Please Don't Drool On The Quilts

One of the biggest treats for those of the quilty persuasion in these parts is the West Pasco Quilters'Guild Show. It is held biennially [with a nod to Suse for setting me straight!]



Anyway, guess where I went on the weekend? Excellent guess! To the West Pasco Quilt Show of course. Over the years I've honed my technique for making sure I see everything when I go to one of these shows.

First I get a choke hold on the programme so it doesn't float away.

Then I approach the first quilt that catches my eye and examine it from various angles, including, but not limited to, up close. When my eyes have drunk their fill [or others, impatient for me to move, jostle me on my way] I carefully tick it off in the programme and proceed to its next door neighbour.




[I can't resist quilts with houses and appliqued flowers, like this one.]

The goddesses of quilt shows have no rhyme or reason to the order in which they hang the quilts. Or so it seems to me. It would be nice to go smoothly from number one to number two to number three.....But no! Willy-nilly seems to be the preferred method.




[Please note: Purple quilt! Very Purple quilt.]


Which is better, I guess, than having all the appliqued quilts clumped together. That way, even if you have no interest in applique, you're going to see some anyway, because they'll be sprinkled around among all the others.




[This is what, I think, is called thread painting, something I could eat more easily than do, but I liked the blueberries-beads-since I have an enthusiastic blueberry grower in my family!]


The only problem is having to switch pages at every quilt, while hanging onto your purse, making sure you keep track of your camera, keeping the death grip on the all-important programme, making small talk with all the people you meet, and enduring the mortification of not remembering names --- "Well, hello there! I remember you! I took a class from you at the blah-blah quilt shop, way back when the earth was young! How are you?" [you really want to know? Suffering from profound amnesia.]





And fumbling for your phone in the depths of your purse when the friends you came with are wondering where you've vanished to.....Fun times!




[This log cabin quilt had wool applique blanket stitched over each block. Very unusual and gorgeous.]

This next quilt was my favourite. I voted it Best of Show. My picture of the whole quilt came out very blurry, so instead, here are some detail shots.






If someone had told me I could take home one of the quilts in the show I'd have taken this one.......


Or this one......




[I have the book for this delft quilt. It's on my list to make before I die!]

Or this version of the Dear Jane quilt.....




[These little four inch blocks are an ideal project for toting around in your purse for when you're stranded without a book miles from home. That never happens to you? Oh.]

There were a gazillion quilts to see. I think I saw most of them. The quilts I've shown here show my applique leanings, but there were lots of beautiful pieced quilts too. Hope you've enjoyed the show!

Fly Me To The Moon......

Saturn I
Originally uploaded by fire starter 100

I couldn't find my Blistex anywhere and the thought of a month without it was stressing me out. Paper lips don't work for me. And they have been dry with this unusually cold winter we're having. Not to mention, everyone else was ready for liftoff. People were getting irate with me. Even my friend was already on board and yelling in exasperation for me to hurry up.

But I had to find my Blistex!

There'd be no opportunity to go to the store and buy more where we were going. And the thought of being Blistex-less for a full thirty days didn't bear thinking about. My lips would surely fall off. I ran back and forth like a headless chicken, pulling out drawers and reaching to check on high shelves, places where I was not remotely likely to find the familiar little white tube. But I'd already ascertained that it wasn't in the side pocket of my purse, where I usually keep it; it wasn't in the pocket of the pants I'd worn yesterday; not in my jacket pocket either; it wasn't on my night table; it wasn't on the kitchen counter; it wasn't on the table by my computer. Where in creation had I put the darn thing? I felt hot tears pricking my eyelids and my feet twitched in a jig of frustration. It didn't help that the shouts from across what seemed like a barnyard, were becoming more strident. Panic rose in my throat as I looked wildly about.

"Molleee! We can't wait any longer!"


They must have left without me because, when I woke up, I was warm and snug in my bed and there was no spacecraft in sight.

Just a moment. There's someone at the door.

Oh. It's a couple of men in white lab coats. They told me I should come with them.........I told them to hang on a minute, I'd be right back. So, quick. Before I climb out the back window and make my escape, what do you think it all means? Am I really so disillusioned with life I'd rather be on the moon? Do they have fabric there, I wonder? And books? And chocolate? And warm, cozy beds?

Maybe I can get on the next launch....

But first I have to find my Blistex.

