The Rains Came

I think I may have told you that we  purchased nearly 5 acres of land that adjoins us a few months ago.  At the time it was one of those things that I was for and upon which Mac dragged his feet.  I had already made an offer a year ago on one parcel and was turned down.  Then the land didn't sell and didn't sell and the owners came back with an offer on both parcels that I felt we couldn't or shouldn't turn down.  Still Mac looked over the acreage and only saw grass that would need cutting.  Since the bushhog had been through it, it didn't look all that bad to me.  So I began to harangue and cajole and plead.  He of course had a different name for what I was doing and after we bought both parcels, he began calling it my hissy fit land.  Therefore, it is now Hissy Fit Acres.  At the time, as I mentioned, the bushhog had been through and the place looked pretty good.  We immediately began caring for the plum trees and peach trees, hired a young man to clear out the trash and pure garbage that the renters had left and prepared for a proper mowing.

 

And then the rains came.  They came for days.  They came for weeks.  Our one mower could not keep up with mowing nearly 6 acres of grass.  I thanked God for the three acres in woods.  We didn't need to mow that.  As soon as we had two dry days forecast, we would begin mowing.  Or should I say Mac began mowing.  Our big mower would absolutely not start with me perched atop the seat.  Not even if I bounced up and down to try to trigger it, it just refused.  Mac got on and off it went.  So we had (yes we, not just me) this brilliant idea to buy a bigger mower.  We found a 52 inch cut Cub Cadet and had it delivered to the house.  While the rain that lasted six days was going on, Mac read the handbook for the lawn tractor.  It even has cruise control.  Now, Mac will not use cruise control on the truck so I have no reason to believe he will use it on the Cub.  Finally able to actually mow grass with it (it stopped raining for a few minutes) off he set.  He got more than half of the highway frontage land mowed but back where we are at the house...well  those three acres of grass continued to grow as it  didn't get a look in before the rain started again.  Now we had time to read the instructions for the tripple bag grass catcher that we had bought for the machine.   What fresh hell was this?

 

So Mac has the book on the bagging system in hand and off he goes.  After about an hour I hadn't heard anything out of him and went to check on him.  He was sitting on the ground with the instruction manual in hand and a look of exasperation on his face.  They don't send instructions for these things in Greek...it just seems like Greek   I went to Catholic schools most of my life until we moved to Ruby, and had taken over  two years of Latin.  The instructions for putting this thing onto the mower was every bit as difficult as trying to take a second year Latin exam with only two weeks of classroom exposure.  The pictures of the parts and where they go looked as though they had been drawn by a not terribly bright five year old, and slots a b and c was not part of the equation.   We have been working on it for over a week.  We are nearly there.  I figure that as long as it doesn't rain for a bit we may have the thing assembled and put on the back of the mower by the end of the month...all we have to do now is get the mower deck back on.  And perhaps salute it with a stiff drink.

First Days

I received a call from our grand daughter last evening that I was not really expecting.  She had just completed her first day of High School and was calling to tell me all about her class schedule, the friends she had not seen for awhile, her teachers.  I was pleased to learn that her first impression of her teachers was all thumbs up.  We spoke for about fifteen minutes then she asked to speak to her grand father.  What?  Knowing how he hates to talk on the phone, I told her to hold on and went in search of himself.  I told him that Arianna had asked to speak to him.  So she regaled him with first day High School Hi jinx  (as though in my dotage I might leave out a detail).  Then he was speaking to Michael, 2nd son, and laughing at something he was telling.  Mac says, here's you mom, tell her about that, and he thrust the phone in my direction.  So, Michael tells me how they dropped her off at the bus stop then drove around the block to sit just out of her sight to wait for her to board her school bus.  Michael told me that he was telling Anna (daughter-in-love) about how he felt the first time Arianna asked to go into school all alone, no Mommy or Daddy trailing behind to make sure she got into the right classroom.  She was in first grade.  As he was talking to Anna, he had a melt down.  When they eventually arrived at work, one of his work friends asked about the red swollen eyes...and he told him "just having a bad morning".  But eventually he had to tell them how this sudden feeling of losing his baby girl had affected him.  And as he related it to me, I had to laugh as I recalled my own meltdown episodes in my sons' lives.

 

My major meltdown did not come with Wallace's first day in Kindergarten in Norfolk, Virginia.  I still had a baby at home after all, and the nest might be feeling a tad roomier, but it was not really empty.  Both of us waited at the bus stop that first afternoon to welcome the young fledgling back in.  He showed us the pictures he had drawn (even then his drawings were better than mine had ever been), about his teacher and about nap time.  Yes, nap time.  I think he was glad of nap time.  Then  that year flew by and the following year it was Michael's turn to be initiated into the great school time experience.  I watched him go into his first class room, went to the car and cried as though my heart were broken.  Mac, who was at Sea a good deal of the time, never got to go through these traumatic times.  The Navy owes him so much for all he missed.  But anyway, I cried for two days.  Then my good friend Patricia Roney, took me by the shoulders and shook me.  It was like a scene out of Moonstruck as she yelled, "snap out of it!  They will both be back at 2:30!"  It was like having cold water dashed in my face.  Of course they would.  Then she proceeded to talk of shopping without beggars (oh come on, you know what I mean...."I want"  is always the first things out of their mouths when you hit a store.)  And off we went, shopping till nearly time for the school bus to arrive home.

