of the morning and night before all the while letting that cup of coffee wash 10 years off my attitude. Ah, pleasure, just pure coffee addiction pleasure.

I had decided that this was the birthday I would ignore. After all, no one but me much ever remembered it anyway. I decided years ago that it was no big deal that Mac could never remember when my birthday was or even when our Anniversary falls, so deciding that since I'd already hit the big 60, no need to worry about such trite things as birthdays anymore. Then the Face book greetings started pouring in and I discovered that I really did care after all. It was pleasing to see all those lovely comments, even from people who have known me 30+ years. And a few who have known me 50+ whom I thought I'd offended years ago had found my face book page and made mention of the day. When I saw all that, I felt 20 again. Okay, so the afternoon approached quickly and we were trying to decide whether to run out to Roger's Smokehouse Restaurant for dinner or wait and take in breakfast with him the next morning. I chose breakfast, because the 50's had slipped by me somehow and I was really too tired to think about doing much more than grabbing a hot bath and flannel Jammie's and warm socks and reading the book (The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters) I'd started just after Christmas.

It was while I was preparing a quick supper of grits eggs and toast that it happened. I had taken down the grit pot (all Southern cooks know that once you have found the perfect grit pot, nothing but grits ever gets cooked in it) and put the water on to boil. I started looking for the lid to it (or led as I remember my Great Grandmother calling it). I looked on the counter, no lid. I looked in the pantry, no lid. I knew I'd just had the dingdanged thing so where could it have gone? I spent a good thirty minutes looking for the blamed thing. My mother always said that I was so high strung I could thread a sewing machine needle with it running. I let things get to me sometimes. Finally I just turned off the water and we had turkey sandwiches for supper. It really bothered me that I had misplaced the lid, and now I felt my 60+ years. After supper I went over to the kitchen table and picked up the book I'd been reading. And there it lay in shameless glory, the lid to the grit pot. Right then I remembered the cute thing that a friend had sent to me as a birthday joke and realized the truth of it. I spend way to much time these days looking for things that are always in the last place I look when I am no longer looking. Being highstrung may have few advantages, but at least I can laugh at myself when the search is over!

Of Cabbages and Kings and Hospital Things

2011-01-05T08:41:00.000-05:00

Okay, you all know Mac and how into his gardening he is, right? You know we're early risers and out and about checking on the collards, broccoli, cauliflower and cabbages. We even pulled a collard on Sunday and ate him right up with squash and field peas and cornbread. Unless you're from the South you probably don't know collards from succotash, but it's very similar to kale. Just better. So Mac planted these lovely plants from seed in August and babied and pampered them and we've watched them grow into these lovely huge leafy beasties. I was out there wandering amongst the beasties and choosing the one to "kill" for Thanksgiving. Mac, who is King of the garden, caught me fondling the large leafy beauty that was going to grace my cook pot. I had told him that since we'd had two frosts, I saw no reason to wait for Thanksgiving to have our first taste of heaven. I'd cook this lovely right up and we'd freeze what was left for Thanksgiving dinner. He fell for it hook line and garden shears.

Yesterday Mac did nothing of his normal routine. He got up early, sure. But he didn't go out to check the garden or the trees, he didn't shuck corn for the guinea hens. He said he didn't feel all that well and wrapped up in fleece blanket, lay back in his chair. I took his temperature, it was 97.4. He didn't have much of an appetite, in fact ate nothing all day, just nibbled. He had one cup of coffee and the rest of the day drank lemonade. I was concerned about him but whenever I asked how he was, he would only say that he felt some better. At 9:30 he announced he thought he would go to bed. At 10, I followed. At 2 a.m. I felt him get up and sit on the edge of the bed. I asked him if he was okay. He asked for his nitro spray and I got it for him. By 2:30 a.m. I had called 911 and gotten an ambulance on the way. When he had gotten up to get a drink, he collapsed into unconsciousness on the living room floor. I could not bring him around as hard as I tried. After 911 I called for my son Wallace to come help me. He finally came around but had no idea what had happened to him. Wallace let the squad members in and within a few minutes they were on the way to the hospital with him. Wallace, seeing I was in no shape to drive took over those duties. We made it to the ER seconds behind the ambulance. While on the road he had been given two medications to bring his heart rate down from the 200+ beats per minute. Having gotten him converted, he was awake and fully responsive by the time they let us back with him. But suddenly, while the nurse was checking his vitals, he went into a full blown seizure that I knew was serious because she lost her calm and began yelling "I need help in here guys, send me a Doctor stat". His face was grey, his eyes were wide open with pleading and his entire body was stretched out as if some unseen forces were trying to pull him apart. To say that Wallace and I were now in a state of panic is an understatement. I was begging God to help and telling Mac at the same time, we're here we're here.

Okay, this is where we were on November 18th, 2010. Funny, it doesn't seem to have been that long ago. I was sitting by his hospital bed after several harrowing hours in the ER and found I couldn't concentrate enough on anything but him. Wallace had brought me my laptop after he made a flying visit to the house to bring me clothes other than my night clothes. I sat in the world's most uncomfortable recliner, laptop in front of me and determined to make some sense of the past few hours. I failed miserably. He moved, I stopped. He groaned, I stopped. He called my name, I froze. So, putting the usually comforting laptop away and any idea of expressing my feelings about what was going on, I concentrated on his condition. The Cardiologist came in and expressed complete puzzlement over what might have occurred but offered any manner of tests that might offer an answer. By this time the children and grandchild and minister had arrived and Mac was converting to his John Wayne persona. "I'm fine, nothing going on here, I have work to get back to, leave me alone blah blah blah". The blah blah blah is where I quit listening to him and turned to the doctor and asked about the importance of having yet another catherazation even when he had passed a stress test with flying colors not three months previously. "If he were a family member of mine, he wouldn't leave here without it" pretty much sewed it up for me. Meanwhile, Mac was busy pulling the stitches out of my resolve. Finally I looked at the drawn faces around me, my older son in particular (he had been in the ER with me at the time of the unexplained seizure and near death experience, after all. "I need some help here, guys, " I demanded of them. Wallace looked at his father, his face pale his voice determined. "Dad, you don't understand, I thought we were watching you die." That did it. Mac simply laid back and gave in to our demands.

Where we stand now. The catherazion found a previously thought closed graft wide open and flowing blood like a champ. Why his heart rate went to over 200 we may never know, but he has had one episode of rapid heart rate since we returned home. He will have to wear a heart monitor for several weeks to keep track of any episodes we aren't aware of. The mystery may never be solved. But here's the thing...I have been hesitant to write of this episode because so many of my friends have experienced some devastating events that make mine pale in comparison. I have said so many prayers for them and their loved ones in the past few months, that I had put God on speed dial. I think in particular of Anya who recently lost a similar battle for her dear husband's life. I think I was suffering from survivor's guilt. I didn't want to share and yet I needed to share. I didn't want my friends who have been through such similar things and had a quite different outcome to think I was insensitive to their recent losses. But, here I am, 2011 and making another resolve to get out there and visit my friends and continue to keep on keeping on. After all, that's what life is all about, isn't it?

And Dudley Comes Home to Roost

2010-11-08T09:40:00.004-05:00

One day this past summer I was awakened by the sounds of a rooster crowing. Okay, so living in the country as we do, we often heard this rooster crowing of a morning, but this time it sounded as if it were actually under our window singing its head off. It was a happy rooster, happy to have a voice, happy to flap it's wings, happy to be alive. As we discovered later that same day , it's gladness was the latter more than the former. Our neighbors, Tara and Sam (he's Greek, so can't pronounce the last name much less spell it, therefore I won't trouble you with the minor details) have a farm complete with horses and cows, chickens and at one time even a goat, etc...and once they had plenty of barnyard cats too, but seems they've all migrated our way. So, as I've rambled way off the subject here,we'll get back to the rooster crowing beneath my window. Well, since he was sitting on the porch railing greeting the sun and the new day with a fervor I've hardly ever heard before, I had to get up and pull back the curtain to check. And yes, there he was. A beauty of a rooster, all luscious reds and bark browns, blacks of several different depths and he had an attitude. Later that day we discovered that he also had a number of tail feathers missing from his considerable plume. I asked Tara that evening if she was missing a member of their menagerie. Seems she was missing quite a few. Her doberman had gotten loose and gone on a chicken killing spree that defies description. The rooster of the flock was lucky to escape with the few tail feathers he had left attached to his backside. He had made a hasty departure through the woods to seek asylum(looney bin?) with us. I'm not sure if he figured the myriad cats were a protection from or a distraction for the dog. But he made it safely here, and here he stays.

Now, I know having a rooster in residence isn't much of a big deal for a lot of people. It's not much of a big deal for us either since luckily we have plenty of corn and seed on hand to feed the squirrels guineas and song birds. But the oddest thing of all is the rooster much prefers cat food. And he prefers to eat the cat food out of the cat food dishes. And he prefers to eat it with the cats. The first time I saw Dudley (as we have since named him) eating with the cats I could only stand and watch. That he tolerated the cats was not what amazed me. That they tolerated him as a dinner companion rather than dinner...now that really got my attention. The first time he raced me to the food dish (starting at a dead run from 1/2 an acre away, he beat me handily) made me laugh out loud. I've never seen a rooster running with cats before. Away from them, yes, with them no. This has been going on for months now. I think it's safe to say that Tara and Sam no longer have a rooster. Their Guineas (hens) claimed us as family at roughly the same time. The guineas only capture Dudley's attention once in a while at which time he will condescend to eat a morsal or two of corn with them. But mostly, he likes the cats.

Now that fall is upon us Dudley goes to roost on the porch railing at around 5 pm each evening. He prefers it if we will kindly not be banging in out of the front door from 5 on. He needs his rest. He begins his sympony to dawn somewhere roughly between 3 am and 0dark30. I've asked Craig, our neighbor on the other side to stop referencing dumplings whenever he sees Dudley. It's giving him a complex.

The Banana Split Cake

2010-11-03T10:27:00.001-04:00

Last time I was here we were on our way to Magnolia Alabama for a family reunion. Mac drove long enough to remember how much he hates Atlanta traffic and happily gave the wheel to Michael, who drives amazingly well for a baby son. When we reached Selma, Alabama I was so glad to be out of a moving vehicle, no matter who was driving, that I could have kissed the pavement. We were there for the Sealy family reunion and very nearly held it at the motel. I think our family had booked the entire bottom floor. It was like a gigantic slumber party, what with walking up and down the halls visiting brothers sisters nieces and nephews, snacking on every imaginable thing that the snack food conglomerates throw at you, plus this one thing that niece Sherry had brought along. She called it a Banana Split Cake. She had made and brought three of them. They were residing in the refrigerator of her motel room and she promised everyone a piece of it even before the Sunday reunion dinner. Mind you, these dishes of heavenly promise measured 13x9 inches long and promised to make our dreams come true. It seems that cake was the topic of conversation every time I saw any of them. Turns out it's a Paula Deen recipe and I knew right away it was going to be winner. Unfortunately it was not a winner that I would be able to share in. Just looking at it had me in danger of going into a month long sugar coma. Sherry began to tell me exactly how it was made and I lost consciousness somewhere around the two cups of confectioners sugar and the two sticks of butter. Yes, I said two sticks of butter. (I did mention it's a Paula Deen recipe?)
So late on Saturday night after Mac had had his third or maybe fourth helping of this incredible cake, I had to warn them that they were in danger of having nothing left for the family reunion dinner. One pan had been consumed and the mob in the corridor were eyeing the refrigerator thru the doorway. I didn't hold out much hope for it's survival. I was right. But then I frequently am.

So we made it home from the reunion which was wonderful. Seeing family members we hadn't seen in years was worth the long trip. Aunt Jeanne looked like a movie star, it was hard to believe she is in her late 70's. Such a great lady and so welcoming and warm to her family.

So when we got home I talked to SIL Betty and she sent me the recipe for the marvel of a cake. I knew I'd probably make it for Thanksgiving but also knew that I'd not be able to taste it, the diabetes would prevent even a smidgen. I tucked it away for another day.

Saturday I went to the grocers and as I was going down the baking aisle came across a new product. It was a sugar free confectioners sugar by Ideal (tr). I read it several times before I could believe my eyes. But yes, sure enough there it was. They even had a sugar free brown sugar. I dug my cell phone out of my purse and called home to get Mac to look up the recipe so I could be sure I had everything I needed. I made the Banana Split Cake on Sunday, after Church. I prepared a bowl of it for afters that night. Angels sang. We wept with joy. No, really, we wept with joy...okay so we didn't weep but we were happy. I'm including the recipe and for those of you who don't care if they go into a sugar coma, just substitute the real thing for all the sugar free stuff. But you won't be sorry if you prepare it exactly as I say. Angels will sing. Weeping will be simulated. You will be happy diners, I promise!

BANANA SPLIT CAKE

Banana Split Cake

Crust:

1 1/2 sticks butter

2 cups graham cracker crumbs

Filling:

2 eggs (I used pasteurized eggs since they are raw)

2 sticks butter
2 cups Ideal Sugar Free Confectioners sugar

4 or 5 bananas, ripe and sliced

1 large can crushed pineapple (sugar free), well drained

2 cartons sugar free Kool Whip

Chopped nuts

Chopped cherries

To make crust: Melt butter; mix with crumbs. Press into a 13 x 9 x 2 inch baking pan. Bake in 350 degree oven for 1about 15 minutes and let cool.

To make filling: Beat the eggs, margarine and powdered (confectioners) sugar together, beating no less than 15 minutes. Filling must be light and fluffy.Spread over crust. Place sliced bananas over filling, then spoon pineapple over bananas. Cover all with Kool Whip, add chopped cherries (maraschino) and sprinkle with chopped walnuts or pecans. Refrigerate til ready to eat.

Birthdays and Anniversaries, they're the thing!

2010-10-08T08:42:00.001-04:00

So, birthdays and anniversaries seem to be the norm for us this fall. I haven't written about Evil Sister or Good Sister in a long time. Not that Evil Sister isn't any less sassy or Good Sister any less, well, Good...it's just that ES hasn't put any forks through deserving husbands hands lately and GS hasn't had any particularly spooky morgue encounters. They are always worthy of my attention and my computer skills and today both of them are on my mind. Well, lets see where we start. Evil Sister, I wish you and Poor Brother a very happy and blessed 42 Anniversary! It seems like either yesterday or a century ago, doesn't it? How did we manage to stay married to the same and only men all these years? (Mac and I celebrate our 42 on the 15th of this month). I believe it may be the upbringing of stern Grandmothers (how often did we hear "you made your bed, now lie in it?) who counseled that marriage was sacred and not to be taken lightly. Well, you didn't take it lightly and the two of you had your share of ups and downs but far more ups , which may be the answer to life. I hope that the two of you spend the day doing exactly what you want to do, be it celebrating or nothing at all. Congratulations to two very dear and beloved friends.

Good Sister was being born about the time we were getting married, and she celebrates her birthday today. GS has had such a turn around in her life these days. Finally in a romance that might just make the grade on the turn around , she has stars in her eyes for the first time in a long time. Even though it is a long distance romance, they see each other as often as their jobs allow and travel permits. Today she will be spending her birthday with us. Well, after work and appointments. I'll be baking her a cake (or brownies...) making a barbecue dinner that she will love and she can relax for a bit since she won't be on call as Coroner this weekend. So, I raise a glass to two of the most important women in my life...Cheers!!!

Birthday Boys Celebrate in Style

2010-09-27T07:22:00.001-04:00

The 1900's are behind us now. Even my darling Arianna, who was born in 1999 is a century away, it seems, So how does a father born in 1916 and a son born in 1971 feel about birthdays these days? Well, apparently they feel pretty darned good! As a gift to two of the most important men in my life, we had a party of sorts at the Smokehouse restaurant. Wanting to thank one of the best cooks in the state for preparing this feast, I looked for (owner) Roger Knight, but he was no where to be found. I had decided that no way could I compete with the spread that Roger lays out on a four day basis, that and the fact that he has a crew to do the clean up. All we had to do was eat and leave. Oh, and pay the tab, No problem, Son Wallace had spent Saturday at the USMC Mud Run in Columbia, South Carolina with three teammates, They completed the run, which was all that really interested them. Apparently 14000 people had shown up for the event and being mowed down by speed was not a problem, either, The mud took care of that . Now Daddy celebrated the day by sleeping in rather than go into the office, mud not being his thing, he elected to stay out of it, You might find this odd but for the fact that he turned 95 years old, still practices medicine and attends to patients on a daily basis, Even Sundays, While we were in the Smokehouse, at least three patients spied him there and corralling him, congratulated him on his longevity, To their credit not one of them offered up symptoms for diagnosis while in his presence,

So naps and mud runs aside, our day yesterday was filled with laughter and memories and I wouldn't trade one second of it for the world, Somehow, I don't think they would either!

The Fear of Canning

2010-09-25T10:27:00.000-04:00

Yes, I've been missing in action yet again. It seems the summer just drags on and even though this is technically the last day of it, we're still in the nineties. There's been no rain for us in six weeks, but we drag the hose dutifully to the beds and water thoroughly so we get the lovely butter beans, green beans and squash even this late. The collards are planted and promise to do well if the guineas don't kill them first.

This morning we picked butter beans and greenbeans and they will be delicious on our plates for supper. Mac planted six more tomato plants on August 24th in the growtainers and we have tomatoes on them already. Do you think he'll mind if I say I am heartily sick of canning tomatoes?

They've gotten so tall that he's having to extend the rings to accommodate their rapid growth.

Thursday is the first day of fall. This Sunday past I came home from church and started canning the peaches (a bushel of them) and finished the pears. I know that this winter we will be so happy that the pantry if loaded with all the bounty from the garden but I will tell you this: I have yet to use the pressure canner this year.

Our family grew up with Aunt's and Great Aunt's as well as Grandparents lending a hand in the rearing of myriad children in the family circle. They had their own methods of correction and reward, instruction and playtime. One of the Aunt's spent most of the summer canning garden goods, chicken and dumplings, meats and the like. Her favorite was Spaghetti Sauce. For most of the garden goods she used the cold pack canner but for anything containing meats or fish she used the pressure canner. As young as 5 I knew that the sudden screech and the soft explosion meant Aunt Dale was canning Spaghetti Sauce. And that the pressure gauge had passed into the red line. The boy cousins would spend half a day cleaning the ceiling at least three times each summer, Then, one summer Aunt Dale had an idea. She would pay one of us a nickel if we sat in a chair in front of the range and kept an eye on the pressure gauge. We were to yell out if it began to rise from the amount of pressure the canner book indicated. She would run in and turn down the burner the canner was on. We dared not leave it a second to long, and if we did we ran out the kitchen door onto the screen porch screaming for help as we ran. We really wanted that nickel, so we were mostly eagle eyed. Aunt Dale had to many other things going on to watch it herself which is why she had so many catastrophes in the kitchen.