How To Fill Up A Weekend

No divorce proceedings yet! The OC is a kind and generous person but does not suffer fools gladly. All he wanted was to be done with airports, get home, put his feet up, do his crossword and sleep on his own pillow. Not so much to ask. But then a fool intervened, checked the wrong flight, and Voila! He got a bonus hour to enjoy airport ambiance. But, one's own bed, in one's own house, a weekend game of golf, albeit in gloomy, gray rain, a walk in the nature preserve, and not having to shave for a few days, have wonderful restorative powers. He is rested and refreshed. And gone on another trip. And, most importantly, the number of his return flight is chiseled on the inside of my forehead.

It was a good weekend. In spite of miserable weather, to which we are not accustomed in these parts, this time of year. [Is that my daughter I hear, playing a mournful tune on her tiny violin?] How can it possibly be Wednesday already? I think the gray weather, carrying over into the early part of the week, made it seem like the weekend had been extended.

Anne Tyler held me hostage with her latest book, "Noah's Compass." She drew me into the lives of her perfectly ordinary characters, to such an extent that I had to finish the book before anything else got done. And then I had to go to the library and rummage through the shelves to find another Tyler fix....




......which I am trying to hold at arm's length until I finish "Pomegranates" which, while interesting, does not carry me along so effortlessly from page to page as Tyler does.


I found a new recipe for Irish soda bread.......We polished it off in record time. Definitely a keeper!





And a project to sew on while listening to the rain spilling down outside......





I've had this cream floral fabric for more than a year. My sister-in-law bought it, but since she mainly buys fabric, then fondles it now and again, but rarely makes anything from it, I volunteered to make something for her. That something is a table runner. Which I started at the weekend. And could, with luck, finish by Friday! [Another manifestation of the New Me, the one who finishes things!]

But.

I'm not too sure I like it. That mauve-y-lilac-y-purple-y colour seemed perfect when I bought it. And the purple with the sparkle in it serenaded me from the sale shelf at the quilt shop. I seem to have an affinity for purple. Maybe from the purple cloth that covered all the statues in church, during Lent, when I was growing up? Or maybe white hair and shades of purple just go together? But purple has a bad reputation. My Bulgarian friend, Julia, told me once, that, in Bulgaria, purple is the colour for practitioners of the world's oldest profession, for which I do not have an affinity. After she told me that, I dressed very conservatively for our weekly voyages of exploration into Brussels! And then there's another dubious connection. Purple prose. Of which none of us would want to be accused.

Now I'm wondering if these two fabrics take the table runner out of the "demure lady" category, which is certainly descriptive of my s-i-l, and move it into "tart" territory, which would not suit her at all. I no longer trust my own judgement. That lilac/lavender/mauve has been luridly leering at me since I started. But, I am not ripping it out now! If she doesn't like it she can give it away, donate it to charity, or use it to wash her car. I started it, so I will finish it!

It has progressed to this stage:





Layered and pinned. After that there's only one more dilemma---to bind it in the sparkly purple? Or the more demure green? Or.....maybe two dilemmas......Which brothel to donate it to if the finished product is indeed too "tarty?"

If you'd like to weigh in on the matter, I'm all ears! But hurry. I want to get it finished before my next run to the airport!

Beware The Full Moon!

My first moon shot.
Originally uploaded by emma lagunday

I had just finished reading an article about tonight's full moon, having noticed earlier, just as it was getting dark, that the moon looked particularly beautiful. I was interested to read that this full moon is larger than others this year will be. Something about it being at its perigee. Technical stuff. I have always thought that, when I'm feeling down, and oppressed by Life's Little Calamities, of which there have been many lately, it is helpful to go outside, in the dark, and look up at the moon and the stars. Kind of puts things in perspective.

And then my cell phone rang. I galloped through the house, trying to remember where I'd left it. In my purse, in the bedroom. It was about 8:55 p.m.

"Hello?" Breathless.

"Hey! I'm on the shuttle! Should be out in about ten minutes. Are you in the cellphone parking lot?"

"Shuttle? What shuttle?" Stupefied.

"In Tampa. At the airport!"

"But you can't be! I checked on-line and it said the flight was delayed! That you'd be arriving at 10 p.m.instead of 8:50!"

"Where are you?" Ominous.

"I'm at home...."

He didn't [couldn't] say anything. He didn't need to. I could hear the blood vessels popping over the phone.