  I am so glad she didn't remind me of the other firsts that would eventually bring me to tears...first day of High School, first day of college, first move away from home forever as they took wives...and the first born grand child who even now was breaking my heart as she grew up and away from us.  Too soon grown, too soon gone.  Happy first day of school you children of Chesterfield County.  Don't forget to tell your family all about it, it is a memory they will hold in their hearts forever.

 

The Tree

I was on my way to my Dad's house yesterday afternoon, the top down the wind blowing my hair all over creation (and me not caring) when I got behind a slow moving log truck ,filled with freshly cut pine trees.  The aroma that drifted back to me was overwhelming.  It was my childhood unraveling like ribbons and wrapping themselves around my heart. I could see us, the cousins, pinching off little balls of amber and chewing them like gum. The amber colored blood of the pine would have been hardened in a century or more to make fine jewelry, but for then, it was a tasty treat...yes, I did say tasty. It was as though we were living in a primeval forest and scrounging for sustenance at any source.  You will forgive us, we were children.  We also chewed Indian Pepper and drank from Honeysuckle flowers. 

But the memory that was so strong that it brought tears to my eyes was of Daddy Dwight's tree.  It was a very tall long leaf pine that stood at the crest of a hill above Mammy and Daddy Dwight's big old farmhouse.  You traveled up a steeply graded dirt road went past the gas pumps on the left that serviced the farm equipment, past the big old barn on the right, and around the curve and there he stood.  Too tall and straight to climb or to see the top without craning your neck painfully. Now, the pines surrounded us on three sides but this one old tree stood sentinel all on his on. He stood near the highway (145) and could be seen for miles.  This pine tree was not for cutting, it was for viewing.    And we could view him from five miles away atop a fast dropping highway hill as we traveled to our grandparents from some far away state we lived in.  Every summer of our young lives was spent with them, and we eagerly watched for the first sighting of his lofty branches which signaled that our arrival would be soon.

That tree stood for so long that we thought he was indestructible.  And that Daddy Dwight, though bed ridden when I was in my mid twenties, was destined to be with us forever.  I will never forget that he held my first born son in his arms as lovingly as that big old tree of his held the birds nests in his gnarly boughs.  That when my boys were two and three, although he couldn't sit up anymore, he motioned for them to come to him and stroked their little heads with love shining in his eyes amidst the tears. 
Daddy Dwight passed away a year or so later.  On the night he died,the big old Pine breathed his last and fell across the dirt road adjacent to the highway, humbled and brought low.  After Daddy Dwight's funeral, someone had the foresight to cut slices from the big old tree, and mark them as Daddy Dwight's tree and each grandchild received one in memory of both Daddy Dwight and his tree.

So there I was, traveling down Angelus Road and this load of pines had me weepy. It was like receiving a hug from my grandfather, those memories evoked by a log truck traveling slowly through the forest of the Sand Hills.

Laying the Garden By

It is, unbelievably, August.  Where did our summer go ,I keep
asking myself.  It has been uncharacteristically cool and wet,

everything we planted has made well. I have made enough jellies and jams to

keep us in sweets for the next three years.

The tomatoes in the raised beds have furnished us with over 70 quarts of canned tomatoes, and I am in fact about to can twelve more quarts.  I find myself astounded that as often as I have offered free tomatoes to my face book friends, enough for them to can their own, I have had no takers.  Earlier in the summer I offered free Iris rhizomes and water plants for ornamental ponds.  I had one taker (thank you Carol for taking them off my hands).  In fact,I still have water plants looking for another tub or pond to call home.  But I refuse to go on Face Book and offer a darned thing again.  You read it here, if you want to start a water tub or ornamental pond and need plants, look my phone number up in the book and give me a call.  If not, well I have a number of tubs I can "borrow" from Mac to divide them out.  

 

But, as I was saying before I went off on a tangent, it is August
and time to start planting the Cole crops, the cabbage, collards,
broccoli, Brussels sprouts and cauliflower.  I am getting anxious
now to pull up the tomatoes and retill the beds adding nutrients to
the soil to make them grow healthy enough for canning.  I have found
that I love canning and love my pressure canner.  I often cuss it
when the lid doesn't want to go on lickety split, but eventually I
sweet talk it on so the pressure can build and the time begin
counting down.  Last week I made vegetable soup. I called my aunt,
Margaret Kneece, and asked her if Mammy and Mama put the cabbage in
the soup to can or added it when they opened the soup to eat.  She
assured me that the cabbage went in with all the other veggies.  So
the soup has butter beans, okra, tomatoes (of course) carrots,
cabbage and potatoes.  I made my father pint jars that he can fix
as single servings.  I intend to make more next week. 

