When We Were Very Young.....

The first mistake of my adult life was deciding to become a physical education teacher. The nuns tried to encourage me to go to university [how I wish I'd listened to them!] and get a degree in English, or History, or some such useful subject, and come back and teach with them. My strongest objection to this line of thinking was that I knew they had a secret agenda---To deprive me of fun, and boys, and parties; to chop off my hair and stuff me in a habit at the first opportunity, and lock me inside the walls of a convent for the rest of my life! Besides, I'd been swotting my brains out all through secondary school and wasn't inclined to continue to do so! My decision to apply to physical education college was made on sound scientific principles:

1.I loved to play tennis

2.I loved to be outdoors

3.I thought I'd love teaching. I liked it a little, with serious reservations.

4. I didn't want to spend the next several years poring over text books

5.I didn't want to become a nurse, for the idiotic reason that my mother had been a nurse, and I wanted to be original! Even though I now think I would have enjoyed that line of work, and might even have been good at it.

6. Most influential of all, I'd read every book about girls' boarding schools that Enid Blyton had ever written.....

When I got there I found that---

1. Everyone else in my class was better at tennis than I. Because, while I'd been swotting my brains out, they'd been on school tennis teams; while I'd been swotting my brains out, they'd been playing field hockey, while I hardly knew the difference between a hockey stick and a hurley. While I'd been swotting my brains out, they'd been at schools that actually taught gymnastics! We had had no such instruction from the nuns, because firstly, and lastly, it would have involved shorts [legs on display!] and issues of modesty. The burka-type clothing favoured by the good sisters was hardly conducive to success at doing cartwheels and handstands and flips....Suddenly I was finding myself with frequent urges to go somewhere quiet and swot my brains out, especially if it saved me from having to go out on a hockey pitch, with a whistle dangling from my neck, and give an Oscar-worthy performance of pretending I had even the faintest idea how to umpire a match.

2.Being outdoors was lovely....when the sun shone. Not quite so delightful when the wind was howling and the icy rain lashing down.

3.I wasn't that wild about being around children all day. Especially not the children in the schools in Dublin where we regularly did our student teaching. They also knew more about hockey than I did. Many of them gave the impression that they'd been born with a miniature hockey stick in their hand. Handy for getting back at the doctor for slapping you....

4.There were still text books to be pored over. Anatomy, physiology, theory of teaching, creative movement treatises. But it made a pleasant change from making a total ass of myself in gymnastics class.....

5.Girls who had decided to become nurses didn't have to ride their bicycles, in blinding rain, the length and breath of Dublin, in search of secluded [impossible to bloody well find!] schools, where they were to show up, poised and cool, ready to teach the little darlings sports, whose rules and regulations they had only a passing acquaintance with. And........

6. Enid Blyton was, indeed, a writer of fiction!

Hitler Is A Quilting Instructor

When we met a few months ago, in a Tai Chi class, neither of us would have believed our eyes if we'd been given a peek into the future and seen ourselves, on an afternoon in November, crawling around together on the floor of my sewing room. And yet, that is exactly what my friend, H, and I were doing this afternoon!

On our breaks in Tai Chi class, the subject of quilting came up. It wasn't even one of us. One of the men in the class mentioned that his wife was working on a quilt. Which made me perk up and ask if his wife was a member of the quilt guild. And if not, why not? [I was shy when I was younger. Then I found out what a colossal waste of time being shy was, and I've been making up for lost time ever since.] H chimed in that she loved quilts and wanted to make one. Some day. And so it started.

End of break, back to Tai Chi. The course ended, and even worse, our instructor moved to another state. We were sad to lose him, and sad that we wouldn't be seeing each other any more.

Says who?", said H.

She organized the diehards among us to meet, once every few weeks, down by the gulf to practice Tai Chi in the great outdoors.

It was wonderful. There were only three or four of us each time, but we had such fun, doing tai chi, talking, enjoying the breeze in our hair, and being in sight of the water. More and more, when H and I talked, the subject of quilting came up. I offered to teach her. She accepted. And so it was that this afternoon we were crawling around on the floor of my sewing room.

We've had three sewing sessions in as many weeks. Today she finished her eighteenth and last, nine patch block. She's a very good student. And I'm the Hitler of quilting. "It vill be perfeckt! If not, you vill rrip, and rrrip, and rrrrip!"

Here's how it looks so far---



Don't you like her colours? We went to the fabric store and got batting, and fabric for backing and binding. She never expected to fall so hard, so fast, but I can see all the signs of addiction developing........I'll give you weekly updates until she finishes her table runner. So be warned! Taking a tai Chi class could have dire, unexpected consequences!

Wordless [Almost] Wednesday

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness," and random beauty found in a ditch.....

A First For The Bean

We didn't set out to have five children.

But being told "Isn't that nice, now you're done!" after our second, made us stubborn; made us mutter to ourselves "That's what you think!"

We preferred to be the ones deciding how many children we should have. Us and the Big Guy.

The OC grew up with only his twin sister and his parents. No brothers, no cousins, no aunts, no uncles, no grandparents. Everyone else related to him was back in the Old Country. He would have liked to have brothers and cousins, but he wasn't consulted. So that our children wouldn't be so alone, we had five.

We didn't tell the in-laws about pregnancy # 3 until we were six months along; later with #4; later still with #5. Didn't need anyone raining on our duckling parade!

Our youngest, The Bean, went with his Dad to vote this evening.[He'll tell you, if you ask, that his mom is an alien!] He's young. Everything is black and white to him. No gray. He's really interested in this election. Figures he and his peers will be living with the results for a long time, and need to get out and make their voices heard. Beats lethargy any day of the week!

His opinions, however, put him at loggerheads with the Ancient One, who is also opinionated, and doesn't hesitate to tell The Young Bean he doesn't know what he's talking about. Which goes over like your garden variety lead balloon. The Bean loves it that his vote counts just as much as that of the Ancient One. And the kicker is --- The Bean voted for the guy who's going to win!

Better Late In Life Than Never

My father was fond of saying "Youth is wasted on the young!". I think he was right.
I have spent my life dabbling, and am, alas, no longer young, but I have, at this late date, finally discovered my true calling.

Recent events have made it obvious that I am up there with the esteemed Sherlock and his sidekick, Mr. Watson, when it comes to powers of deduction! Having wasted so much time already, I do not intend to procrastinate about this. I have procured a place at the highly competitive National Private Eye Institute, and will be starting my intensive course there next week. Keep me in mind if you have crimes to investigate, or mysteries to solve. References can be obtained by contacting Isabelle or Thimbleanna, who are both familiar with my work.

If you'll excuse me now, I have a suitcase to pack.