"I'm out the door now!" Grabbing bag and keys.

Ten minutes pass. I've just turned onto the parkway. Cell phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Don't speed! Call me when you get here." He seems to have taken some deep breaths since our last little chat. He doesn't sound quite so apoplectic.

The silvery disc of the moon is riding high, illuminating the way. I'm at the airport in under an hour. I call as instructed. No answer.

I pull into the curb behind several other cars outside Southwest. Crane my neck to see if he's sitting somewhere, waiting. Nada. Call again. Still no answer!

Where could he be? Maybe he's waiting further up. Pull out from curb, pass entry to Southwest, pull back into curb. Crane neck some more. Nothing.

Call again. No answer. Phone is down to one bar. Oh! Won't that be swell if my phone dies!

But,hark! It's ringing!

"Hello?"

Annoyed, irate, very cranky voice wants to know where I am.

I tell annoyed, irate, very cranky voice that I am outside Southwest arrivals, where I've been for the last ten minutes, repeatedly calling a person who now has an annoyed, irate, very cranky voice, but somehow could not then answer any of my four calls!

It was a very
silent ride home. By the light of the silvery moon.
Maybe next trip he'll take the trouble to write down his flight number.....for the staff.....who are quite feeble minded.

Reading Assignment

Okay boys and girls, I'll make this brief.

I can't stay today, but I have a reading assignment for you.

Toddle on over to Silfert. I'll be checking to make sure you completed the assignment. The sky fell in on me earlier this week [temporarily] and I've been feeling kind of glum, but after reading "Dogfights and Swordplay," I have a stitch in my side from laughing and the gloom has lifted.

This will get you out of the rut you might be in if you haven't ventured out of your comfort zone [reading the same old blogs]lately. Leave her a comment. No, I'm not her agent. I'm doing this as a public service.....

Don't let me down....

I'll be snooping and taking names!

"A Room Of My Own"

It's Monday morning, the sun is shining, and for now, all's right with the world. The OC is off in parts northern for the week, the Bean is back on campus, so it's just me and the cat. Purrr!

The Writers' Almanac [thank you again Thimbleanna!] this morning, mentioned that it was the birthday of Robbie Burns. I won't be having haggis for dinner, nor washing whatever I do have down with whiskey, but "My luve's like a red, red rose," will be with me all day!

It's also the birthday of Virginia Woolf who wrote, among other things, "A Room Of My Own." I haven't read it but, according to Mr. Keillor, it's an essay on women and literature. Mental note: look for it at the library. And one thought led to another, as tends to happen, and I realized I have a room of my own. Which makes me very happy. So you'd think I'd keep it in better nick!





But project piles on project, and variety being the spice of life, they're all out at the same time, so I can flit, at will, from one to another. Call me Mme.Butterfly.

It is disgraceful, and I am ashamed to be such a slob. And still a little voice in the back of my brain defends me, whispering fiercely

"But, but, butbutbut! From chaos comes creativity!"





"Yeah, right!" the prosecuting attorney says with curled lip.
"No sob stories please! What is required here is Action! Toss and fling! Like together. Organize by colour. All needles in one place, please, not here and there and everywhere. And thread? Here's a radical concept---keep all those spools on the thread organizer! Get those Christmas boxes off the floor. No stammering about being ready, early, for next Christmas. Get them gone! And those sz. 4 jeans? Left, so hopefully, by California Girl who thinks I'm some kind of magician? Let her put on a little weight to fill them out! Chop Chop!"

"Yes sir!" whimpers the defense, "but can I at least finish stitching the binding on this before I start?"





The prosecution glares, then softens.

"Oh my!" In reverent tones.

"You're actually about to finish something you only started last week?"

The defense blushes.

"Yes, this is the New Me. The 2010 model!" Demurely.

Finish what I start.

Organize the Room Of My Own.

What a radical concept.

The prosecution rests.

And I will not fall back on Mr. Burns immortal words about the best laid schemes o' mice an' men ganging aft agley! I will not consider that an option at all at all!

OC vs. Mattress Update

It's really just as well we can't see into the future. Dealing with the present is enough of a challenge! Today was the sixth day the OC woke up alive! He says it just wasn't his time to go. I say Someone Up There was looking out for him. He is a very capable driver. He also has lightning reflexes. He is strong enough, and was mad enough that night, to wrestle the Explorer off the road and away from oncoming traffic. I shudder to think what the outcome would have been had I been behind the wheel!