When I became the proud owner of my very own pressure canner, it was in my possession for 2years before I got up the nerve to use it. I had read the instruction booklet at least fifty times. Maybe more. I would tell myself that the next day would be canning day and then chicken out and use the cold pack canner instead. But one day, the first day of my vacation, I took the plunge. I got out the canner, the jars, the book and decided that I would can the bushel of pears that I had been gifted with by a neighbor. I peeled, I seeded, I added citric acid to avoid browning, then I prepared the jars. They had to be hot, so I also had the cold pack canner out to heat them and placed the jar caps and lids in a small pan of boiling water. I located the jar lifter and set to work. I used apple juice as the canning solution in the jars to avoid sugar. I packed the hot jars in the canner, added the water, adjusted the lids and put the top on the canner. 7 jars rested snugly within. After placing the pressure gauge atop the canner, I turned on the burner and put my chair in front of the range so I could take up my post. I had offered the requisite nickel to my sons to do this, but had no takers. They simply laughed and walked away. Mac came in and seeing me sitting in the chair asked me what on earth I was doing. "Avoiding disaster, " I replied, "Our ceiling isn't as high as Aunt Dale's was, I'm afraid the whole affair would go through the roof!" So, if you should ever walk into the kitchen and see me sitting in a chair in front of the stove, you'll know what I'm doing. And believe me when I tell you that this winter it will have been worth every worrisome moment of it. And I'll pay myself a nickel for the privilege.

Now if someone will just move the cat from my face...

2010-09-02T07:45:00.001-04:00

I remember coming in the other day and sitting down at the computer and posting on my blog for the first time in a long time. I was taking a break from food preservation chores and enjoying every second of my time away from the stove/freezer/dehydrator...you know, the tools of the trade for Little Susie Homemaker. I went to bed after catching up with about half my friends on-line. I was so upset to hear about their losses and tragedies, but then there were those who had triumphs and victories in life and that cheered me back up again. So, that was on Saturday. I had canned 7 quarts of pears and knew that I would do no more until the coming weekend. I remember going to Church on Sunday and greeting friends, adding Anya and Wilfred to our prayer list http://anya-kareltje.blogspot.com/ because her situation is so desperate at this time. (I urge you all to go read up on her situation and pray for them.)

But then came Sunday night. I had a slight cough and my head began to feel as though it were stuffed with jello. I've heard people say it is like cotton wool, but no, Jello is definitely what it seems to be. I stretched out on the sofa and put a pillow beneath my head and under my knees while waiting for the person who might bring me a cold compress for my head and a warm drink for my hands. When no such creature appeared to take care of my aches and snuffles, I got up and got the damned cold compress and made myself a cup of hot tea with honey and cinnamon. Grouchy was going to be the theme of the day. I also fetched a roll of paper towels, this was no job for Kleenex. I sat, legs pulled beneath me, holding the cup gripped in two aching hands and sipped. I placed the cold compress on my neck and immediately took it off while I developed a chill. I remembered my little cross stitch sign I had done from an old Erma Bombeck quote: Why do my family get to have flu in bed while I have it at the kitchen sink? I dimly wondered what had ever happened to my lovely little cross stitch piece. I cursed the garden that robbed me of Mac's tender care...damn garden.

So, I am not sure exactly how sick I should tell you I am. I do know that I came to at least once with one cat on my stomach and another wrapped around my neck. I sort of whimpered and Mac came and moved JJ off my throat and went to move Hound, the cat from hell, where she now lay possessively across my chest. That was a mistake. He quickly pulled his hand back while it was still attached to his arm and left me to my misery, Hound my only guardian. Someone, the hot tea fairy maybe, brought me a cup of tea and wanted to know what was for supper. The glare in their direction sent them scuttling backward. That was Monday. Tuesday I was up at the stove trying to fix Mac a hamburger when older son asked if I wanted him to do it. "You sort of look like you might dive head first into that frying pan, " he warned me. Turning over burning dinner duties to him I stumbled back to the sofa and the remote control.

Then came Wednesday. Still with a hacking cough, head more like warm tapioca than Jello, I'm not making the mistake of taking my temperature . I took it on Tuesday to find it was 101 and immediately felt 101% worse. Won't do that again. I tell Mac and older son if anyone calls to check on me to tell them I'm sitting up and taking a bit of broth. While I really don't feel much like phone talking, oddly enough blogging relaxes me. But I see that I've probably been up long enough, when everything I've just posted suddenly disappears from the screen. Damn Windows 7. Damn garden. Damn Tea Fairy. But I hear that somewhere there is a Toddy Fairy. So I'm wishing for a Toddy Fairy, and hoping she'll make it a double.

2010-08-28T17:52:00.000-04:00

I haven't been in for a while. Actually for a very long while and for this I heartily apologize. Do you remember back in March or April when I told you that Mac had planted 148 tomato plants? Well, do you? Do you remember me mentioning the peas and cucumbers, the melons and lettuce, the whole gamut of garden goodies including peppers of all description and varieties that my own Jolly Green Giant had placed in the soil so lovingly? Well?

This is an Armenian Melon...best cucumber ever7 jars of pears! one of five shelves of tomatoes peppersOh, this is JJ, you'll hear about him lateranother view of this fabulous cucumber!dehydrated potatoes, tomatoes and eggplant...more potatoes for winter wonders!dehydrated coconut. I feel a cake coming on...

Oh, and how about the potatoes, the okra and the eggplant, I'm sure you remember that, don't you? Okay so now your memories are jogged and you'll readily forgive me for not stopping by to see you (and Lord how I've missed you all...I have lots of reading to catch up on and catch up I will!) I haven't even mentioned the peaches and the pears that have found their way into my freezer and canning pot, not to mention the blueberries (they outdid themselves, too) Today I put up 7 quarts of pears and next weekend will find me doing the self same thing. My pear tree, though small, runneth over. And hey, did you know that pears do not ripen on the tree, that you have to pick them and let them sit in a nice basket for about a week (sometimes more) before they develop that lovely pear flavor and sweetness? So today Mac picked me a bushel of pears and by next Saturday it will be time to break out the canner and the Mason jars yet again. So here is what I have done for the past two months...canned 50 jars of tomatoes, frozen 50 quarts of them, eaten a fair number of them as Sink Sandwiches...you know what a Sink Sandwich is, right? It's a big old 'mater sliced thickly and laid out like the Sunday goose on a well mayonnaise- slathered piece of light bread (read loaf bread) plenty of salt and pepper and topped with another piece of light bread (just a smear of mayo this time) and then you assume the position...push up your sleeves, stand over the sink and dive in, letting the juice run down your arms and drip into the sink while you make shivery noises with your eyes closed. I have dehydrated potatoes, tomatoes and eggplant. I have fried eggplant and frozen them individually on a tray to bag and use this winter for Eggplant Parmesan. I have dehydrated and made beef jerky, dehydrated coconut and bananas (none of them came from the garden, more's the pity), dehydrated peppers (cubanellas, bell, jalapeno,) made pepper sauce with cayenne peppers and when I tell you that my pantry is full, I kid you not. I have made pepper relish and cabbage chowchow, picked and put up greenbeans and peas. And I still have to call Phoebe and see how her tomatoes did this summer. I also am not kidding when I tell you that Mac has planted me six more tomato plants for a late crop, spinach and collards, speckled butterbeans and green beans and more of these marvelous Armenian Melons (the biggest cucumber you will ever see in your life!) I can't wait for Winter! I'm running on empty here, I may need a nap.

Welcome to Orchard Cottage

2010-05-27T13:44:00.000-04:00

Yes, I say WELCOME~and I do hope that you will be able to visit us this summer! Here in Jefferson the sun has been shining, the rain has been falling and the weeds have been popping their wee heads out of rich earth teasing me away from the computer to do mass destruction on their numbers~Because we had such a miserably cold winter, (and we haven't had one that cold in a few years,) now we have wonderful fruit like these Granny Smith apple dripping from the limbs of a very old tree.

We tried the topsy turvy tomato set up last year but find that we much prefer our own variation on the theme...we took a hanging planter and drilled a one inch hole in the bottom, lined it with newspaper, made an X thru the paper to insert the tomato plant root and then covered the root with a good potting mix and planted a basil plant at the top of the planter. So, we have this great looking basil plant on top and a grape tomato hanging beneath. We now have four of these planters, one with basil, one with sage, one with stevia and finally one with greek oregano. I love this idea...Mac is a genius!

In one of the raised beds you'll see our large tomato plants. Also growing on the fence are string beans and cucumbers. We've already begun consuming the cucumbers...I peel and slice them and keep them in olive oil and vinegar...yummy!

The peach trees (we have a dozen of them that Mac grew from seed) are all bearing fruit this summer. We look forward to going out to the orchard and pulling a tree ripened peach from our very own trees! Most of the trees are now four years old, but even the younger ones are providing fruit! Isn't that amazing?

And this is one of the 180 tomato plants in the garden...it promises to be a bumper year for the many different varieties we have growing in the garden. This one is called 1884 because that's when it's seed was first discovered. We have Mortgage Lifter, German Head, German Queen, Guatemala , a Russian tomato called Silvery Fir and of course the many grape type tomatos for salads. Looks like I'm going to be busy canning and freezing this summer when it comes time to lay the garden by!

The plum trees once again do not disappoint. The wild plums are plentiful, too. I've decided to try my hand at a mixture of red plum and wild plum for jelly. I haven't made jelly in years...Joanne (our neighbor) is such a master of jelly making that I feel intimidated! But I'm going to give it a try.

The pear trees are no slackers either, people! We've decided to thin them out so that the limbs don't have to be propped up to support their weight. I'd rather have a bushel of great pears than hundreds of dullards and broken limbs to boot! Wouldn't you?

The pond is not safe from our planting endevours, either...here you will see it surrounded by plants, tomato, cucumber and flowers like my hibiscus and the New Guinea Impatiens...the bees are quite happy to be included in the fray!

Meanwhile, down in the garden the squash have decided to do us proud...and there will be enough to can this year. This will certainly taste good in the cold winter months... like opening a can of sunshine on a cold wintry night.

I'm so happy with the fig trees this year. They apparently enjoyed the cold winter, too. The tree on the other side of the house looks just as good as these two. These trees are now five years old, they are brown turkey fig trees and make the most delicious figs...from which I will be making Fig preserves this summer.

The blueberry bed is doing better than we had hoped for. The drought last year took its toll, but they have recovered nicely, with Mac's tender loving care and heroic efforts of watering and fertilizing. We'll have quite a few lovely fruits to enjoy and yes, to freeze and can.

And this is view of the garden that Mac built. His love of God's earth shows in the holes in the knees of his jeans and the deep red skin on his neck where his head is bent to toil in the sun.

But still, he can take a breather, go sit in the edge of the woods and eat blueberries to revive himself for a bit...they call it a respite...a simple word for an awesome event.

Help I'm lost in the garden and can't find my way to the computer

2010-05-08T08:11:00.000-04:00

It's happened. I knew it would...I'm simply surprised that I'm surprised...the garden holds me in thrall and wraps me in vines of cucumbery rapture topped with tomato dreams. I took a simple walk through the freshly turned garden dirt and once I had hit my knees to pull the crabby little weed that had dared desecrate that pristine soil , it was to late to turn back. Way to late. Now there grows 104 tomato plants, 32 cucumber vines, 6 watermelon plants (Charleston Grey how I love thee) and some little seedless wonders will be ready to go in today. There is squash both yellow and white and I have dared to request 2 zucchini plants and Mac has graciously obliged me. I do know that I will be begging people to take their fruit off my hands before it's over, but I simply can't help myself. And now, no matter how I scream that I need to visit with my blogging friends, the veil of spring wonder will not release me.

The flowers alone take up hours as I plant and deadhead, weed and wander. My Whimsey Woods dream is finally coming together and I've had the joy of sharing it with friends recently. My pal Phoebe from the library in Wadesboro (North Carolina) came out with friends last week and I was able to share that dream with them. As we strolled through the woods I pointed out the whimsical and the magical that hid down among the oak roots and high up in the pine boughs. There are angels and fairies, comical bee pilots and the sweet little church (birdhouse) in the wildwood. There is the Hotel rising high up the bold pine, with a taxi cab to let out a patron to enter the Empty Arms Hotel..I recently added a little red school house since the birds must have a safe place to learn and eat, .there is the frog shaped open bath for squirrel and bird alike..,the ground level pool for the opossum and raccoon that I know wander the woods at nightfall. All are welcome, no matter what their parentage might be. There can be no room for prejudice in this perfect world I have created. Phoebe and friends took home with them loads of tomato plants, heads of fresh lettuce from the garden and adopted a number of canna lilies looking for a new home. I heard from her the following day and she tells me that others want to come visit our gardens and the Whimsey Woods. That's one of the best compliments I have ever had!

So, forgive me for being away so long. I can't promise I will be back tomorrow or even the day after. But I want to take this time to wish all the mothers out there a wonderful day andtomorrow and remind you not to forget to take Monday as a day of recovery. Now, off to check on all of you I can before I get tempted back to the gardens!

Travels with my Son

2010-04-06T18:25:00.001-04:00

Two weeks ago I had plans to go to Florence for the beauty pageant our Granddaughter was in. It was to begin at 7p with her group actually coming onto the stage closer to 8:30. Mac bemoaned the fact that it was held (a.) so late (b.) so far from home and (c.) that he'd actually be sound asleep in his chair by 9.

I told him I was going come hell or high water and that I thought I could get Wallace to go with me. Mac doesn't like me on the roads at night anymore when I'm on my own. I feel the say way about him, so it wasn't so much a comment on my driving as it was on the other drivers out there. You know, the ones who won't get out of my way.

So, Wallace said sure, he'd love to go watch his beloved niece in her first beauty pageant and arranged to get off work in time to come drive me. I wasn't sure when the drivers seat had been given over to him, it was sort of an implied contract, I suppose. So, at 5p, off we go.

The first thing he did was take the right out of the drive rather than the left. I reminded him that the bridge was out that way, so he quickly turned around and we headed out the other way to Angelus Road. Here, he took a right rather than a left. And we had to turn around again. It was now 5:10. I wasn't getting testy yet, but I could feel it working it's way up my throat.

We headed down Macedonia/Angelus Road and took the correct left onto 151 and headed toward Hartsville. He drove in the left hand lane. One hand was on the wheel the other was draped over the back of the seat. He would approach a vehicle from behind and only after I had left imprints in the dash board would he pull around. I had warned him not to hit the brake if he felt he might be speeding when a police cruiser appeared on the other side of the four lane. "Nothing catches our eye like brake lights, " I explained. He looked over at me and said not a word. Just kept driving. I tried to make idle chitchat to calm my nerves. I blurted out one time that "you drive just like your father" and remembered then who had taught him to drive.

We picked up Highway 52 and since neither of us had eaten, we stopped in at Taco Bell just outside Florence for a quick bite. It was now 5:45. I was glad to stretch my legs, my posterior and my nerves. After we finished eating, it was back in the truck and off we went again. We were now in serious traffic and I kept catching myself making little moaning noises. I looked over one time, and I swear to you I saw my five year old son in his Billy the Kid pants and dress shirt, little boots all shined up spiffy...and stifled a scream.

We arrived at my younger son's sister-in-law's house where Arianna was having the final touches of makeup applied. I was heading into the house to greet the family and heard the two McBride boys(to men) conversing about the trip up and I was not coming off in a good light. I stomped over to them and announced to anyone who would listen that they should be grateful I had not fallen from the truck and kissed the ground in my gratitude to arrive not only in one piece...but alive.

It didn't go over well with the driver who refused to relinquish my keys. I swear he had a snear on his face and an evil laugh rumbling in his throat when we finally headed for home that night. It's not a trip I would wish on anyone! We were very nearly home when the sharp curve that separates Macedonia Church Road from Angelus Road appeared and I squealed in panic..."curve ahead...SHARP CURVE!" Oh Lord, thank you for delivering me safely to the arms of my beloved...Amen.

Malaise Personified

2010-03-26T14:39:00.001-04:00

I can't believe how long I've been away. But when my blogging fans start hunting me down it is time to get my butt in gear and get out of whatever gear you would call molasses. Everyday now for several weeks I have told myself "go blog". Everyday I answered myself with "I'll do it tomorrow." When I began answering to the name Scarlet, I knew the gig was up.

I believe I have been in a malaise...not really a funk, not really depression (I don't have manic/depressive periods...just manic.) I was like a well fed cat, content to piddle around doing not much of nothing, napping in the afternoon, watching my new addiction, Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the evenings and now here is something you will find hard to believe...I've only played three or maybe four games of Scrabble with my pal Lee in the past several weeks. Why she hasn't called out the dogs on me, I have no clue.

But now here we are in the beginning of Spring, the greenhouse is loaded with plants (to get your own, for 99 bucks, free shipping, go here ( http://shop.ebay.com/i.html?_nkw=greenhouse&_sacat=0&_odkw=greenhouse+kit&_osacat=0&_trksid=p3286.c0.m270.l1313 ) and Mac has been turning over the garden space and suddenly, I'm alive. I think I may have been keeping that darned rodent, Phil company in his den. I knew we were in trouble when he saw his shadow...I've been here before. It's not a new condition, but one I promise myself not to visit to often. So, today I return to the place I love the best, and offer some pictures up as a mea culpa to show why we call our place Orchard Cottage. Then I'm going visiting, I've missed my friends. First, here are the plum and peach trees all in bloom...followed by the pear and Victoria Plums...and the most spectacular flower in our garden...the Arianna Lily...all dressed in blue

I gave Mac a small green house for his birthday, and he has taken full advantage of its abilities...he has grown everything from seed and we have so many varieties of tomatoes it is umseemly...

He is in and out of his new found paradise so much that I've decided that all he needs is a small cot out there to make his world complete!

Alexander Graham Bell what have you done?

2010-02-15T11:20:00.000-05:00

First of all, let me say right up front that this is not an advertisement...it's a grievance, pure and simple. Or perhaps it's simply an Aesop fable turned on its' ear and then shaken like a snow globe. I never really wanted a cell phone. It would irritate me no end to watch people walking around with those bluetooth (teeth?) contraptions glued in their ears and talking a mile a minute to someone I couldn't see. I can't tell you how often I've nearly given myself whiplash jerking my head up to see who was talking to me only to discover them with a phone in hand or ear and not speaking to me at all. And watching people driving down the highway with a phone in one hand and the steering wheel in another always gave me the heebiejeebies. Talk about a wreck looking for a place to happen!

But I bowed to convention and allowed my younger son and dil to give me my first and only cell phone. It's a nice little Motorola with a few apps ( I later learned this meant applications, not a sleep disorder). It took me about a week to figure out how to answer it. I still haven't mastered how to take a photo. And the other day in a fit of boredom while Mac was in with the Doc I opened a music file to listen to some tunes...and then couldn't figure out how to turn it off. I finally did learn to pause it so that the others in the room didn't have to be annoyed by Lady Gaga...I did tell you my son and dil gave me the phone?

So my older son got a new phone last week. It's a Droid. I think I have that right, I know it's made by Verizon. So, he's spent the week learning about all it does. It does plenty. I keep hearing little shouts of "wow...look at what it does here!" So, it does things like showing fast food restaurant menus and nutrition values of each item; you can scan a bar code in a store and it tells you the price...but wait a minute...then it tells you where you can get it cheaper! It takes pictures that rival his professional camera (he couldn't get a decent one of the 4 inches of snow we got on Friday night with his work camera , but the phone took some wowsers) and can find obscure music (complete with song name and artist) and then it plays it for you. You take your finger and move over to new pages and its GPS will show you where you are and a satelite picture of the exact spot. It gives you the weather and the temperature where you are standing. It plays a game with you when you are out walking. I think he said it was Escape the Zombies. It shows where zombies might be lurking and which route to take to avoid them. This is not something I would do, I don't do dark walking. This phone even hooks up to the internet and does things my computer can't do. Who knew?