Tales Of A Brazen Hussy

Once every two months I have an appointment in a town south of here. It takes me an hour to drive there.

And the rest of the day to come back.

Because I visit all my favourite haunts. Taking, as my old teacher, The Mag, said, when explaining how a donkey gets up a steep hill, both sides of the road with me. Not that I'm comparing myself to a donkey, although there are those who might gleefully jump at such an opportunity!

My first stop last week, after my appointment, was at Rainbow's End, the mother of all quilt shops. A place in which I could blissfully spend an entire day...I don't need to go into a quilt shop, any quilt shop, ever, until I'm ninety, by which time I may have run out of fabric, and my quilting tools just might be a tad worn out and need to be replaced.


But before you berate me for my lack of backbone, let me hasten to tell you that I was on a very important mission. In hot pursuit of a pattern I'd spotted on a previous visit. From which to make upcoming birthday and Christmas gifts.

I planned to show great restraint, to take a deep breath at the door, plunge in, and walk purposefully to the back of the store where the patterns are kept, looking neither to left nor right. I would find my pattern, do an about face, pay, and get the hell out of there before those siren fabric bolts could tempt me off my straight and narrow course!

I could hardly keep the simpering smirk off my face, so virtuous did I feel.

But, Fate conspired against me. The one pattern I needed was the one they'd run out of. Popular pattern. Go figure.

After a brief interlude of mental hand wringing, I devised a cunning plan! I would check the back of the designer's other patterns for her contact information, and, could I be so brazen, call her? She lives right there, in that smallish town.

As soon as I was back in my car I dialed her number.

What were the chances she'd be home?

What were the chances she'd think I was a brazen hussy for disturbing her?

A friendly female voice answered. Yes, she had the pattern. She'd be delighted to mail it to me. She'd even throw in a bonus pattern she'd designed that wasn't for sale in the stores yet! Lucky I'd called when I did since she was just going out the door. She'd pop it in the mail while she was out!

I gave her my address and she was about to hang up, when I thought of something---didn't she need my credit card number?

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'll enclose an invoice," she assured me.

Now, I'm a trustworthy person, but I don't expect total strangers to realize that.

Any doubts I'd had, about being brazen enough to call, quickly evaporated! The pattern arrived the very next day. The invoice was for exactly what I'd have paid for the one pattern in the store, and true to her word, she'd included the bonus pattern! You'll see it one of these days---when I finish it!

Meanwhile, back at Rainbow's End....I'd come sooooo far! It really would be a shame to leave without at least a peek at the sale shelves. If you're a quilter I'm sure you'll agree. So, with my backbone liquefying on the spot, I had a teeny tiny peek....



And found these fabrics, at fifty percent off. It would have been irresponsible to leave them there. Christmas is coming for the snowmen; the cream will make a perfect backing for my sister's quilt, which will be getting made any decade now; and the pumpkins are perfect for some place mats I'm making right now......

But I've sworn off quilt shops, for at least six months....

Unless you call and beg me to accompany you because you are shy, or bashful, and absolutely must have a brazen hussy along to give you courage......

When I'm eighty eight.....

I signed up for NaBloPoMo a few days ago. Why? That's what I want to know! Ideas would come. Wouldn't they? Unconcernedly, after breakfast, I went to an Arts and Craft show, and got into some interesting conversations with some very interesting people.

There was a tall, elegant, elderly lady selling lovely, decorative mirrors she had made using shells. Shells are one of my favourite objects in nature. I have jars of them, here, there and everywhere, collected over many years, and many trips to many beaches......Always with the idea that "one day" I'd use them to make decorative frames for pictures of my kids at the beach. Thus far, all I have are jars and jars of shells. Which, in themselves are quite decorative.

The shell lady {by now I had learned that her name was Elizabeth} was deeply lined, and I was curious as to what age she might be. Her hair was tinted and carefully combed, and her demeanor was reserved and dignified. She thawed a little as I admired her work, and asked her where she collected her shells. She told me she's been going, with her husband, for years, to Sannibel Island. They spend a month in the Fall and another in the Spring on the island. He likes to fish, and she goes shelling, every day. Which led us to Anne Morrow Lindberg and her book "A Gift From The Sea," which we had both read and loved. She told me how, as a child, she hadn't been good at art, that getting "D's" in art dragged down her GPA, even though she'd get straight "A's" in other subjects, and yet, here she was, late in her life, making and selling art from something she'd always enjoyed.

I've never been to Sannibel Island. But I've wanted to go ever since we moved to Florida. I asked her if the shells were as good and unusual and plentiful as I'd heard. She told me it depended.... She goes shelling early in the morning when the tide is way out. Storms affect the number and variety of shells you can find. And she never, ever takes a shell in which a creature is still living. Of course she had to tell me how one would know......

Such an interesting lady! She used to be an airline hostess, she told me. Back when it was a glamour job. She didn't say that part, I just knew it, from when I was growing up. Shannon Airport was not far from where we lived, and when the airline hostesses would get off the bus that brought them from the airport, it was like seeing a flock of exotic birds with beautiful feathers. I could tell Elizabeth had been one of them!

Finally she let it slip that she was eighty eight years old. Hats off, Elizabeth, I thought! When I'm eighty eight years old I want to be just like you!

I thought I'd tell you of all the things I did today that helped me avoid sitting down to NaBloPoMo......Looks like I hardly scratched the surface. And I've got my first post! With four minutes to spare.

Apple Picking in Ohio

Autumn. Cooler weather. Yes, even in Florida! Time for apple pie. Or apple cake..... Or apple torte.... or just to hear the crunch, and taste the juice, of a sweet, fresh-off-the-tree apple! We went apple picking, in Ohio, a few weeks ago. And picked us a peck, or two, or three, of perfect apples.




And, when we'd picked and eaten our fill, we munched on mouthfuls of luscious raspberries, from an overgrown raspberry patch......




And soaked up the warm, end-of-summer sunshine.

One of our number, tired of apple-picking, had himself a roll in the clover.....




and a dash among the trees......




...and was later found, sitting once again among the raspberries, contemplating life's mysteries.





Wouldn't you like to go back and experience how the world looked from inside your head when you were four?

A Day In The Life Of A Royal Seamstress

'Tis a taxing job being the royal seamstress. All day long, and into the night, have I been stitching, so that my royal clients will not be left with nary a stitch of finery, in which to disport themselves, on the Eve of All Hallows.

Away in the Kingdom Of The North, six year old S was offered options by Papa, as they perused together the great pictorial tome "Simplicity Patterns."

A clown, may hap?

Or a witch, perhaps?