I made a new friend in the canning aisle at WalMart.  She thought I
had called her name (Cathy) and turned to speak.  Well, I can
hardly not speak when someone looks at me expectantly so we had a
long conversation about fig canning (I start that tomorrow) and
before I knew it we were exchanging phone numbers.  She makes
Mozzarella cheese, from goats milk.  I intend to get a bit from her
for my Eggplant Parm.  I used to think we grew it all.  Never
thought about growing cheese!  Now what better place to make a new
friend but in the canning aisle at WalMart when you are laying the
garden by?  I'll bet I can talk HER into taking some water plants! 
Well, the jars are hot and ready to fill with luscious seed free
tomatoes, so I'll get to it...Little Susie Homemaker cans again!  Tomorrow? Fig preserves!

The life of a box

Our grand daughter celebrated her 14th birthday this past Sunday, but her party was held on Saturday, the 27th.  We happily drove to Coward (SC) with the large box containing her present from us.  She is turning into a girly girl and is changing her room decor to a beach theme.  We found the perfect comforter set for the new look she is trying for and knew she'd be happy with what we had chosen.  She is our only grandchild thus far, so nothing is too good for our Princess.  I gladly tell everyone that she is a child of her own age, she was 13 going on 14, not 13 going on 30.  She doesn't wear a ton of make up, dresses like a young teen should, jeans and tees...just what an anxious grandparent would want, you know? So we have this large box and all the way down we talked about how when she was little (wasn't it just yesterday?) the toys often got tossed to the side and the fun would take place within the deep recesses of the boxes. We talked about how we would miss those days from now on, that she would enjoy getting clothes for birthdays and Christmas, she was growing up, a baby no more.
We drove up to their house and there were half a dozen teens on the front lawn chasing and kicking a ball and a good time was being had by all.  Arianna ran over to us, gave us our hugs and kisses then ran back to rejoin the play that was ongoing on the front lawn.  Michael (our younger son and father to the Princess) took the large box from the truck and I swear the box was smiling. It was happy to be a part of the frolic, I tell you.  As we went inside, the smile slipped a bit from box's flat face.  There in the middle of the floor were two babies, a boy and a girl.  One was maybe a year old. the other one was two.  They had their toys scattered around them and spared not a glance at boxy. He sat in the corner of the room awaiting his opening so he could spill his contents out onto the floor for Arianna's perusal.  After all the food was devoured, happy birthdays sung, candles blown out and cake and ice cream served came present time.  Boxy sat swollen with pride that he was the biggest box there and couldn't wait for the ripping and tearing to begin.  And so it did.  Arianna grabbed her loot and took it to her room to lay on her bed till she could give it the proper attention, but the four girls ohhed and ahhed over how great it was going to look.  The boys there could have cared less and were busy sitting on the floor kicking a balloon around, yelling "don't let it touch the floor".  The girls came back to the front room and joined in.  Even the adults got involved in the play.  Someone had taken all the paper and plastic from within Boxy and he sat waiting for someone to pay him attention. The babies could have cared less.  They were more interested in naps than play.  Then Arianna's eyes found him...boxy grinned as she quickly crawled over and like a flash was inside and laughing.  The other kids noticed the fun and the game was on.  As soon as one long legged teen vacated boxy's depths, another took its place.  Boxy, once crisp and bright and new, was losing it's shape and shiny glow.  Wrinkles now appeared on its once flawless face and little rips appeared where the box once closed itself off at the bottom.  Arianna now had boxy back and wore him like a coat.  From across the room we heard her father say "who do you think you are, SpongeAriannaSquarepants?"  The room erupted in laughter as she replied "that's who I want to be for Halloween" and he replied with "careful what you wish for, when we lived in England your grandmother dressed me in a box for Halloween!"  Laughing, I said, "yes, but you won for best costume...a calculator".
The party went on for a while longer, till boxy lay flat on the floor, worn out from all the fun that had been had at its expense.  As I looked over at the flat little pile of fun, I was so glad that Arianna was not as grown up as she would have us believe. Maybe we had another year or two before she would be too cool to get down on the floor and play with a box.

A Fond farewell to a grand Old Man

We once fed a Siamese cat we called Ring Tail when we lived on Jackson Road.  I have always loved Siamese cats from when I first saw the movie "Bell Book and Candle".  I say we fed him because we definitely did not own him.  When we approached him he would snarl and growl, hiss and spit.  So I would set the plate down in from of him and talk softly, encouraging him to be friends.  But no go.  He continued to snarl, though the hissing and spitting seemed to recede in both frequency and intensity. There were not many cats around at that time because of the frequent sacrifices to the Highway gods.  I worried about him, but couldn't control his goings and comings.  I couldn't get close enough to him to be much of anything but his food provider.  One day as I sat by the Koi pond having a cup of coffee he jumped into my lap and I wondered what would kill me first, the heart attack or him.  But he was purring loudly and rubbed his head on my face as though to claim me, so I relaxed.  I hesitantly stroked his ears and then his head as he settled down in my lap. Mac looked as though he may go into shock, so I reassured him that it was fine. I couldn't tell you what brought about this change, for I simply did not know.  After about a year of his being mine (or me being his) he disappeared as mysteriously as he had shown up.  I was crushed.
  