I'm sure that when I next see him, I'll be hearing about yet another thing that his phone can do that my own phone can't. I hear from a reliable source that I have a wienie phone that I need to learn to master before considering a new model. But I'm telling you, when he comes in and tells me that there is a "load the dishwasher app" I'm going to be suitably impressed. Oh, and headed for the Droid store.

Oh Heavenly Seed...oh February Fever!

2010-02-07T10:03:00.006-05:00

It's one week into February and already Pauxatauny Phil has come from his lair to tell me that we will have six more weeks of winter. Luckily for us we have Queen Charlotte who lives in North Carolina (Charlotte, I believe...hence the name) and has called that Yankee upstart a dirty rotten liar and banished him from the Queendom. It was a close call, your Majesty.

It's now that time to get dirt beneath my nails, pull weeds from the flowerbeds and curl up with some of the best reading material around when the sun goes down and the heat goes on. I have already made the acquaintance of some great folks who provide us with the most wonderful heirloom seed for the many things we grow in our garden. We have been ordering from them for several years and when we heard that the company they represented were no longer going to be offering home gardeners this valuable seed source, we were heart broken. The cost was so very affordable and the quality so high that we were really wondering what we were going to do. Then I got this message from Pattie and Mike and was just overjoyed!

Hi Sandra,

Thank you so much for your order and for your kind words. Below is some information about how we got started:

My husband Mike had worked for the SC Foundation Seed Association (SCFSA) for 37 years and began the home garden vegetable seed program there (to promote heirloom, organically grown and open-pollinated varieties for home gardeners).. In October 2009, SCFSA merged with another non-profit organization and at that time Mike was told that they would no longer offer the home garden vegetable seed program. After much prayer, Mike made the decision to go ahead and retire from SCFSA and to start Heavenly Seed LLC so that the heirloom, organically grown and open-pollinated seed could still be offered to home gardeners. We are so excited about the positive response we have received.

(If you need more information, let me know) THANKS!

Pattie

We placed our seed order on a Tuesday and received the order on Friday. My fingers itch. We have decided to try a new cucumber called Armenian Melon...I love trying new "old" things. We will have five varieties of tomatoes, three different lettuce types, some really rad radishes...its time to plant cabbage and broccoli...sweet peas will need to be put into the ground...later on we will be getting our watermelon, cantaloupe and honeydew seed to start. I'm trying to talk Mac into getting a small green house. Right now we use my 100 gallon fish aquarium to start seed. Okay, so it works well...but we need more room than it provides. I can not wait to get started. You know, when the seed catalogs start arriving, Spring can not be far behind.

I wish you happy gardening and lots of fun visiting Pattie and Mike at Heavenly Seed. You won't regret the visit. You don't have to live in South Carolina to take this trip. Man, I love the inter- net!

Goodby to those January Blues...

2010-01-29T10:07:00.003-05:00

January has but two days to finish up her wicked wicked ways. It has been the most trying month so far. That is, as far as we are concerned. January 1st was okay, nothing to write home about...and it went downhill from there. Way downhill. Do you remember the little ditty we sang as children done to the tune of some other long forgotten song that went:

I was going down the highway
doing 90 miles an hour
when the chain on my bicycle broke
I was covered all over with scratches and bruises
and punctured to death by the spokes.

Now Mac's boyhood memory of that old favorite is somewhat rude and I refuse to print it here, but believe me when I say that this month, I feel like we were on board that bicycle (built for two) and am still picking spokes from all areas of my body. I can not go into all that has happened, but the only good thing that came out of it was Mac's eye surgery. Yea, Mac. He's a happy fella and I'm a happy gal for him. But the rest of life has just kicked us around, thrown in a punch or two and I'm not going to let February do that to us. I'm going to meet adversity head on, throw in a punch of self reliance and keep on truckin'.

You know, I have to keep reminding myself how incredibly blessed we are in that we have a roof over our heads, plenty to eat, the wherewithal to pay the bills and the comfort of friends and family. If only life were so good to the rest of our family and that family fall outs could be done away with, life would be perfect. I stopped striving for perfection long ago. Now I just hope for the best, oil the pedals every so often and make sure the chain is in good working order. Unfortunately, in January the chain came off the doohickey and left us rather tattered and torn. But that's okay. February brings a new chain and I hear that duct tape and WD40 are miracle workers. I am now armed for combat! Come on February, show me what you've got!

Back from the brink and four hours in hell...

2010-01-15T14:09:00.002-05:00

It doesn't seem as though it's been four weeks since I posted, but it has. 2010 came in and knocked me on my butt in too many ways to dwell on. I've been pulling myself away from the abyss since the first day of January. Illness took it's toll. I know why they call it the swine flu, now. It's because you feel like you've been in the smoker for ever. Your chest is tight from coughing and your head is achy from being packed with the bi-products of sinus's in action. Your body is tired and your spirit is exhausted. And that's just from the flu. Never mind all the rest of the crap that life throws your way when you are to weak to defend yourself and your family. I am no longer on face book. I feel in my soul that it is evil. I began to feel better from the first day I closed my account. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It felt wonderful.

Mac had his first cataract surgery three weeks ago. I had forgotten what an ordeal it is to drive someone who has no faith in the driving capabilities of anyone but themselves. It was horrible, that first trip. Yesterday he had the surgery on his second eye and the trip home was almost pleasant because he was still rather doped up and was busy entertaining himself with all the different ways to say foul words. He would look over at me as I drove and say "I'm really ****ed up." I would have to agree with him that indeed yes, he was really ****ed up, and continue with the drive. The trip is approximately 2 hours each way. The first two hours he was driving. Then there was the trip home. No problem. Today was the post op trip to see Dr Seltzer and of course, he couldn't drive because he still couldn't see well enough and he was still...well, messed up. Just a bit. We started off with him clutching the dashboard like an anchor that could keep him tied to the ground. We'd only gone five miles when I was warned to slow down. I was doing 40 miles an hour. We got onto the four lane with him tapping the dashboard, then tapping his leg...he was anxious and getting on my nerves.

I tried to remind him that I was a good driver (a professional driver, even) with a better driving record than he had. I was accused of "having contacts to purge my record". I took great umbrage at that remark as I haven't had so much as a parking ticket in over 30 years. There has been no reason to "purge my record" as he called it. We drove on. He told me again that I needed to slow down. I told him that I was doing the speed limit and had the truck on cruise control. I again reminded him that I was not the speeder in the family. When we arrived at Dr. Seltzer's office he said, "don't take offense if I get down and kiss the ground when you come to a stop." I glared at him. "Don't take offense if I kick you in the ass while you're down there making nice with the ground, then" I said. He laughed. Grudgingly.

The trip home was even worse. All the "good stuff" had now worn off. Now he was just feeling mean. He started as we pulled out of the parking lot. "You know I'm not going to let you ever forget it if you tap someone getting back on the road, " he said. I looked over to him, dark glasses hiding his a good bit of his face. "Oh, I'm going to tap someone all right, " I said. "I'm going to tap someone hard enough that they need a cast on that arm if that someone doesn't stop tapping the dashboard!" I pulled out into traffic. He kept telling me when a traffic light was coming up, as though I couldn't see it. I reminded him that he was the one who couldn't see, not me. "Yes, and you should respect that!" he snapped. I shook my head at that bit of wisdom and continued on my unmerry way. After we got back on 151 a car pulled up next to us. The motor was so loud, the hifi turned up to maximum that it caused the truck to vibrate. The young man in it was making "lets race" motions with his head. I was busy wishing I had a blue light at my side that I could whip out and pull this idiot over with. I already had the ticket written in my head. Mac was saying "get ahead of him, that noise if making me crazy." You know, it was on the tip of my tongue. But I was still an hour away from home. It would be a shame to end a 41 year marriage over his inability to ride with me at the wheel. At some point in the next few days however, I will be reminding him of his motto..."there ain't nothing funny about a woman with a gun."

Where I am and why

2010-01-01T22:22:00.008-05:00

On the couch or in the bed. Because I have the flu. I feel that I may pull through the worst of it by the first of the week. Mac's surgery went exceedingly well, which is fortunate since I was in no shape to chase his ass down had he taken it in his head to run. I was doing good to be the driver home. The hacking you hear is me coughing. Now, too sick to be funny but have some fun stuff for you here. Please feel free to laugh and snort coffee through your nose. Or tea. Either will dampen your keyboard, but not your spirits. Back next week. I hope. Time for my medicine...and Happy New Year everyone!

Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its yearly neologism contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternative meanings for common words.

The winners are:

1. Coffee (n.), the person upon
whom one coughs.

2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much
weight you have gained.

3. Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of
ever having a flat stomach.

4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an
explanation while drunk.

5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.

6. Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you
absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.

7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.

8. Gargoyle (n), olive-flavored mouthwash.

9. Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that
picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.

10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.

11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.

12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing
adopted by proctologists.

13. Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.

14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles
his conversation with Yiddishisms.

15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand):
The belief that, when you die, your soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.

16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of
boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.
***********************************************************

The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers
to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding,
subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.

The winners are:

1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people
that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer,
unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about
yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house,
which renders the subject financially impotent for
an indefinite period.

4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted
very, very high.

5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of
sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously
when you are running late.

7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.

8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease.
(This one got extra credit.)

9. Karmageddon (n): its like, when everybody is sending
off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like,
the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting
through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.

12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to
seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

13. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed
just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.

14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito
that gets into your bedroom at three
in the morning and cannot be cast out.

15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after
finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.

And the pick of the literature:

16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both
stupid and an asshole.

Seeing the New Year in Clearly

2009-12-11T15:29:00.004-05:00

I guess you've all heard my complaints that once you reach sixty and get to the top of the hill it's all downhill from there. I'm going to start calling Mac Speed Racer if he doesn't knock it off! He's been complaining lately about not being able to see all those little minute connections that put together the computer motherboards and the rest of that super highway to the Internet. You know, he builds them. The one I've used for the past year is a Mac...as in made by, not as in Macintosh. It's held up beautifully and I refuse to let him "tweak" it. As it turns out, that's probably the best decision I've made for myself in years. After all, you must be able to see to tweak.

Last week after hearing the umpteenth complaint about how he's just falling apart, can't see and half the time can't hear (like all men he has selective hearing) on the portable phone, I came to a decision. First, I called and made him an appointment at the Optometrists. That appointment was carried out last Wednesday. The news was not good. In fact the news was disturbing to me and I found I couldn't concentrate enough to come in and post anything new. I couldn't make myself want to decorate anything other than the tree. Not only did she find two cataracts that were giving him major problems, there was a suspicion of macular degeneration. I knew that the cataract problem was (generally) easily reversible, but not the other. I knew that macular degeneration could rob him of his sight permanently. He is too young for that.

He is so blamed stubborn about things that I could see the situation unfolding like this. I'd be on the phone to both Good and Evil Sister arranging a kidnapping to get him to the Opthomologist if he needed the kind of treatments for the Macular Degeneration that I've heard about. I'm not saying he's a chicken (who's doing that clucking?) but he doesn't like anything to do with needles and the like. If I told you the lengths I had to go to to get him to have the quad bypass surgery done in March 1999 you wouldn't believe me. No, you really wouldn't. So, I've been understandably nervous all week. Well, the appointment with the Eye Surgeon was today. They took Mac to the back, alone. I sat in the waiting room with my new Ann Rule book and couldn't concentrate on one word. I read the same page three times before I gave it up. In a bit, the nurse came back and got me and took me to the room where Mac was waiting.

He told me he'd watched a video on cataracts and the procedure to remove them. He didn't appear to be ready to run, so I sat back and relaxed. We were laughing like hyena's (laughter being the best medicine) when Doctor Seltzer entered the exam room. Mac's eyes had been dilated (he looked like Kermit the Frog, that's how I knew) and Dr. Seltzer explained a bit about what he was going to be looking for. He asked Mac if he knew anything about Macular Degeneration. Mac told him he didn't, and Dr. Seltzer told him they'd cross that bridge when they got to it. He began the exam.

A few minutes later, we got the good news. There was no Macular Degeneration, but there was a small problem with the Iris that wasn't really to bad at this point (in one eye). But he did have cataracts in both eyes, the one in the left eye being the most pronounced. " And that's the one that has to go first, " Dr. Seltzer said, very matter of factly. He explained that the procedure would take less than six minutes, how it was done and that he would like to do the other one two to three weeks after the first. I sat there with my mouth hanging open as Mac agreed to get the surgery. On December 28th. This year. He rarely surprises me anymore. This time he left me flabbergasted. After all, I had heard the same horror stories from his father about his surgery that Mac had. They were not pretty. They were not conducive to decision making after the hearing of them.

We made the arrangements for the blood work, seeing Dr. Moyd for the pre-surgery exam on Monday, and took the prescription for the drops he'd need and I was still in shock. He was agreeable to having it done. He wasn't making those clucking noises I'm so used to hearing when it comes to major surgery. Okay, so it's not really clucking, it's more like hemming and hawing, but still. So as of 2010, Mac will be seeing clearly for the first time in a long time. That's not to say I'm not hiding truck keys and suitcases...I still don't trust this "I'm going along with everything you say" man. I've lived with him since October of 1968. I've learned his ways. So the surgery will be done. And I've already warned him what is going to happen if he looks at me and says, "damn baby, when did you get old?"

The Christmas Gift...A Mama story

2009-12-03T10:29:00.008-05:00

I made a needed trip to the Grocers yesterday and like a lot of times ran into people I knew or who knew me. I was looking at a particularly nice standing rib roast when I heard a young voice say "someones looking at you." I glanced up to see if I was being spoken to, but saw a teen aged girl looking at my walking stick, which rested in the buggy. She was looking at the face of the Old North Wind which had been lovingly carved into the hickory wood that formed the cane. She was talking to her mother. "Isn't that beautiful, though, " her mother said. I explained that the stick had been a gift from me to my mother Christmas 1999 and that a friend, Pete Barfield, had hand carved it for me. She looked at me and asked, "was your mother's name Grace? I mean, you look so much like a lady I loved named Grace that you just have to be related. " The woman in front of me was about ten years younger than me and I wondered if I should know her. "Why yes, her name was Grace. Do we know each other?" She told me her name and how much she had loved Mama and it all came back to me in one fell swoop. I could feel Mama standing there, nodding and shining as the story unfolded once more in my mind.

I was just fifteen when my Dad was offered the Ruby Clinic. He and my mother had made a decision to leave Washington (DC) and start up a private practice in her home county. Big hospitals and big cities had been our lives for so long, but we children had spent most summers with our Grandparents, so we were not strangers to small town life in any way. We looked forward to being with family year round and excitement filled the house. The feat was accomplished, and we moved into a big old barn of a house that was next door to the school we younger girls would attend. Mama and Daddy worked at getting the clinic furnished with needed supplies and furniture, too. There was an x-ray machine to be had, a surgical suite to be taken care of and three hospital beds for the overnight visits of new mothers and babies. Daddy, being a GP, did it all. This was in the day when bills were sometimes paid by the bushel or the brace, not always money. Anyone who thought we were rich couldn't have been more wrong.

I would sometimes be allowed to help out in the Clinic after school. I often met the patients and knew most of them by name. There was one particularly sweet lady with a little three year I'll call Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith and her husband had been married for ten years when little Giselle was born. She always called her the Miracle Baby. One day in our first summer of living in Ruby, Mama had come home from the clinic very distressed. I remember she went to her room and stayed for awhile. When she came out her eyes were red and swollen. The housekeeper asked Mama if everything was alright. She shook her head, and said no, that one of the patients had cancer and that the news had been so overwhelming to them all that she just had to come home for a bit. Daddy came in for lunch a bit after that. We could tell that he had been crying, too.

For the longest time, we had no idea that Mrs. Smith was the patient. Even in those days, privacy was uppermost in their minds. It was early in December and I had stopped in at the Clinic before going home to do homework. Mrs. Smith was in the lobby and had baby Giselle with her. I noticed that Mrs. Smith had a toboggan pulled down over her head where once long thick dark blond hair had shone. Giselle was dancing around, laughing and playing. Mrs. Smith, her face looking tired and drawn, asked me if I minded watching her while she went in to see Daddy. I assured her I would watch over her and told her not to worry. She petted my hand, smiled and went back to the exam room with my mother.

That night I went into Mama's room to ask her a question. She was in the closet, pulling down the wig box that rested on the top shelf. I have no idea why Mama had wanted that wig when she bought it in the early 60's. It was human hair and styled in a pageboy. It had cost the earth and Daddy complained bitterly when he had discovered the purchase. Eventually he forgave her the purchase indiscretion and the matter was never brought up again. But Mama loved that wig and looked beautiful wearing it, though she didn't wear it that often. Now, the box sat on her bed, she held the wig in her hands and she was calling her beautician. "Bernice, I need a big favor of you. I need my wig washed and styled tomorrow if you can fit it in. I need it by 3 o'clock." Bernice assured her that she could do it and the matter settled, she hung up and turned to me. Her face glowed. For some reason I felt like crying. I knew that Mama was not getting that wig washed and styled for a party. But whatever she was having it done for, it had made her look happier than I remember seeing her in years.

The next afternoon, just before three, I went by the Clinic and there was Mrs. Smith and baby Giselle and so was Ms. Bernice. I spoke to them, Mama told me to watch the baby and Mrs. Smith and Bernice went to the back with Mama.

Mrs. Smith came down the hall, walked into the lobby and looked as near like any treetop Angel as I have ever seen. She had makeup on and a pale lipstick and if I hadn't known it was Mama's wig on her head, I would have thought it was her own hair. The smile on her face lit the room. The door opened, and Mr. Smith came in. Mama had called him to tell him to come drive Mrs. Smith home, because her ride had to leave suddenly. When he saw his beloved wife, the look on his face was beyond description. They left, he carrying little Giselle and holding Mrs. Smith's hand tightly in his. Mama later told me that after the chemo, Mrs. Smith lost her hair and had not been to Church since. She was ashamed at how she looked and frankly didn't want to answer a lot questions. Mama said that she felt her Church family was going to be very important to her in the coming months and she didn't want her to have an excuse not to lean on them.

Mama wasn't perfect, and I don't want anyone to get the impression that I thought she was. We had arguments that could have started off any world war, we had periods of separation when pride on both sides would not give in to forgiveness. But she had a way with people, of reading them and knowing what they needed. If it was in her power to provide that need, she'd move heaven and earth to do it. If at times her own family suffered from her generosity, well she'd make it up to us some other way, some other time. Mrs. Smith died in early Spring. But her last months were not lonely ones, I'm told. No one ever let on that they knew she was wearing a wig. It was the most special Christmas gift that Mama had ever given anyone. It wasn't because of the cost of the wig, but the value of it to the giver. I don't think a recipient of a gift was ever as grateful or expressive as Mrs Smith was, either. I know that at this time of year, I miss Mama most. She loved Christmas. And Mrs. Smith's little Giselle misses her Mama this time of year, too. She told me so yesterday, standing in front of the rib roasts.

December 1st....and so it ends...

2009-12-01T16:56:00.005-05:00

I came out of my turkey coma and discovered it is already December 1st. Before we know it, 2009 will have come and gone. Just as I began to remember the correct year to jot down on checks and other things, soon I'll have to start over again but with a different year. It seems unfair somehow, that the days get shorter just as the year comes to an inglorious end.