Upon seeing pictures of typical witchy garb however, S recoiled in suitable six year old horror!

Such a dearth of glisten and glitter,

paucity of pinks and purples,

total absence of baubles and bangles!

And the nose.....What dark arts would be required to transform her delectable button nose to that of a withered hag? And her golden tresses to the greasy, lank hanks of a crone?

The royal girl-child goes about, most days, disguised in the humble threads of a peasant child. But All Hallows Eve is a time to let her true colours show. How to decide?? Glinda,the Good Witch [a misnomer for sure---she looks like a cross between a fairy and a princess]---or, a No-Holds-Barred Princess?

Somewhere in the middle, S decided. Size 6.



Princesses should never go about without a Knight in attendance. Everyone knows that. Or should. Small brother D, undecided on what manner of get-up to request for himself for All Hallows Eve, was quickly recruited to be a Knight. Requiring shining armor. And a helmet. Size 4. Oy!

And that was all the information given to the royal seamstress.

Said personage betook herself, forthwith, to the local Cloth Merchant, famous throughout the land for the beauty and richness of his wares.

And tottered home, laden with yard goods, and commenced to sew. This humble peasant woman, can, of a normal day, be found toiling at her treadle machine to provide bed covers for all the royal beds, and tapestries to hang on the castle walls, the better to keep winter's chill from the royal bottoms. Nor does she toil alone, in this, the season of All Hallows. All across the land, sewing machines are humming. Why, even the bold and intrepid Lily, who, truth be known, prefers the click of knitting needles, has taken seasonal employment as seamstress-in-waiting to Han Solo and his band of Storm Troopers. Last I heard, [this may be but a wild and unfounded rumour,] she was reportedly sewing party duds for Chewy himself!

Accustomed as our heroine is to working with fine silks and rich brocades, she nevertheless had difficulties, pricking her poor peasant fingers with the blasted needle, numerous times, and muttering imprecations under her breath. But, in the end, perseverance triumphed. She hustled her buxom bustle to yon royal Post Office in hopes that the Royal Mail Coach would speedily carry her earnest efforts to the Kingdom of the North. So that she might find favour with the Pink and Purple Princess, who will sally forth, resplendent, on All Hallows' E'en, attended by her Trusty Knight, bedecked, as befits a Trusty Knight, in gold plated, metallic [grrr!] armor.

Otherwise, she might spend the rest of her days languishing in a dungeon......

Note; Pictures added later to appease the peasants......

Lalalalalalala.........

I'm rarely stuck for words.

To the untrained eye, I look like a quiet person, but that's only because I don't have my brain on speaker phone. The babble in there is constant, and random. Sometimes I daydream about having an orderly sequence of thoughts, all on the same subject, each thought another brick in the house of an idea. It would be nice to think something through, from start to finish, without a million other, unrelated thought fragments clamoring for a piece of the action.

Think of a class of eager children, all of whom have something urgent to say---a sea of hands, frantically waving----Pick me teacher, pick me! Oh please! My idea is the best! Just wait 'til you hear it! And then they pout when you want them to line up in orderly fashion; take a number; please don't jump the queue! You'll all have your day in court! But some days nobody does. Too much white noise......

Which is why writing, in any form, at the moment blogging form, is a compulsion. If I can snatch one fragment I like from the melee, and write it down, then wait a while 'til another related fragment drifts by, and snatch that too, eventually I'll have enough on my subject to write something at least semi-coherent.....

Maybe.

This was the preamble [the babbling before the brainwave!] to a draft I've been fiddling with. It wasn't going anywhere. Then I read Rhubarb's recent whine and thought---I can just put it out there. I'm not looking for a Pulitzer. Just wondering how it works for others---from sitting down to a blank screen, with a matching blank brain, to hitting "publish".............

By the way, is Nablopomo happening again this year? And if so, where do I sign up? Just so I can babble some more....

Tempus Fugit

Meggie remarked recently how time seems to speed up as we get older. I think it starts to race as soon as you have children! One minute they're babes in arms, and you're wondering who deemed you reliable enough to be entrusted with their safekeeping?? The next, they're off to school; then they're all gangly arms and endless legs, and you find yourself craning your neck to look up at them---you who used to think you were tall! Next thing you know, you're holding back tears at graduations and weddings.... Tears of joy? Tears of sorrow?

This was what it was all about, you remind yourself. The object of the exercise was to make yourself redundant, to equip them to carry on without you, into the future, that land to which you cannot go. Lucky if you can accompany them a few miles along the road. So, why so mopey? Don't like not being needed so much? Don't like what you see in the mirror? Who is that old crone anyway? And why is she looking back at you so impertinently, with no apologies for the ravages of the years? As much as I like the sun, I could delude myself much more successfully if I could live the rest of my life by candlelight!

They move away from you and become independent, which is how it should be. Still, though you know it means the universe is unfolding just the way it was intended to, it makes you sad, along with the glad.

But then they have children of their own, and those sweet babies lead your children right back to you. The circle of life.


I'm home from my travels, pinching myself, and wondering, was I really there for two whole weeks?

Daughter Dear drove me to the airport, between Kindergarten pick-up time and afternoon soccer practice. She joked about making me walk there, not wanting to aid and abet my leaving...... But, "life goes not backward 'nor tarries with yesterday....." and I'm sure the waters closed seamlessly over the space I occupied there for a while. Next time I see those little

ball players ["I'm open Ginny!"],

counters ["I can count to a hundwed!"],

"spellers ["I know what begins with football---"F"!]

they'll be a couple inches taller, and I'll be another bit older.

There's something bittersweet about seeing our children as parents. To see in them that fierce love and protectiveness we all felt for our babies. Each life has its portion of happiness and sorrow. And time continues its inexorable march, with or without us. I sometimes wonder what God was thinking, to let my Dad die at the age of fifty seven, when my firstborn was merely a toddler. He would have been a great Grandpa.......

It seems such a waste somehow, for us not to live down the road from our children and their children, or in the next village, or at least the next county, or failing that, in a state adjacent to theirs.....So we could have Sunday dinner together, and see them for Christmas, and birthdays, and all the little occasions that families should share, without it becoming a nightmare of planning and co-ordination, and intergalactic travel!

I have the time now.

I could babysit.

I could read stories.

And bake cookies.

And throw footballs!

Regularly, instead of squeezing it all into a few weeks....

But then I pause, and am glad that our grandchildren are fortunate enough to have parents who love and care for them, watch out for their physical safety, and mental and spiritual well being. It is not so for all children, as I was heart-breakingly reminded when I visited Suburbia for the first time today. Life could be, and is for some, really harsh. And even though time flies, so can I.

I think I'll go curl up somewhere quiet now and count my blessings.

