"Lemon Tree, Very Pretty..."

Friday morning, dark and early, an hour down the deserted road to the airport, we learn the flight’s been cancelled. His attempt to return to the frozen north foiled, the OC cannot help but grin at the prospect of an extra day in La-La land. Land of parental dotage, confused and confusing wife, offspring irreverent and obstinately un-humble, choruses of groans when all you want to watch on television is golf and soccer --- enough to make a guy pine for a cold and lonely hermitage in the north, were it not for the possibility of one more round of golf in the balmy sunshine, an afternoon nap, perhaps; maybe even a little puttering in the garden…..

Lazy, lolling-around afternoon, no rush, no urgency. Then out of nowhere, a wild hair. He must prune the lemon tree. Never mind that the targeted branches are half way to heaven. He will not be deterred.

“The Bean will do it!” I protest. The Bean, in his opinion, does not approach such undertakings with the proper degree of enthusiasm or gravity.

“I will not push you around in your wheelchair when you fall and break your already dodgy back!” I threaten.

You've heard of “pissing into the wind?”

Yeah.

He was going to do what he was going to do.

The ladder was extricated from the garage and hauled to the hapless tree. The necessary, lethal-looking surgical tools were located. From there it was all go. Up he went and commenced with the lower branches. Dutifully I stood below, collecting them as they fell, burying my nose in their intoxicating perfume before carting them off to the tree branch cemetery at the back. Even as he climbed higher, and stretched more precariously, he seemed solidly planted. I was at the ready to catch him as he fell. Rigghht…….Having long ago lost my taste for “holding the flashlight,” I wandered off.....

A cardinal was lecturing us, loudly, from a nearby tree, possibly warning us not to darken the door of his nest. I fetched my camera, hoping for a picture of his piercing redness and cheeky stance. He led me a merry dance though, flying over the roof to a tree on the other side, then, as soon as I’d followed and found him, back again.

Entertaining myself thusly, I rounded the corner of the house and came upon this fine fellow,


enjoying an evening repast on the front lawn.
He froze.
I froze.
Very slowly I lowered myself onto the path. Nary a twitch, but he kept his eye on me. I inched closer,lowering myself further until belly met path, the better to get a tremor-free shot. He was very co-operative and held perfectly still while I clicked, but seeing that I wasn’t going away, he gathered up his fluffy cottontail and bounced off into the bushes.

The OC, meanwhile, dodgy back unscathed, descended from the ladder to admire his handiwork. Gathering up the remaining branches, I murmured admiringly at the lovely job he’d done. I showed him the fruits of my grovelling about on the front path.
He smiled and echoed my murmuring.

And so it goes.

Saturday morning, at the same obscenely early, dark and quiet hour, he went winging north, to the cold but peaceful hermitage. And here am I, wondering again exactly what I’m doing here…..

When besieged by doubt there’s only one cure---Start a new project.


Which is exactly what I did.

Hand piecing, my lovelies. ‘Tis good for the soul.

"The Tedium Of Decrepitude"

I just read Anna Quindlen’s latest offering “Good Dog. Stay.” All eighty two pages of it. Thirty one pages of print, fifty one of photos. Not exactly a daunting read. But she got me thinking. Pulitzer prize and best selling novels notwithstanding, she is never intimidating. She could be my sister, my next door neighbour, or me. She writes about the plain topics that concern ordinary people like us.

In this instance it is the putting down of a beloved family pet, Beau, a black Labrador who has been part of her family’s life for fifteen years.

“I’ve put in my time around people whose bodies were failing, who were clearly marooned in some limbo between illness and death. I hated the way the medical profession felt obliged to continue to poke, to test, to treat, even when cure or comfort was not in the cards. With people, it’s assumed you’ll do everything; with animals you have the luxury of doing the right thing. A Supreme Court justice once said that one of the most important rights is the right to be left alone After nearly fifteen years of loyal companionship, Beau had earned that right.”

My mother-in-law has also earned that right. She is eighty eight years old. She weighs about ninety five pounds. Her back hurts, her bones are riddled with osteoporosis, her hearing is shot, her false teeth don't fit properly and her heart is weak. And you could eat, not only off her kitchen floor, but off the floor in her garage. Her windows sparkle, and dust is barred from entering. She makes me look like a wimp, though I do not even aspire to such paroxysms of cleanliness. She has good insurance, so doctors continue to poke, to test, to treat, and to prescribe more pills, and she goes along with it all, hoping, if not for a cure, for at least a little comfort, a little respite from pain.

She had a recent alarming jaunt to the hospital in an ambulance when her lungs were filled with water. She’d thought it was the pollen in the air that was making it so hard for her to breathe. It wasn’t a sure thing that she was going to make it. They dried out her lungs in the ER and hooked her up with a mask to help her breathe. I waited with her until they had a room for her, and while we waited she talked, yes, even with the mask! She wanted to be sure I knew some things, wanted to be sure things would be done the way she wanted, and she kept coming back to one thing......

She wanted me to tell the doctor to just give her a shot, to hurry things along!

“They’re not allowed to do that Grandma! That’s what got Dr. Kevorkian thrown in jail!”

But she wasn’t convinced. It seems to her such an eminently sensible solution. She’s in pain. She’s elderly. Nothing they do will make her better, or restore her to her former, legendary vigour. So, if she’s ready to go, and they have the means to make the going painless, her attitude is “Why not?” It could never be that black and white for me. I'd hear the voices of the nuns in my head, insisting---
“God gives life, only He is allowed to take it away.”

But she has things she wants to see resolved before she goes, so she rallied, with the doctors' help. Her lungs are working reasonably well again. She’s home now, enduring what Garrison Keillor waggishly calls “the tedium of decrepitude” for another while! Her windows sparkle still, her floors are spotless, and the dust flees in terror before her broom. Life is good again, for now. She will see her Pride and Joy, the OC, this weekend, and life has no greater pleasure for her than that!

Anna Quindlen’s book also reminded me of a sad day when I had to take our first child [pre-Liz!], our beloved black lab, Suzy, to be put down, and of yet another when the OC and I both took our Maggie to the vet for the same purpose. It felt strange to be making life and death decisions for other living creatures. But it felt right too, to put an end to the pain and misery old age had brought them. After all the joy they’d brought to our lives that seemed like the least that we should do.

Wordless Wednesday

Random Easter Thoughts

The nuns were constantly coaching us --- to say our prayers; to offer up life’s little frustrations for the intentions of the poor souls in purgatory; to say “aspirations” under our breath in idle moments, as a sort of insurance policy to help us get into heaven; to avoid occasions of sin; to guard against impure thoughts; to practice self denial at every opportunity, the better to discipline our bodies and our minds, and, in Lent, to go to Mass every morning for forty days. The next step would have been a hair shirt under our gymslip. It’s a wonder any of us grew up normal at all.

As we moved into our teens we’d press them for specifics. “ Impure thoughts” and “Occasions of sin” were wide-ranging topics. We were bright enough to pick up on their hints that everything we daydreamed about, anything that might give us pleasure, probably fell under the above headings. We also mutinously thought that a lot of what they passed off as “gospel” was utter rubbish. But the Church still had a stranglehold on every aspect of life, and so we kept our skepticism to ourselves. They could guilt us into the motions but they couldn’t control our motivation.

Pedalling like mad to Mass every morning for the forty days of Lent, for instance. Braving the wind and the biting February cold, at a God-awful hour each morning, instead of being tucked, snug in bed, getting the 8-10 hours of shut-eye required for healthy growth. Not out of piety, though that was what everyone was supposed to think. Oh no. ‘Twas all a cunning plan to arrive at the altar for communion at the same time as a particular bespectacled, blond lad. With a little strategic planning a person could even maneuver themselves into position so that, seemingly by utter chance, they’d end up actually kneeling beside said lad. And then a person would be on cloud nine for the rest of the day. From the distance of forty years later, it makes me think of a dog chasing a cat. Does he really have any clue what he’ll do if he catches it?

Those forty days seemed like an eternity back then. Not any more. Here we are, on the day before Easter, and Ash Wednesday seems like yesterday. No more pedalling like a wild woman in the half-dark of forty early mornings. Though when I do go to church these days, it's for the right reasons!

Even though we weren’t as pious as the nuns would have liked us to be, I miss the certainty of those times. I miss the rituals. I miss the way the year was sectioned off in parcels. There were the summer holidays, best times of all, then there was Advent, and Christmas, then Lent. And, if you managed to slog through those dreary, purple-draped days, you were rewarded at Easter with the arrival of Spring, and a new outfit to wear, and a big candy-filled chocolate egg from Cadburys. We’d all give something up for Lent, candy most often. Forty days and forty nights without chocolate! No wonder we could hardly wait to rip the silvery paper off our chocolate Easter egg! But not so fast! First we had to go to Mass and then eat our breakfast. Only then……

Easter dinner was a special, best cutlery, good china, leg of lamb affair, with a strong possibility of trifle for dessert; an airing-out-the-sitting-room-and-inviting-Auntie-Ita-over kind of event. Special. Exciting. Fun.