He was wild and beautiful and he had a part ownership of my heart from the first second I saw him.  Mac had spotted the Siamese kitten a week or so before I laid eyes on him.  It was a few weeks after Ring Tail had left, in late June of 1993.  He seemed to be about 6 weeks old and we had no idea where he had come from, either.  Our only outdoor cat, Jane Wayne, had never had a litter, but seemed to be taking care of him.  Gizmo, our little Moggie who lived inside, would entice him to the front door and play games with him through the storm door.  I knew that I would eventually capture him and I named him Pyewackit.  I would set out special little delicacies to get him on the porch then wait quietly for his approach.  Mama had taught me the secret to taming a feral kitten.  Simply get him wrapped in a soft blanket and carry him for hours.  Don't let those little claws out to do the damage his instincts tell him he can do.  One morning as he came up to snatch the piece of chicken I had left on his saucer, I threw the flannel plaid over him and scooped him up into my arms.  He fought like hell but I held on.  I was still walking around with him clutched to my chest when Mac got home from work. "What are you doing," he asked (shocked, that's what he was)"that kitten will do you an injury."  "We're bonding," I said calmly. "The time for injury was over about three hours ago."  I explained how I had taken him into the bathroom for litter pan use, closing the door behind me, then after he had completed his toilet, had quickly wrapped him in the flannel (which now had a few holes in the weave) and we had been walking and rocking since.  That night, I released him to his own devices and Gizmo took over from there.  The next morning, he crawled into my side of the bed and lay purring next to me till I got up for coffee.  That was twenty years ago.  Twenty years of playing and bossing, twenty years of devotion and love.  He was pal Jacqui's (Evil Sister to my readers) "Boyfriend", Grand Daughter Arianna's "Uncle Pye" and a fur son to me. He loved boiled peanuts so much that Mac said we should have named him Goober.  But he also had a love for shrimp, and at his size we could hardly call him that. We noticed a few weeks ago that he had really stopped eating.  We tempted him with all his favorites, I boiled up a pot of goobers and when that didn't work boiled him some shrimp.  Nothing helped.  The vet said consider his age.  I did.  I was not ready to let him go so we came home to await the inevitable. On Friday night, we noticed he had not moved for a long while.  Then Saturday dawned rainy and rumbly, and I held him in my lap, stroking him and talking to him.  Mac and I discussed our options and we decided that if he were still with us on Monday morning a trip to the vets for the final ride was in order.  He did not seem to be in pain, he was not vocal at all, but I couldn't bear to watch him just lying there.  Mac had already dug the spot out back where he would rest and I had faced the truth of it. Late Sunday afternoon I was holding him and he took a long deep breath and was gone.  I lay him back in his bed and went to find Mac.  He knew from the tears pouring down my face what the news was.  I wrapped him in his flannel for the last time and we carried him outside.  I talked to him the entire time, telling him again how much we had loved him. How honored I was to be holding him at the end.  On June 23rd we said farewell to a grand old man.  The house seems odd without him, empty in some way, but when I lay down at night it seems that I can feel him pressed close to me, purring.

the origin of a Catperson

As we all are aware, I am a cat person. We have two old cats, 2 middle aged cats and then there is Hound.  Hound was bottle raised from the age of about one week.  We had to do for her everything that a mama cat would do for her baby.  I was amazed by the article in the Cheraw Chronicle 2 weeks ago featuring Lisa Sisk and The Pawmetto Lifeline.  I am in awe of her and the group she volunteers for.  I was also amazed that we HAD done everything right for our precious bundle.  We even had sitters for her for when we had Doctor appointments. We named her Hound for her antics and puppy like enjoyment of life.  When she was a wee bit of a thing, this Savannah type cat would hear me in the kitchen and come pounding down the hall to run up my legs and back to sit on my shoulder and look to see what I was doing.  It was so cute then, we just laughed and laughed.  Okay so now she weighs 14 pounds, is taller than as our Pekingese and when I hear her running down the hall, I quickly exit, stage left.  I haven't been quick enough once or twice and believe me, it is painful.  She sits even now at my side and would like to join me on the computer.  She is quite the little author.  Lets hear from Hound. I need a coffee refill!

My Daddy named me Hound...but Mommy calls me Precious in my ear, and I like that.  I am an oddity, you see.  There are not many of my kind who speak both human and ca'at.  Yes, I am bilingual.  Mommy is playing "Somewhere Out There" on her music machine and I am attuned to it.   I will pass on many secrets to you because I like the music that is playing.  I love my Mommy and Daddy but they keep insisting that Batgirl and the rest are my sisters and brothers, but really Wallace and Michael and Anna and now Sara are my brothers and sisters.  The others are ca'ats...I speak ca'at so well because the others have been jabbering in my ears since I'm a baby...Because I am the favorite I get the treats that my human brothers and sisters don't get, great stuff like sardines and jackmack and if I'm a good girl something Mommy calls nip...the other day after I had nip I just touched her lightly and she yelped like mad and got up and went into the little closet in the hall with the water pipes and the big water bowl and came back with the sharpies in her hand.  So I was Hound getting a manicure, not Precious sitting and purring in her lap...Mommy says I'm a good girl living in two worlds.  Daddy says I'm crazy.  Well, everyone says I'm crazy but Mommy...she knows better.  So, I am Hound to the world but Precious to my Mommy...and She Who Opens Cupboard Doors is the one who matters.  She who can use the special whirring thing that makes cans of great stuff more available to my tummy is Queen of the world...at least the Queen of mine...Daddy is a lucky Consort...ooh...Daddy is eating Angel Food Cake...my favorite...gotta run!  Ohoh, Mommy is mad, she struck my beauty and she says dam blogger won't let her put it in...never mind, she'll keep trying...