Whoever says you can't really know who you're dealing with on the internet doesn't know the compassionate, caring people who read this blog. I feel that you are all real friends, and I'm sure reading your comments [because he does lurk!] had a part in breaking down his cussed stubbornness! Binding, gagging, dragging or butt kicking wouldn't work to get him to the doc. After an injury a few years ago, he was helped enormously by his chiropractor. Guess who he went to see this afternoon? Of his own free will? He'll be going twice a week for the next few months. Meanwhile, he has put in a full work week at his desk, has talked to the insurance people by phone, has organized a replacement car, which is already sitting in our garage, and has managed to keep news of our little disaster from the ears of his father! Definite Superman leanings!

Thank you all for your concern, and for caring.


Note: As the Bean's GF was driving home from school a few days ago she saw another mattress, on another busy road. It was on the median, but sticking out enough onto the road to be a hazard. Are we being invaded by mattress toting aliens?

A few weeks ago, I was driving home by a back road. I'd been to the fabric/craft store and bought a ball of yarn. One ball of yarn. On sale. But, it may turn out to be a very expensive ball of yarn.....I was on a straight, lonely stretch of road, and, too late, spotted the cop car, lying in wait for me in the ditch. She executed a smart u-turn and put on all her fancy flashing lights and chased me down. So I was going a few miles over the speed limit. There wasn't another soul or vehicle in sight. A little bit disgruntled, I told her I found it remarkable that she was concentrating her law enforcement expertise on this little back road, and wondered aloud why more effort wasn't put into catching the rascals out on 19 who bowl along at 80; blythely whizz through red lights; dodge in and out of lanes with alarming speed and disregard for safety, their own or mine....She pursed her lips and drew herself up to the full stretch of her five feet and two inches, and told me that this wasn't such a deserted stretch of road as I might think. People walked their dogs out here. There were no people in sight; no other vehicles in sight; and nary a hound to be seen.

In light of Recent Events, I'm wondering if I could make a deal with the Law. I'll pay my fine if and when they find and ticket the mysterious mattress moron! Sounds fair to me. What do you think?

"Once Upon A Mattress"

At least he didn't wake up dead!

But, I'm getting ahead of myself.....

Saturday was a dreary, gray day. Very un-Florida like, but we did get stuff done. And, in my usual enthusiasm for new beginnings, the New Year has me determined to get the house ship shape this year......There are those who would yawn, and wink knowingly at that. Yeah, yeah. Unbelievers all.

It was a dark and rainy night. Not good weather for our usual walk, so the OC let me off the hook and went alone to visit his father. About the time he should have been getting home, the phone rang. I'd been indulging in a mad moment or two, dancing around the newly spruced up living room to the strains of Chocolat. I picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"M! Come out to 19 as fast as you can! My car's on fire!"

"What?" My brain reeled. But the word "Fire" registered. He obviously wasn't in a mood to furnish details, so I yelled for the Bean, who was buried back in his room, fortunately home for the weekend. We hurried off in his car, neither of us knowing what we would find, knowing only that it was urgent.

As soon as we turned onto the main highway we saw the flashing lights ---red and blue and yellow, flashing, dazzling, hard to miss. The Bean kept his cool while I was losing mine. He made a u-turn and we pulled up on the same side of the highway as all the commotion. Aghast, we realized the vehicle in the ditch, with fire hoses trained on it, was the OC's Explorer. One of the firemen told us he was OK, that we'd find him in the fire rescue truck.

The fire rescue guy was filling out a form, getting details of what had happened from the OC, who was, to my practiced eye, as mad as a wet hen. He has a very low tolerance for foolishness, stupidity, carelessness, both from himself and others. But he was co-operating, answering all their questions, and, amazing as it seemed,
he appeared to be unhurt.

He had been driving along in the dark and the rain. Less than a mile from the turn to our house, he moved into the right lane to be ready to turn. And suddenly, at fifty five miles an hour, there was a rolled up mattress in the middle of the road. He tried to avoid it, but it was too late. He hit it and it sent the car spinning towards the median. He didn't want to risk crossing the median and colliding with southbound traffic, so he struggled to move to the right, but had no traction on the wet road as he careened onto the shoulder. The tires dug into the soft sand but the momentum had to go somewhere and he ended up rattling around as the vehicle rolled not once, but twice. Then the fire started under the hood; and people started yelling at him to get out; told him they had called 911. He waved them away [typical!]. That's when he called home. The people who'd tried to get him out backed away as the fire got bigger; the driver's side door was jammed; but, deciding that the better part of valor might, indeed, be to get the hell out, our hero got it open with a mighty kick.