We never seriously questioned the basic beliefs we were taught. Everyone, to a greater or lesser extent, had the same beliefs. Priests were like little tin gods. No one would dream of questioning them, or of being less than completely respectful to them, and we all know the sorry end that led to. Turns out they were all too human after all.


I still think about what I’ll “give up for Lent” every year when Ash Wednesday rolls around. Some things are easier than others. I’d probably more easily cut off an arm than give up drinking tea. And my feeble attempt to deny myself that jolt-me-awake cup of coffee in the mornings never made it out of the starter's gate. But I think they were teaching us something deeper. Not just to give up candy, or sugar in your tea, or coffee, or cigarettes, or desserts. They were teaching us to control our appetites, rather than letting them control us. All those exercises in self denial taught us mental discipline. They were good for us, though we didn’t think so at the time. Like Latin verbs. Who knew then that the day would come when we’d actually be glad we were forced to study that stuff?

Easter, to me, is about new beginnings, about it never being too late to start over. The resurrection symbolizes that. Or more secularly speaking, the phoenix rising from the ashes. But the old lessons from the holy nuns were hard learned. So I still say my prayers on occasion, though these days it's more like firing off an e-mail to the Big Boss now and again. I still offer up life's little frustrations ---crazy drivers, traffic jams, mal-functioning computers --- for the intentions of the poor souls in purgatory. And I have been known, in tense situations, to whisper "aspirations" under my breath, though not always of the prayerful variety. Occasions of sin and impure thoughts are fairly thin on the ground when you're looking sixty in the eye, so, since I've been such a model student, I'm hoping some of those deceased nuns from days of yore will wedge a saintly foot or two in the pearly gates, so I can slip through without trouble when the time comes!

I wish you a Happy Easter, Happy Spring, Happy New Beginnings!

Good Guess, Velcro!

My quilt was not the first picture in the last post. My superpowers don't extend to popping out a full size quilt in twenty four hours!
Sorry to disappoint, Rise. That Ocean Waves quilt won first prize in the pieced category, very deservedly too---it was the first quilt she's ever made! I wasn't quite that ambitious for my first quilt. It was a Trip Around The World. And it has taken a few trips around the world, and is worn and faded, and would hurt your eyes, so I won't show you. But the cat loves it, and that's what matters around here.



Velcro has such good taste! The one she liked best is mine. Probably a bit too cutsie for my sister! I don't usually do cute, but I had some Debbie Mumm fabric with little girls on it, and one thing led to another, and I enlarged one of the girls on the copy machine, and used an applique version of her in the center and did an Irish Chainy thing around her, with red fabric I got in Germany a gazillion years ago, and dolled her up with bits of ribbon, and flowers, and beads in her hair, and outlined her in black embroidery, gasp, pant, and quick layered and pinned and machine- and hand-quilted, and slapped on some binding, and pricked my fingers a million times in my rush, and by golly, I must be out of my mind, it's only a quilt challenge for the love of Mike, not the Indianapolis 500, and I'll never do THAT again!! Amen.

On The Therapeutic Powers Of Quilting

Sometimes, in the on-going battle of the sexes, you need a member of the opposition on your side. And so it was that I went to see my therapist last week.

I’m a simple, uncomplicated person with simple, uncomplicated needs. One of which is to be accepted "as is." The Logic boat, alas, left the dock long ago, without me. Ditto for HMS Rational Thought and HMS Emotional Equilibrium. Their absence, however, is amply compensated for by my wit and charm. Not to mention my humility. These are not new revelations. We need to get over them already, and move along. Sometimes we do, but occasionally we stumble.

My brain, whose workings seem perfectly normal to me, operates in ways mysterious and exasperating to the above-average male.

He wants the short answer.
He is not interested in the ramifications of THIS point of view, or in a treatise on why THAT course of action MIGHT be better.
He wants to cut to the chase.
He wants to dispense with the bullshit.

He wants brevity, above all, it being the soul of wit.

I, unfortunately, don’t do brevity.

He wants the “yes,”
Or the “no.”
Without the preamble.
And I am unable to deliver.

And so the sparks fly.

Which brings us back to my therapist, who is quite famous. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Dr. Bernina? He has coaxed women all over the world in off the ledge, again, and again, and again.

And since he operates the Central Florida branch of his practice out of my sewing room, he can usually fit me in at ten seconds notice. Where else could you find such convenience?

In addition to my male-induced stress levels, our quilt guild’s challenge was due on Thursday. This year’s theme was Black and White with a touch of one other colour.


We’d had three months warning, and I had amassed a variety of suitable fat quarters, but because of my procrastination superpowers and life's pesky habit of interfering with quilting time, I had not started anything. All was not lost however. I still had twenty four hours.

Quilting is a lot like writing. If you’re feeling uninspired you just have to start writing down words, and moving them around until they start making sense. Likewise with a quilting challenge. Thinking is good, but action is better. You have to dive into your stash and start moving fabrics around, and see how they work together, and hope that the juxtaposition of one with an unlikely other will start pistons firing in your brain. Then all you have to do is make sure your fingers are nimble enough to keep up.

And keep the coffee coming……

So, early Wednesday morning, fortified with coffee and oatmeal, I slipped into Dr. Bernina’s office. The gentle, hypnotic hum of his voice had the desired effect. I started with only a hazy idea. But by noon we were smokin’!

Lunch------never occurred to me.
Supper……a cup of tea.
At midnight we were still huddled. The good doctor shared his insights.
Something coherent was taking shape.

Creative juices were flowing. I was even feeling benign towards persons male.
At 6 a.m. as the sun came up, we were into the final furlong, the doc and I.
At 7 a.m. I put the last stitch in my quilt and emerged triumphant from his office. Time to hit the shower, me and the sandpaper that lined my eyelids.

My entry was not brilliant. At best it was cute. But at least I had done what I had, belatedly, set out to do.


An impressive number of guild members had spent time with their therapists too, with satisfying and creative results.


Various ribbons were handed out, one even finding its way onto my little offering. But before you go slapping me too hard on the back you should know that it was for third place in its category, which had four entries in all!

Best of Show went to an exquisite wall hanging, designed and appliquéd by one of our most talented and artistic members. Her appliqué is amazing, and if you zoom in close you’ll see the beautiful beadwork on the flowers.


Never underestimate the therapeutic powers of making a quilt! I expect to be pleasant company for the next few weeks, thanks to Dr. Bernina. I will even try to be brief, pithy, and as succinct as it is possible for a person to be who chewed a big chunk off the Blarney Stone.


Men everywhere should just accept that women are never going to have thought processes exactly like theirs and love us JUST THE WAY WE ARE.

Of course there's always the danger they’ll expect us to reciprocate.
I’m not sure I’m ready to give up trying to get them to think as we do, which, as any sane woman knows, is infinitely the better way!

Look What I Found In My History Notes!

It's Monday. Clean-up-after-the-weekend day. Vacuum- straighten- tidy- pick up- laundry-day; toilet-scrubbing, rubbish-binning, cat-litter-changing, lists-for-the-week-making day.

Slight diversion from the riveting morning in the boondocks routine provided by the bird in the garage trying to commit hari-kari on the window. Finally manoeuvered him out the door. Hope he has enough brain cells left to find worms for his dinner....

Back to the riveting stuff. Yawn.

Aha! The accumulation of various parts of last week's papers, derisively referred to as MB's History Notes. Among which pile I found an article that led me to this u-tube clip. I hope you find it as hilarious as I did! And speaking of moms, if you haven't visited Lily [of Not In Your Ear fame] at her new digs, stop in and see her today. Your funny bone will thank you!

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And The Loser Is........

I had my camera in the car yesterday, intending to show my M-I-L the pictures I’d taken of our guild’s challenge quilts. At least I thought I had..... But when I got to the Cave I couldn’t find it. Never mind. It’s probably on the kitchen counter. I’ll bring it tomorrow.

Today is that tomorrow.

No camera on the counter.

No camera on, in or under the washing machine, the bed, or the sofa.
No camera on or under the tables or the chairs.

Panic in my throat. Where did I put my beautiful camera?

The sewing room! Maybe it’s in the sewing room.
No camera in the sewing room.

Becoming irrational now. With rapidly blurring vision I check the fridge, the stove, bathrooms, drawers, garage.
No camera.

The car. It must be in the car! That’s where I intended to put it.
No camera in the car. Nada, nothing, zilch.