Words [Just A Few] On Wednesday

Guess who was happy to see me home? And insinuated himself, through a small portion of open zipper, into my suitcase, and there built himself a cosy little nest from which to spy on the proceedings?

Someone's In The Kitchen With Molly.....

I have trouble keeping one blog going, but have, nevertheless, had the notion in my head for a while to start another. As a way to get my motley and insanely out of control recipe collection under control. I have accumulated some wonderful recipes over the years, but my "filing system" is haphazard at best! I've tried various ideas for organizing them, but then I need a certain recipe, and I need it now , and my rummaging, and my haste, makes a mess all over again. Lily is a lot more organized than I, and a wonderful cook, but she agreed, that even with her recipes, something had to give. When I told her of my idea to start another blog, just for recipes, she said "Why don't we do it together?" Why don't obvious, brilliant ideas like that occur to me?

We hope you'll come on over and visit "Molly And Lily In The Kitchen." You can pull up a chair, have a nice cup of tea, and maybe find some new recipes you'd like to try!

My Coaches Are Three And Four Feet Tall.........

*** My Ohio name is "Ginny," pronounced like that snooty relative of the Irish pound from days of yore, the guinea, which permitted members of the legal and medical professions to charge by the guinea [twenty one shillings], while lesser mortals, like the butcher, the baker and candlestick maker, charged by the pound [twenty shillings], and fractions thereof. Why "Ginny?" you ask? "Grandma" was taken, since the other grandma already had a few grandchildren, and T's first attempts at "Granny" came out sounding like "Ginny," so there you have it....



It's Fall in Ohio. Season of changing leaves. Football season. Although, for little grandsons, any day of the year is football season!

I don't recommend American football for people my age. As a spectator sport, maybe, but certainly not as an activity for those whose idea of a good workout is an hour of Tai Chi. The medication was tinkered with, tweaked this way and that, so that a person could walk again, without limping, and play tennis even. "But only doubles!" the wagging finger cautioned.

That was in my last-week-life. My this-week-life would make the wagging finger blanch. Every day I've been throwing that strangely shaped "ball" with T and B. It's child sized, made of soft rubber, pleasant to throw and catch. Complications don't set in until B nods encouragingly at me and lisps "You can run, Ginny!" after he's thrown and I've caught. Because he knows he can catch me as I try to get by him! Then he jubilantly shouts "Got you! Two hand touch!"

The pair of them, pint-sized coaches, have been schooling me in the finer points of America's favourite game. I know what a "hopper" is now and a "hike" ---not, in this context, a traipse through the woods!


I finally have a glimmer of an idea why those hulking players you see on TV hug the ball to their chests and run like hell, to get it over the touchline. It only counts if they're not tackled....Which is what B dearly loves to do. No matter that he is about three and a half feet tall, and weighs a little more than a third of my weight. He can throw! He can catch! And is completely unacquainted with fear. He takes it on the nose, he takes it on his little pint-sized chest, "I'm okay!" he shouts, lest the game lose momentum.....He "takes a licking and keeps on ticking."



[Here they are, on the weekend, with Dad, M, the biggest footfall fan of all!}

After the first few days I wised up. Having landed, one time too many, with a thump, on the grass, I decided it would be kinder to the aged bones to throw, only. Less chance, that way, of returning to Florida in a body cast! But, as the saying goes, "Good luck with that!"

My resolution was short-lived. Who could resist those limpid blue eyes, looking up pleadingly, from under those sweeping lashes, holding the football and saying "Please, Ginny?"

Today,I've been lying low, sitting inconspicuously in a quiet corner, stitching. It's raining, proof positive that there is a God, and He does look down with mercy on feeble grandmas!

But tomorrow the sun will be out, and I'll be ready, again, to do my coaches' bidding!

Because it's a narrow window here. I know how fast the years and decades tumble by. I'll throw that ball as long as they want me to!

"Tis Well For Some"

The cat has a finely tuned "dither" sensor. As soon as the suitcase came out of the closet he was suspicious.

"Oh-oh!" I could see it in his eyes. "Somebody's going to leave me again!"

So he climbed into the suitcase, just to be on the safe side, and settled down to watch.

Columbus in October? I had no idea what to pack. Even though Daughter Dear, and the OC both had told me what weather to expect. When I'm standing, barefoot, in Florida, in shorts and a t-shirt, with the fan going, you can quote temperatures to me 'til the cows come home. It won't be until I land and start to shiver that I'll think "Oh dear! I should have brought....!"

So I ransacked the closet and threw all the possibilities on the bed. Then slowly put back the ridiculous, the impractical and the out-and-out ludicrous, and whittled it down to pants, long sleeved tees, underwear and a few sweaters. And, of course, some books and stitchin'.

But no cat. Much to his chagrin.

When I landed, beautiful, smiling daughter and oldest dark haired, shiny eyed grandson scooped me up and whisked me off to pick up younger grandson from preschool. There was a definite chill in the air. Brrrr! A lovely, crisp hint of Fall. I was glad about the sweaters tucked in my suitcase at the last minute.

As my darlin' sister commented in my last post "'Tis well for some."

It's so nice to have the OC home. Ideally all my family would live in the one town and they could all come over every week for Sunday dinner. The grandchildren would all be friends. They'd roll around regularly on the floor with their Uncle Bean, tackle Grandad every chance they got.......Go horseback riding with Auntie California.....

And pigs might fly.

Life is messy and untidy. But the OC is home to check on the Ancients, freeing me to come and spend time with our firstborn, and play with the grandchildren---for two whole weeks! Of course small eyebrows were raised and little people wondered why Grandad wasn't with me, since I'm not quite as much fun to tackle to the ground as he is!

So it is, indeed, well for some...... Wish you were here Auntie Rise!

Idyll [Idle?] On The River

Down by the river it was all about green---green grass, green trees, green water, green reeds. And pale golden sunshine. The mercifully coolest day we've had since April. I'd gone along with my chair, my camera and a bag of books, but The Bean insisted I should paddle around in his kayak for a bit before he took it off up the river. I left my books with him on the bank, and paddled off with my camera.

The kayak only seats one, but you can sit on my shoulder. Photography is a wonderful invention. However, it has it's limitations. You'll just have to imagine the warmth of the sun on your arms, and the cool, delicious greeness under the trees. Watch out for low hanging branches. And try not to jump out of your skin every time a fish leaps out of the water, shattering the surface into a million shimmering shards of sunshine.

Here's the breeze, fracturing reflections into fantastical forms...........




The river is narrow here, with cabins and cottages right down to the water's edge. They blend into the rushes and trees along the bank and seem to be part of a bygone era. More innocent. Less pretentious. Heavy on the kitsch! Behold the beauteous mermaid....