Thanksgiving was such a success and the leftovers were at a minimum. A pinch of turkey and a smidgen of ham. But there were pies to put in sharing tins to go home with the kids. Poor Mac was only able to keep half of one of the pecan pies and only because he hid it. I tried to tell him I could make another.

No one went to the movies, except in my own living room, where we watched Star Trek 2009 (I loved it) and UP (I adored it!) . So if I take off for Disney World, I suspect I'll have to take the whole family along. It was a wonderful day and one that I will remember for years to come. It was the first time the entire family was together for Thanksgiving in ten years. It meant the world to me.
Hope your Thanksgiving was as wonderful as mine! Yes, this is this years tree. 8 feet of decorating hell went on, and I've still to tackle the rest of the house. Or the yard. I may leave it all up through January.

The Thanksgiving Post: Thankfuls 22, 23, 24 and 25th...complete with Mea Culpas

2009-11-25T18:52:00.004-05:00

How do I begin? I've been AWOL for four days. I could beg that I 've been cooking. I have. I could plead I've been baking. Check. I could complain that house work overwhelms me (especially the washing up of pans). Ahem. Yes. But I could have stopped in each day and done a short post on what I was thankful for that day. Sunday I was thankful for drop in guests. I love drop in guests, especially those that say yes when I ask if they're hungry. I love that friends enjoy my cooking (the Black Bean Soup was a hit with both Sam and Tara but young Alex preferred a strawberry jam and mayonnaise sandwich. Yes, that's what I said too.

Monday I completed the Pecan (we pronounce this pa-Cahn as Mac's Mama always told us a pee-can was something kept under the bed) pies. It is not Thanksgiving without them. 2 of them. Then, I had the unexpected honor or Arianna's company. Our Granddaughter is welcome to move in should she like, so sorry...I was enjoying her and couldn't get over here to say so. Ditto Tuesday. Tuesday Arianna made brownies. By herself. More goodies for the Thanksgiving feast. But for the two she and her Grandpa sampled. She loved the Guinea fowl (which are owned by Tara and Sam). She took photos with her camera phone to send home. I was ever so thankful for her company on Monday and Tuesday.

Wednesday came all to soon. Today at 2 pm I took the young miss to meet her Mom the other side of Hartsville. Tonight I made the Lemon Chiffon Pie. It resides in the fridge awaiting a cold sharp knife tomorrow. I have the roaster out and ready for the Tom Turkey to take up residence. The cornbread is nice and stale and ready for the treatment of onions, celery, eggs and sage. I can't wait.

Tomorrow the family will tumble in and ohh and ahh over all the delectable goodies there are to eat from the Tom Turkey and honey roasted ham down to the last smidgen of dessert. I will be so ready to sit back and relax, that Thankful does not begin to describe it.

Note to children, particularly the parents of Arianna: I have been slaving away on this meal for the past week and a half. No one, and I do mean NO ONE will rear up from the table and announce that they are going to the movies. If that happens, I am canceling Christmas Dinner and going to Disney World. Without you.

The Thanksgiving Post 21: Our Military

2009-11-21T09:04:00.007-05:00

As most of you know, my darling Mac is retired from the United States Navy. He spent thirty years doing what his heart told him was right. Right for us, right for you and right for the world. Men and women who choose the obligation of the Service as either career men and women or short term for the rigors of war rarely get the recognition they deserve. They blend into the background doing their job and saying little about the horrors of it. Thursday is Thanksgiving. Thousands and thousands of our people will not be home for the day. They will be doing their job. My grateful post is to them, men and women, to their families and I pray that next year they will all be home in the warmth of their families love. Today, I have a guest. I don't know whether he wrote the poem I am about to share with you or not, but he has asked that I share it with you.

I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.

The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know,

Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.

Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child

"What are you doing?" I asked without fear,
"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Chris tmas Eve!"
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..

To the window that danced with a warm fire's light
Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right,
I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."
"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.

No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at ' Pearl on a day in December,"
Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers."
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ' Nam ',
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue... an American flag.
I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.

I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.
I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall."

" So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."
"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
"Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son."

Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
"Just tell us you love us, and never forget.
To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.
Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."

LCDR Jeff Giles, SC, USN

The Thanksgiving Challenge Post 20: Friday's Child

2009-11-20T09:44:00.009-05:00

Well, I'm a bit early with my post today, thankfully. All the house work is accomplished and since cereal was the meal of the morning there wasn't a lot of washing up to attend to. As to my thankful post this morning, it's all to do with children and traditions. Now, Mary (a very dear friend from England who regrettably does little blogging these days) asked me to put a line in about why Thanksgiving and why November. Being that everyone knows I'm long winded, I thought I'd tell her a little bit of what I know about this tradition. Here goes...I'm sure that corrections will be along if I make any mistakes...and if I get too long winded,well just skip down to the end where I share little Noah with my readers...(taking a deep breath) here goes:
Thanksgiving is America's preeminent day. It is when we usher in the Christmas season. It is celebrated every year on the fourth Thursday in the month of November. It has a very interesting history. Its origin can be traced back to the 16th century when the first thanksgiving dinner is said to have taken place.

Journey of Pilgrims
The legendary pilgrims, crossed the Atlantic in the year 1620 in the Mayflower-A 17th Century sailing vessel. About 102 people traveled for nearly two months with extreme difficulty. This was so because they were kept in the cargo space of the sailing vessel. No one was allowed to go on the deck due to terrible storms. The pilgrims comforted themselves by singing Psalms- a sacred song. Nearly every American would love to lay claim to being a descendant of one of the Mayflower passengers. As far as I know, there were no passports given out, but we do know quite a few of their names. As far as I know, none of the Douglas Clan was aboard.

Arrival in Plymouth
The pilgrims reached Plymouth rock on December 11th 1620, after a sea journey of 66 days. I don't think they had an outboard engine, only wind power. Wind power being what it is though , they could not reach the place owing to winds blowing them off course. The original destination was somewhere in the northern part of Virginia. I believe a man was in charge of asking directions, and so there you go. Nearly 46 pilgrims died due to extreme cold in winter. (I take it that the 46th passenger had a close call, but someone poured warm grog down his throat just in the nick of time.) However, in the spring of 1621, Squanto, a native Indian taught the pilgrims to survive by growing food. According to my grandfather, they used fish for fertilizer...but probably only the entrails unless they didn't particularly like the taste of fish. Daddy Dwight (my grandfather) had a love for fish and fishing and would throw entrails, heads and scales into the compost to make great fertilizer. He wouldn't think of wasting the edible parts on plant rows.

Day of Fasting and Prayer
In the summer of 1621, owing to severe drought, pilgrims called for a day of fasting and prayer to please God and ask for a bountiful harvest in the coming season. God answered their prayers and it rained at the end of the day. It saved the corn crops. We still do that to this day. But first we always ask God why he lets us get into these messes...Mammy (my Grandmother) always said He was just trying to get our attention and that maybe if we didn't leave Him out of our daily life, who knew what might be gifted to us! I tend to agree with her. She was infrequently wrong about anything.

First Thanksgiving Feast
It is said that Pilgrims learnt to grow corn, beans and pumpkins from the Indians, which helped all of them survive . In the autumn of 1621, they held a grand celebration where 90 people were invited including Indians. (Okay okay, Native Americans...can't seem to get the fact that they hadn't actually landed in India out of my head. ) The grand feast was organized to thank God for his favors. This communal dinner is popularly known as “The first thanksgiving feast”. There is however, no evidence to prove if the dinner actually took place. It is sort of a "word of mouth" story that came down parent to child...like a game of Gossip...some historians believe that the pilgrims, being quite religious, would definitely have a day of fasting and praying before a huge feast. Whether or not the dinner actually took place is any body's guess. The Colony Leader who supposedly wrote about it could have been dreaming, brought on by extreme hunger.

Turkey and First Thanksgiving Feast
There is no evidence to prove if the customary turkey was a part of the initial feast. According to the first hand account written by the leader of the colony, the food included, ducks, geese, venison, fish, berries etc. But the table without a turkey on it, is a poor table to be sure. Never having a taste for goose or duck, I'd as soon put nothing on the table than go without the traditional turkey. I've never been one to buck tradition. So no venison on the table either...perhaps at the table...some one please pass Bambi some cranberries.

Pumpkin and Thanksgiving Feast
Pumpkin pie, a modern staple adorning every dinner table, is unlikely to have been a part of the first thanksgiving feast. Pilgrims however, did have boiled pumpkin. (Picture me gagging here). Diminishing supplies of flour led to the absence of any kind of bread. Sort of begs the question, did the pilgrims break bread with Squanto and his tribe? So, no cakes or pies. Bummer.

The feast continued for three days and was eaten outside due to lack of space. It was not repeated till 1623, which again witnessed a severe drought. People will just not learn. Don't wait till you're in drastic need and then start begging God to save your belly! Governor Bradford proclaimed another day of thanksgiving in the year 1676. October of 1777 witnessed a time when all the 13 colonies joined in a communal celebration. It also marked the victory over the British. (Sorry Mary, but someone had to say it...Thanksgiving is really just another razzberry to the King...)

After a number of events and changes, President Lincoln proclaimed the last Thursday in November as a Day of Thanksgiving in the year 1863. This was due to the continuous efforts of Sarah Josepha Hale, a magazine editor. She wrote a number of articles for the cause. Of course it had to be a woman leading the way...because that's what we do. We whisper in men's ears at night when they are sleeping, and when they awaken they have this great idea that they came up with all on their own. (Big sigh here...) So, Mary this is why we have Thanksgiving. We needed a day where we could do the cooking and prop children up in front of the TV to watch the parades and the ginormous balloons floating across the skyscapes of New York, Philadelphia, Charlotte, Los Angeles...well, all over America really. But the actual bonus to the women is simple. We can get rid of men when the parades are over by turning on the TV to ESPN, where hours and hours of mind numbing game play keeps their attention on the tube and off the fact that we are about to spend three days shopping like maniacs. I hope that clears things up for you Mary (and anyone else who needs the scoop on Thanksgiving.)

Now, I'm sure everyone remembers the sweet poem that we were told as children. It is actually entitled Monday's Child, but I always remember it as Friday's Child. Just contrary that way. Plus I was born on a Friday. Ahem...here goes:

Fridays child poem

Mondays child is fair of face,
Tuesdays child is full of grace,
Wednesdays child is full of woe,
Thursdays child has far to go,
Fridays child is loving and giving,
Saturdays child works hard for his living,
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

I have a particular child in mind today. His name is Noah Biorkman and his address is
1141 Fountain View Circle

South Lyon, MI 48178

This young man is in last stage cancer and is celebrating Christmas early. He wants Christmas cards. I have mine to Noah already addressed and ready to mail. I learned of Noah through my friend Queenmothermamaw's post yesterday. She highlighted Karrie , one of her followers. It was through Karrie that the story of Noah emerged. Go see.
http://stayathomemommyaz.blogspot.com
http://queenmothermamaw.blogspot.com

EDIT ALERT:..this information about Noah is apparently outdated. One day I will learn to check my information no matter where it comes from. Snopes is my friend will be my mantra. But still, go visit both my blogging friends.

The Thanksgiving Challenge Post 19: Thankful for Miranda

2009-11-19T15:55:00.004-05:00

The month is winding down now. We're more than half way through November and Thanksgiving is only a week away. I'll start baking pies (pumpkin and lemon meringue ) and cakes ( Angel Food and Devils Food) this weekend so that my oven can be free for the turkey that will need a couple of hours to roast. The sweets will reside in the pantry deep undercover and hidden from a certain Sailor's sight...(he's been known to devour a Lemon Meringue in one sitting.) On the big day, while the turkey "rests" from its roasting, my cornbread dressing will bake. I will bake the cornbread on Saturday, so it can be properly "stale" for the event. The cranberry sauce will chill in the fridge and the yams will be waiting their turn in the oven. The green bean casserole will jockey for position with the succotash. Mac will have his longed for beets and and the meal that will have taken me all week to prepare, will be demolished in a little under thirty minutes. And for the DILS and granddaughter that will put dishes in the dishwasher, leftovers in the fridge, or bag up to take home, (thus leaving me to put my feet up) I will be very very grateful.

As for today, I'm grateful for a decent hair cut. Thank you Miranda darlin'.

The Thanksgiving Challenge Post 18: The Cats have their Say

2009-11-18T17:14:00.004-05:00

I call them the Three Stooges...Larry Moe and Curly...Cher is Larry, Hound is Moe and Sonny, a natural born clown, is most definitely Curly. Hound (that's her on the left) is the boss. Cher is the follower (she's in the middle) and of course we all know Sonny. Sonny is the one who wakes us up each morning, and then demands to "make the bed" no later than 8 am. He loves to "help" by going under the sheets and pulling on the quilt then jumping up and down from the head board to the middle. It is the only household chore that makes me glad. These three guys play their hearts out all day and half the night. I once read that cats sleep 18 hours a day. Exactly which 18 hours I haven't been able to put my finger on. But play they will and play they demand.

What they are most grateful for is that they have a loving home and did not end up in the animal shelter. Such a misnomer that is, it's not much of a shelter and more often a death sentence. They are thankful for the electronic mouse with laser light nose. Sonny knows that when you pick it up chase time is about to start. He will look at you, with the mouse in your hand, and the butt starts moving back and forth, ready for action. The game goes on for several minutes, with the three of them fighting for control of the light on the floor. We play it so often that we purchased replacement batteries on e-bay so we didn't break the bank replacing them at WalMart.

They are thankful (especially Hound) for the dust mop. She has jumped on and ridden the dust mop since she was about six weeks old. Hound is the one we found abandoned even before her eyes were opened. I am the only mother she has ever known. Mac, who swears she is insane, says he knows now why she was left on her own. Insane or not, as long as you keep her nails trimmed, it doesn't hurt all that much when she runs up your back to sit on your shoulder. We really should have named her Polly.

Cher, who older son Wallace calls Psycho Kitty, has little oddities of her own. She only wants to be petted on her own terms. She may climb in your lap for affection, but you can never pick her up and place her in your lap. She makes you very grateful when she jumps down if you make the mistake of picking her up. You may reach down and stroke her but make no mistake, if you don't hear a purr, your attention is not appreciated. But back to their Thankful list. Tonight is Wednesday. They eat dry food six days a week. But on Wednesday night, promptly at five, they get tuna. Not cat food tuna, but real honest to gosh Chicken of the Sea tuna. It is mixed in with the dry and makes it taste ever so flavorful (or so they tell me) and they have reached the stage that they know when Wednesday comes. Or else why is it that they meet me in the pantry every Wednesday at 5 pm? For being able to spoil them all a little bit, I can't help but say, God I am truly thankful!

The Thanksgiving Challenge Post 17: All these New Conveniences Part 3

2009-11-17T15:52:00.006-05:00

Every morning when I wake up, I lie in bed for a few minutes planning my day. I decide what major chore will take up the best part of the day, and what small things I can get accomplished simultaneously. I can remember my mother saying (in a rather sing songy way) "man must work from sun to sun, but a woman's work is never done." I never knew the truth of that statement until I was actually running a home of my own. I figured when I was in school that homework took up the majority of time, but I loved school and homework was no biggy. The last thing my mother always did was put in a load of laundry and while it washed the clothes, she washed the kitchen floor. Laundry always seemed to be the one job that we all disliked the most. For the life of me, I can't figure out why. But this is the same routine I follow and always have.

Now, Mama had a nice washer and dryer, a front loader both. Once when complaints about doing laundry were heard, she took us to visit our Aunt Florence Sellers on the Monday Wash Day and dropped us off. We loved Aunt Florence and Uncle May (not a typo, so no red pencils please) so visiting them was pure joy to us. Uncle May had a good sized bamboo field across from the house (they made the greatest fishing poles) and we liked to run thru the bamboo field, swinging the big stalks to the ground. If it was work, we didn't know it. But on this day, Aunt Florence was on the back porch, the big old wringer washing machine agitating the first load of clothes. She had a big tub on the bench next to the washer, and in it were white shirts soaking in a bleach solution. The scrub board lay next to the tub. We watched as the water was pumped out of the basin of the tub and she grabbed big water heavy work pants and fed them through the wringer to get as much of the water out as possible. This was time consuming back breaking work. Of course it beat taking the clothes down to the river to wash, but not by much. I am so thankful for my nice modern washer and dryer every single time I go back and revisit the memory of washing clothes with Aunt Florence.

This day, and I was probably about six years old, she asked me if I wanted to help. Of course I did. I was always game to try anything she might suggest. Climbing up on the bench so I could bend over and reach into the basin, I picked up a comparatively light article of clothing (I think it was a pair of her ginormous step- ins) and while trying to feed the cloth into the "mangle", promptly got my arm, (step-ins and all,) caught in the wringer. There was much wailing and screeching going on (and that was just Aunt Florence) and then Uncle May came running out on the porch. He reached over and unplugged the washer and disconnected the wringer somehow (he'd done that before. I could tell by the swift way he got me loose from the thing). I sat in his lap while he petted and prodded the arm and told me that it was going to be okay. Aunt Florence told me I was making a big thing out of it, but I could tell it had scared her, too. After all, my mother had left me in her care with two perfectly good arms and legs, it wouldn't do to return me any less perfect that I had arrived.

Oddly enough, when I'm telling this, I can see them both so clearly and even hear their voices, that funny little hitch in Uncle May's laughter, that high pitched voice of Aunt Florence's. The only other time that happens is when I think about the time Uncle May's mule kicked me. But that's another story all together, and I'll tell it another day.

The Thanksgiving Challenge Post 16: What makes me happy and thankful today

2009-11-16T14:51:00.003-05:00

What makes me happy and thankful today? Most (99%) of my readers make me happy. They read what I have to say and add to my memories with memories of their own. You are always fun and cheerful or if you're not well you tell me and ask for prayer. Rarely are you critical of what I have to say. But since they are my memories, I don't know why anyone would feel the need to criticize them anyway. I have one reader who bothers me. I have yet to read a comment from him that was not hateful and frankly disturbing. One post the other day had a comment on it that was so graphically violent that I worried about my ten year old Granddaughter reading it. I deleted it as soon as I found it and hoped that would be the end of it. Today's comment on Post 15, while not violent, was equally hateful. Again, I removed it from my blog. I am not going to be forced into changing my way of posting. I shouldn't have to. So, today I am thankful for the delete button. It will be used as often as I need to take advantage of its powers. If it says "comment removed by a blog administrator" then you know that I am being so very very thankful at the express moment my finger hits the delete key!

The Thanksgiving Challenge Post 15: All these new contraptions Part 2

2009-11-15T17:58:00.005-05:00

It seems that something new comes along every five minutes. Have you noticed that as soon as you get your computer humming, along comes a new program that makes what you're using totally obsolete? Nothing maddens Mac more than that. When he bought me my new laptop, it came with a certificate for the new Windows 7...we've come to expect these changes, often putting off a purchase til the "new edition" has the bugs worked out of it.

What I am most thankful for today has to do with cooking. I can remember my grandmother's big electric range that took up a good part of the kitchen. But sitting squat and black in a corner was the little Franklin stove, the one that had the fire laid in it every night before bed, so that all it needed was a match when her feet hit the floor. The Franklin stove heated the kitchen, cooked the grits and warmed the chilled little bodies that dressed before it, getting ready to catch the school bus. The electric range made the biscuits and cooked the roast, fried the chicken, baked the cakes and transformed little rounds of sweet dough into cookies that melted in your mouth.