Tears.
Wailing.
Palpitations.
To no avail.

No camera anywhere.

Already in the doghouse this week for….
Being too emotional,
Ditto irrational,
Ditto hot tempered,
And unwilling to listen meekly to lectures on my shortcomings.
I’m almost sixty, after all, not six.

I didn’t think it could get any worse. See what I get for thinking?
I can’t believe I’ve lost?...misplaced?.....or had stolen? my insanely expensive, wonderful camera, bought for me by my underappreciated, extravagantly generous, long suffering husband.

How could I be so careless?
I don’t deserve to have anything nice.

I cannot live with this shame.
Marikosan,bring me my sword.....

Calm down;
Let’s not be hasty;
Dry the tearful torrent;
Cold water on swollen eyes;
Comb the hair;
Big, deep breath.
There….doesn’t that feel better?

Er……No.

A recap---
Where did I go yesterday?
The library.
Target
Recycling.
The Cave.

Could I have forgotten to lock the car door?
Could someone have dared to open it and have taken my camera?
I have an optimistic view of people. Unless someone is obviously a villain, I assume decency.
I am not often disappointed.
Nevertheless, I am in the habit of locking the car, and never leave tempting goodies in full view of the curious, or persons with dubious intentions.

Glum, dejected and disgusted, I still had things I had to do. First stop: the Post Office. Half way there I glanced towards the passenger door……

And what to my incredulous eyes did appear???? Drum roll please!

My camera!

The case just barely peeking up from between the door and the seat! Where it had fallen, I now vaguely remember, going a little fast around a corner yesterday.

The nuns were right. There IS a God, and He is merciful to miserable sinners like me. And I just may have to go to church tomorrow. And my trust in my fellow man is intact.

You can put away the sword now, Marikosan.
We won’t be needing it today.

Three Words.......

Project.................Finished....................Miracle!

Tell Me A Story

“Tell me a story,
Tell me a story,
Tell me a story before I go to bed”.

It’s not just little people who love stories. Or maybe the fact that I love a good story, deftly told, means that I never grew up? If so, I have lots of company!

For a while there, when computers were taking hold, and the internet was in its infancy, we worried about books. Would they go the way of the dinosaur? Would they become a quaint relic of the Olden Days? Because, no matter how good the story, reading it off a computer screen just can’t compare to snuggling down in your warm sofa with a good book on your lap. So I’m very happy that, when the dust settled, books were alive and thriving. If I don’t have a great read under way, to read every night before I turn out the light, I feel something is missing from life. And when I find a really good book, I almost hate for it to end.

That said, there’s a book meme doing the rounds. I found it at Lily's. She found it at Daysgoby, who found it at….well, go look for yourself if you really want to know!

The rules are:
1. Pick up the nearest book/your current read [at least 123 pages.]
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.

If you make the rounds of people who’ve done it, you can have a small sip of a lot of books, kind of like a wine tasting, except you’ll be tasting with your eyes and your imagination, not your tongue. Unless your name is Suzy, and you are the reincarnation of our first black lab…….

My current read is “Mothers And Sons” by Colm Toibin, a fellow countryman of mine, and, incidentally, another winner of the International IMPAC Literary Prize for his novel “The Master.” “Mothers And Sons” is a collection of his short stories.

Sooo, to page 123, fifth sentence. And then…..

“The tune, Lisa thought, was banal and derivative. When Julie had finished singing, Shane stood up. “The words are cat,” he said.

Well. That doesn’t give you much of a taste, does it?. Please Teacher, can I read from a different page?? I’ve read two of the stories so far. I started with the last one in the book, which immediately made a Colm Toibin fan of me. Then I read the first one. Nobody said I had to read them in order! I think I’ll read “The Master” when I finish with this book, in spite of sighs from The TBR Pile. The local library has several of his books, so, my reading life should be full and satisfying for quite a while.

So now, go thou and post likewise. Tell us what you're reading.

Stealing Horses In Norway

At the library last week a man, who seems in every other way a polite and civilized person, elbowed his way to the top of my To Be Read Pile. His name is Per Petterson. I was heading out the door when the New Book section whispered to me…….

“Molly Bawn, come see my lovely wares,” beckoning.

“It’ll only take a minute!” wink, wink.

“But, but….” hesitating, then lost. Because I spotted this:




And put it under my arm, and THEN headed out the door.

Which is not fair to Khaled Hosseini, or J.M.Coetzee, or Barbara Kingsolver, or Louise Erdich or Kurt Vonnegut, or Nancy Mitford, all of whom have been patiently waiting, enduring the accumulation of dust on their covers, only to have upstarts like Mr Petterson elbow their way in and refuse to take a number and wait their turn. It’s a cruel world on my night table…..


Trond Sander, a man of sixty seven, retires from life in Oslo to live alone in the woods by a river in eastern Norway…..Maybe I’m just partial to hermits. After all, the OC has definite tendencies in that direction… ….Mr. Petterson lured me in.

His sentences are long. I usually don’t like it when sentences run on. I get confused and lose the thread. But his, though long, move with the ceaseless murmur of quiet stretches of river, sometimes rising to a roar at the rapids, but propelling you ever onwards, until suddenly, you’re turning the last page and you don’t want to leave that cabin, or those piney, Norwegian woods, or those memories he’s caught you up in….

It’s a simple story of a man trying to live simply. He brings no television with him to the woods. No washing machine. He’s left no forwarding address. He’s looking for peace. He chops wood for his fire. He goes for long walks with Lyra, his dog. He helps his strangely familiar neighbour. Plots how he will fix up his dilapidated cabin……

But another, not so simple, story is unfolding. His new situation brings back memories of a summer with his father when he was fifteen, in a similar cabin by the river, and how the events and revelations of that summer changed him, broke his heart, and set him on the road to becoming the man he became.

This book set me thinking how much I’d like to revisit my childhood. The setting for “Horses” is Norway, but it’s really about another foreign country, the past, a place to which, once we have left, we can never return, but which provides background music for the rest of our lives. A child has a child’s understanding. But there are layers of meaning in what is said, and in what happens, that only begin to dawn on you when childhood is far behind, and you wish you could go back to investigate further, but the fog is too thick and you can’t struggle through, no matter how hard you try.

I loved this book. Since it was written in Norwegian it would have been out of my reach without the talents of Anne Born, who translated it to English. Even though The Pile is high, I’ll continue to check the new book shelf. Washing windows and scrubbing floors, and all the necessary daily chores have to be done, but they can wait if I have a chance to be “Out Stealing Horses.”


Note: In case you need further persuasion, "Out Stealing Horses" is the winner of the 2007 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Prize. I had never heard of it, but upon investigation I have found a whole trove of former winners to add to my TBR pile. I can hear sighing on my night table already!

Another unrelated note: The dead have risen over at Lily's place!

Long Ago and Far Away....

....sixty years ago today, a little boy was born.....


Happy Birthday to You,
Happy Birthday to You,
Happy Birthday Dear JB,
Happy Birthday to You!

We're keeping the rocking chair and the slippers warm for you!

Let Them Eat Cake

When a magazine arrived in the mail last week with this recipe*, I knew I’d have to try it. Lent is not a time to be making luscious desserts, but I thought I’d waive all that, just for Valentine’s day. I have neither a houseful of ravenous children as I once did, nor even a husband at the moment, but my father-in-law, as previously documented in these pages, has a highly developed appreciation for such delicacies. And there’s always neighbours and friends. Righto! No further excuses needed!

Soften the cream cheese and the butter, bring the eggs to room temperature. Melt the preserves. Puree the raspberries. Measure the sugar, sour cream and flour. Pound the cookies for the crust. I was all business. I love to bake!

Baked the crust, and cooled it while I mixed the batter. Wrapped the springform pan in foil, poured the batter in, set it all in a water bath, popped it in the oven, and triumphantly set the timer.

Turned to the task of cleaning up my mess, only to find a stick of butter cowering behind a bowl, instead of being in the oven, in the batter, where it belonged, for crying out loud!

Drat! Blast! And worse! What to do??

I lifted the pan out of the oven and stared glumly at the pink lusciousness, so nicely nestled therein. G-r-o-a-n. Nothing for it but to dig it all out, beat the butter into submission, then slowly add spoonfuls of the batter and hope they’d blend together.

As I ever so carefully spooned the batter out of the pan, I noticed that water was leaking in at the bottom! More incantations. Careful mopping of the offending liquid. What to do now? Set the pan on a plain cookie sheet and put the pan of water on the bottom shelf. Problem solved. Spooned the somewhat lumpier mixture back into the pan, put it all back in the oven and asked the Holy Ghost to please let it come out right. It was out of my hands now.