 

Building the Classic Tomato Sandwich

I'm sure that all of you have noticed that we have been blessed with rain for the past two and a half weeks.  At first we were all afraid to utter the dire "rain rain go away" for fear that it would, and not come back all summer.  Now as I get up each morning to check for gills and webbed toes, even this morning I found myself casting an incautious accusing eye to the sky as the clouds built up to an explosive burst of rain. I figured shaking my fist at the sky would be going to far, so kept my arm by my side. And why does all this rain bother me so much?  It is because of what some may call the lowly sandwich, but what is actually the King of the Summer, the Tomato Sandwish...yes, I said SANDWISH!
As soon as the first warm day of March hits, I start dreaming about that first tomato sandwich of summer.  Mac has already planted the seeds of my dreams in small pots in a little greenhouse we call  "heaven" since that is from where all good things come.  We Southerners dream of that tomato sandwich made with that tomato that comes from our own or a relatives garden.  The bright red skin, the glistening of the juices, the sparkle of salt and the haze of pepper as it rests on a Duke's Mayonnaise slathered slice of bread and a similar slice lying along side, the mayo thick and tempting.  I know, that is the queen of the run on sentence, but how can you not run on about the Tomato Sandwich?
            
So we have been watching the tomato plants for weeks now and the rain keeps falling.  I hate the thought of rain damaged fruits out there but finally spied the first wonderful tomato just before the 4th of July.  I carried it in reverently, gently eased it into a pot of boiling water, removing it quickly.  I slipped the skin off and stood looking at the awesomeness.  My eyes teared up.  Then I quickly shook off that "in the presence of greatness" moment and got out the bread, the mayo and the salt and pepper. I cut one thick slice then stood back and admired my handiwork.  Thinking what a great photo op this was, I grabbed my camera and took the shot.  Then I devoured that little gift from heaven in thirty seconds.
That photo was so beautiful that I posted it on Face book with the caption Gone In Thirty Seconds.  The remarks were so blatantly envious I had to laugh.  That was one big tomato slice after all, and this was one glorious Sink Sandwich...you know, so juicy and messy you have to stand over the sink to eat it.  One remark puzzled me greatly.  My pal Lee asked this question, "is there wine vinegar in there?"  In caps I answered her: NO THERE IS DUKES MAYO BUNNY BREAD SALT AND PEPPER AND NOTHING ELSE CAUSE ITS A TOMATO SANDWICH NOT A DANGED SALAD!  She later asked me if I could rethink the caps, because it sounded like I was shouting at her.  Forgive her, she's a Texan.  She should absolutely KNOW I WAS shouting at her.  I would fight for my tomato sandwich...wouldn't you?

How I fell into the Koi Pond and the fall out that is sure to follow

     I was introduced to the love of Koi by my mother.  She had a large ornamental pond on the left hand side of their patio that was built by my sister Nikki and brother Michael.  They actually ordered the first koi from a pond and pet magazine. The first three became a dozen before too long.  I admired and loved the koi pond and longed for one of my own.   For our 30th anniversary Mama ordered us the full set up, pond liner,pump and water conditioner. I was so excited to get started on it but Mac said that being October was full on us, we would wait till the weather was more conducive to  fish ponds and fish.  So we waited out the winter. When early April came, I began to campaign for the pond construction to begin (read nag for campaign).  He continually put me off for one reason or another.  I just could not get him to show any interest in the koi pond at all. 
     It was mid May and I decided to take matters into my own hands.  Going into the garage, I dragged out the cumbersome box of pond doings and walked about the front yard of our house on Jackson Road in Chesterfield.  I found the perfect spot with a bit of shade from the pecan tree, dragged the hose over and formed a bean shape about 14 feet long and 8 feet wide.  All the while, Mac was watching me, never offering  to help  or even to ask what my intentions were. I worked on, got a spray can of white paint and painted the outline of the pond I wanted onto the ground. I dragged out the rotor tiller and worked on getting it cranked.  Finally Mac walked over to ask what in the Lord's name I thought I might be doing. 
     "Why, I'm putting in my koi pond...it's going to be too late if we wait much longer."  He gave me that "move over and let me show you how this is going to go" look.  \
     "This where you want it to go, you're sure?"  he asked.
     Very innocently, I nodded yes, this is where we needed it to be.  He started the tiller and after about two hours, the hole that would accommodate the pond liner was done.  I helped him smooth in the liner, we filled it with water, added the conditioner and Bob's your Uncle, except for fish, we had a fish pond installed.  He never suspected he had been tricked, and I have never told him.  But I suspect he knew from what followed several years later.
     When we bought the house here in Jefferson, we were not going to have time to do anything with our koi, whom I had learned to love. We ended up selling them (and contrary to opinion I did not run criminal histories on the applicants).  This was in September, and once again came the argument of weather conditions and fish ponds.  So in April of 2005, I got out the paint can, the hose and the tiller and Mac, taking one look at the paraphenalia, said "oh no, we're not going through this charade again.  We'll do the pond later, there's too much yard work to catch up on first."  By dark, the fish pond was in. 
    We had a bad storm last night and when I went out to feed the cats and the fish I saw the pond with only enough water left in it to keep the fish alive.  I ran as fast as I could down to the well, connected the hose, praying that my koi would support this insult to their habitat. The frog spitter had been shifted severely by the wind and the water had sprayed out onto the surrounding ground.  After filling up the pond and seeing the koi happily gathering for their breakfast, I watched them feed.  I saw something on the edge of the water and reached down to  pluck it from the water when suddenly I found myself IN the pond, my feet unable to get purchase on the slippery bottom.  I was yelling for Mac and got no response.  Finally dragging myself from the water, I shook myself like a dog and went into the house and confronted Mac. He burst out laughing, asking "What on earth happened to you?"
     "Well", I responded, "I am certainly glad that a serial killer or a coyote didn't have me, I would be out of luck!  I fell into the pond!"  He was still laughing when I stomped off to go find dry clothes.   I'm not sure what my revenge will be,but I hear it is best served cold.