We spent several hours out there in the rain and the dark. He couldn't leave the scene of the accident until the sheriff arrived and made his report, which, when he finally arrived, he did very slowly. The OC declined to have them take him to the emergency room, claiming that he was "fine." My plan was that we'd go home, shower, get some dry clothes and then go to the ER.

But. He wouldn't go. Stubborn. As. A. Mule. I told him if he woke up dead in the morning, he needn't come crying to me.

Yesterday he worked all day. Because if he took some time off to lick his wounds, the company might just grind to a halt. And we couldn't have that. No siree.
But today two friends of mine came by and gave him a tongue lashing. And his co-workers up north told him to get himself to a doctor, and a nurse friend yelled at him to go to the ER and tell them she said he needed a CAT scan. Just to make sure he doesn't wake up dead.

So now, he still wont go to the ER because he thinks the whole ER scene is a circus. But maybe, maybe he'll go to the doctor. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, he's reliving it over and over in his head. Trying to analyse what he could have done differently. And if he could find the person who carelessly allowed a mattress to fall out of the back of his pick-up, heads would roll!

He grazed his head, the same one that, not long ago, had to be stitched up after a tumble from his bicycle. He has several mysterious bruises. His back doesn't feel great, so he will be going to see his chiropractor. And the whole experience has not improved his disposition, which wasn't exactly sunny to start with.

But you really can't blame a guy for feeling like Superman when he can walk away from something that looks like this. [Pictures taken in the cold light of next morning.]

Ouch!



And Ouch!



And more ouch!

Let It Glow, Let It Glow, Eventually It's Got To Go!

We never put our Christmas tree up until the week before Christmas, so, obviously, we do not haul it to the curb on St.Stephen's day. I'm always appalled when I see bare naked Christmas trees, lying dejectedly at the curb, the day after Christmas, shorn of shimmering lights and festive decorations. What's wrong with these people? Don't they know that the best week of the Christmas Season is the week that starts on Christmas Day? The pressure is off, the mad rush is over. Time to relax and enjoy family and friends, lazy mealtimes and yummy leftovers. Time to turn off the TV, get out the board games and the jigsaw puzzles, curl up with a good book, or just sit in the glow from the tree lights sipping a nice glass of wine.....

My rationale for leaving the tree up longer than most is that, when I was a child, we left the tree up until the Epiphany. Couldn't be taking it down before the Three Wise men arrived from The East, bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh......The Epiphany was how many days ago? Those Wise Men have come and gone, delivered their gifts and followed their star back home through the desert. By now the Infant they came to see is probably starting to crawl.....So, yes! The tree had to go. That was my big accomplishment yesterday.

We also had some gingerbread real estate on the market,




but, since Christmas, the demand seems to have dried up, in spite of some additional enticements such as this sporty car in the gingerbread driveway...





and this pond in the gingerbread garden, fully stocked with gold fish...




No takers though, so out they went.

The OC, coming off the week from hell at work, also had a busy Saturday. While I was dismantling the tree, he was supervising the installation of a new air conditioning unit. We were both mightily pleased with ourselves and looking forward to a quiet, relaxing evening. But fate had other plans.....

Which is a tale for another day.

Meanwhile, I'm missing the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights...

A Sunday In Two Acts

When I got up yesterday, the last thing I expected to do before nightfall was attend a wedding.

A friend picked me up around noon. I had agreed to go with her to a pre-dress rehearsal of a dance/opera in which she has a small part. For moral support. Because she's nuts and couldn't believe she'd let herself be talked into it! The choreographer of the show had seen my friend teaching her Tai Chi class; one thing led to another, and before her head stopped spinning she had agreed to do some Tai Chi in the show.