This kind of scatterbrainedness is not without precedent. When I was growing up the McD family lived across the road from us. Every neighbourhood has their version of the McDs. While Mr. McD was at work, Mrs McD was off God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what, leaving the children to run wild. Two teenage daughters were probably supposed to be minding the younger ones, but they were more interested in boys, and busy running wild themselves.

Eve McD was my age [about nine or ten], and though I knew my mother preferred me not to play at their house, when Eve suggested, one aimless afternoon, that we could make a cake, the temptation was too great. We foraged around the McD kitchen until we had assembled all the likely ingredients----flour, sugar, eggs, vanilla and anything else we could remember having seen our mothers put in cakes. We were pretty proud of ourselves! Soon we had a very respectable looking batter. We found a cake pan, greased it as we’d seen our mothers do, turned on the oven and popped our cake in.

Soon the McD house was full of the wonderful aroma of baking. After ten or fifteen minutes we peeked impatiently in to see how things were progressing, since that aroma was making us drool. Our eyes bulged in disbelief! The pan was full of what looked like melted butter. Appalled that we might NOT be eating cake soon, we looked at each other in bewilderment and tried to remember what we had done……We’d beaten the butter with the egg beaters until it was creamy….We’d poured in some sugar [it was all guesswork]… We’d nervously broken in some eggs, and picked out the bits of shell that fell in……..but…….had we ever put in the flour? Aha! No Holmes, we hadn't! There it was, untouched, on the table. Not to worry. We could add it now. Out came the pan. In went the flour. A little judicious stirring, and before you could blink, our concoction was back in the oven.

We both agreed it was the most delicious cake we’d ever eaten!

And my cheesecake? SCRUMPTIOUS! Proving that even the DAFT can bake….



*From the February/March issue of Cooking Pleasures.

Her Funny Valentine

This post was prompted by reading Rise's post yesterday, which you might want to read first. I wrote this for a life story writing class last year, dug it out last night, tidied it up a bit, and here it is......


In 1951 my mother was leading a charmed life. Glamorous and talented, one of the youngest nurses ever to become Matron at her hospital, she had a handsome husband and a lively toddler, complete with nanny, so she could continue to work at the hospital. She was expecting her second child. Life was good.

Half way through February she went into labor. She wasn’t due until mid April. She had the best of care. But things did not go well. When it was over they had a son. But something else was also over. Her charmed life. The premature birth of her beautiful, baby boy changed her life forever. Her other life was just beginning. The one of sleep deprivation, constant worry and chain smoking; the one that would lead this bright, beautiful woman into the dark depths of alcoholism.

I was not yet three, and only vaguely remember those early months with my Little Brother. It seemed to me he was always sleeping, and a hush hung over our house. The smell of fresh squeezed orange juice always makes me think of him. My mother squeezed it, strained it, warmed it, poured it into a sterilized baby bottle, then took it upstairs to try and coax it into him. I wondered what I’d have to do to be given such a delicious treat.

Delicate as he was, my LB survived. He was slow to achieve all the usual milestones, but eventually did. I remember my mother feeding him “goody”. LB loved his goody. Mum built up her biceps shoveling it into him, and when he finally learned to feed himself, he included the sideways scrape with the spoon that she always did after each bite to catch the dribbly bits.

My Dad used to carry him on the back of his bicycle. There was a leather strap to keep him in. One day, as they pedaled along the North Circular Road, the leather strap wasn’t enough. LB’s legs got caught in the spokes of the back wheel. Consternation! I can only imagine how terrible my Dad must have felt. LB was little, but tenacious. He recovered.



He carried this tenacity to school at age seven. If he wanted a toy it was his. He would not give it up. He was small and wiry, with the face of an angel. But all that orange juice and goody paid off. He was strong as an ox. One day there was a ruckus on the playground. LB had been riding a trike. He was loving it, and when the bell rang, he would not get off. The harder the nuns tried to loosen his grip, the tighter he clung. There was one nun, Sr. Brigid, who could manage him. He was crazy about her, but she was missing that morning. Exasperated, Sr. Margaret, the tall-drink-of-water principal of the primary school, came looking for me. My class was lined up in another part of the playground. We could hear the roaring. Please God, don't let it be LB....What did she think I could do about it? I was ten, for God’s sake. I wondered why the playground couldn’t just open up and quietly swallow me.

Eventually, LB needed a different school. So off he went to Miss Lennihan’s. Miss Lennihan ran a small private school for children who, for whatever reason, did not fit in at regular school. That seemed to work for a few years. My mother also took him to elocution lessons, because, even though he knew what he was saying, and we did, most of the time, it was often difficult for others to understand him.

LB couldn’t get his tongue around my name so he called me “Ya-ya”. Every night, after Mum tucked him in, he’d ask for a story from Ya-ya. I was alternately flattered and exasperated by this. I have no memory of what kinds of yarns I spun for him, but eventually he would start to move his head rhythmically from side to side on the pillow, and gradually fall asleep. Then I’d creep out, and back to my book or my homework.

Water had a soothing effect on LB. In the summer at the seaside, he’d stand on the rocks at Spanish Point for hours, mesmerized, watching the waves crash and recede….…..Off in a world of his own. Or wade out into the waves at milder Lahinch, until someone would have to go get him before he disappeared over the horizon to America.

There was water closer to hand.......the River Shannon. Many days, after school, LB would take his fishing rod, climb on his bike and head for the river. He had an amazing memory. He didn’t keep written notes but he could tell you how many fish, and what kind they were, that he had caught on any given day…..if you were interested.

Inevitably he outgrew Miss Lennihan’s. What now? I can only guess at the sleepless nights this caused my mother. The Jesuits agreed to let him try their school. It didn’t last too long.

The future was looming. He needed to be steered towards gainful employment. But what? And how? And where? In desperation they decided to send him to the Vocational School.

What a fortuitous decision that was! He took a class in woodwork. Pistons fired in his head. He brought home his first crude project, bursting with excitement. We all oohed and aahed! He brought home another project. And another. And each project was better than the last! And I’m sure my mother was overjoyed to discover that there WAS a God. And He WAS in His heaven and He WAS taking care of business, in His own sweet time. And all the daily Masses and novenas and pilgrimages to Lourdes were paying off.

I don’t know how many years LB spent at “the Tech” but they were happy years. He had found something he loved, for which he had an amazing talent. When he finished the course there, he became an apprentice at a small factory in Limerick, famous for handcrafted furniture, the kind people hand down from one generation to the next……

My brother's birthday is next week. He lives in the house we grew up in, and my houseproud mother would not just turn, but spin, in her grave if she could see it now. Every room is stuffed with other peoples’ furniture. People come from miles around to have him fix their antiques. He can only do so much, and the projects pile up.

He has a number of cats, who come and go as they please. My mother would have a canary! She always maintained cats belonged in barns for purposes of killing rodents. Period. He doesn’t trust banks, so he stuffs his money in drawers and under the mattress. When he accumulates enough, he goes off for a holiday to the Bahamas or the Azores. I think he thinks he is like the birds of the air, for whom God will provide, and so does not worry about saving for the future.

He came to visit us in California, Montana, and Brussels. He made a huge wooden swing and trapeze set for our children in Montana. We dismantled it, loaded it on the Mayflower van, and set it up again in California. We have carted the solid oak stools and bookshelves he made for us back and forth across the globe. And a huge dollhouse he made for our daughters that I’m. Going. To. Finish. One. Of. These. Days.

LB is maniacal about fitness and health. He has been an athlete all his grownup life. When running didn’t go well for him, he took up race walking and became one of the top race walkers in Ireland, competing all over Europe. He has visited us here in Florida, and gone out and walked for miles in the scorching heat. He figures if it doesn’t kill him it’ll make him stronger.

His current fixation is swimming. He shows up just as my sister’s swimming classes are ending, and wants her to analyze his stroke. Even though she is tired, and dreaming of cups of tea and the comforts of home by then, she stays and helps him, with advice and encouragement. There’s more than one angel in my family.

My brother is a good guy, even if he does have bats in his belfry. He’s overcome a lot. My mother was the center of his life, and he of hers. And thanks to her persistence and unselfishness, he didn’t fall apart when she died.

I know my mother worried herself to death. Only when you become a mother yourself can you begin to appreciate your own mother. And I was a particularly slow learner. I know her amazing talents were sidetracked by having a child who needed her so desperately and so constantly. I know her absorption with my brother profoundly affected her relationships with me and my sister. But maybe I know a lot less than I think. Maybe he was the work God had planned for her all along.

A Challenge....