Wind Work and Blackberry Winters

    It's after ten p.m. and I'm thinking about going to bed. My son tells me that he prepares to go to bed by thinking about sleeping and how good the bed is going to feel and just in general gets his head around the act of sleeping before actually getting into the bed. He is, he says, asleep as his head hits the pillow. I'm not sure if his father prepares himself the same way, I just know that by the time I am ready to start thinking about going to bed, he is already way ahead of me, sound asleep. While I am lying cocooned with my blankets and pillows, I do wind work. That is what my grandmother, Ms. Nancy Douglas, known by us as Mammy, called it. Wind work. Wind, as in that unseen entity (only seen if it contains leaves, sands or fluttering birds in its thrall). Work, the thing our hands and minds do when they can't be still. Why I've built patios and retaining walls with my wind work as I lie abed, waiting on the quieting of my spirit to allow me to sleep. I've designed gardens and planted bulbs, I've outlined complete areas ready for planting and envisioned the pruning of the trees.  I have written the Great American Novel, revised it, spell checked it and retitled it.  This is wind work.  Pretty soon I am relaxed enough to allow my body to slip into that healing coma of sleep and prepare me for another day of joy in the garden.

     Last April I had some pretty serious surgery on my left foot called a Pantalar Fusion.  I had to keep my foot  and leg elevated by laying flat on my back for the first three months.  No weight was allowed on it til October.  It was a miserable summer.  With Mac having to wait on me hand and foot (pun intended) he had no time for my flower beds.  He did work that garden pretty though.  So this spring finds me reclaiming my flower beds, clearing the patio and planting...and this is not wind work,this is back breaking manual labor.  I am loving every second of it, though.  The Iris are blooming, thanks to my weeding and loosening of the soil around them.  They were nearly to deep to bloom until I pulled a lot of the surrounding soil from around the tubar.

.  The beautiful sweet faced pansy has always been a favorite of mine and I plant them with the ever fierce Snapdragon.  They complement each other so well.  Our friends Billy Eddins and Letha Moore were over a couple of Saturday's ago and Billy mentioned that we were having a Blackberry winter.  I remember hearing this as a child...it means a cold snap while the blackberries are blooming...and are they ever blooming!  The temperature that morning was a brisk 41 degrees.  In other words, cold!  The roses have enjoyed the longer than usual Spring...as have I.  

     Well, I think I might be ready to go to bed now.  Wind work is calling...lets see what visions I can call up.

Button Can Memories

It has been a rainy week for us here in Chesterfield County, and we needed every drop of it.  See God, not one complaint out of me.  I always fear that if I sing the old "rain rain go away" song, it will do precisely that.  l thought about the rainy days of yesterday and how we spent the time stuck inside.  There were only  three channels back then children, and just like today when we have over a hundred channels, there was nothing on.  My grandmother Nancy Douglas was a teacher til the day she walked over to the other side.  She had lessons to teach us all and most of my memories of her involve a lesson she taught us.
Rainy days in the summer involved teaching us patience.   I know that most of you had experience with a button can.  Mammy's button can had place of pride on the bottom shelf of the right hand side of the pantry.  (It was a large Prince Albert can, not the smaller hand held can ,for easy cigarette rolling.)  Buttons were expensive items then as they are now.  Worn out clothes had many uses.  The brightest of the material went into separate rag bags for quilting and rug making, the faded and threadbare into the bag for cleaning rags.  The buttons went into the can.  This was true recycling before it became the chic thing to do.  So on rainy days, Mammy would take down the button can and dump the whole thing onto a sheet spread out on the handmade rag rug in the middle of the dining room floor.  We would be given large safety pins and allowed (?) to sort through the buttons and match them up.  We put our matched up buttons onto the safety pins and laid them aside.  There would be some amazing buttons in that collection, filled with  beauty and mystery.  Where had all these buttons come from in the beginning?  What stories could they tell?  We often exclaimed in true joy when we came across one that was too beautiful for words.  Hard for the youth of today to understand the call of a button.  I wonder what their button can memory will be when they hit their 60's?