I spent an interesting few hours watching how such a show goes together. The producer was a wild looking young man named Constantine who had a comically hard time pronouncing the letter "R." In what I took to be an effort to tame his wild appearance, he was formally dressed. Anything beyond shorts and a t-shirt qualifies as formal in these parts! So, slacks, an open neck shirt and a sports jacket? Definitely formal! Which was just as well, as, if he'd worn shorts and a t-shirt he might not have managed to look a day over fifteen! He had an overall gingery appearance, pale with a shock of wiry, sandy hair, eyelashes to match, and large, wobbly glasses. I wondered what kind of a figure he'd cut in high school....He was all over the place, waving his arms, playing the piano [excellently], stopping to redo some parts, tweak others, to praise, to cajole, and to scold, like an old time schoolmaster, when his charges got too talkative.

The cast was a mixture of older and younger singers, male and female. Gorgeous young women with glossy hair, presence, and massive lungs, part of the equipment necessary to sing as beautifully as they did, undoubtedly. Just as well I never pursued a career in opera then, as I am woefully under-equipped. Lovely young people, all on the threshold of their lives. Definitely made me feel my age! Was it really a lifetime ago that I was like them? Or was I ever like them? Was I always on the edges, admiring? As I am now....

I watched the dancification of tai chi, as my friend went through her portion of the performance, decked out, to her mortification, in a diaphanous, floaty wisp of a costume, with young dancers, all of generous proportions and more massive lungs, twirling and floating about her.

And then, at last, the rehearsal was over. We were starved. The choreographer directed us to a local eatery, The Lime And Coconut, which turned out to be a Florida kitsch, hole-in-the-wall place we never would have happened on without directions. All very plain and infinitely hokey. We ordered, and ate, and our conversation found its way to how we'd both met our husbands, to our wedding days and our take on them now, from the enormous distance of thirty plus years.... Then there was a bit of a stir and we gathered, by listening, that a young couple, who had been sitting at the bar, were going to be married, right there, right then, by a justice of the peace!

The justice of the peace arrived and the young couple came and sat with her at the table next to ours. A call went out for someone with a camera, and since I had mine I got up, ready to play official wedding photographer.





It was short and sweet. The bride, a lovely girl, and her young man seemed very much in love, and happy and calm about the enormous step they were about to take.

I couldn't help wondering what had brought them to this place, on the third day of the year, to get married without parents, siblings and childhood friends in attendance. Just a raggle taggle group of people who happened by the Lime and Coconut. The buzz around the tiny restaurant was that they'd been intending to have the justice marry then down by the water's edge, but since the weather yesterday was close to freezing, they were persuaded to bring it inside where they'd at least be warm. How sad will that girl's mother be when she hears her beautiful daughter got married in a hokey little eatery by the Gulf of Mexico with so little ceremony? No beautiful gown, no flowers, no music, no bridesmaids, no candles? Was it that her parents didn't approve of her young man? Or were they planning a normal wedding but got so tired of the emphasis being on the wrong things that they threw up their hands and ran off together?

The core of the five minute ceremony was the same as any fancy, extensively planned, out-of-the-ball-park expensive wedding.

"Do you, Brittany, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Brittany replied "I do!"

"And do you, Andrew, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Andrew looked into her shining eyes and responded "I do!"

They each placed a ring on the other's finger and that was it. The deed was done.

"You may kiss the bride!"





Will she later regret not having had her Dad walk her down the aisle to give her away?

Friend and I had just been discussing how little we remembered of our wedding days. Too much excitement, too much pomp and circumstance, too little opportunity to quietly reflect on the enormity of the step we were taking.....Or maybe that's the plan? To keep you from thinking about what you are about to do..... In case such thoughts might lead you to run, screaming, from the church, and not stop until you reach a little fishing village by the Gulf of Mexico, on a cold day in January, where you can gather your thoughts over a glass of beer, find a justice of the peace, and quietly, without a lot of distracting hoop-la, promise to spend the rest of your life with this person you love, and step bravely, hand in hand, into the unknown.

Brittany and Andrew have been on my mind. I think they haunted my dreams last night. I hope they'll be happy together, that life will be gentle with them. And that, thirty years from now, Brittany will look back on her wedding day with no regrets. I feel like I've stolen something that rightfully belongs to a woman I've never met: the sight of her precious daughter's happiness on her wedding day. If the tables were turned I'd be bereft. I'm glad I was there.





Congratulations and Best of Luck, Brittany and Andrew!

Hey There, Auld Aquaintances! Remember Me?

I'm not sure I can remember how to do this, but it's quiet here, eerily quiet, I have the house to myself, no more excuses. But since I am guilty of blogger friend neglect, can I buy forgiveness by showing you pictures of my excuses?