I've wanted, for a while now, to challenge you all to do a Where I'm From post. I found it first at Daysgoby. I was blown away by Jess' version. An amazing marriage of poetry and prose. I never really thought I could do anything like it. But. It's easier than it looks! There's a template [find it at Jess'] for the fainthearted, among whom I numbered. So I set to and was surprised by how much I liked the result. Birdy, that intrepid soul, dove right in and gave us her thoughtful offering. I nagged and badgered my unwilling sister until she too, finally, produced a dark and brooding version.

I had hoped you'd all fall over each other to do likewise, but I was wrong. The moment passed, other things came along and grabbed your attention. Then today I read this post by Kapuananiokalaniakea. She would do a wonderful job of it, I thought. I should challenge her. And I started thinking of all the other versions I'd like to read --- Tanya's, Heart's, Squirrel's, Chani's, Isabelle's,Fifi's, Meggie's, Stomper's,Tracey's, Ali's, Thimbleanna's,MJD's, My Float's, Kelli's, and my own Liz's. Easier to say "If you're in my links list I'd love to read yours!" I don't usually like to put people on the spot. I just think there's some great, almost-poetry out there, waiting for you all to put your unique shapes on it.{Not a reference to cottage loafs, Isabelle!]

So, ladies and gentlemen, you're under starter's orders! Let me know. I don't want to miss any. And please, please, please don't deafen me with silence!



Read more!To read the original poem by George Ella Lyons click on the link to Suse and follow her links! Thanks Suse...
I have made a list in my sidebar so you can read these any time you want to. If any one else does it let me know and I'll add your link!
Thanks to everyone who took the challenge so far. i really enjoyed getting to know you all better.

Not So Far From The Madding Crowd

We’ve been having what passes for winter in these parts. Chilly, some rain, grey skies. Wah, wah. Don’t hurt yourself rushing to commiserate. We’re wimps. We admit it. We have embraced our wimphood.

Saturday started out wet and grey, but by noon it was warm, and sunny.
So off to the wildlife preserve for a walk. I’m easily entertained. Point me in the direction of the trees and, as long as I have my camera and a notebook, there'll be no complaining.

It was bright and brittle and breezy out there.

I saw this handsome bird keeping an eye on the world from atop the highest dead tree.



A chicken hawk,maybe? He peered down at me disdainfully as I scrambled over dry, crackling scrub, risking life and limb for a better shot. For at least half an hour I craned my neck and tried to hold the camera steady. Wings would have come in handy. This blurry offering was the best I could do.

Underfoot I found this tiny, perfect shell.



Three of them would not have covered my thumbnail. Big bang? No way!

Can you see the sun glittering on the palmettos?



And hear the breeze whispering through the dry grasses? And how about the lazy drone of that airplane overhead? It’s so peaceful here. Barely ten minutes from the hustle and bustle.

On my way home I’ll go visit the Ancient Ones. And sit on their couch and listen to the tale of what they cooked today, and what's on special at the supermarket; what aches, and when the next doctor appointment is; what percentage chance of rain the weathermen are predicting, and what outrageous things liberals are doing now; and exactly how cold it is in the frozen north and how snug and smug we are down here......

Walking in the wildness balances that.

They would like me to sit with them for two hours, but more than one makes me twitchy. They would never come here to walk, not even when walking was easy for them. There might be snakes here, and bugs. That alone would make it bad. Never mind that the snakes were here long before we were. I love the wildness of this place, but they would find it distasteful. Better to stay home, and make sure all the blades of grass are the same length; and the leaves are swept up and in the rubbish bin before they flutter quite all the way to the ground; where a lizard near the door is occasion for shrieking; where they tune in every evening for the gospel according to Lou Dobbs.

If I make it to my eighties I hope I won't still be fretting over offspring and in-laws. And God,if in my dotage I forget, please remind me to get my comfortable shoes on and go for a walk in the woods once in a while, with my camera and notebook, and maybe by then, my cane, and to thumb my nose at the doctors, and give the tv away to someone who cares what Mr. Dobbs is getting worked up about tonight......

But until then God, could you arrange for me to be a little bit more compassionate? Oh, and in case I haven't said so lately, thank you for the birds, and the grasses and the trees, the offspring and yes, even the in-laws, the OC and the Little Blister,innocent,hopeful grandchildren and scattered friends, books and quilts and bloggers, and laughter and sunshine......Don't be fooled by all the moaning and olagoning into thinking I'm not grateful.

Forsooth, I Really Miss My Youth!

I didn’t make New Year’s Resolutions this year. The way I saw it, the universe kicked my ass last year. At least vicariously. My plan was to slip unobtrusively into 2008, no fanfare, no noise, just slink quietly along behind the boisterous throng and hope the gods, or whosoever is in charge of cosmic ass kickings, wouldn’t notice me. Surely they had toyed with me enough, tired of me even, and this year would be turning their attentions elsewhere?

Besides, this is the year I’ll turn sixty. Ye gods! How did I get here so quickly? Is my name Mrs. Van Winkle?

Early in the month the OC steered me to the optical shop for some new glasses. My prescription had only changed a little, but my glasses were quite scratched. Which, it turns out, was not altogether a bad thing. Through them things looked pleasantly soft-edged and blurry, and I liked their unobtrusive frames. With their co-operation I was able to maintain the fantasy that I didn’t look so bad for my years.

Choosing new frames for glasses is an exercise in futility. In order to do so you have to remove your old glasses, the only things standing between you and legal blindness. ……..So there I am, lens-less, peering in the mirror, seeing only vague, blurrier than usual shapes.

“I really like my present frames,” I told the assistant, hopefully

“Well,” she sniffed, in tones that implied i should move along and quit clinging to the past, “colour is really IN this year.” I refrained from telling her that I didn’t give a rat’s ass about what was “in.” If I was going to be paying a king’s ransom for the darn things, they’d have to appeal to ME.

Eventually a set of frames was selected, a small fortune was handed over, and we went on our way. A week later I went to pick up the new glasses.

“Wow!” Everything looked so sharp! So crystal clear! I hadn’t realized what a fog I’d been groping around in……

Then I made a fatal error. I looked in the mirror.

“Oh dear!” I sighed, as my fantasy breathed its last. Who WAS that elderly person wearing my clothes?

Every line and wrinkle was clearly delineated, even ones I hadn’t known I had……. It didn’t help that the mirror at the optical shop also magnified everything.


One night recently, eating a piece of cheese, I felt an ominous “crunch.” The outer shell of a filled tooth had broken off. No pain. Yet. Just an empty hole.
The dentist, hardly able to conceal his glee, said I would need a crown, and that would be another king’s ransom, thank you very much, and come in again next week so we can muck about in your mouth some more.

This afternoon I went to the grocery store, head in the clouds, and forgot to make a note of where I parked. When I came out, cart full of groceries, I had no idea where my car was. I wandered back and forth, trying to look nonchalant, trying to appear to know where I was going…….

I haven’t lost my mind. I really haven’t. But damned if I can remember where I put it.

Is this what turning sixty is going to be like? The eyesight goes, the teeth fall out, the memory goes missing. And it’s only January. What other indignities should I brace myself for before May? And me foolishly thinking I still had a few months of youth.

But, don’t mind me, gods, I’m not complaining. No sirs. Not me. Far better the universe mess with my body than my head…….

Reading The Paper

I usually read the St Pete Times in the evening. A lot of the news is depressing, so I start with the fun stuff. After I’ve done sudoku and the crossword, I deal with the rest of it.

The sports section goes mostly unread, yawn, unless there is obvious tennis coverage on the front page.

The classifieds are dispatched after a quick look at the local photo of the day on the back page.

I scan the business section for anything of interest. The stock market reports are Double Dutch to me anyway…..

The main section is full of the posturings of the various candidates. Not too interested in reading BS, but in there one can also find news of the rest of the world, and sometimes interesting editorials.

Then there’s the local and state section, mildly interesting, but doesn’t usually stir up passionate reactions. Not until last night, that is, when I found myself looking at a mug shot of a surly heavyset man in his early forties.

His claim to fame?

He set his SUV on fire in his ex-girlfriend’s driveway.

With his two Labrador retrievers, Sweetie and Honey, locked inside.

Because he wanted to punish the woman, and he knew she loved his dogs, even if she no longer loved him.

There is so much horrific stuff going on these days that I’ve grown a thicker skin than I used to have. I don’t weep so easily any more. Man’s inhumanity to man is an old story. But to lash out at man’s best friend? Incomprehensible. And unforgiveable.

Police and Fire Rescue personnel dragged the man away from his blazing vehicle. Then one of them smashed a window and tried to rescue the dogs. By the time they got the fire under control Sweetie was dead and Honey barely alive.