Pelican and Toad seem to be waiting............for Ratty and Mole?





And since this is Florida, we have to have at least one pink plastic flamingo! See him there, just inside the gazebo?




This little fellow was definitely a remnant from the past. Looks like he's also patiently waiting.....for Mr. Obama, perhaps?





Lovely shapes and colours in the rushes............





A screen of cattails..................





..... and here we are, back where we started.






You can climb down now. I hope you enjoyed messing about on the river with me.....Shoulder massages will be gratefully accepted......No hurry. Whenever you have the time......I'll be here, on the riverbank, reading my books and soaking up the sunshine.

A Tisket, A Tasket, A Little Fabric Basket....

Certain quilty bloggers instituted "Finished by Friday" as a way, I think, to motivate the sluggish among us,to Get It Done Already, and give us the opportunity to brag! I got it done [last week, I've been up to other mischief this week!] and here I am, bragging about it.

Ali had this little basket on her blog last week and I fell in love. She had found a tutorial for it at Pink Penguin.....

When I went, just now, to have another peek, I found that Ali has made another, but bigger this time. So, if you're looking for something quick and cute to make, don't say I didn't provide any suggestions.

The OC, in his capacity as the Chief Wag around here, saw it lying on the table, half made, and commented on the "lovely hat" I was making for Judy, the wifely half of a couple [edited to accomodate my sister's word usage persnicketiness!] we visited last weekend........I suppose you could wear it on your head,[if you were a little daft] but I think it would look much nicer on a table, filled with chocolates, or acorns, or jellybeans. But, he must have his fun!

I Love The Colour Purple, But Not On My Nose!

"I'm off to bed dear," he said.
"I'll be in in a minute," I answered.
I wasn't trying to lie. But I did.

While the OC was up north, playing rocket scientist for two years, I developed some bad habits. One was staying up ridiculously late. Doing what, you ask? No prizes for guessing!

Since his return, I've been trying to change my evil ways, and retire when he does, so I'm not still imitating a corpse when he's up and prowling for coffee. But you know how they say it takes something like twenty one repetitions of a new habit to kick an old one out the door?

Well, some nights are better than others.

Last night I fell off the wagon, trying to catch up with reading and commenting. In the wee hours I was creeping, ever so quietly, into the bedroom, trusting my feet to remember their way to the bathroom. Trying to be stealthy and not wake him, when

CRASH!

The wall reared up and attacked me.

I heard the sickening crunch of bone, or maybe it was cartilage, against drywall, and stumbled to the bathroom to check for splinters, feeling sure I must have broken my nose. To my surprise, when I turned on the light, my nose appeared to be intact. But oh, how it smarted! I ran to get some ice and packed it around the ache, groaning softly all the while. I needn't have worried about waking him up. I could have knocked myself unconscious and he would have tripped over my crumpled form in the morning before he realized anything was amiss....

"Oh my God, what happened to your nose?" at breakfast.

"While you were sleeping, darlin', I was set upon by a wall.

You might not want to walk anywhere with me for a few days. You'd be sure to get some dirty looks.........."

Seeing that I was alright, he was amused to an unseemly degree.

He keeps me around for my entertainment value.

I'm just happy I didn't break my nose, or my glasses, for all the good they did me in the dark. Maybe what I really need are some night vision goggles.

Or....could it be that simple?...... to go to bed early!

Once Upon A Time, In A Ratty Old Box, In A Lifetime Far, Far Away.....

The OC was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the summer of 1970. He retired from the military in 2000. In that time we lived in eleven different places in the U.S. and Europe. That's eleven, yes eleven, different houses. Each time we moved, our "Stuff" was packed into boxes, noisily taped shut and loaded onto a moving van. Except for the memorable move in which a few boxes, containing Hummels and Waterford crystal and sundry other treasures, lost their way at the end of our driveway and ended up in the back of a thief's truck instead of on the moving van....but I digress.

The challenge at the new place was to get the boxes unpacked and our new digs looking like "home" as quickly as possible. It was a daunting task, but fun, arranging familiar things in an unfamiliar place that would henceforth be home. Every day more boxes would be broken down and ready for recycling. But after the first week or so things slowed to a crawl. All the things that had an obvious purpose or place were serving that purpose, or in that place.

Years would pass and soon the excitement/dread of a new assignment would loom. And in the back of a closet, somewhere in the house that was now our home, lurked at least one box that had never been unpacked. Or if it had been partially unpacked, other orphan bits and pieces had been stuffed into it, for want of a proper home of their own, so that it was full again. And as the number of assignments and moves grew, and our family also grew, the number of boxes that never got fully unpacked at each new place grew and grew and grew!.

It was in one such that I recently rummaged successfully and found the essay in the last post. Rummaging in such a box cannot be accomplished in five minutes. Even if the first thing you pull out is the thing you were seeking.

Oh no.

We've been in this house, our twelfth home, for seven years now and I cannot seem to empty this last box. Because it is not what it seems. It's not just a ratty looking, worse-for-wear cardboard box, containing a hodgepodge of papers, cards, letters, essays, clippings, articles, recipes, high school graduation programs, postcards, leftover school pictures and report cards.........

Nothing that simple.

That plain, brown cardboard box holds little bits of my heart. Once opened it carries me back to all the yesterdays that flew so quickly by. It pulls me in for "just a peek," and hours later I'm still sitting on the bedroom floor, having laughed, and sobbed, and marveled, and accomplished the square root of nothing!

Well, I did find that essay. And even though I should have been changing sheets and getting laundry done, it was better for my soul to sit among those tattered memories. I found one folded loose leaf page with childish, spidery writing from eleven years ago.........


"My Sisters Weding."

"My family and I drove from Florida to Tenissy to go to my sisters weding.

I got all dresed up in a tucks.

My sister looked very happy she couldent stop smileing.

I like the groom like a brother.

The seromony was short.

When we got to the resepion I danced my hart out.

But I didint get to say good by to my sister befor she left on her hunymoon."



Do you know what finding a piece of paper like that can do to you when you come upon it unexpectedly? All the water that has flowed under the bridge since then comes pounding back through your head and out through your eyes. It was one of his first writing assignments in a new school at the beginning of fourth grade. He kept it short and pithy, and while it made me laugh, it also made me cry. We had just moved from Belgium to Minnesota, visiting in-laws in Florida and attending Liz's wedding in Tennessee along the way. He was famous back in those days for his daring and innovative approach to spelling and punctuation. I'm happy to report that both are much more conventional now, if a lot less interesting.