Here's excuse #1..........





Here's the Bean getting acquainted with # 1.....





Here's excuse #1 with excuses 2 and 3.......





Here are excuses 4,5 and 6.........





Here's The Bean clowning with Lily and excuses 2 and 3......





Here's Excuse #6 with excuse #7...........





Here's the OC with the UK trio, excuses 1, 7 and 5.......





And here's me with excuses #1 and #7.....






Am I forgiven? It was a busy, happy month, which would have been perfect if oldest son and his two excuses could have joined us....But let me be grateful for what we did have. I hope all of you, my bloggy friends, had a happy, peaceful time at Christmas, and that you will all prosper in this new year.

Brooding In The Moonlight

Bet you didn't think you'd find me here tonight! I felt like my baby died! So I guess I'll be easing off gradually, instead of cold turkey......

We've been going to the track to walk most evenings, but the OC was tired tonight, long day on the phone, so I sallied forth into the moonlight alone, just around the neighbourhood. The pine trees stood dark against the pearly, moonlit sky; the air was still; but, when I reached the lake behind us, the silence bristled with insect song and the croaking of frogs. As I walked towards the water, the boardwalk glowed silver from the light of the moon. Some ducks out in the reeds were having a family meeting. I could hear the muted quacks from where I stood, leaning against the railing. Thinking. Wishing I were a frog, or an insect, or a duck. Because all of the above have built in systems for communicating, which seem to work much more efficiently than human efforts to do so.....

Done With The Daftness!

When Rise coaxed me into joining her in the daft madness of promising to post every day for thirty days I was dubious. I fell by the wayside last time I tried; rebelled against the "must" of it all, dug in my heels and quit. Around here there's shame in quitting, but I stubbornly believe that, sometimes, it's the only sane thing to do. Or maybe the only sanity-saving thing to do. There's vanity involved you see. Can't have people reading drivel and knowing it was written by me! I scraped through this time, and there was drivel involved, vanity notwithstanding. I couldn't let her down a second time!

I think the idea behind Nablopomo is to discipline yourself to write every day, which is commonplace writing advice. If you only write when you have a brilliant idea you'll be writing very little. The hope might also be that all that discipline and daily writing will make you a better writer. Hmmmmm! I'm not seeing the improvement. Maybe we need to stay at it for another month Rise? No! No! I'm joking!

I have loved hearing from the Blister every day. I'll miss that. I hope that she'll continue with at least a post per week, which is about my own blogging comfort level. Thank all of you loyal supporters who encouraged me with comments, even when you had to get really creative to do so!

And now to the "leaba" --- sounds like "labba" --- Irish for bed, though Rise would have you think it was "scratcher!" I might even dream a little---but not about anything so daft as a post every day!

Fairies and Little Folk

I was blog hopping earlier today and came across this Fairy Name Generator at the bottom of a tangled garden in Smitonius and Sonata's neighbourhood. If you play along you can discover what kind of fairy you are. At this stage [one more day of Nablopomo--yeah!]I'm scraping the very bottom of the barrel. And we are big believers in the Little People where I come from anyway.........


"Your fairy is called Columbine Rainbowfilter
She is a fortune bringer.
She lives in mushroom fields and quiet meadows.
She is only seen on midsummer's eve.
She wears lilac and purple like columbine flowers. She has multicoloured wings like a butterfly."

I was a tomboy as a child, so never felt at all fairy-like! But since growing up I have embraced my inner fairy! I love rainbows and columbine flowers and the colours lilac and purple. And, as a fairy, I would feel very much at home in mushroom fields and quiet meadows. The wings might take a little getting used to.......

This all put me in mind of "Little Folk." My daft Auntie Bid worked for a while as a nurse/companion to an elderly English lady. This lady gave her a thick hardcover book one time, to give to me, her niece. I was about ten or twelve I think, and I absolutely loved that book! It wasn't really a book, but rather a collection of a year's worth of the "Little Folk" magazine, carefully bound together by someone who had loved the magazine as much as I now did. There were stories, and poems, and lovely old-fashioned illustrations and line drawings. It was challenging to read the serialized stories, as the magazines had not been bound together in logical order. But the hunt for the next installment was part of the fun for me.