The sadistic lunatic is in serious condition in the burn unit. I’m having a hard time feeling any pity for him. Sweetie’s suffering is over, but my heart goes out to Honey. As the vet said, labs are extremely good natured and forgiving dogs. I know. We had two. And by co-incidence, I had just seen an adorable black lab puppy walking with his owner earlier in the afternoon. How anyone could repay their unconditional love and devotion so cruelly, is beyond comprehension. Honey has a sixty percent chance of survival, according to the vet, but even if she lives she may have brain damage and might never see again.

Maybe tonight I’ll stick to the crossword and give the news a miss.

Born Without The Car-Buying Gene......

I’m all for fair play for women; equal pay for equal work; no doors closed due to gender; be all that you can be, and so on. If a woman wants to be a linebacker on a football team, and can hold her own with the gorillas, I’ll be the first to step out of her way. If she has a scientific bent and wants to find a cure for cancer, I’ll be her most enthusiastic supporter. If she wants to lead a group of like minded lunatics into the jungle to do research on the tse-tse fly, I’ll shake my head in awe, and wish her god-speed. As long as it is understood that I have no interest in being a football player; interest in, but no talent for, scientific research; and a marked dislike of sticky, jungley, creepy-crawly infested places.


Even though I sometimes felt trapped raising five children,I liked being at home with them, wiping their noses, soothing their fears, patching up their skinned knees, assuring them that everything would turn out right in the end. I admired women who did all this AND held down a job, but was glad not to have to join them.


You may have surmised, from recent morose comments on these pages, that our youngest, our six-foot-four-pride-and-joy, had an altercation with a slick road surface and a wet pond from which, by some miracle we are very grateful for, he emerged unscathed. Not so his car, which was traveling with him at the time. Totalled, I believe, is the word. Horrified, the feeling.

Since we live in the outer fringes of the Back of Beyond, where distances are long and public transportation non existent, a car is a necessity. So, since before Christmas, I’ve been sharing my car with the Boy, which gets problematical when you consider that we try not to share news of such altercations with the Ancient Ones. For a while there was no problem. The OC was home, and we had a rental.

But, “life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.” The OC returned to the frozen north. The Bean’s classes resumed. Suddenly I was car-less at the time I would normally be going for “the daily visit”. Subterfuge, skullduggery, incoherent mumbling---just some of the strategies shamelessly employed to keep them in the dark. They may be old, they may be hard of hearing, but stupid they are not. Before they smelled a rat, we needed to shop around for a car.

And by “we” I mean the Boy and I. A clear case of the blind leading the more blind.

A golfing friend,in the know about cars, was contacted. Last weekend we drove an hour north to meet him and see some vehicles he had selected as possible candidates.

The Bean circled them, rubbed his chin, looked dubious, while I stewed in a paroxysm of embarrassment because he wasn't looking happier after the golfing friend had gone to so much trouble. He test drove a few. Looked even less happy, and eventually we took our leave, empty handed. Just as well as it turned out.

The OC researched from afar and located two more likely vehicles. Contact was made, appointments set up and I couldn’t sleep a wink all night.

What did I know about buying a vehicle?

How would I know they weren’t selling us a tin can in fancy dress?

Where would I run to if they started talking about transmissions, or timing belts, rotors or worse?

And how would we accomplish the ”pre-purchase appraisal by a trusted mechanic” when both cars were located far from any mechanic we knew, trusted or otherwise?

How would we manage the money end of the operation? Would we carry wads of bills in a pillowcase tossed in the back seat of my car? Or a briefcase, gangster-style? Or get a cashier’s check from the bank? The logistics kept nagging at me, since both cars were at least an hour away in different directions…..

And where was the OC when his physical presence and expertise was desperately needed??

It didn’t help to pose these questions to the OC on the phone. Because, and herein lies one of the biggest differences 'tween he and me, he was born WITH the car-buying gene. Men born with the car-buying gene consider such questions trivial, nay, assinine, because this knowledge is supposed to be wired into one from birth. So their voices go up a notch and they have a tendency to yell. And when the yelling starts the Mollybrain, poor carbuyinggene-less organ that it is, shuts down and goes to vision only. Blurred vision at that. The mental channels get clogged, and clarity of thought, if it was ever there, goes right out the window.

Ask me about quilting. There’s a good chance I’ll know the answer off the top of my head, and if I don’t, I’ll know how to find out.
Ask me to organize a dinner party for twelve for tomorrow night…….
Ask me about baking bread……
Ask me about grammar…..in several languages....
Ask me about knitting…actually, ask Liz about knitting…….
Ask me about books…….
About geography…..
About politics in the outer Hebrides….
About my opinion of the Current Occupant…….
About the mating habits of Laplanders……

Just don’t ask me anything about cars….……


Turns out, to my relief, it didn’t matter, this genetic short-fall of mine, because the Bean, being his father’s son, may also have been born with the gene in question. It’s just never been put to the test before. He asked questions; he peered, with an air of knowing what he was about, under hoods and into innards; he test drove, and consulted with the OC by phone……

We met no sellers of fancy tin cans, but two decent fellows trying to sell their cars for a fair price. The Bean liked the first one a lot, but the second one better. Which worked out well, as the OC had surmised, from his research-from-afar, that the second was likely the better deal.

We even randomly picked a garage, and had them give it the once over. As the mechanic poked and prodded, I peered in at all those belts and batteries and pistons and spark plugs, and wished, for the thousandth time, the OC was with us.

“How much is he asking?” the mechanic whispered to me conspiratorially. The car’s owner was standing outside talking to the Bean, and I had wandered over.

“Buy it!” he said, when I told him.

And that is how it came to pass that

I got MY car back, and

The Bean once again has wheels of his own, [he keeps disappearing outside to pet them,] and a very empty savings account!

And all without me having the car-buying gene!

If you’d like my autograph, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.

You may also want the OC's autograph since he managed to convince me we could do this without him. No mean feat. And he really reined in his frustration with all the annoying questions. Maybe I've been more successful than I thought, and he's starting to think more like a woman....On second thoughts, as he would say himself "I wouldn't bet my hat, ass and overcoat on that!"

And now, if all you high achieving, mechanically accomplished women will excuse me, I have some cookies to bake.

Wordless Wednesday

Wherein I Dodge The Fashion Police and Stay Warm

It was cold this morning. OK, cold for here. I know better than to whine to folks up north about cold.

As he loaded the bikes on the back of the car the Boy glanced my way.

“You look like you’re going to the North Pole,” he said.

“Well, it is cold.”

I do not like to shiver and had armed myself against that possibility. On my feet, socks and sneakers; higher up some snuggly grey knee-length sweats; higher still a pink, long-sleeved t-shirt under a red fleece jacket; a beige, hand knitted woollen scarf wound around my neck, and the lovely pink caubeen my daughter made me for Christmas wrapped my head in a warm hug.

He was wearing thin grey sweats and a t-shirt. Yes, a T-shirt. Brrr. But he’s a big bird now, so I refrained from suggesting he might be glad of another layer.

Unloading the bikes at the trailhead, he remarked

“Brisk!”

“Yes,” said I pleasantly from inside my cocoon, “isn’t it though!”

I did have the grace to feel slightly ashamed that I had not spoken up about another layer, but we do have our manhood to defend, and we can’t have mothers treating us like children, now can we?

Biting breeze notwithstanding, the Boy soon disappeared down the trail, and I was left to piddle-peddle along at my own meditative speed.

It occurred to me that if Brad should spot me on the bike trail, Angelina’s days might be numbered. As it was, some professional looking bikers---you know, the ones in the spandex and the helmets, nearly fell off their machines when they saw me, so smitten were they. But I pedaled on regardless, heedless of their admiration.

It’s lovely out on that trail early in the morning. As I have said before. Nothing but trees and fields and crisp blue air. An environment conducive to working out the kinks in your head.

I watched a large majestic bird --- a hawk maybe, or an eagle, drifting on the air currents, dipping down towards the fields then lazily soaring upwards again. And I thought, if I have to come back again, I want to come back as such a bird.

And then I saw what he was circling for. A poor bunny or squirrel had met his waterloo across a field, and some buzzards were busy cleaning up. Nature’s sanitation crew, doing what has to be done, but creepy and ugly looking birds. I went back to contemplating my noble eagle’s lazy maneuvers. And soon my cell phone was ringing and it was time to turn homeward.

The Boy rode twenty miles out and back. And me? Maybe ten. And both of us were fine in our respective gear.

It was a great way to start the day despite the chill!

.

Would You Like To Swing On A Star?

Sunday. The feast of the Epiphany, and not a Wise Man in sight. Just one Wiseguy and an Ancient Crone.

They could have rolled up their sleeves, taken down the tree. After all, the Three Wise Men had doggedly followed that star and finally arrived in Bethlehem. Christmas is over. But....

“The sun is shining. It’s lovely outside. Weather blizzard-weary northerners would kill for!”