When I had finished rummaging, I put that dog-eared piece of paper back in The Box, and promised myself that, since there are no new assignments looming, I will make it a priority to get it unpacked. Before I die.

"World, Take My Son" *

"My son starts to school tomorrow.

It's all going to be strange and new to him for a while, and I wish you would treat him gently. You see, up to now, he's been king of the roost. He's been boss of the backyard. I have always been around to repair his wounds, and I've always been handy to soothe his feelings. But now, things are going to be different.

This morning he's going to walk down the front steps, wave his hand, and start on his great adventure that probably will include wars and tragedy and sorrow. To live his life in the world he has to live in, will require faith and love and courage. So World, I wish you would sort of take him by his young hand and teach him the things he will have to know. Teach him....but gently, if you can.

He will have to learn. I know that not all men are just, that all men are not true. Teach him that for every scoundrel there is a hero, that for every crooked politician there is a dedicated leader. Teach him that for every enemy there is a friend. Let him learn early that the bullies are the easiest people to lick. Teach him the wonders of books. Give him quiet time to ponder the eternal mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun, and flowers on a green hill.

Teach him that it is far ,more honourable to fail than to cheat. Teach him to have faith in his own ideas, even if everyone tells him they are wrong. Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone else is getting on the bandwagon. Teach him to listen to all men, but to filter all he hears on a screen of truth, and to take only the good that comes through.

Teach him to sell his brawn and brains to the highest bidder, but never to put a price tag on his heart and soul. Teach him to close his ears to a howling mob, and to stand and fight if he thinks he's right. Teach him gently, World, but don't coddle him, because only the test of fire makes fine steel.

This is a big order, World, but see what you can do. He's such a nice little fellow, my son."


This essay found it's way into my hands when my children were very small and starting off to school. It expressed, in words I couldn't have strung together at the time, exactly how I felt. Since our 5 1/2 year old grandson, T, and just six year old granddaughter, S, started kindergarten this week, I've been remembering when their mom and dad respectively, started off to school. The huge brown eyes of T's mom as she stood, not yet five, so pretty, so little, so shy, and so scared, on the school playground, and the sparkling, excited eyes of S's dad, swaggering his way off to the big world, having heard all about it from big sis. And I thought of this.

And now, looking back I know that the World listened. I know that they face the inevitable slings and arrows with faith and love and courage. I could take the world to task for not being as gentle a teacher as I would have liked, but that wouldn't change anything. It did teach them the wonders of books, and they do have a finely honed appreciation for the marvels of nature. And backbones of steel.

In my mind's eye I could see the thin, yellowing piece of paper...So I dug and dug, in all the wrong places, and couldn't find it. In despair sat down, and thought.....and thought. And then the universe took pity on me and threw me a lifeline. The raggedy old bulging journal I'd written in sporadically all the years they were growing up! That's where it's sure to be! Some more digging. And sure enough! There it was! And here it is. I hope you like it as much as I do.


*My thirty plus year-old piece of paper declares the original source to be unknown. Whoever printed and distributed it found it in the Pennsylvania Parent-Teacher Bulletin of September 1971.

Friday Foolishness

What do you think? C or D cups?

Storm In A Teacup

I am not where I expected to be tonight. The plan was that I would go to the airport before dawn, get on an airplane and fly. When it landed I'd be in OC country and, with a little luck, he'd be there waiting, more or less patiently.

But Tropical Storm Fay had other plans. Actually, didn't seem to have much of a plan at all. Just swirling around in the Caribbean, getting her knickers in a twist. Not to mention how she livened life up for the weathermen, whose lives, if you think about it, must be rather dull. All those charts, yawnnnn! She couldn't make up her mind where she wanted to go...or if she should go for the gusto and become a full blown hurricane.

What is it they say? Indecision is the hallmark of the female? I can identify. I dithered. Talked to my neighbour, who was nailing boards up around his house. He likes to keep busy, which is probably more than sixty percent of why he was doing that. But he and his wife persuaded me that the prudent thing to do would be to postpone my trip until Wednesday. I didn't need much of a push. The airline had no more of a clue what Fay might do than the weathermen, and said I could delay my departure until the next morning without any penalty.

Done.

Woke up this morning. Weather seemed a little grey, but calm. Checked the airport website. The flight I should have been on had left on time. No hitches. Drat!

If I had not postponed it, then for sure a hurricane would have roared down on us, uprooted trees, ripped roofs from houses, sent gulf water rushing inland, causing evacuations all around, people running in circles, highways jammed.

But, funnily enough, no-one has called to thank me for averting disaster. You'd think the weathermen could at least send a nod of acknowledgement my way for my part in ensuring that the whole thing fizzled. But no, not a word, not a wink. I'll think twice next time.

Meanwhile I've had extra time to organise myself. Take as little as possible, I tell myself, since my natural tendency is to take everything but the kitchen sink. And then only use a fraction of it. But one has to consider the weather up there. Colder than here. Even in August. But I'll be helping the OC to drag back here all the goods and chattels he's accumulated in two years there. Don't need to add too many of my own. Yes! He's coming home. No more winters in the deep freeze! As luck would have it, his computer recently imploded. And Dell is not rushing over in anything vaguely resembling a timely fashion, to kiss it and make it better.

So. I may be out of the loop for a week or two, but fear not, I'll be back! Meantime books and sewing have been squeezed into my bag.

Now I just hope the weathermen don't find anything else to cause a stir about until my plane takes off in the morning!

Just Say No!

No matter what part of the world you live in, it seems, you regularly hear horrid tales about the evils of drug abuse. I have nothing new to add to that debate.

I am more concerned with a less common, but no less pernicious phenomenon, the problem of chocolate abuse among otherwise upstanding housewives. I refer, of course, to the GMCCD [Great Microwave Chocolate Cake Debate] over at Thimbleanna's. That is the action of a truly desperate woman. As with other kinds of substance abuse, it's often not until you've hit rock bottom that you find the courage to mend your ways. I think making a chocolate cake in the microwave represents rock bottom in this instance.

Thimbleanna is a sweet lady. A devoted wife and mother. Funny and talented. I think this issue has crept up on her, and she probably doesn't realise the danger she is in. If she continues on this path, who knows where she might end up?

Living under a bridge?

Dumpster diving behind the Godiva store?

Begging for Hershey Kisses on the streets of Indiana?

One shudders for her......