Then, along came this young upstart, the Microwave. Everyone raved about it, what a marvelous invention it was, how it was transforming kitchens the world over. Microwave cook books came out with tips on how to use this marvelous new invention so that your bread didn't need an icepick to break it apart for eating. Thing is, I never figured out how to cook one darned thing in one that tasted nearly as good as what I cooked on my electric range...or the wonderful Aga gas range that I had when we lived in England. But you know, sometimes I want a cup of tea faster than the range can do it, at times like that I'm thankful for my darling little microwave...but for the life of me, I can't figure out any other useful purpose for it! One day it's going to make a wonderful little planter.

The Thanksgiving Challenge Post 14: All the new conveniences...day 1

2009-11-14T07:46:00.005-05:00

So here we are, in the near middle of the Thanksgiving Challenge thrown by Leah at Southbreeze Farm. I was wondering last night what I was going to post about when a call from Good Sister answered my question. After a few minutes of general "whatcha doing" conversation, before we rang off, she asked what we were going to watch on TV tonight. I replied that with so many channels to choose from I'd just do a little surfing till something caught my fancy.

And there in lies a post.

When I was growing up we had only a few of the wonderful appliances in our home that we have now. We had an electric range, a refrigerator, a TV and radio. My parents had a stereo which we were under no circumstances ever to touch. EVER. My dad had three remote controls, their names were Holly, Sandi and Toni. Sometimes he conveniently combined our three names to Holsanton to make sure he got at least one little body to change the channel of the TV we could only watch one hour a day. We were also in the era of rabbit ears, and sometimes just the touch of our fingers on that contraption would make the picture come in clearer and if it was a news item, we had to stand there for a while so that all the news he wanted to hear could be seen, as well. Now, these days I have satellite, both TV and radio. If we lose picture on account of clouds, never mind, I have tivo'd 80 hours of entertainment in that event and we will never do without moving pictures on the screen. And I don't have to have Arianna stand with one hand on a rabbit ear, the other pointed out sharply north east to ensure a perfectly crisp image. What a world. What a life. So, today I am thankful for my dish...how did we ever get along without it? Funny though, last night we had to watch a movie on the DVD player because of all the 359 channels Dish offers at the lowly price of $()&.00 a month, nothing was on.

The Thanksgiving Challenge Post 13: Tapestries

2009-11-12T09:37:00.003-05:00

This morning I'm thinking about family. Not just close by wrap your arms around family, but family long gone, but never forgotten. Once I was the fifth generation in the photo shoot of Great-Great Grand, Great Grand, Grand, Parent and child...now suddenly I've jumped to second spot coming just after father, then me, then Michael and Wallace, now Arianna. Family has always been a strong contender in affections and I've learned so much from my forebears. Quilting I learned about from a Great-Grandmother and Grandmother, Great Aunts and Mother...I can see the big purple and narrow pink and white striped quilt that they were working on the morning my older sister pushed me off the porch, opening a gash in my head that required clamps to close. They wrapped me in that not quite completed quilt to rush me off to Dr. Newsome's, he of the "do you want the apple or the nickel" fame. (The correct answer being the apple, then he'd give you both!) They didn't bother to take the pins out, either. Just wrapped and rolled and off we went. I have to say that the stinging little pains in arms and legs took my mind off the blood pouring down my face. My Great Grandmother, Little Granny Merriman, stern faced and knotted hair on the nape of her neck was yelling down the steps, "you didn't take the pins out, you're gonna kill that child! Try not to put her eye out!"

I used to love to watch my Grandmother roll her own cigarettes. She would open a can of Prince Albert, hold the paper deftly between two fingers, fill the channel with tobacco, lick one side and quickly close it around the sweet smelling blend, making a cylinder to hold the match to. Okay, I know it is a nasty habit, but back then no one knew how dangerous it could be , but to watch Mammy accomplish such a feat of magic...well, I was suitably impressed. Such dexterity of the fingers and hands she passed onto us that cats cradles and yoyoing came naturally. It's no wonder that stringing green tobacco onto sticks came so easily to us.

My Mother was a chef, pure and simple. There was nothing simple about her cooking and yet she made it look so easy that you wanted to try preparing every dish she ever mastered. Paula Deen and Julia Child had nothing on Mama. She could take the toughest of meats and give it the consistency of Fillet Mignon...and she could create Pavlova to rival the original. We all wanted to cook like her...sometimes we succeed. But not all her secrets were passed onto us. Most of the magic was in her soul and she took that with her when she left us.

Our families are a work of tapestry that can never be recreated. Each tapestry is unique to you, the added thread work that moves down the pattern will continue the thread of life that we are ever thankful for. So, for today I am most thankful for the Tapestry that is my family, with all its knots and silks...all it's mistakes and corrections. I thank them for the never completed work, that stitching that goes on and on into forever.

The Thanksgiving Challenge Post 12: Rain Barrel Wealth

2009-11-11T08:15:00.004-05:00

When I woke up this morning the sweet sound of rain was filling the room with comfort. No thunder, no lightening, very little wind...just the raindrops beating down on the roof and rolling off through the gutters to the rain barrels. It is absolutely amazing how much water can be collected from just a short rainfall. I remember hearing my mother talking about using rain water to rinse her hair. This was of course before conditioners in every fruit and flower known to man was on the shelves of even grocery stores. You know, lavender and chamomile, mango and blueberry...some of the descriptions of these conditioners could be mistaken for an entree at dinner, or a dessert.

We have our rain barrels set up to catch the water to tend to plants. Any water we save now will be used all winter long as needed so that we don't have to hook up hoses. I have been known to awaken in the middle of the night wondering if I disconnected a hose. Why worry? Well, in the event of a freeze, you run the risk of broken pipes if the hose isn't curled happily on the ground. And yes, I've actually gotten up in the middle of the night to make sure. I stood on the porch this morning and peered down towards where the barrels are and saw that water is up to the tops of both of them. We're set for a while. I'm so thankful that my mother showed us how to set up a rain barrel system. It has saved us countless dollars over the years. And since it's rainwater, the plants are not shocked by chlorine or other chemicals and what we call organic, is truly organic. I'm sure the rain will be gone by nightfall, but in the meantime, I intend to enjoy the blessings that it is bringing. I think I may curl up with a good book later...or a game of Scrabble. In the mean time, I'm just thankful that the rain barrels are doing their job.

In honor of Veterans Day, I hope you will read this beautiful poem which so eloquently points out just what our Veterans have done for us to protect our freedoms.

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

The Thanksgiving Challenge Post 11: Rain Rain Stay and Play, even to another day!

2009-11-10T17:05:00.006-05:00

I'm a bit late today. This morning we had to get up early and go to Hartsville. After we got home, I headed for BiLo's where I spent a lovely hour grocery shopping . Before I began my shop, the rain held me in the truck for a bit. I didn't mind at all as curtains of rain fell around me. You see, we are back in a severe drought here and so this remnant of a fall Hurricane has been good for us. I heard someone on the news today say that they were used to the summer hurricanes which brought heat and mugginess. I wonder if there is less damage when the storm comes in November. We are due two more full days of rain and about 4-6 inches of liquid gold. The trees need this soaking more than anything. We've had so little rain that their roots tend to turn loose of the soil and fall over. We carry buckets of water to our young fruit trees weekly, but the big oak trees, maples and cedars are needing what God provides, not what little we can do.

After Hurricane Hugo ( September, 1989) which was a disaster for all of South Carolina and most of North Carolina, we tend not to say such things as "we need a good hurricane to bring us rain." At least not where anyone can hear us. For the most part, there is no such thing as a "good" hurricane. For the other part we don't want people glaring at us and wishing us ill. Earlier this afternoon as I sat in my pretty red truck and waited for the rain to slack off, I said a prayer of thanks for all of Chesterfield County and hopeful that any flooding is light and non damaging. But God, how we needed that rain. How thankful we are to receive it!
http://bunnyawards.blogspot.com/2009/11/pearl-of-giveaway.html
will take you to a pearl of a giveway from my pal, Debra...please go by and check in!

Thanksgiving Challenge ...Post 10..August in November

2009-11-09T11:10:00.005-05:00

First of all I'd like to thank everyone for the kind words yesterday. I don't know for sure what ailed me, but today I look a bit better than death warmed over and am able to sit up and take a little broth...long as that broth is coffee flavored. Really, I feel a good bit better and just to make me feel like a summer time girl, this is what Mac presented me with. Okay, I know...I know...all your hubbies would have given you long stemmed roses or a bunch of daisies they'd picked growing wild in your neighbors yards. But you see, I don't eat "store bought" tomatoes. They taste odd. The texture is off and the flavor is that of cardboard. They look pretty on the inside, but they were picked green and gassed for shipment...yes, gassed. Now, oddly enough these were late tomatoes which we picked in late September-early October. Mac grew these tomatoes like all our others, from seed. The deep red with green shoulders is called Cherokee Purple and the red ones are Arkansas Traveler. They were new varieties to us, but they are Heritage tomatoes. That means they have been being grown for quite some time, they are not new varieties other than to us. The flavor of the Cherokee Purple is sweet with tangy farewell taste left in your mouth. The Arkansas Traveler makes you want to listen to fiddle music and do a hoe down in the middle of the kitchen floor. It has a kick to it. We had stripped the plants just before we heard there was to be a freeze and wrapped all the fruits in newspaper and placed them in garden baskets. They've been sitting waiting on Mac to have a peek ever since. This is about a bakers dozen and we still have a couple baskets left.

Tomorrow night for supper, Mac will be thankful for braised pork chops, green butterbeans, hot buttered rice and sliced tomatoes tasting fresh from the garden. No gases ever touched their tender flesh. A quick scalding and slipping the peel...maybe I feel up to having a sink sandwich...well, maybe not quite yet. So, for today I'm thankful for Mac and his green thumb. Cause, I sure would love me a tomato for supper tomorrow when I've for sure recovered!

The Thanksgiving Challenge...Day 9...

2009-11-08T09:19:00.005-05:00

It's Sunday morning and normally by this time (9:20 am) I've already posted my "I'm thankful for". This morning I'm a bit behind. Not because of Church or sleeping in or anything like that. There will be no Church this morning, and when I finish up in here, I'm crawling back to my bed and pulling the covers over my head and snuggling down. This morning I am sick. While I am pretty sure it is not H1N1 or seasonal flu, as badly as I feel, it may as well be. So, this morning I am thankful that I have a warm bed to crawl to, a roof over my head and hot tea to sip. Those things alone are so much more than many people have. There are times that I feel guilty about all the riches in my life, but at this time of year just the mere act of sharing with others assuages any guilt that might come my way. Since I don't want to share what ever creeping crud is attacking me this morning, I will keep myself at home and try not to breathe on anyone. That will make a church full of people thankful!

Thanksgiving Post Day 7: The Pause {Paws} that Refreshes

2009-11-07T07:45:00.004-05:00

This is Day 7 of the Thanksgiving Challenge and I have been absolutely amazed at how easily it has progressed. I knew that I had a lot to be thankful for, but until I actually went looking, I didn't really know how rich I was. Okay, you know I don't mean money and all of you know that I live in a Frank Capra world. That is not to say a fairytale world, but a world where I look for the good in the bad because it's easier to smile than to frown. Now, let me reintroduce you to Sonny, the Russian Blue who lodges with us. Sonny and his sister Cher, came in to live last Christmas on a cold and frosty morning. We were sitting drinking coffee when Mac reached behind him and drew the curtains back from the sliding glass door. He laughed out loud. "Look what Santa Claus brought, " he snickered. There they were, two little grey bundles mewing pitifully at the door. Mac saw the look in my eyes as I jumped up and ran over to the door and he started saying "no, they're not coming in...absolutely not coming in...oh geezzzz!"

They were cold and they were hungry. Mac held Cher, I held Sonny. I warmed a pan of skim milk (having reached the age where all the good stuff must be removed from stuff I once loved to consume) and poured it over some cat food and they ate as though they didn't know where their next meal was going to come from. I introduced them to the litter pan. They took to it immediately. Mac watched the weather to see what the temps were going to be like and being the kind- hearted fella he is, allowed they could stay in till it warmed up. Uh huh. Sonny immediately became my shadow, following me around and demanding his share of attention. Pye was a tiny bit jealous, but not enough to kill over. After a few weeks, Sonny began to come in our room, snuggle up under the blanket with me and bat at my nose till I opened my eyes. But not before he had wakened Mac and they'd had a vigorous game of "catch foot". The game of course would have already wakened me pretty much, but not enough to make me get up out of a warm bed.

This morning, the routine remains the same. Sonny jumps up and down on Mac til he wakes up for a game, they play for a bit...then he comes to snuggle down under the quilt and bat my nose. And make me smile. How can I not? My Sonny...and here he is, the Paws that Refreshes...and how grateful I am to start the day with a smile because of him.

Giving Thanks, Day 6

2009-11-06T08:27:00.002-05:00

To start with, today is hard for me. Being a Military Family member (albeit retired) what hurts one hurts all. I sat in shock yesterday as the (erroneous) news reports came over the air. Now with 13 dead and scores wounded, we learn that the man who was to care for their emotional needs inflicted great bodily harm on them, instead. While the news at first reported his death, he lives. I told Mac, after we had spent an hour hearing the same information regurgitated from different newscasters, that we needed to wait till today, when the facts began to come out. How different are the facts than the supposition? Very. I learned long ago in my work that the only thing you learn from eye witness accounts is that each one has a different version. It will be days before we know all the investigators know, and even then we won't know it all. So, our prayers go out to the surviving injured and their families, and most especially for the families of those killed. God be with them. And some may find what I am about to say very difficult to take. I want God to heal the soul of the shooter. I in fact beseech God on his behalf, to heal that wounded spirit so that in his current state, he may ask the forgiveness of his Maker for the harm he has inflicted. My upbringing tells me that God forgives all. After all, man proposes, God disposes.

Now, for what I am thankful for this morning. I am thankful that my sons and daughters(in-law) are well and uninjured today. I am thankful that my Granddaughter is safe within her school walls and learning the lessons she will need to become a success in her future. I am thankful for the man I married 41 years ago, who spent much of his life (30 years) in the Navy spending many years at sea away from those who loved him most to defend the country he loved the most.Father , I am thankful.
your child

Amen

Giving Thanks...Day Five...The Floss from the Gold

2009-11-05T07:26:00.003-05:00

My parents always tried to instill in us the ability to tell the difference between the real things in life and the temporary fixes. It's a lesson I hope that I've learned well. Here on day five of our Thanksgiving Challenge, I find it is not hard at all to come up with the things I'm most thankful for. This morning we're already up and about and have been since 6 am. These days I don't exactly bound from bed, but with a little push from Mac, I'm up and about. This morning there isn't much time to be lollygagging about, because Mac has an appointment with our Doc. We have our very own personal Doctor OZ.

A few years back we changed doctors due to the fact that our other doctor nearly killed me. Yes, you read right. Okay, so maybe nearly killed me is a bit strong, but no thanks to her I did not end up a quadriplegic. It was so close a call, I get the shivers. After the surgery that put me (more or less) back on my feet, I went Doctor hunting. We both knew, Mac and I, that we would never darken her door again. So I went through the TriCare manual looking for Doctors in the system and tried to learn something about them. I came across our current Doc and his credentials looked good. I made the appointments for follow up from the surgery and one for Mac to get us both established as new patients.

From day one, I was impressed. Unlike the usual "cattle call" rush thru labs, quick visit with the Doc pay your co-pay byby visit, he sat with me and took time to ask questions about my personal health, what I was being treated for, what surgeries I had recently had, and why. Why was the big question he wanted answers to. He listened to the newly repaired heart and told me it was beating strong and steady, he examined the newly restored neck complete with titanium and cadaver bone vertebrae and pronounced it a miracle, looked at my blood sugar log and told me that I had to do better. You can't have it all.

So this was in September of 2003. We don't dread going to see him, for we know that if he finds anything new to worry about, he'll turn heaven and earth to find the answers that will relieve our minds. He's just that sort of a doctor. Very much like my father, he doesn't much care for unanswered medical questions. And no question is to embarrassing for him. I've seen him go get one of his medical books and sit with me looking for the answer if he feels I doubt him in any way. I've learned to put my trust in him, and he's earned every ounce of it. I'm a hard sell. So, today I'm so thankful for Dr. Kenneth Pickens Moyd...now if that's not a Southern name, I'll buy you lunch.

A Month of Giving Thanks...Lee and The Guinea chickens

2009-11-04T07:59:00.005-05:00

I think that in all our lives, everything we are thankful for harks back to childhood. Yesterday I was thankful for collards, but after working all afternoon cleaning cooking and freezing turnip greens with root, I'd be hard pressed to be thankful for them! There is nothing quite so hard to clean as the turnip. Of course that is just my opinion. But still, when we thaw out that bag of turnips later on in the winter, I assure you that we will be most thankful for them, the misery of elbow deep water (and I use warmish water) a thing of (not so long) distant memory.

Our neighbors, Tara and Sam (I won't even attempt to spell their last name, suffice it to say Sam is from Greece) have a nice size little farm that sits adjacent to us. We get to share the beauty of their horses, the sweetness of the cattle, the raucousness of their geese and the neighborliness of their guinea chickens. You see, guineas are wild free spirits who spend their lives hiding their nests and foraging for food in all its forms. We buy dried corn to put out at the woodline for the deer. There's nothing more relaxing than sitting out on the back porch with a cat in your lap, watching the deer come up to eat. Our land is posted against hunters, so is Sam and Tara's. When the chickens first appeared in our yard, Mac went to the barn to get some corn. That started a trend. We've now graduated to chicken feed.

It was one day a couple of weeks ago when the Guineas first arrived. I felt such an overwhelming sense of peace at these lovely birds, and remembered Little Granny (Merriman) her apron filled with chicken feed, softly calling "chick chick chick" and throwing the feed out in a wide arc so that all would get something to eat. You learn quickly about a pecking order if you don't spread it out enough. Unlike human mothers, the young chicks will be pecked back to eggdom if they get in the way of the senior chickens beaks. Hence, pecking order. I don't know why it sends such a shiver of calm over me to see those chickens running toward us expectantly. Perhaps it fulfills the "mother earth" part of my nature. I did tell you I was a card carrying, tree protecting bunny hugger. You suspected though, right?

So, this morning when I was out feeding the cats, I expected to see the Guineas racing toward the porch in anticipation of a morning meal. They didn't come. I went back inside and Mac says, "why the face?" I explained that the chickens hadn't come for breakfast. I mean really, after three weeks of being our bestest friends forever and a no show now? I kept going back out and found myself clucking "chick chick chick" out behind the barns. So here I was, typing away about what I was feeling thankful for, about how those darned chickens had made each morning glad, and this morning , NO CHICKENS. Listen, I picked up the phone and actually called and left Tara a message...where are the chickens? I know, pitiable.

Lee popped up on I/M and asked about me and how our evening went , I told her about the hard work of cleaning and cooking the turnips Bill had blessed me with and suddenly I hear Mac yelling out "your chickens are here!" I can't believe how happy I felt. I hurriedly told Lee I had to run for a sec, the chickens were here. Now, here is how close our friendship has become. She understood completely. So, here on day 4 of giving thanks it's a dead heat. I'm thankful for my neighbors chickens who give me a sense of peace every morning. But mostly, I'm thankful for Lee. I have Evil Sister, Good Sister, and now I have Blogging Sister. Wow. I am really and truly blessed.