There was still time for a hike. They took the longer rather than the shorter trail.

The Wiseguy assured the aged one that he could navigate back by the stars…...

But first, this spectacular sunset…..



Then darkness.



The stars were out. She recognized Orion, though it still looks more like a Scottie dog than a hunter, just as it did, streeling home from school in four o’clock darkness, long ago.

“Watch out for potholes,” warned the Wiseguy.

“ Can’t see them, even if I look,” intoned the Crone, still gazing heavenwards.

Inky blackness all around, but higher up, lacey, long leaf pine silhouettes against the navy sky.

And higher still the stars.

So many.

So bright.

So mobile!

“UFOs,” he said.

But even she is not that gullible.

“Small planes....” she said. “But why so many?”

Do they all have dates to dance with the stars?

It’s good to get out and dance along a trail under stars in the darkness.

Especially on a velvety Florida evening.

It puts things in perspective.

And calms the soul.



**Excuse me for going bananas in this post with pictures. For some reason, in it's contrariness, the computer has decided to let me upload photos. It may change it's mind tomorrow....so I have to upload while the uploading is good. Bear with me....

Home Is.......?

* ……Home: Middle English “hoom,” “hom,” from Old English “ham”---village, country, dwelling, home; akin to Old High German “heim” homeland, dwelling, house……………..

I’ve been thinking a lot about “home” and what a powerful influence a place, or memories of a place, can wield, even long after you no longer live there. I have such a place. My biggest regret is that my children don’t.

I took my sister-in-law to the airport one morning last week. She was going home to New York, where she has lived all but the first six years of her life. She lives in the house she moved into when she moved out of her parents’ house. Her twenty one year old daughter has never lived anywhere else. No question for them where “home” is.

In the afternoon I made another trip to the airport, this time with the OC, who was returning to the frozen north. Was he going “home,” or was he, once again, leaving “home?”

*…..the house and grounds with their appurtenances habitually occupied by a family……

The OC has a lifetime of experience of leaving home. Because of Stalin, and war, his parents left their Ukrainian homeland before he was born. When he and his sister were six months old their parents left Germany, their birthplace, for South America. Within a few days their father was at the American Embassy applying for papers to come to the States, because a few days were enough for him to realize he didn’t want to stay in Argentina. But it was going to be a long wait.

After six years they finally set sail for New York. Their new home. Where they didn’t speak the language. Where the woman who had been a respected schoolteacher in her own country had to scrub stairwells and shovel coal to make ends meet. Where her husband, who had attended law school for two years in Europe, worked as a waiter, and in construction, and at anything else that would keep food on the table. Proud and determined, they gradually scratched out a decent life, grateful for opportunities available in America to people who were willing to work hard. They love this country. They’re well off and want for nothing….except….. home. The older they get the more they hanker for the Ukraine of their youth. Which doesn’t exist anymore as they knew it, except in their memories. Their farmland and ancestral homes belong to the state now. Thanks Mr.Stalin.

The OC was a natural for AF life. Because, as sure as the sun rises in the east, the AF will send you to a new assignment every three years. Guaranteed. You become an expert at packing and moving. The children make forts with the boxes. But as they get older they start to realize that, as much fun as cardboard castles are, they don’t quite make up for what you lose in the moves. Friends, for instance. Teachers and classmates who know you and your brothers and sisters, and maybe even your parents. Familiar places. Favourite haunts. As soon as you find friends, familiar faces and favourite haunts in the new place, you’ll know it must be time to be moving on….

Before Liz went to college she filled out a newcomers’ questionnaire for the university’s freshman guide. We lived in Stuttgart at the time and she had just graduated from the American school there. So she wrote “Stuttgart” in the “hometown” slot. As anyone who’s been in a military family stationed overseas knows, APO, NY [Army Post Office, New York] is the bottom line for your address if you’re stationed in Europe. This is so that friends and family don’t have to pay overseas postage to stay in touch…….. The questionnaire was posted and promptly forgotten…..until the freshman guide arrived in the mail. Liz’s hometown was listed, by the geniuses who had put the guide together, as Apo, NY, a town nobody could find on the map!

Liz has hunkered down in a heartland town and issued fair warning that she is not moving until her boys are out of college. And probably not even then. For her, home is stabililty, continuity, familiarity. If I’d had a clue way back then, I’d have dug in my heels too.

*……………the family environment to which one is emotionally attached………..

But I didn’t have a clue. I’d lived in the same town and the same house until I was twenty two. I thought it was boring. I wanted to travel, to see the world, to have grand adventures. So? I traveled, I saw places I never expected to see when I was poring over my stamp album and dreaming of the places my stamps came from. Now I understand the saying “Be careful what you wish for!” I didn’t see ahead to all the times I’d be yanking my little saplings out of soil they were thriving in and transplanting them into strange dirt in faraway places. And then, just as they started to develop new roots, yanking them up again….. And again…... And again. Why is it that only hindsight is 20-20?

*………the refuge or usual haunt of an animal……………………….

We’ve called many places home in the past thirty plus years. Germany and Belgium were my favourites, maybe because they were most like home. There’s that word again. Home. For me, home is the place that holds your heart; the place that constantly pulls you back. The place I plotted to escape to whenever the marital bliss indicator was teetering at zero. Even though, if I had to spend a winter there, the rain and the cold would kick my butt and send me whimpering back to Florida!

After we’d been married a year I flew home for a visit, all the way from the arid Mojave. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed “home” until we came in sight of the west coast of Ireland. How my breath caught and my heart lurched when the first little islands off the coast hove into view, all glistening green and indescribably beautiful in the early morning sun! Suddenly, unexpectedly, I was sobbing. Life had gone blythely on without me, but, in that moment, I knew I would never have such a feeling of belonging, of being home, as I did here.

I wish I could have given my children that connection to a special place, to home. Home for one son is where his children are. Another feels more at home in England. For our younger daughter home is where her horses and dogs are. And the Bean is still, for now, hanging "at home" with me.

Since the OC is unlikely to suggest moving to Ireland any time soon, my next best ideal “home” would be a village, anywhere, like the one we lived in in Belgium. The market square would be within walking distance of our house, with a butcher and baker and chocolate maker! Friends I’ve made and left through the years would live in, or near, our village. What fun it would be to introduce them to each other. Imagine the picnics we’d have in our flower filled garden! Jan would be there. And Pauline and Silvana. And MaryBeth and Julia, and Joy, and Heide, and Becky………I’d have two special guest houses. One, roomy enough to sleep the children and the grandchildren, those already here and those who may yet be born. And one for Rise, for when she and GB could be coaxed away from their Bolthole-by-the-Sea.

Maybe it’s not home I’m thinking of but heaven!

Home for now is here, in Florida, and a very comfy home it is. With no snow to shovel or blizzards to shiver in. I’m not writing this in the spirit of bitching or bellyaching. More of a waking daydream. Without husband, children or grandchildren to fuss over, my mind tends to wander, and wonder……Is it still home if nobody’s there?

*.……..focus of domestic affections [~ is where the heart is]………………

At the end of the day, no matter where I hang my hat or lay my head, home is a place I carry with me in my heart.



*....from Webster's Dictionary.

Happy Birthday Miss Sophie!

The Germans have many traditions which almost make me wish I was German. One of them is that around midnight on New Year's Eve they watch the movie "Dinner for One." Every year. The weird thing is, it's an English movie. It's only about ten minutes long. But it proves that laughter is an international language. And what better way to start the new year than with merriment. Check it out and see if you agree. And, even if you don't, I wish you a very happy new year!

Yonder Peasant, Who Is He.....

“The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,
St. Stephen’s day was caught in the furze.
Up with the kettle and down with the pan,
Give us a penny to bury the wren!”

I listened and listened, when I woke up this morning, but couldn’t hear the raucous cries and tin-can clatter of the Wren Boys.

“That’s because, Dorothy,” a little voice in my head reasoned, “we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Boxing Day, the English called it. We thought that sounded awfully posh. To us it was simply St. Stephen’s day, of Good King Wencslas fame, and, more locally, the day the Wren Boys, bright and early, came prancing and rattling around our houses, begging for pennies to bury the wren. There was nothing posh about them. They came in loose, raggle-taggle, straggling bands, faces blackened, dressed in rags, making an awful din with tin cans and makeshift instruments, chanting their rhyme at the top of their lungs. All the children rushed out to see them. We didn’t know who they were or where they came from, or where they went when they got too hoarse to sing anymore. They were simply carrying on a centuries-old tradition, whose origins had been long ago forgotten. If you didn’t have keen ears you might miss them altogether. They never lingered for long. They were on a mission to raise enough pennies to give the wren a decent burial. Wink,wink.