Being Brought To You By the Letter "A"

I have always prided myself on my ability to type.  Typing  85 cwpm is pretty good, and I have done that with no problems.  That is 85 correct words per minute for those who never had the pleasure of taking a typing class.  Typing class was always my favorite class.  My favorite birthday present was my first Underwood Portable typewriter.  I learned how to clean the keys, change the ribbon, use carbon paper correctly...I loved my little typewriter.  Of course, now it is called Keyboarding rather than typing.  I remember the first keyboard to my first computer.  I used it so much that I wore the letters off the keys. Mac was going to do a bit of maintenance on my computer and he noticed that where once letters had been on most of the keys (q, z, and u were still mostly there) there were only smudges.  He asked me how I knew which letters were which.   I explained that after we had learned the home row keys in Mrs. Campbell's typing class we had to cover the keys with little caps that totally hid the letters.  It was so that you could look at the work you intended to type without looking at the keys on the typewriter.  I don't know if the piano lessons I had taken since 4th grade had helped, but I suspect it did.  You could not read music and look at the keys of the piano at the same time, so it was the same theory.  My fingers still fly over the keyboard these days, despite arthritis, and I still wear the paint off the keyboard.  Mac, who uses the old standby "hunt and peck" two finger method, doesn't quite understand it. 

The other day as I was typing my article, the letter A came completely off the board. I couldn't believe it at first, it hit me right in the middle of a paragraph that something was wrong...I happened to look down to where once there was a small square piece of plastic with the remains of the letter A,  to see a little white nub staring back at me.    It only took me a few minutes to find the errant piece of plastic and I worked for over an hour trying to get it to stay on point.  No luck.  I thought about glue but was afraid that I would ruin the function, so decided against it.  So here I sit, typing yet another article wondering how often  the letter A could become a problem?  Looking over this piece of work I see that the Letter A could become a thorn in my side if not a pain in my little finger, left hand.

twas a bridge that was nearly our undoing

Just when you think it is safe to go home...yet another doctor is added to our list of been there done that's.  This bucket list from hell is beginning to get on my last nerve, but we trudge on like the troopers we have become.  Our latest arrow in the quiver is Dr Wharton of MUSC in Charleston.  Dr Grainger had managed to get us in to see him in an amazingly short time.  The waiting list is usually over six months. We're told that  Dr Wharton is the best there is where the procedure known as an Ablation is concerned, in fact teaching the procedure to surgeons all over the East Coast.  Mac's problem with AFib (or Atrial Fibrillation) is no better than it has ever been, indeed it is worse.  He has been in AFib for nearly 97% of the time since January 8th (this according to the recently implanted Pace Maker).  So off we headed to Charleston last week. 

I had taken the address provided by MUSC and put it into the Tom Tom as soon as I had the information.  Since we planned to leave at 5 am, I left nothing to chance.  The letter from MUSC giving directions and appointment time had rested in the bottom of my purse for over a week, a small bag which held his medicine was hanging on the front door so we couldn't miss it and the phones were charged, ready to go.

Tuesday morning we managed to get out the door by 6 am, just an hour later than planned, but according to Tom Tom it would only take 2 hours and 28 minutes to get there, so we were confident that we would arrive in plenty of time for the 10:30 am appointment.  I listened to Nell (Tom Tom's voice avatar) as she guided us confidently down the highways and for the first time did not lead us off onto the unbeaten path we would discover was the wrong way a few miles down the road.   While part of me wonders how any of us ever managed to get from point A to point B without these GPS systems, I was still suspicious of their actual  intentions.  I did not trust Nell to get us there without some complication.  Call it my natural skepticism, call it what you may, but I just did not trust her.  I have a suspicion that she drinks.

We were amazed when we hit the Charleston area at how homesick we felt.  The signs for the Naval Weapons Station, Remount Road, Goose Creek...it was like coming home.  But as we got closer to Charleston proper it was like a nightmare.  The interstate lanes  twined in and out and around and over and by now Nell was beginning to sound harried.  And that is when it happened.  I looked ahead of us and saw this monstrosity of a bridge looming ahead of us. Oh Dear God, (I was praying aloud) please don't LET THAT BE THE WAY!  And that's when it happened.  The little harpy living in the GPS said "stay left" and the next thing I knew we were headed into the jaws of hell and ascending rapidly towards what I was afraid would seal our doom.  Nell immediately tried to correct her mistake with shouts of "GO RIGHT GO RIGHT" and I was threatening to throw her little booty out the side window without further adieu.  Mac told me to calm down we would turn around after crossing the Arthur Ravenel Bridge...I guess I was shouting at Nell and at one point Mac said it sounded like Nell was shouting back.  It was a scenario Stephen King would have been proud of.  We finally got turned around and Nell took a long beat before getting us back on track.  We pulled onto Courtney Drive at exactly 8:45...I thought about the harrowing trip over that suspension bridge (both ways) and shuddered.  "There's a restaurant, pull in, " I told Mac..."I need a cup of coffee."  Glaring at Nell, I unplugged her and put her into her little carrying bag.  I'm sure she was glad to be back in its soft confines.  I'll bet the first thing she did was get roaring drunk. 