Giving Thanks: Day 3...A head of collards and a hunk of cornbread

2009-11-03T07:57:00.004-05:00

Before we know it, November will be far into its first week and we'll have to start thinking about Thanksgiving. I love Thanksgiving maybe more than Christmas. I said maybe. But something happened yesterday that could clarify it for me some more. And since this is day three of Giving Thanks Challenge, I know exactly what I'm thankful for. Here goes.

One day last week we stopped by my cousin Bill's house to take him a little gift. I have always loved Bill, since I was a little girl. But more on Bill in a later post. Anyway, we started talking about his turnip patch and I told him that I still cooked my turnips the way Aunt Delah (his mother) had instructed me that they were to be cooked. He asked about our collards and Mac told him how great they were doing. "I love collards," Bill allowed, "but with just me here it's too much trouble to prepare them and cook them. " I made him a deal then and there. I'd trade him some cooked to a turn collard greens, if he would let me get about 3 dozen turnips, complete with greens. He agreed so fast it made my head swim.

Yesterday, after we got home from Mac's appointment with his Doc for his quarterly blood work (that darned cholesterol medication!) I found a message from Bill. I was just about to return his call when the phone rang. I told him he must be psychic, I was just about to call and he told me to be at his house at about 10:30 (this) morning. He said J.W. (his nephew, another cousin of mine) was coming to help him harvest the turnips and he was ready for collards! Promising to see him at the appointed time and place, I told Mac we had to go pull a collard head.

We walked out to the garden a bit later and Mac asked which one I wanted. I pointed to a beautiful huge head loaded with lush green leaves and said I'd take that one. It was such a perfect specimen that I caught my breath. "You know, " I mused, " if this were at the State Fair, it'd be a prize winner. A blue ribbon prize winner." Mac had just cut the heavy root off, and held it up for a better look. "I do believe you're right, " he grinned.

I cut the leaves off, which left just the stalk to go into the compost. There was not one leaf that was damaged, no poison had ever touched them, no bugs had munched, not one single blemish was on that perfect head of collards. I couldn't help but grin from ear to ear at Mac's success. Taking the bundle of leaves inside, I lay them on the counter and filled the sink with the the first of several rinsing water baths. After I had washed them, I rolled them, one by one, into the tight bundle I had often seen Mammy (my Grandmother) do, took my kitchen shears and cut them into small pieces. And was instantly transported back in time to her kitchen. I could hear her voice talking about the Thanksgiving meal she was preparing and how good she felt that we had made the trip up from Tampa to be with them all. She was busy cutting the collards into the stock pot and bringing them to the boil. She put in piece of fatback and covered the pot tightly. She was describing to me the dinner that would soon be shared with her family. The dining room would be filled with Aunts and Uncles, grown cousins and of course Grandparents. The big kitchen table would be set for the children where from 9 to 15 of us would sit for our meal. The main topic of conversation would be how to get rid of the collards on our plate. No one, of course, was thinking about actually eating them. The smell of cooking collards is something that most children would find offensive. All those vitamins and roughage fouling the air, covering the smell of roasting turkey and the best dressing anyone ever put in their mouths...

Mammy had a rule when it came to food put on your plate. You cleaned that plate, on account of all the starving children in China. (My friend Vonnie said her Granny once knocked her half way into the following week when she replied "I wish they had this plate, I don't like collards"). Now, I don't know how our cleaning our plates had a thing to do with the children in China, starving or otherwise, but we respected (read feared) Mammy enough to do what she said. I'm not sure when my childhood self turned against me, but that Thanksgiving something profound happened. Preparing myself to heave, taking the first bite (after a liberal dosing of Pepper sauce) I found the taste, well...I found the taste pleasing. I took a second bite and actually smiled. The rest of the table looked at me like I was an alien in their midst. I was reaching for a hunk of cornbread...

When I came back to myself, found me standing at the kitchen sink still cutting collards, putting them into the big stock pot and grinning like a mule eating briers. I had heard Mammy's voice so clearly, even though she has been gone for 30 years, that I didn't doubt she had been standing right next to me. I felt her love wrap around me like a warm sweater...or a big old collard leaf. All that was missing was the smell of cornbread wafting from the oven. I guess that's why it's called "comfort food".

A Month of Giving Thanks...Day 2

2009-11-02T07:53:00.003-05:00

So here we are on November 2nd, and it's Day 2 of A Month of Giving Thanks Challenge. Today I want to give thanks for you, my blogging friends. You see, back in April I was laid low. I wasn't aware of being on the Critical List until I had been moved up to Fair condition. My son Wallace updated my blog and told everyone that I was in Hospital and just how serious a situation it was turning out to be. One day just after Easter, he and Charity came into my hospital room with a sheaf of papers. They were smiling to beat the band and fanned the papers out on my lap. I looked down and saw all these names that I recognized and comments and well wishes from over 100 people in my Cyberspace Neighborhood. Mac had brought me the print outs of numerous E-mails and E-Cards...and there were Get Well cards thru Snail Mail...I had a daily phone call from Lee in Texas. I was overwhelmed. Now, here were about a hundred+ messages and I have to say that after I got through laughing, I cried. So, here for day two, I want to tell you just how much it meant to me.

I always knew that friends were a tonic for when you hit low points in your life. But before I came into this wonderful world of blogging, my friends were always those to whom I could put a face and a voice to. Now I may not always be able to put a voice to your faces, but I've seen your faces in your blogs so much that I would know you if I saw you. How does one say "Thank You" for all the wonderful prayers that went out? Well, I just want to say it again...thank you my friends. You're a rock.

A New Month of Thanksgivings

2009-11-01T07:29:00.003-05:00

Leah, our friend at South Breeze Farm, started us down a road of offering up Thanks for the things that enriched our lives, no matter how insignificant it may seem to others. It's the little things in life that we often overlook that we should be the most grateful for. Today is day one. If you would like to join in, please click on the Giving Thanks Banner to your right, it will take you to the spot where you can hook up with Leah and the rest of us through Mr. Linksey...very easy to do. I hope we'll break a record this year.

For Day 1, I want to give thanks for my daughters-in-law, Charity and Anna. We very often neglect to tell the people around us whom we love and admire, that we DO. So I would like to take this opportunity to tell them how dear they are to me, in their own right. They make my sons lives full and enrich our lives, as well. I give thanks they both have now found jobs that they not only like, but love. That's such an important distinction, when you are working full time, trying to keep your family on an even keel. No misery attached to the jobsite means a lighter spirit. So, I'm thankful for my girls. Not just because they are married to my boys, but because they love us in return, and never fail to show it.

Now, I'm headed over to Leah's South Breeze Farm so I can check out your blessings. Blogging our Blessings...I love this. See you tomorrow for Day 2.

When the Cats Away...

2009-10-30T08:55:00.004-04:00

It's mischief night, the night when all the real goblins and witches go out and get up to....well, mischief. This is the night for highflying Glenda's and land locked Igor's to teepee houses (witches on broomsticks give that roll of toilet paper a nice high and tight look) soap windows with soap made of ghoul's bones and ready to snatch up any bit of sugar they might find. Then, on Hallow'een the JackO'Lanterns can light the way for the little human goblins, ghosties and ghoulies to go about their job of Highway Robbery.

This morning I found the cats all gathered in a circle talking amongst themselves. BatGirl, the Calico, shushed them all when I came into the room, sleepy eyes looking for a coffee pot, and I spoke to them. "What's up kids?" Tousle my hair now...yawn...they ignore me, walking their separate ways. There are six of them. Lillibet, the newest among them, giggles. She is still so tiny and the girls (Hound and Cher anyway, grooming another being beneath BatGirl's dignity) are constantly washing her (or tenderizing her for a cannibal feast). This is her first Hallow'een. I pay them no attention, I go through this ritual every year. The cats are sneaky and pondering ways to trip me up. Normally so loving and gentle, they get taken over by the spirit(s) of the season long about now.

Except for Pye. The big fat Siamese, blue eyes shining, refuses to get out of his favorite chair, rolls and shows his belly for a good scratch on the tummy, and promises to tell all. Later. As I head back to the bedroom, coffee cup in hand, it dawns on me that for ten years now, Pye has promised to tell all. He never has. When Ariel (that sleek black witches cat with green glowing eyes) was the Queen of the house, I never expected him to break his vow of silence, but now that BatGirl is Resident Queen, I expect it even less. You see, BatGirl is a Psychopath. She takes delight in ripping the heads off tiny mice and the stray grackle that wanders into her sight. She charms snakes and sends them off to the happy hunting grounds with aplomb. There are times that when I catch her gaze on me, I wonder what she's planning. I know she's planning something...cats are always planning something.

So here we are, Mischief night, and when I awaken tomorrow, my taken over Pride...BatGirl, Pyewacit, Hound, Sonny and Cher plus Lillibet will all return to normal. But the key word here is return. Because you see, for some odd reason that I've never been able to put my finger on, they'll disappear long bout midnight. No one will want breakfast. No one will want noise. They'll all want an icepack for their aching heads. Now that's a party I'm glad I'll be missing.

Signs for the Times

2009-10-17T08:12:00.004-04:00

Have you ever seen a sign that you knew you had to have even if it meant creating it yourself? Remember my flea market buy for 50 cents (that I would gladly have paid up to 3 bucks for) "Raising Children is like being pecked to death by chickens"? On a piece of old lumber, painted white (sort of) with green edging (it could have been mold) and writing in black that you knew was done in a hospital for the mentally over the edge, I offered fifty cents to the irritated man standing on the other side of the table. He turned the little wall hanging over in his hands, handed it back to me (it was at that point that I got the splinter from hell jabbed in my finger) and called out to the harried looking lady still unloading the car, "hey hon...lady here says she'll give you 50 cents for the board." "TAKEIT" she screeched back. "May be the only sell we make today!" I think it was the blood on the board that made her agree so fast. Possibly afraid I had a lawyer in my pocket.

Well, its signs like that which catch my attention and put a glitter in my eyes (Mac calls it mania) that can make me smile all day. My mother once saw a cross stitch wall hanging in a friend's house that she talked about for ages. It was a screw standing on it's head, done in gold thread. Under it said "The Golden Years". So, Screw the Golden Years became her motto for life! I guess I got the bug of sign love from her. Some folks love tee shirt mottoes (my favorite is Maxine: if a man complains that you are smothering him you're not holding the pillow down hard enough) , and I do, too. But a hanging sign is there to remind you of what tickles your fancy all the time. My niece Sissy sent me a sign that hangs on my wall in the dining area. It reads Fresh Coffee (cup of steaming coffee pictured in the center) Only the Finest Served Here. What I love about this sign is that the words could refer to the fine coffee which I brew (you will never find instant coffee in your cup here) or the fine people to which it is served.

Okay, okay I do have a point which I am getting around to. I have seen a sign which I know that I must have and I may have to make it myself but I laughed so hard when it was first put before my eyes that I knew it was made for me. Or it will be. The wood panel is oval and about 10 inches in length by 7 inches in height. It has a separate round of plank about three inches in diameter. On one side is the word IN and on the other side the word OUT. Okay, so picture this in your mind. The oval plank is weathered (or stained to look that way) and the background is a witch on her broom...on the lower right hand corner is where you would hang the in or out medallion. So, visually you would see the witch on her broom then the medallion hanging to indicate that the witch is in (or the witch is out). I want this sign. No, I must have this sign. It will go perfectly with the one on the porch that reads "Siamese Cats mesmerize but Black Cats Rule".

An Anniversary Celebration

2009-10-13T12:01:00.004-04:00

I met him in February, it was just before his 28th birthday. I had just turned 19. He was tall and handsome, he had an easy laugh and his eyes were alive with compassion. It was a blind date that could have turned out either way for both of us. My pal Pat had kept insisting that I met her beau's shipmate. When I finally gave in it turned out to be an adventure neither one of us would ever regret.

He was in MineLant at the time. Their motto was "Iron Men on Wooden Ships". That was not only a catchy motto, it was what the kids today would term "hot". He already had ten years in the Navy. I was still trying to find out who I was and what I wanted to be. If that sounds a bit "hippyish", remember, it was 1968. You do the math.

The ship went to sea soon after we met and there was much exchanging of letters and dreams between us. On his return Stateside, we discovered that the attraction was still as strong. He proposed, I accepted. I can hardly believe that it was 41 years ago tomorrow. It seems like yesterday, but then I can hardly keep up with time the way it flies by. No marriage is perfect, I've heard it said. But ours has come pretty darned close. So, to Mac...my beloved...I love you every bit as much as I did the night we married...no, that's wrong. I love you so much more for so many reasons it would take 41 more years to tell you exactly what they are.

Mindy Lou

2009-10-09T19:15:00.003-04:00

I've talked about our Mindy Lou, the blind dog many times in here. We were always so astounded at her love of cats but more so of their love for her. You may recall that she had a stroke during her spaying procedure and the result was blindness. The Vet recommended that I put her down. It was the last time I would ever see him again. The cats seemed to know that she was disabled and would gather around her and lead her around to where they wanted to go. She knew our property like the back of her paw, and it was all due to the cats guidance.

Mindy was just a tiny puppy when someone abandoned her at our front door. She was pitifully skinny and had the mange. We took her to the Vet to get her treated for that and worms, got her vitamins and brought her home. She adored our Shelties, Duffy and Ripley. But it was the kittens that took her breath away. She would whimper when they gathered on the back porch and beg to go out to be with them. This was even before her blindness.

Mindy's muzzle began to turn white several years ago. She still got around with no problems, but we knew that at age twelve, she was getting to be a senior citizen. She adored Arianna and Arianna adored her. We could say "Arianna's coming to see you, " and she would station herself by the door until they arrived.

Last Wednesday night I noticed that she was having trouble getting up and down the steps. She just wasn't herself. Thursday she went and lay on her bed and never got up again. I had made an appointment with Doc Lawhon, but that proved to be a futile attempt to hold back the inevitable. At 1:30 pm, I went to sit by her again and talk to her. Pyewackit and Sonny lay next to her. She was no longer breathing.

We said goodbye to that good dog and I promised myself there will be no more dogs here. I told Mac I didn't know if my heart could take the grief. Of course I know there will be. I can't survive without a dog. We buried her in the Pet Cemetery amongst her cats. She's at the head of the plot, next to Ariel. Queen of the Pride. I've noticed footprints on her grave site and found Wonky and CeeCee lying on her gravestone the other morning. Their mourning is evident. You know, I've never doubted that animals have souls. Why wouldn't they? After all, The Good Lord made them all.

Gonna Be a Bear

2009-10-06T08:55:00.005-04:00

Okay, we're into Fall now. I know it for sure because my body and mind want to hibernate. I can't make myself get out of bed before 7:30 a, and I'm ready to crawl into my den (I mean bed) by 9 p.
This has how it has always been with me. It won't last long, though. By the end of October I'll be back to my old self, the yawning will be a thing of the past, the early to bed later to rise syndrome will be something to laugh about. What I want to know is, am I the only one? Is there anyone else out there who has this problem? I would appreciate knowing. For now please enjoy this brief little funny I received in an e-mail several years ago from someone who obviously suffers right along with me! Oh, and double click on the
bear to enlarge it and read what it says!

Help, I'm being held hostage in Facebook and don't have the coins to escape!

2009-09-19T07:51:00.004-04:00

I have been hearing about Facebook for ages now from my friends and my children. Ages, I tell you! I was quite content to stick with Blogger and give Facebook a miss. Ever hear how hindsight is 20/20? Well, they were right. Once I started accepting invitations, there was no end to it.

Facebook. Facebook is a world all to itself. There is Yoville, Farmtown, Farmville, The Cotton Mill and the Candy Shack...and God knows what all other fresh shades of hell. I kept hearing about how much fun I was missing. "You've got to come to Facebook, " they all cried. "It's FUN!" I went in and found that I had about a hundred invitations. My pal Evil Sister asked me, "okay how does one enter Facebook one day and have 74 friends the next?" I had no answer for her. I simply was acknowledging invitations. Okay, does anyone realize that I have been missing from Blogger for over a week? Did anyone send out a search party to find out what might be going on? If so, I didn't see you waving at me on that distant shore known as Bejeweled Blitz world. Yes, Facebook has games, too. By the way, Facebook has a new apartment for me as well. My friends and family keep sending me gifts with which to furnish this apartment. Of course it took me days to figure out how to accept the gifts and then place them in my new pad. My new apartment looks great. The house I actually live in looks like hell but my new apartment is set up for a party all the time.

So I of course accepted an invite to be a neighbor in Farmville. Great. The garden outside needs weeding and mulching, but I'm in Facebook Hell trying to keep the herd of cattle that my friends blessed me with from eating the crops that I "planted" and intended to harvest. If I get one more tree I'll have a forest almost as dense as the one I have in my actual world. I need a cattle dog to herd the cattle, a sheep dog to herd the sheep but does anyone send me one as a gift to go along with the bovine crew? Or a fence? No, I'm expected to go harvest other neighbors crops to earn the coins to buy my own fences. And possibly dogs. And my darling Anna (DIL) sent me the gift of a cat for my Yoville Apartment. Now why didn't I see that one coming?

I was talking to Evil Sister the other day and she said, "what are you doing in Farmville? I sent you an invitation to be my neighbor in Farmtown! It's a lot more fun...you need to come check it out!" I have noticed a twitch in my left eye and my right hand seems to have a mouse attached to it permanently. I can't put it down. And then last night I saw a new game a friend had been playing. It was Break the Brick Wall. So I had to go check it out. The twitch is decidedly worse and I'm overdosing on caffeine.

I really must go now...I hear a cat calling me and I'm not sure if it's the one in my Yoville apartment or one of the ones who live a real life in my real world. Facebook. It's stolen my life.

For Ben

2009-09-12T12:03:00.005-04:00

There are many occasions to commemorate, celebrate and validate this month. We've just finished with 9/11, my father and my son's birthday are coming up on the 24th, but for my dear friend Sally the 16th is the sad date that commemorates her beloved grandson Ben, who left this earth far to soon one year ago (on that date). He was an avid sportman and skateboarder and an admirable teenager with many friends. I remember the day I learned that Sally's lovely boy died and I couldn't help thinking then that there is something inherently wrong about a parent or grandparent burying a child.

To honor Ben, Sally is going to give $100 towards a skateboard for the person who wins her giveaway. To enter, all you have to do is leave a comment on her site and you will be entered into the drawing. This is such a generous thing for her to do to honor her sweet grandson, and I'm sure Ben is aware of the generosity. So, please go over to http://www.whispering-hope.blogspot.com/
at Whispering Hope and leave your name. Ben would be so pleased.

How we came to have so many Pomegranate plants

2009-09-05T08:29:00.004-04:00

It's Saturday and Labor day is upon us. Mac is out in the garden with the tiller preparing the beds for our Pomegranate bushes. He is so proud of them, as he grew them himself this past spring, from seed. We laugh about the efforts from last year because he says I sabotaged him at every turn. See, he prepared this nice long planter with lovely compost and spread the pomegranate seed over it, then covered it with a layer of compost and set it next to the shed to get plenty of sunlight and make sure of water. That was February of 2008

I came along and saw this lovely planter of great looking dirt, went into the garden shed and got my little sack of Hibiscus seed I'd gathered. I took the trowel and worked up the the dirt, spread my seed and covered them gently with a blanket of potting mix. I sat back and admired my work.