As we all know, chocolate is an essential ingredient in the maintenance of mental health, particularly for women. With that in mind, a wise woman stashes chocolate in various places throughout her house. She will not, especially as she advances in age, necessarily remember all these hiding places, but she should not let such a minor drawback deter her from stashing, plenty, and often. She will find it when she least expects to, and, if God's in His heaven, when she needs it most. There is no greater bonus in life than rummaging for something in a little-used drawer, only to have one's fingers close unexpectedly around a bar of Ritter Sport Cappuccino, or some Lindt Truffles, or Belgian Seashells. Planted there for a rainy, hormonal, climbing-the-walls kind of day. And promptly forgotten.

Obviously Thimbleanna made no such provisions.

At her lowest ebb, she resorted to making a chocolate cake in her microwave. It makes one sad to even think about it.

And so, because I am kindhearted, and want to help her with her chocolate abuse problem, and prevent others from going down the same path to hell, I have decided to share my swoon-inducing recipe for chocolate cake. A recipe that gives a wide berth to the microwave. A recipe that is easy and delicious, and equal to the job of taming that chocolate-craving monster within.

The oven should be preheated to 350 degrees F and the following ingredients assembled:



1 1/2 cups of all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
1 Tblsp unsweetened cocoa powder
1 cup quick-cooking or old-fashioned oats [not instant]
1 1/2 cups boiling water
1/2 cup butter or margarine, softened [I prefer butter]
1 cup packed light brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar
3 eggs
A generous handful of semisweet chocolate chips
3/4 cup chopped walnuts or pecans
Confectioners' sugar

Notes:
The chocolate chips can be omitted, but then why bother with the cake at all?
The world will likewise not cave in should you wish to skip the nuts.
I sometimes toss a Tblsp of instant coffee crystals in with the oatmeal and water, depending on whether or not I'm in a mocha kind of mood. To get a strong coffee flavour you'd probably have to dump the entire jar in. Which might then scuttle the whole point of the exercise, which is to placate the monster, not give him caffeine jitters. Better not.
And lastly, it's not required, but I usually add 1 tsp of vanilla.

Proceed then,thusly:

Stir together the flour,salt,soda,and cocoa; set aside.
Mix oatmeal and boiling water together in a large bowl; let stand about 10 minutes.
Stir in butter and both kinds of sugar.
Add eggs and mix well.
Beat in the flour mixture and the nuts, if using; mix well.
Spread the batter in a greased and floured 13"x 9"x 2" pan. Sprinkle the chocolate pieces on top. The original recipe instructs one to toss half the chips into the batter and to sprinkle the rest on top. I prefer to sprinkle them all on top so they don't sink to the bottom!

Bake in a preheated 350 degree [F] oven for 40 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.Do not overbake. Moist is yummier.

Cool the cake in the pan.

You could frost the cake with your favourite chocolate frosting, but that smacks to me of gilding the lily. Besides, it never lasts long enough at my house to get the frosting on! A little sprinkle of powdered sugar just before serving, or [yum!] a dollop of whipped cream, is embellishment enough. It's a great cake to send to kids away at school,as it keeps well. I would recommend to Thimbleanna that she store the cake in plain sight, where her family can see it and help her to demolish it. If, however, her addiction is flaring, she could hide it in a paper bag in the laundry room and eat it all herself. But in that case I think I'd have to refer her to a twelve step program......

I think she will find that this recipe will cure her of any temptation to resort to eating microwaved excuses-for-chocolate-cake, that I have to think would be akin to chewing on old leather. So if any of you are overcome by a sudden urge to make a chocolate cake in the microwave, fight it! Be strong! Make this one instead.




Your taste buds will thank you! And you'll avoid the pain and expense of rehab.

Finished By Friday!

"Finished by Friday" will never be a regular feature of this blog, but on this, the thirty third Friday of the year, I finished something! [Drum roll please.] A quilt for my granddaughter's upcoming sixth birthday. Of course it wasn't a one woman project. When friends heard I was making a hexagon quilt they generously scoured their stashes for suitable fabrics. And all you quilting bloggers pitched in with border advice. Thanks especially to Birdy who had a brilliant plan! See how well I follow orders when I agree with them? And Don, the quilterman, has to get some of the credit, since the goal was her sixth birthday, not her tenth.

But it's done, and, for a wonder, in plenty of time. So I am one happy little bunny, as my silent sister is fond of saying.

May I draw your attention to the backing fabric?




A fortuitous find, since S is learning to read, and can put in a little practice on her quilt now. Not least of this fabric's charms was its 50% off sale price!

I get almost as much fun out of my "photo shoots" when I finish a quilt as I do out of the making. But it has been soggy here for the last few weeks. As I squelched out to the trees, being careful to hold the quilt well up off the wet and muddy ground, and inching my way carefully among various growing things so they would not release a shower of leaf-suspended droplets onto my head, my eyes fell on a new batch of passion flowers. I wish I could send one to S with her quilt.



It blends so nicely with all that purple and pink! Since Marlene's recent comment about the Fibonacci sequence I've been looking at flowers with even more fascination than usual. Amazing to think that the basis of so many things of beauty is mathematical....when, for a large part of my life I thought mathematics was dry and dull, a necessary evil. Just goes to show you're never too old to change your mind..... a concept I could maybe introduce to my father-in-law.......but that's a whole 'nother story!

There's a down side to this finishing business. I lose myself in creative quilting projects as protection against the "slings and arrows".......So now what will I do? Lalalalalalala........ I think I'll be a good girl and work on my oft-mentioned hand piecing......If I persevere I should be good for another "Finished by Friday" by, say, the fiftieth Friday of the year?

Watch this space.

But don't forget to breathe.

For Thimbleanna.....

I think Thimbleanna's latest post had us all in tears. I thought that nothing I could say would say what I wanted to say as well as Erma Bombeck said it. I've had this taped on the wall in my kitchen for forever. [I really ought to get a nicer copy and frame it!] But the words mean the same, read in a fancy frame or on a dog-eared clipping.....


Children Are Like Kites
By
Erma Bombeck



You spend a lifetime trying to get them off the ground.
You run with them until you are both breathless.
They crash. They hit the rooftop.
You patch and comfort, adjust and teach.
You watch them lifted by the wind and assure them that
someday, they will fly.
Finally, they are airborne;
They need more string and you keep letting it out;
But with each twist of the ball of twine,
There is a sadness that goes with joy.
The kite becomes more distant and you know it won't be long before that
beautiful creature will snap the lifeline that binds you two together and
will soar, free and alone.
Only then do you know that you did your job.



There now, Thimbleanna. Don't you feel better?

Hidden In The Bushes

I was out in the shady part of the garden early this morning, watering some plants, and getting tangled up in cobwebs. The spiders must hate to see me coming. If I spot a web I try not to disturb it, but these spinners use such gossamer threads I sometimes blunder through their intricate creations before I realise they're there.