Discovery Place...Chesterfield County South Carolina

Mac and I have this new social life these days.  Our closest alliances now seem to be with our Doctors. I discovered that he had not seen his Primary Care Doc (Dr Ken Moyd) in several months.  Well, he had been sort of busy trying to stay alive with the help of Drs Grainger and Eddleson...and a good job of it they did.  So I made the appointment and off we went today.  I had put the address in the TomTom to see which was the shortest way to Society Hill.  It took us a way we had never been before.  When we got on #1 we went through Patrick.  Patrick doesn't get much attention as towns go, but its a lovely rather bucolic little town.  Just after we had turned onto the highway I saw a sign that read "Brown Cemetery".  (I think our county may have more family cemeteries than most.)  I recalled when we were children that on at least 4 Saturdays a summer my grandparents received a visit from Uncle Led Brown.  He walked and hitchhiked from Patrick to Chesterfield on 145 to Mammy and Daddy Dwight's.  I can see him walking up the dirt drive off highway 145, dressed in an old timey (even for that time period) suit, crisp white shirt with a campaign type hat clamped on his head.  You know I was nearly grown before I realized that Uncle Led was Uncle Ed ...it was that hat.  I identified him as if the hat were a lid or in our vernacular a led...so, Uncle Led. 

my grandparents...Daddy Dwight and Mammy

It didn't seem that anyone was particularly glad to see the old man, but he was always glad to see the entire family.  He would sit with a hot cup of coffee, pouring it from his cup into his saucer and sip at it gingerly, as though it might get away from him if he wasn't careful.  He would talk about a lot of nothing, just visiting and enjoying the fellowship, as he called it.  He would rave on about Mammy's biscuits (one of which he held in his bony old fingers, occasionally dipping it into the coffee left in the cup.)  He would  ask if mayhap she had fried any of Dwight's sausage for breakfast, and mayhap there was any left of that flavorful meat we were treated to on a Saturday.  He would sit soulful eyed, that old war hat rocking on his knee, giving Mammy the look.  You know the look...most old dogs perfect it by the age of 7.   Sighing deeply, she would look in the oven to see if there were any left over bits and pieces.and sure enough there would be cold scrambled egg and that sausage attributed to Daddy Dwight and it went just so well with that angel pillow of a biscuit.  That old man wasn't much to look at, but he had a way of getting things done to his advantage.  So today when we were traveling down to Society Hill via the sweet little town of Patrick, Uncle Led was once more on my mind.  I know where the Brown Family Cemetery is now.  I think one day soon I'll go look him up.  I wish I could offer him a cup of coffee and a biscuit.  Maybe I will just have a cup and a bite in his honor.  Cheers Uncle Led.  I always loved you.

Happy Birthday George W...father of our country

 When I was in my early teens, we had two distinct Presidential Holidays...there was Washington's  (February 22) and Lincoln's Birthday (February 12th).  The Government had not rallied around the White House to make Presidents Day all inclusive then, and the biggest day for Mama was not Valentines Day.  It was Washington's Birthday. (We happened to live in our Founding Father's city, Washington, DC.)  And the sales.  The Post would list the sales for the shops that mostly are no longer doing business in DC (or anywhere for that matter)...Lansburghs's, Garfinckels, Hechts (Hechts was on 7th and F St...oh how we loved Hechts!  And oh yes, there was Woodward and Lothrop...or Woodies to Mama.  We would camp out early on 7th Street to begin the day of bargain hunting.  She once got a sewing machine for ten dollars by being the first customer in line.  Back then people didn't try to knock you down getting through the door.  They acted more civilized for the most part.   We always hit Hechts first, then moved on to Lansburghs and Garfinkels...that is where Mama's mink stole came from and  I think she paid twenty five dollars for it.  After a few hours of shopping we would stop at the Hot Shoppe for burgers and fries and a fountain soda.  Our feet would be tired but our spirits would be high. 

We would manage to get home (we lived on Reservoir Road NW then) with all the packages in tact somehow.  Mama would go through her wonderful finds occasionally saying "why in the world did I buy this?"  One of us would say "it was on sale" and that question answered, she would continue her perusal.  Now when the sales go on for Presidents Day the tv ads are mostly disgusting.  They have impersonators dancing like lunatics to the most awful music they can dig up.  There is no dignified recreation of the photos of our dearly departed Mr Washington and Mr Lincoln.  I have no desire to go bargain hunting.  For one thing, you are apt to have to go looking for first aid due to the horrible manners of the rest of the bargain hunters.  But it is really the tv ads that are most offensive.  I'm sure that not only are the Presidents supposed to be represented frowning down from Heaven, that third face you see giving the famous Douglas glare is Mama.  She is not at all pleased.