In April, I was agog at all the hibiscus plants and wondered at Mac's constant comment that they didn't look much like pomegranates. I snickered, thinking "why would hibiscus look like pomegranate?" Out loud I said, "well if they looked like cotton plants or even okra plants I wouldn't be surprised. You know, since they are the same family?" He only gave me that "get out of here" look...you know the one. Later on it dawned on me that he really thought he had grown pomegranates. I wasn't sure how to tell him that he (we) had grown hibiscus. I mean, couldn't he tell from the leaves? Why did he keep going over to the planter and talking to himself?

I picked out spots all around the place where I wanted them to be planted. As we sat on the porch drinking our first cup of coffee, I brought up the identity crisis his pomegranate plants were having. "When did you plant your seed, then? You didn't mention it to me at the time, " I said (sipping carefully, eyes cutting to my right). He thought about it for a bit, then said to me, "you know I put them in there early February. I can't figure out why they look so much like cotton plants. " He shook his head, as though to clear that dark thought from his mind. I drew one leg under me, admiring the red nail polish on my toenails, nodded wisely and said, "that could be because someone overplanted your planter with hibiscus."

I think they heard his shout of "WHATTTTTTTTTTT?" clear into downtown Jefferson. I tried to explain that I had seen the planter, it was so nicely prepared and that I thought about how great it would be to propagate the lovely Hibiscus he had brought me from Alabama that I just went ahead and took it over. I never dreamed that he had planted a thing in it. Really!

Likely story. Yep, that was his answer! I swear, I didn't know the planter was loaded! Ummm...sort of puts me in mind of the old song, I Didn't know the Gun was Loaded. But it is the truth I tell you!

So anyway, there was a planter that sat mutely by the south wall of the shed
fresh compost had been added by the master of the house ONCE AGAIN. But now,
signs were stuck in beside it that dared the housemouse to TOUCH ONE GRAIN OF DIRT THEREIN! Signs like crucifixes were fixed to the pot as though I were a vampire and This Means You and GO AWAY proliferated the outer parameters. I looked at him in all innocence and once more insisted that I DIDN'T KNOW.

His answer? "This time you do!." Yes, I suppose I did! But anyway, I hope you are as proud of his endeavors as I am! Here they are. Not Hibiscus plants, but lovely well tended grown from seed Pomegranate bushes! Properly tended and transplanted into larger cells and ready to be put into the bed. He has green fingers, you see. All those years as a Sailor and who knew he was meant to be a farmer all along?

Living in the Past

2009-08-31T08:54:00.008-04:00

I don't know why my mind has been "harking" back to the past so much these days. Last night my dreams were filled with my grandmother, my mother and my Aunt Florence and Uncle May. No, that's not a misprint, his name was Arnold May Sellers and I believe it was a family name...he was called May. In my dream I could see them all and chatted with them as though I were 8 years old again and in the center of their hearts. By the way, all these beloved people are no longer on this side of the veil.

Like I said, the past has been on my mind quite a bit lately and yesterday while chatting with Lee I asked her if she remembered the Betsy McCall paper dolls. She assured me that she remembered them well, having played with them at her grandmother's house. I remember playing with my Betsy McCall on the floor of our apartment in Washington, DC. I was about 4 at the time, and I know you find it hard to believe that I can remember these things, but I do. I remember my toy ambulance with working lights and sirens from that era, too. But Betsy was special. I had my little scissors (metal not plastic) and waited eagerly for my mother to finish the magazine so that I could acquire my "pasted to hard board" Betsy some lovely new clothes. Now, my mother sewed, she and all her sisters learned to make their own clothes when Home Ec meant just that. Home Economics! Mama sewed beautifully and collected patterns for our clothes from McCall's huge drawers located in the cloth shops she frequented. Betsy's dresses were often found in the deep long drawers located under the cutting tables. So yesterday, Betsy was as real in my mind as she had once been in my hands.

Cooties. Do you remember the game Cooties? Doesn't sound very nice, does it? But it was a game along with so many others...the card games we learned like Old Maid, War and Rook. I loved it when my older sister Holly would come down off her high horse long enough to play a game of Rook with her annoying little sister. It never lasted long, but I felt special while it was going on. We played Monopoly, of course. It was the lucky player who wound up with not only Boardwalk, but Park Place , too. Usually that indicated a winner...but not always! And the year I got my really nice Bingo set with the turning basket and genuine bake lyte bingo numbers...wow! I was forever trying to get a game of Bingo organized!

But Scrabble has forever and always been my favorite game. I introduced it to my boys as soon as they learned to spell. First it was Scrabble Junior, then they became such good spellers that we packed it away for the real deal. While some families get together to play poker, we crowd around a Scrabble board. Now, Arianna is included in this fast paced game of words and meanings. Lee and I play online nearly everyday. It's something I look forward to.

But of all my toys of the past, Betsy McCall stands out in memory and I can't say why. I don't know why. But I found her online last night and she's about to become mine again. Of course, I'll let Arianna play with her. I want her to have such a memory, too.

Why I'm Sporting a Shiner...And Alla answers

2009-08-15T07:17:00.011-04:00

The Porch...before the glider!

This is a story about clumsy. Clumsy is as clumsy does. And it's also a story about Good Sister. You all remember my wonderful Good Sister, my sister of the heart, not sister of the blood? She of Quincey fame (a lady Medical Examiner) and morgue intrigue? Well, I am happy to say that she is back on the dating scene and seems completely over the lying miserable cad who captured her heart then stomped all over it with his big hobnail boots...no wait, he wore Harris Tweed jackets and blue jeans, so perhaps they were just boots, no hobnails...the lying dog (sorry to dogdom) who claimed to be single but was NOT. Makes me grit my teeth and ball my fists just to think of it. (And go in search of my gun for crying out loud!) Cad was not my word of choice, but my granddaughter reads this blog...have to use some decorum.

So anyway, once I convinced Good Sister to stand on her back porch and scream "NEXT" and many nights on the phone listening while she cried, suddenly one day she didn't cry. She talked about going out. And gave me the gentleman's name and car description and tag number. Okay, you gotta know that women who have anything to do with law enforcement know what type of world we live in and that we trust few...so if I don't hear from her I know whose car she left in complete with tag and color and car body condition...and we have a picture of said date in my data base...it's the way we roll. So anyway, just as I keep up with Good Sister's social life, she keeps up with my physical one.

So she calls me on Thursday night to tell me that she is going out, who with, and where...I ask about the two kittens she got from me (named Tweedledee and Tweedledum) and she says they are doing fine and she is making introductions to Shadow and Butch (her two dogs). She asks me what I have been up to. Since I am a mass of bruises and pain, I hesitate. She hears the hesitation in my voice.

"What have you done?" she asks. "I don't want to tell you, you'll fuss, " say I. I can see her eyes narrowing, through the phone. "Don't make me come over there, because I will, you know!" Yes, I know. I laugh nervously. "Well, I sort of...okay okay...I fell. I fell really hard."
"You FELL? Where? Did you go to the hospital?" So I began to explain...

I can't leave anything alone. I am never happy with the arrangement of a room or a porch or even a yard. I rearrange furniture and plants and decorations. Mac says it's a good thing he's not blind, he'd never know where to find his chair. He pities Mindy Lou (the blind dog) although she adapts quite well to my madness. The glider that was under the big Sweet Gum tree with several chairs had caught my eye. Mac was cutting grass and I took it in my head to move the glider onto the front porch. It would be much more convenient for sitting. So I went down and took the big thing apart and moved it piece by heavy piece to the front porch. I took the small table and two yard chairs down to replace the glider. Mac wasn't amazed that I had managed to do this while he was cutting grass. He wasn't even surprised. He just wondered what had taken me so long to get a wild *ss idea about the accoutrement's of the front porch.

So Wednesday morning he tells me that he wants to go to Bethune (a small town in Kershaw County near us) to get a replacement bowl for the birdbath. I'm chattering away, grabbing my purse and happy to be going to the huge concrete yard where I can browse and buy, walk out the front door when suddenly I feel myself falling and sliding and head bouncing off wood. Mac is suddenly next to me, helping me to turn over and I see his face and it is white. He is looking at my head. "Oh my GOD," he says, " are you alright? Your head has a goose egg the size of Cleveland on it!" I begin to tick off the signs of concussion as he helps me to my feet...I didn't lose consciousness, I am not nauseous...I rush into the guest bath and look into the mirror...pupils are normal...but MY GOD! The bulge on my head gives me pause. And terror. I quick like a bunny (been waiting a long time to use that term) hurry to the kitchen and grab my ankle wrap from the freezer...and apply it to my head! Mac is behind me as though he is going to catch me in case I fall. Where was he ten minutes ago I want to ask...testily! But I don't. He's worried enough as it is.

"So, " I am telling GS, "I tripped on the footing of the glider...I had just earlier decided I needed to move it down further away from the front door but hadn't done it yet. I caught my foot and the only thing that saved me from sliding on down the steps was the gate at the end of the porch. My head broke the slide." I laughed. She didn't. "Did you go to the hospital?" I heard her demanding to hear a yes to her answer, but she didn't get it. "The darnedest thing, " I began and she interrupted..."DID YOU GO TO THE HOSPITAL?"

"Ummm...well, no...not really. You see when I kept peeping under the ice wrap I could see the bulge going down and then Marty Horton showed up out of the blue!" (Marty is a Paramedic I had once worked with , one I hadn't seen in two years...now go figure that one out!) "So I say to Marty, boy am I glad to see you! I told Marty what had happened and he looked at the knot on my head, the bruises on my shoulder, the scrape on my knee shined a light in my eyes and pronounced me capable of going and sitting down without fear of dying right away. But he told me if anything changed, head ache or nausea , loss of consciousness...get to the ER immediately...okay?"

She allowed as to how since it had happened the day before and I was still as sassy as ever, she supposed it was okay. "But, there is this...today I have a black eye, " I told her.
You know, I could hear her pulling keys out of her purse, walking down steps, car door opening...and I knew she had to see this one for herself! God may have sent me Marty, but nothing takes the place of a sister.

Me...sporting my shiner...sans makeup!

And an addendum to this post, from my new dear friend Alla, I just wanted to share it with you all!

Dear Sandi,when I saw "Hello, Alla" in your blog, I was amazed ,and this page appeared the whole week ago,the time flies, I`ve just listened to the music in your blog. And I was reading this story in tears, I remember your mother and her kindness to me, I was so sorry when she fell ill and when Toni informed me of her death on 28.06.01.I can`t stop crying even now.

Yes, I am reading your book every evening, I am finding a lot of interesting and wise thoughts and ideas about life in them.Oh, I am saying Thank you very much for the dedication of this page to me!

And the story about school room desks seems unreal but the idea is great, and the teacher is a genius .The WW2 in my country is called The Great Patriotic War, 20 million people were killed, and children must know who paid their young lives for the possibility for the children of future generations to take their seats at the school desks.You did the right thing of passing this story on.

Yes, blog is a good idea when you have what to say to other people.I`ll think about it.

I am still very awkward at the computer. I hope I`ll learn soon.

By the way, it was Tony who we began to communicate with, then she shared my letters she found funny with your mother, I called her Grace. She had such an ideal, beautiful handwriting.

I`ll tell you why the title "the crazy cat lady" appeals to me so much, that`s because I had a cat, his name was Kuzma( the stress on the last letter) and he lived 19 years with us then he died in my hands, it was a real grief. I said I would never ever keep any animals in my home, but my son brought two rats ,bought them in a pet-shop. Now feeding them.They would be absolutely nice if not their ugly tails.

Love

Alla

Welcoming Alla

2009-08-08T06:58:00.005-04:00

I find that the older I get, the less it takes to make me happy. In my youth possessions and the acquiring of them gave me blissful moments. I could take a lovely crystal snowball into my hands, turn it to catch each facet of light, examine every nuance of color that erupted as the sun burst upon the surface and smiles would wreathe my face. That it belonged to me made me the happiest. That it was beautiful came in second. If I somehow lost or broke the object of beauty, it would bring me the strangest sadness. The sadness never lasted long because there was always something prettier, something harder to attain that would make me happy again. That was me as a selfish teenager. When I married I treasured my young husband for who he was, as well as what he was. It was a partially grown up feeling. I had just turned twenty. At twenty three when I held my first born son, the feelings that came over me were overwhelming. I couldn't stop looking at his tiny hands and feet, at the abundance of dark hair that covered his head, at the smiles he offered so soon and so often.

My second born brought me just as much joy and I marveled at how his face worked when he slept. His eyelids would twitch and his lips would echo the involuntary movements of those heavy lashed pale lids. I always wondered if he was dreaming. We were not sophisticated parents who spoke in full sentences of Mr Shakespeare or news of the world. We babbled baby talk and goo goo faces were the theme of the first two years. I treasured my babies and my husband above all else. I was finally grown up.

As they grew up and grew away, my friends became new treasures to me. Some I have kept for years, others have moved away and out of our lives. While we miss them, that we have lost contact is not life threatening. Should we hear from them again we would take up where we had left off. Maturity came along unexpectedly.

Mama had a pen pal that I believe she shared with my sister, Toni. Her name was Alla and she grew to love this young Siberian mother as she loved the many people who came into her life. She loved people above all. We learned from example. Mama wanted to send Alla things that would benefit her in life. She loved sending her little gifts and loved the gifts that Alla sent to her, as well. Her nesting dolls (she has several sets) were her treasures. After Mama died, I missed Mama's stories of Alla her friend who lived in Siberia. One day not so long ago, I mentioned to Toni that I wondered how Alla was doing. Imagine my surprise to learn that Toni still kept up with her and her family. She told me that she had sent Alla a copy of my book and from there that Alla was now reading my blog. It made me so happy to know that Alla was well and now had a computer of her own with which to keep up with the world! I only wish that the technology had been such when Mama was alive. What joy it would have given her to talk to her dear friend on a daily basis.

So, I have grown considerably from the child that I once was where things were important and people were afterthoughts. I am so thankful for a loving teaching family of Grandparents and Parents who taught us that ownership may be nice, but friendship is more constant.

I'd like to say "hello Alla! " I welcome you warmly to blog land and encourage you to start a blog of your own. I'll be a faithful follower!

August 4th...Or Supergirl's Ordeal

2009-08-04T08:19:00.005-04:00

So as I posted last, Supergirl had her little operation yesterday. We received a call at 4:30 a to tell us no need for a wakeup call..."Grandma, I'm on my way to the hospital, so don't call to wake me up. Are you and Grandpa going to come here?"

I assured her we would be on the way soon. We left here about 8 a and headed up to Florence to McLeod's Hospital.

She still hadn't been taken into surgery but we weren't allowed to go up to holding. Going into the cafeteria, we got coffee and a roll and waited for Michael and Anna to come down. They joined us at 10:30 to tell us that she was talking up a storm as they wheeled her towards surgery. Typical Arianna.

So, here is Supergirl, not a happy camper, but a brave strong girl who never cried once. I can't figure out why hospitals only have grape and orange Popsicles. Would banana be such a budget breaker? Or raspberry? Or cherry?

Thanks all of you, my pals, for being concerned about our little sweetie...her mom and dad enjoyed reading all your comments. She will be reading them for herself soon.

The Day of the Tonsils...Removal In Progress

2009-08-01T07:48:00.005-04:00

The Grandgirl has an important date with destiny on Monday, the 3rd of August. Following in the footsteps (throatprints?) of her forefathers and mothers, her tonsils have become her worst enemy. We have family stories about the trips to hospitals to have the offending appendages removed. None are pretty. No names have been changed. No one is innocent.

I was in the fourth grade. Having just gotten over my umpteeth bout with tonsilitis, I was told that we had to do something about the situation. Nothing was explained as to just what we were going to do about it, but the whispered conferences between parents and grandparents became more intent after the last round of penicillin shots and being chased down by the Grandmother so she could "mop" my throat. You see, there was a medication back then called Gentian Violet. My grandmother found it to be the best antiseptic for throats since Merthiolate. If you said your throat was sore, out came the big purple bottle and the big cotton swab. She's say, "open wide, let me look at those tonsils" and Bob's your uncle, you found yourself gagging and spitting purple. It dyed your entire mouth, teeth included. We dared not admit to a sore throat within her hearing. If anyone was being asked if their throat was sore by Mammy, there would be another grandchild behind her signaling like a demented windmill to say nothing!

Daddy said that Mammy was going to kill one of us with the Gentian Violet one day. I remember once when I returned home with purple teeth him saying to my mother, "she does know that's horse remedy for wounds, right?" Mind you, this is the same woman who gave us turpentine on sugar cubes before we went into the woods to prevent redbug infestations. I fully understand the concept of old wives tales and for the life of me, don't understand how so many of them attained the distinction of old wives.

So one day, Mama picked me up early at school. She told me we were going shopping. And we did. She bought me the cutest pair of pajamas and a nifty robe. Now, we were children who never slept in anything but our underwear and one of Daddy or Daddy Dwight's (the Grandfather) old teeshirts. Pajamas were considered a waste of money. When we left Belk's, Mama said we were going to visit Daddy at the Hospital. He worked at Hamlet Hospital, in Hamlet North Carolina with Dr. Bill James. So when we arrived, we went and sat in the office and Dr. Bill explained to me why I was really there. Okay, so there should be a cartoon of me about here......showing me with tears exploding out my eyes and wailing and foot kicking, arm thrashing and head twisting all going on at the same time. Okay, so after about 2 seconds of that (Mama had one of these looks that could wither a tomato on the vine) I agreed to the procedure but only if Daddy was the one who put me under. It was agreed all around and I was admitted. The next morning, the dirty deed was done and all hail the AMA, I was soon on the way to not being sick with tonsillitis ever again. Of course, my throat would still get sore every so often, but that's the way of life.

Michael was cursed with the same set of rotten tonsils as his mother. His ears stayed infected along with the tonsils and we were constantly at the Doc's. So, finally on his 12th birthday, they decided that the tonsils have to go. I took him to meet the surgeon, Dr. Firestein, who explained to Michael the situation he was now in. "You see Mike, your tonsils are your friends. They protect you by filtering out all kinds of bacteria and germs that would other wise cause you some sickness that we'd have to treat aggressively. " He pulled down a chart showing a little army, complete with helmets and guns, that was supposed to be the last defense of the body fort. He looked at Michael and said, "the bad news, son, is that your army has defected. They've turned on you, boy plain and simple. We need to pull out, now." And so that night, Michael was admitted to the hospital and the offending army was annihilated.

Arianna has had the misfortune to inherit the dreaded defecting army. We have known this for a while now. Michael and Anna have put off the surgery about as long as they can. The snoring and sleep apnea from the swelling has finally put paid to the situation. So on Monday, the last shot in the war against sore throats, inflamed adenoids and achy ears will be fired. We were going through some paper work today and I came across a card that I had written to Michael on the occasion of his Tonsillectomy. I wrote this (black ink as befits the occasion) for him to cheer him up:

On the Occasion of Michael's Tonsillectomy

Where oh where have my tonsils gone?
where or where can they be?
my throats on fire and my spitter don't work
why did they do this to me???

The Doctor said they had to go
did it have to be so soon?
they were all in a rush to get me tied down...
here in this hospital room...

Oh, here they are my tonsils
old friends
they really aren't very far
bobbing around and having a swim
by the bed
right here in a jar

Love Mom

So I find this ancient card and show it to Mac, who reads it solemnly, looks up at me and says
"don't show it to Arianna till Tuesday."

Monday Monday...OMG it's Tuesday!