This fellow is new this year, at least to me. Don't know what he's called, but I envy his spinning skills!





Looks like my buddy, the orb weaver has snagged himself some breakfast. He's so patient. Every time I wreck one of his beautiful webs, he just sighs and sets to work again, repairing the damage....

As I ducked under trees and around shrubs, which grow a little wild in there, I came upon an hibiscus blossom, lying limp on the ground. It made me sad because just the other day, when I was in that same spot, I didn't notice any blossoms on the hibiscus. And here was this unsung beauty, her gauzy, peach coloured skirts already sinking into the oblivion of dead leaves and mulch, before anyone even realised she was there.

It made me wonder how many people who are brilliant, beautiful, and full of promise, blossom, bloom and live out their lives in total obscurity, their beauty and brilliance and promise never amounting to anything as they get caught and tangled up in the cobwebs of life..........

Decisions, Decisions!

"What are your favourite colours these days?" I asked S on the phone recently.

I had a pretty good idea what the answer would be, but it's always best to check. When you're a few weeks shy of six, your favourite colours can change as often as your underwear.

"Pink and purple," she told me.

Aha! I love it when I'm right!

So the hexagons are all together --- finished today. Seen here guarding my messy sewing room closet from prying eyes!




But as any quilt maker knows, that doesn't mean I'm done.

I'm thinking borders here.

Pink and purple borders.

Which is where you all come in! Time is of the essence. It really needs to be finished finished by next Friday.

I've decided on the first border, a pale-ish pink batik with shades of purple.

Where I need help is in deciding what to use for the outside border.

What do you think of this combination?




I'd bind it in the same dark purple.

Or, how about this wild batik,



which I would attempt to tame a little with a dark purple binding.





I could also drive to the quilt shop tomorrow and find something there.

Or one of you might have a brilliant suggestion which wouldn't require me to drive anywhere. Because if I go to the quilt shop, there goes the entire day!

When her little brother got his quilt in the mail, S confided to her dad that she would like the next quilt Grandma made for her to be a star quilt too.....





But Grandma doesn't do encores. Especially when they'd take as long to do as that one! So hexagons it is. I've used each fabric at least twice so she can have some fun matching them.

OK, I lied! There are a couple in the bottom right hand corner that don't have mates. I was getting desperate at that stage, OK?

Oh, and one other thing. Is there a formula for how wide one's borders should be for the most pleasing effect? I'm always making it up as I go along, but in this case it would be good to at least be aware of the "rules!"

Wordless Wednesday

The Bag Lady Cometh....

A few summers ago, when I was home for a visit, I noticed that Rise had a bundle of cloth bags of various stripes that she always took with her when she went shopping. The Irish Government, she told me, disgusted with the horrible festooning of hedgerows throughout the countryside with cheap, indestrucible plastic bags, and horrified, I'm sure, at the thought of the detrimental effect it might have on tourism, decided that shops could no longer pack customers' purchases in free plastic bags. If customers wanted plastic bags they would have to pay for them!

The Irish don't like parting with their pennies any more than the rest of the world, so cloth bags were resurrected from dim corners, cubby holes under stairs, and cobwebby attics, given a good shake, and pressed into service. Almost overnight, the hedgerows were restored to their natural, unadorned beauty.

One small change made an enormous improvement.

So, I thought, if the whole of Ireland can change their evil ways overnight, surely I can do my small part to rid the planet of the plastic pestilence? And pestilence it is.

I used to think I was being virtuous when I'd ask for paper rather than plastic. But according to some articles I read recently, paper bags, while having the advantage of being biodegradeable, are costly and polluting to produce. They do however decompose in a matter of months.

The plastic bags we discard today, on the other hand, will still be around a thousand years from now. Although I'm not sure who made the trip into the future to discover that little nugget of information! It really is a shame that some other, necessary consumer goods can't be made as durable as the pesky plastic bag! Imagine buying a refrigerator today with the confidence that it will still be in use by our descendants, generations from now, while we're busy pushing up daisies!

One of the articles declared plastic bags second only to cigarette butts as nuisance litter. The gentlest breeze renders them airborne. Here in Florida,according to the article, bags are flushed down storm drains into the bays and the gulf, where they get tangled in mangrove thickets, and pose a hazzard to marine life. Wading birds get caught in them and turtles try to eat them, cannot digest the plastic, and die.

In a recent cleanup, volunteers removed 187 plastic shopping bags from one small pond in a park not too far south of here..... For one thing, isn't it appalling that people discard anything, by tossing it wherever and whenever they no longer need it? How much stress would it cause them to take it to the nearest rubbish bin?

It turned out that I had several cloth bags lying around.

One from an AF base we were once stationed at......

One with some company's name stencilled on it.....

Two quilty ones.

And one from a cruise line.

I've never been on a cruise. Inherited that one from the in-laws, who have. It's always the last one I produce, and only if I have to. I'm skittish about being mistaken for the kind of person who goes on cruises. Tootling around on the high seas, eating and drinking more than is necessary, or wise, while half the world starves, visiting places where the yearly per capita income is less than the cost of a ticket for the cruise---not high on my list of things to do before I die......

I kept my bundle of bags in the laundry room, right next to the garage, where, theoretically, I'd see and remember them as I headed out the door. Unfortunately, nobody told the bags they'd have to hiss at me like venomous snakes in order for me to notice them as I sailed by. I'd set off for the store and forget all about them. Until I got there. Fat lot of good they did then, sitting, useless, in my laundry room!

Brilliant idea number two: I decided I'd keep them in the car, on the back seat. Only trouble was, since I usually sit up front while operating the vehicle [Oh ye unbelievers! I have too driven while seated in the back---in my capacity as a Back Seat Driver---ask the OC] I'd still forget all about them until I arrived, cart groaning, at the checkout.

So, I moved them to the front passenger seat. If the penny drops at all around here it drops s.l.o.w.l.y......

I've been doing this for about two years now, and most of the time, unless I'm especially distracted, I remember to bring them into the store. The grocery store staff are used to me now.

The Bag Lady cometh.

Although, just last week, I set my bags on the belt first, then my groceries. There was a new girl bagging that day. She took my bundle of cloth bags and crammed them into a plastic bag!! Sigh........

The object of the exercise is to not use the accursed things at all. Most of them get that. Those who don't are destined to die young from Idonthaveaclueitis. Fortunately, the condition is curable. With the application of a little thought.

So, if you haven't already, find yourself a few sturdy cloth bags.

Then use them.

Every time.

This fellow will thank us.




Too late for this guy,




but his descendents will be grateful!


If even one person reading this is motivated to start using cloth bags in place of plastic, I'll consider that I've done my bit for the environment.

At least for today.