Soon it was quiet again and we all wandered off. St. Stephen’s day was still part of the Christmas holiday. Everyone sighed contentedly. If I got a new book for Christmas you’d find me blissfully buried in it, curled up by the fire. Sometimes, joy of joys, a fire would be lit in the front sitting room, where there were comfy couches and you could pretend to be a grand lady. Usually the front room was off limits to hooligans like us, and warmed up and used only on state occasions, a few days around Christmas included. Sometimes you’d wonder if those raucous, wretched Wren boys had such a comfy place to go at the end of their adventures, and vaguely wonder why some people did and some people didn’t…..and feel a little guilty for being, undeservedly, among the lucky ones.

Ghosts of Christmases Past

How strange to sleep ‘til nine o’clock on Christmas morning. Time was when you couldn’t nap past sunrise at our house on Dec.25th. Shiny eyed, excited munchkins would insinuate themselves into the bed with us and whisper that, even though it was still dark, it must be time to get up since Santa’d been, as evidenced by the empty glass and the plate of nothing-but-crumbs. And most of all by the intriguing packages he’d left under the tree. They’d already investigated the contents of their stockings and could hardly wait for the big stuff. But they knew the rules. Those pesky rules. So everyone could share in the fun, you weren’t allowed to open your presents until all were awake, and at least semi-coherent. Their father said it would strengthen their character.

When said father had been provided with a cup of strong tea or coffee, and was ready to preside, the ritual began. They vied with one another to be the one to pass out the presents.Each one had a turn. We all waited while each present was opened and oohed over. Or surreptiouslyly booed. Clothing items were low on the popularity list, no matter how painstakingly selected by their grandmother. The Bean, being the youngest, despaired of ever getting “his turn to pass out!”

And now the morning is slipping away and he is still passed out. Not excited to get up and find that, contrary to his explicit wish, Santa did not gather his siblings from the four corners and assemble them under the tree, all tied up prettily with ribbons and bows.

Christmas is not so much about presents as about presence. The presence of people you love. Christmas makes me long to be around the people who know me best and love me still…………Just for Christmas, I want them all here, for my sake as much as for their “little” brother’s. I want the chatter, the arguing, the clash of opposing opinions, the hum in the air, the energy. I want to have to put the extensions on the dining room table. I want to have to round up extra chairs. I can handle the chaos in the kitchen, the mess of dishes. No problem.

But “to everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” Not to mention thousands of miles. I guess my season for munchkins at daybreak is over. I put my time in, and in my saner moments I know I wouldn’t want to go back. Not unless I went, armed once again, with youth and energy and lots and lots of stamina!

We had a very pleasant day. The OC is home. He even devised a surprise for the Bean that kept him happily busy for most of the afternoon. Under the heading of “some assembly required!” We are grateful to Mr. Alexander Graham Bell on whose ingenious invention we spent a good portion of the day, yakking ---to Columbus, California and Ireland. We didn’t have to shovel any snow. The sky was blue, the air balmy.

All is calm, all is bright.

Round yon virgin mother and child,
Holy Infant so tender and mild,

Sleep in heavenly peace.

Slee-eep in hea-ven-ly peace.

A Christmas Meander Through My [Alleged] Mind

Where've I been, you ask? Well, that depends....I've been out in the field, so to speak. The Siberian tundra, to be exact. In search of reindeer droppings, for annual packages to, among others, California Girl. Who has had a discouraging year, where not much has gone right. The least I can do is to ensure the reindeer droppings are of premium quality and arrive on time. Great care goes into the selection of our reindeer droppings. Size is a consideration, as is shape and texture. But our most stringent standards concern taste. We collect only from the finest grain- and peanut butter-fed animals. We do not aim to disappoint.

Subsequent to my field work in the frozen tundra, I've spent considerable time tangled in packaging tape, after which I stood in interminable lines at the post office. But that's OK. Everyone was in friendly, chatty mood, so it didn't seem so long. I got the low- down on one of my fellow line stander's teenage boys, and all their doings, and an in-depth report on the woes of the local real estate market from another line stander, who regaled me with details of how many foreclosures he's been handling per week. Sad for those being foreclosed on......especially at this time of year.

Trips to the airport have been made to pluck the OC, and his sister, from the friendly skies......

Little grandsons came for a day, from their beach sojourn, and lent a hand in decorating the tree. We went to the beach to see them another day, wrapped against the wind and the chill in sweaters and long sleeves, while lunatic tourists disported themselves in bikinis and such....crazy northerners---don't they know they could catch their deaths?

After thirty years of unsuccessful sugar cookie attempts, I finally, this year, found the perfect recipe. Do I get points for perseverance? These are cookies to die for. Except that they're a pain to make----but------oh,yum!

And just to make things super-interesting, the Bean wrecked his car. Fortunately, he is unharmed. But we are now engaged in the subterfuge and skullduggery required to keep such information from the ears of the Ancient Ones.......oy, oy, oy.

Apologies for the dearth of.....anything.....on here for so long. A New Year is coming and that always fills me with the determination to mend my evil ways.....I wish you all peace, above all, in your families and in the world. For me, I don't need perfume. I don't need socks. I don't need gadgets. I don't even NEED chocolate [want is another story.] What I need is harmony. Kind thoughts. Gentle words. And Peace on Earth. Is that too much to ask?

Merry Christmas friends!

The Christmas Kitchen, Part One

Last night a writers' group I recently joined had its Christmas meeting. The venue was the home of one of the long standing members. What to bring? I wracked what is left [after the assaults of this past year] of my brain. It seemed like the perfect incentive to kick-start some holiday baking, so I decided on some cranberry orange nut bread that has gone over well in previous years. No problem. I’d knock out a loaf in no time flat. Until I started to think….

“If I’m going to have all the ingredients out all over the counter, I might as well make it REALLY worth while!”

So out came my three largest bowls and the assembly line began.

First -----2 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1 ½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp baking soda………..measured into each bowl.

Into each bowl of dry ingredients I cut 1/3 cup of butter.

In each of three smaller bowls I beat
1 egg, with
2/3 cup of orange juice and
1 tsp finely grated orange peel.

Three more bowls each held
1 ½ cups of halved cranberries and
1 cup coarsely chopped nuts [I used walnuts.]

All that remained was to add the juice mixtures to the dry, then stir in the cranberries and nuts, gently, and only just ‘til moistened.

Three lightly greased 9x5x3 inch loaf pans stood waiting in the wings. The oven was already at 350 degrees. In they went for 65 minutes. If I didn’t have to clean up after myself I’d cook or bake all day! What I need is my own cooking show on TV. Then I could play all day and let the help handle the aftermath! If wishes were horses……how does it go?......fools would ride?

One loaf was wrapped prettily and duly delivered to the host last evening, one was stashed in the freezer for when Liz and company drop in next week, and I’m heading to the kitchen now to have a slice of the third with a cup of tea. Wish you could join me…..I might manage some Christmas spirit here after all!

Deck The Halls

*The computer is being uncooperative. It wouldn't let me upload a picture. Probably thinks I should get Tony's permission! Let your imagination go wild---it won't be an exaggeration.



When I saw my neighbour, Tony, squatting on his roof with a faraway look in his eyes a few days after Thanksgiving, I knew what was about to happen.

Tony is the salt of the earth, a great neighbour. But he is Italian, with an Italian addiction to decorating, both his person and his living space. And while I would probably go into cardiac arrest if I ever saw the OC bedecking himself with jewels as Tony does, I do believe that the Tonys of the world add a little colour. You could say that he is in touch with his feminine side. If we're a couple of crows, Tony's a fine feathered macaw.

He decorates for every season. Bunnies at Easter. Leprecauns on St. Patrick’s Day. Red, White and Blue on the Fourth. At Halloween it’s witches and scarecrows. For Thanksgiving it’s turkeys. But at Christmas he pulls out all the stops. So when I saw him perched dreamily up there, I knew what was coming.


He toiled all day. By nightfall the results were dazzling.

His house glowed like an ad for the electric company. The eaves were trimmed with white icicle lights. Little red lights twinkled from the shrubbery. The posts by his door were wound around with giant ribbon. On each window hung a wreath of greenery, set off with a big red bow.

Quite a display you’re thinking? But wait. There’s more! On either side of his driveway stand Hans und Franz, two giant,inflatable nutcrackers. By the front door stands an ever-smiling,inflatable snowman, and from the other corner waves a gigantic, inflatable Santa. On the lawn inflatable blocks spell out “Merry Christmas.”

I sigh and shake my head.
It’s too early, I think.
It’s too much, I think.
I’m a grinch, I think.
Tony's inner child, is alive and well, I think,
While mine needs to be reinflated.
If I were five, I think, I’d be enchanted.

For the rest of the month, I think, I’ll pretend I’m five.