2009-07-28T07:22:00.006-04:00

Monday a week ago I had the the fantastic opportunity of addressing a group of lovely ladies and gentlemen at the Hampton B. Allen Public Library in Wadesboro, North Carolina. I know, I know, doesn't it just sound like I traveled hours and hours for this delectable event? (Delectable because they served lunch!) Actually, it only took me about 45 minutes to get there, if that. The director, Phoebe Medlin (another new friend for me, woohoo!) had invited me to speak at their Lunch in the Stacks Author Talk. Now, since I can hardly refuse an opportunity to speak while others are having lunch (talk about a captive audience!) I accepted with great appreciation. Nothing builds an author's confidence more than knowing that others are actually interested in your work.

I parked with little trouble and admired the well kept campus and entered through the front door. There I introduced myself as the guest lecturer and two young men came forward and took the box containing my books from me and directed me to follow them. Phoebe came forward to introduce herself, took me to the back and there explained that I would give my talk while the guests ate their lunch. Wonderful! I took my place behind the podium and watched as Sheriff Tommy Allen entered the room. Phoebe had told me that the Sheriff, as a Friend of the Library, wanted to introduce me. I had of course met him when I worked for the Chesterfield County Sheriff, Kenny Welch, but we had become friends just in the past few months. He opened with the info he had collected about cats...cats do what they want, cats love attention but only on their terms, cats expect what they want to be served up as soon as possible...if they don't eat it then, just put it away, like Arnold Schwarzenegger r, they'll be back. In other words, the Sheriff concluded that he had discovered that cats were just tiny women in fur coats.

I couldn't be insulted, I had to agree with his assessment, although I did make a weak effort with, "oh no you didn't!" But by then he had turned to me and was introducing me warmly to the dozen or so ladies in the audience. I began my talk with how my family had a long history with Sheriff's both in this county and state and others. Most of the history is good...but a former Sheriff of Anson County wanted to arrest my Great Great Grandmother, Nancy Johnson, with ever so much fervor. According to my mother, the story went like this. Granny Johnson had lost her husband during the civil war. I believe (I could be wrong) that it was something innocuous like pneumonia or measles that carried him out, but in the mean time the young widow had mouths to feed. So she began to make and sell liquor. She would load the wagon and drive across the state line into Anson County to ply her trade. She had heard that on her next trip the Sheriff would be waiting on her, so she packed the wagon carefully. She loaded on sacks of corn and dried beans, a bit of this and that, even a crate of chickens...the kegs of liquor were placed directly beneath the wagon seat and as she perched herself upon it, she was careful to spread her skirts over the seat and onto the floor. As she approached the State line leading into Anson County, sure enough, there were the Sheriff and his men and he announced in no uncertain terms that they would be searching the wagon for contraband. She smiled sweetly, (as I was told) and wagging a cautionary finger at him said, "Sheriff, search the wagon of this poor widow woman and be damned, but don't let one finger of you or your men come within an inch of my skirt tail!" And so she was saved by her intelligent assessment of the situation of the times. And lived to sell another day and tell the tale.

As I said, I was impressed by the library itself, and the ladies who came to the Lunch in the Stacks. I learned that several were actually reading my blog, which warmed me greatly. One, a Doctor of Education, was telling me about her own website and I took down the address. Misty, if you are reading this, I have to have a personal invitation from you, so please could you do that? Just send me an e-mail (digby@shtc.net) so I can visit.

In the hallway leading to the lunching area is a case with dolls of the First Ladies as dressed for the Inaugural Ball. They have every first lady, up to Mamie Eisenhower. They have all been donated by people of the county. Now, not many of the dolls actually look like the person they represent (I don't believe that Mamie was blonde, I could be wrong but I think I'm right). They are simply dolls, some ceremic, others actual dolls, and the dresses have been fashioned as the dress worn by the first ladies. Now, if anyone of you out there can help our Phoebe complete her collection, would you be so kind as to e-mail her at phoebe.medlin@ncmail.net and tell her what you have in mind. Click on the picture to enlarge it.

As I was preparing to leave, the young men who had helped me before, packed up what few books I had left and offered to carry them to my truck. As Tommy and I left, he directed me to a side hall where there was an elevator. Now, this may sound very silly, but I was so impressed to see an actual working elevator in a library...of course our library in Chesterfield County is only on one floor and not nearly as large as the Hampton Library. Phoebe, you do a great job! Keep up the good work.

Publish Post

A Week of Thrills and Chills....

2009-07-21T09:15:00.007-04:00

Last week was a winner of a week. I had the delight of visits from two of my favorite girls, Arianna and Haley. Arianna is our granddaughter and Haley our Great Niece. She calls us Grandma and Grandpa, too...we don't mind a bit. The girls are very close in age and interests so the fun was insured from the beginning. The Pageland Watermelon Festival was in full swing on Friday and Saturday and the girls had roped their Uncle Wallace into taking them for the rides on Friday night. They are ten years old...well Arianna will be ten on the 28th of this month...Haley is ten already.

I drove them to Pageland and dropped them off at the Newspaper office with their Uncle Wallace. He was nearly as overjoyed to take them to the park as I was to be heading back to Jefferson. Where once I adored these things, now I just don't. It had been a long week and even though the girls had mostly entertained themselves, I was tired. I think it was on day three of the visit that I realized why we have children when we are young. Wallace promised to take pictures and I happily headed back to Jefferson. At 10 pm I got the call to be in the parking lot at 10:30 and they'd be ready to go. I arrived just in time for the rain that had begun to fall, hoping it was doing the same thing in Jefferson. The girls were still so excited and talked about the rides they had been on. They pronounced the swings dull (not when I once rode them, swinging high over the heads of the revelers in the park) and spent most of their time on the Plane...it went round and round, over and under and forward and backward. It was pronounced "kewl". "Grandma, I rode the Plane four times and didn't even puke, " Arianna told me with such enthusiasm that I quickly stepped back in case my shoes got splashed by delayed reaction. As you can see by this last picture, it was not just a stray thought going through my head. So, my precious girls...that's Haley on the left and Arianna on the right in the top picture, have returned to their homes and I'm sure they had a great time. I cooked what they wanted, watched what they wanted, pretty much did what they wanted. They were looking forward to going home to their parents, I'm sure. I was just looking forward to a nap.

It Ain't over till it's Over

2009-07-09T05:16:00.007-04:00

Today is July the 9, 2009. This is a day I have been looking forward to for weeks and I had marked it on the calendar. And why have I been looking forward to the 9th so excitedly? Because it meant it was no longer July the 8th. The dreaded Colonoscopy and Endoscopy were things of the past. Finis. Over. Done with.

Back in April, God pulled the ultimate April Fools joke on me (after I had mockingly said "they'll do a Colonoscopy on me when we have full camera pill technology available in Jefferson, ". And I said that in here of all places!) He had pointed His gigantic finger at my gut line and produced a little life threatening abscess on my colon. "Deal with this, smarty pants", He seemed to say. And therefore taught me the meaning of an old saying "never say never".

So, after a life altering two week stay at the Carolina Pines Hospital Resort and Vacation Spa (not) I sort of rethought my decision on Colonoscopies and me in general. Dr. Dameron, my surgeon, set the date for July the 8th. Since June 15th the box marked HalfLytely & Biscacodyl tablets Bowel Prep Kit has sat on my dressing table, mocking me. And it has the nerve to say in bold print (no whisperer this box) WITH FLAVOR PACKETS. The flavor packets being, cherry (yummy) pineapple (really?) and orange...oh no, the dreaded orange. The box mocked me every morning and every evening, so I stuck it in the closet where it could mock in darkness and leave me to my delusion that I could stave off July 8th with will power alone.

On July 6th a sweetheart of a nurse called me to remind me of our date with destiny. We did a preregistration by phone which meant saving scads of time on July 8th. There it was again, that date. July the 8th. I brought the box out of the darkness and got my hospital folder down from the bookshelf. Inside the folder were the directions for taking the Preparation. I read the directions and it didn't seem so bad. I put a brave face on when talking to Mac about what was coming up. The air of nonchalance and utter disregard for my upcoming event gave me a sort of courage that I hadn't known was there. I announced to the world that there was an upcoming party and I was the pinata...it was about then that Mac gave me the Jane Wayne award for bravery.

My pal Lee (Chrysalis Dreams) and I discussed the procedure ad nauseum by phone and by instant messenger and I knew that I would not back out of this. So on July 7th, at 6 a I mixed the solution which made up 2 litres of what I hoped wouldn't be a terribly vile drink. I added the pineapple and the cherry packs to the solution and shook well. I placed it in the fridge to chill (shaken, not stirred comes to mind...James Bond invades my daydreams on the occasion). On this day I could eat nothing. It was a clear liquid diet of tea, broth and hard candies (no red colors it announced in bold letters on the diet instruction sheet). No caffeine (I was doomed) no aspirin, no arthritis pain meds. This was going to be a pretty crappy day. In more ways than one.

At three p I was instructed to take the first of the two Bisacodly tablets. Then, I began drinking the solution at 5 p. It wasn't as bad as I had imagined it to be. Not great, I mean I wouldn't take it over say, tap water...but not bad. I had to drink the whole two litres in two hours 8 ounces at a time every ten minutes. What fun. I don't know why I a straw in the bottle wouldn't have accomplished the same thing, but I am a stickler for instructions so eight ounces every ten minutes it was. It was along about 6 p that I warned Mac not to get in my way when I began to beat a hasty retreat to the master bath. At 7 p I took the second of the two tablets and finished off my not so tasty cocktail. And the trotting to and fro began in earnest. This little drama continued till about 2 a. Exhausted, I threw myself into bed at 2:30 a and slept the sleep of the seriously disturbed until 5 the same morning.

I needed no alarm clock. My eyes opened wide in consternation, and I ran for the bathroom for what I hoped was the last time during this event. Having been NPO (nothing by mouth) since Midnight the night before, I fought the urge for that hot life giving cup of coffee that I knew the pot was brewing at that very instant. I also fought the urge to dump the contents down the sink so that Mac couldn't have any either. I'm sort of evil that way. But I took a sip of water with my blood pressure meds, the altace and the ToProl xl...and enjoyed the very wetness of that water against my lips. Mac got up and asked me if I was okay and I assured him that I was. "Piece of cake, " I threw off while feeling as though I could throw up.

At 6:45 we gathered everything I needed to take with me and walked out into a blanket of fog. We could have been in England the fog was so dense. (Lie back and think of England...could this be what they had meant?) Announcing that it was a good thing we were able to get an early start, Mac loaded my few things into the truck. We arrived at 7:30 and I was escorted to the Out Patient Services department. Once taken into what was called a Holding Room, where I was hooked up to an IV and my b/p checked, I waited for the eventual trip to the OR. Mac was allowed to stay with me till the appointed time and he kept asking me why I was so quiet. Okay, if you knew me personally you would know this is an important question. I talk incessantly sometimes. My brain never rests. I had to tell him that I really had nothing to say except "get me out of here" and I knew that if I said it often enough he would oblige me. So, it was best to say nothing. At 9a they came for me.

The nurse chatted lightly to me all the way to the OR area. She was very pleasant and cheerful. It had helped to know that I was not the only person in the hospital for this procedure that morning. I was one of 9, she told me. As we rolled into the OR room that I would be getting my procedure done in, I finally gave in to the inevitable. I was asked by someone, I'm not sure who, if I was ready. I put as much bravado in my voice as I could muster and told them, "lets get this party started, the Pinata is here!"

I came to at about 10:45 and they were bringing me a Sprite Zero and asking me how I felt. Amazingly I felt fine. I asked if was all over and they assured me that it was. Hmmm. Mac came into the room, kissed my forehead and asked how I was. I told him I was fine, that I couldn't believe how upset I had been over what was nothing really. Earlier I had quipped "a piece of cake" and now I knew it really was. The hardest part had been the preparations the day before, the constant run for the bathroom...that had been the worst of it. I was in utter disbelief.
And Mac said that Dr. Dameron had found nothing to be alarmed by in the bowel and no bleeding in my stomach to explain the low hemoglobin, either.

So, children that is why I am so glad that this is July the 9th. It's all behind me, now.
No pun intended.
Post of the Day

Hollywood

2009-07-01T07:05:00.004-04:00

She was leaving work late one night when she heard the plaintive mewl coming from beneath the car. Leaning down to peer under the darkness of the vehicle, she saw nothing. Still the noise came. Opening the car door, she pulled the hood release lever. When she opened the hood, the mewling became louder and suddenly she pinpointed the noise...there just within reach was a bundle of color just a little lighter than the darkness beneath. Reaching out, she bravely grabbed the little bundle of fur encased within the engine and it yawned widely, already knowing that a parking lot vehicle was not going to be it's home forever.

They named him Hollywood. He was a star. The silky gray fur stood out from his body as though he had stuck a claw into a light socket. Bela, the Dark Lord of the Underworld, simply ignored him. He neither hissed nor threw out long claws to dice and dissect, simply walked around him so as to give this new intruder no purchase on his body or his psyche. So Hollywood stayed.

He grew into a rather large cat who neither ruled nor became enslaved. He simply was. And because he was, he was loved obsessively. You could not walk into his presence without reaching out a hand and touching the velvety ears or tickling the small pointed chin. So in a way, I suppose he actually did. Rule that is.

And so this is how came into my life, the first "Grandcat". We heard the story of the rescue from the car engine several times, and the haughty young mister would stroll out into the limelight to be admired and stroked (or not) and then lay upon his sofa or chair of choice and like Garbo, wait to be left alone.

He was older now. Not quite as old as niece Deanna, but older by far then nieces Haley and Kirsten. He did not move as fast as he once did. He began to lose weight. One weekend he simply could not eat. He slipped into a deep sleep from which no amount of coaxing or cajoling could waken him. Hearts broke. Tears welled. Whispered discussions were held. Phone calls made. Vet appointment scheduled for the final goodbye. Grandma called.

So this is how Hollywood came to rest within the hallowed wood behind our home. Resting comfortably in the shade where wild flowers grow and squirrels romp through trees and birds fly and nest and other cats play along the primeval floor and God looks down from His Heaven. Where Grandma can keep him safe and softly speak to him when she passes by the place where he sleeps. No more goodbyes. Hello, Hollywood.

Where I've been...and what I've been doing...

2009-06-27T08:28:00.006-04:00

I can't believe it's been two weeks since I've been in here. Time flies, you know? The book signing went so well that I'm just flabbergasted. This little cutie pie is six years old. Her name is Allie Vaughn and she asked me to sign her book, which she bought with her own money. I took pleasure in personalizing her book for her. This is the picture that appears in the Progressive Journal News. I sold my stock of books and have another book signing on July 20th in Anson County (North Carolina) at 11 a. The day was a joy for me.

But in the mean time, the garden flourishes.

All week before last we weeded and watered, hoed and dusted. We picked the first little batch of beans last Saturday. We had planted Rattlesnake Beans, which are a green bean with purple stripes on them. When you cook them, the purple stripe disappears, and like magic, it's just a green bean. I cooked them with new potatoes that we dug from our container. So good, cooked together. We also cook cabbage and potatoes together. Do you suppose it's the Scots/Irish heritage?

This is what we harvested this morning...the tomatoes are outdoing themselves...it's Sink Sandwich time for sure!

But enough about the hard work that Mac and I have put in the past two weeks. I am always having to chastise "the Chief" about over doing. This week we had a little scare. Once again I take you to the halls of Wal-Mart. And what have I told you children? When you're not well enough to shop at WalMart, your next stop should be where? So, there we are in WalMart and I'm just picking up a few items that we need (mainly cat food) and I noticed that he was lagging behind. I asked him if he felt alright and was told rather sharply that no, he wasn't. He felt a heaviness in his chest and was short of breath. Now, the day before I spent hours telling him that humidity was to high, he needed to take a break (as I was doing) and come in and cool down. But NOOOOOO, would John Wayne come in just account of a measly heat wave? You don't know how sick I am of John Wayne. Never mind that The Duke has come in from the garden permanently, it does no good to point that out.

So, as we headed out to the parking lot, I tell Mac "you know there's one of two things that can be done right now."
"And that would be?" he asked.
"We stop in at Carolina Pines (hospital) now or you take the $7000 ride later (meaning the ambulance from home...and that's a low estimation on the cost these days). Imagine my surprise when he voluntarily stopped at the ER of Carolina Pines, but actually walked in with me. I knew this couldn't be good.

They ran an EKG, twice. They gave him a blood thinning shot. They checked his b/p (many many times). Then they admitted him for observation. He kept saying that he really needed to go home and the ER Doc finally told him that since he was a captive audience (IV drip already going) he did not feel inclined to let him leave. Good news, it appears that it was definitely heat exhaustion and that now home, he's heeding the advice of the Doctors. In after 11 a. Now, this is the same advice that I have been giving all week. Do I get an M.D. behind my name? No, of course not. I don't even get the joy of having him pay me any attention. Maybe next time!

Cloud Walkers

2009-06-13T07:50:00.010-04:00

I woke up early this morning. Of course, I waken early most mornings, but this morning when I rolled over and looked at the clock I was amazed to see it read 5 a.m. We worked so hard yesterday on the new raised bed that Mac and I collapsed into sleep at 9:30 p. At 9, Mac said, "what happened to the days when we never made it to bed before Midnight, and now seems like we just can't wait for the sun to go down?"

I allowed as to how we work harder now than we did then. This is a job, taking care of and maintaining lawns and gardens on 4 acres. I've suggested taking a late afternoon nap, but we don't have time. We go out onto the porch at about 6 am every morning and drink our coffee and wait for the fog to burn off. Pretty soon, coffee cup in hand, I'm wandering over to the flower bed because even from there, I can see grass trying to invade the Coneflowers and the Cannas...the Gerbera Daisies are peeking through the spent Iris leaves and I know what the number 1 job will be! A sharp pair of scissors will fan those leaves nicely, about half way down.

My excitement with the morning grew as I looked over and saw that my Hollyhock was blooming. Someone told me that it was a biannual, and I have no reason to doubt their word but the Hollyhock blooms every year. I guess no one told it. As I got up close with the camera, I noticed something else. Kittens in the bed...the plants in this bed are so big and hardy that they can do no damage, so I leave them alone to enjoy their play.

I take a walk over to Mac's Tomato bed. On the wire he has green beans and cucumbers growing. I can't wait to tell Arianna to go pick me some green beans and hear her shout out "Gran, there's cucumbers growing on the bean vine!" We've already picked (and eaten) about six of the cukes and they were delightful. We grow two varieties, the Cruncher and Straight 8...we are looking forward to the first ripe tomato and the first Sink Sandwich...my mouth hurts from the watering of it!

The fog is still thick on the ground and I can remember my Grandfather, Dwight Douglas, as he took my hand and we walked out into the morning telling me that we were Cloud Walkers. A chill just went down my back because I heard his voice so clearly inside my head it was as though he stood beside me. Perhaps he was.

I walked over to the Damson Plum tree which was now heavy laden with fruit...I couldn't believe how big they were and couldn't resist showing you...this little beauty was popped into my mouth as soon as the picture was taken! Sweet heavenly breakfast.

So, before going inside to get ready for my exciting day today, here's a picture of my Thumbergia vine...often called Black Eyed Susan...I am thrilled with it's progress as it attacks the porch railing with beauty and determination. But today, I have a Book Signing at the Chesterfield County Library. I'm excited and maybe that's why 5 a came early, but I didn't even mind.