Then our annual school bazaar day approached, where the nuns tried to raise money for the missions. We were all expected to bring in donations of things to be sold. I didn't have a lot of "stuff." A few dolls, my ancient teddy bear, some books, and the Little Folk treasury. I must have had a weak moment, or been really desperate for something to contribute, but I gave it to the nuns for the bazaar! Someone that day found a treasure for a few pennies, and I mourned my loss and my stupidity for years!

But it occurred to me today that it is possible that someone reading this might be familiar with that long ago magazine. If you are, this rainbowfilter fairy would love to hear about it!

Patty Cake, Patty Cake, Baker's Man...........

Some time ago,I read about an easy cake recipe on someone's blog. All you had to do, she said, was mix a chocolate cake mix with a sixteen ounce can of pumpkin. Pumpkin is an acquired taste, in my opinion. One that I never acquired. Give me pecan or give me death! Nevertheless, I made a mental note to try it....sometime....then promptly forgot about it.

Since the GOCSD [Great OC Slim Down] began earlier this week, I'm not trying to make cake or brownies or anything that will make him veer off course. But tonight I had to make an exception.

Tonight the Bean's GF was coming over. She turned twenty one today. He had planned a fancy dinner for her, but cake had not entered his head. To me, cake and birthdays go hand in hand, so, with the sand in the hourglass relentlessly falling, grain by grain, I cast about for a cake to make that would be both fast and wonderful. And then I remembered the magic pumpkin cake. No eggs, no oil, no butter; nothing but a chocolate cake mix and a can of pumpkin. The blogger who wrote about it claimed it was so good she could have eaten the whole thing.....Hmmmmm....we would see!

It felt pretty chalky mixing it together, but eventually all the dry mix was moistened by the pumpkin. It didn't seem right to put no eggs in, but no eggs were called for so I put no eggs in. Into the pan it went and then to the oven.

Half an hour later we had a cake for the birthday girl, which was the object of the exercise. It looked like a cake. It tasted chocolatey. It was edible. Mercifully, you could not taste the pumpkin. Served with a large helping of vanilla ice cream, and blackberry sauce, it filled the bill..... But I wouldn't be tempted to eat the whole thing. There'll be no encores. It was an interesting experiment.......but, next time I'll stick to the tried and trues!

Great Book For A Lazy Day

There are a few days in the year when I do not cook. The day after Thanksgiving is one of them, so it's a good thing there were leftovers today, or people might have starved.

Lily gave me a book to bring home, "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo," by Stieg Larsson. As soon as the coffee was made this morning, I betook myself to the couch and settled in for the day. It's the kind of book you can lose yourself in. The weather co-operated, cold and colder, with a need for sweaters and scarves, slippers and blankets, and a good supply of hot tea piped to the couch at regular, hourly intervals. We don't get too much of that kind of prime curling-up-on-the-couch-with-a-great-book kind of weather, so we have to make the best of it when we do! There was the minor annoyance of trips to the loo, but other than that, I spent the day luxuriously immersed in my book. The menfolk even had the good grace to take themselves off to the golf course!

I can't tell you what happens since I'm only two thirds through, but I can tell you it's a riveting read. I'm between a rock and a hard place: I want to know how it ends, but I don't want it to end! But at least, when I do come to the end, I have the comfort of knowing there are two more books by Larsson out there. If you have room on your To Be Read List, add this! But first, make sure there are lots of leftovers at hand, so you won't have to be wrenched away for something so mundane as cooking, and feeding the natives, just when it's getting really good!

Pumpkin Pie With a Dollop of Doggerel

Rise wrote some clever verse tonight, so, not to be outdone [though if you keep reading you will see that I was outdone!] I had to give it a try. Nothing more scintillating was rattling around in my turkey dulled brain..............


My hair is wild,
My eyes are bleary,
Don't know when I've been so weary
Thirty days of endless toil,
Digging deep in desert soil
Connecting to my inner child.

No sterling insights here you'll find;
The child's rebelling,
Tantrums swelling,
Brain is rusty,
Temper's crusty
Fed up with the daily grind.

Longing for the way things were:
A blog a week
With time to tweak,
No pressure put on
To push the button
'Til the goods were there.

You get the idea. No need to torture you further! J.Cosmo Newbery and Riseoutofme have nothing to fear. But after reading Rise's post tonight I had to try. Apologies. I had no idea it would be so dire!

Merriam-Webster's word of the day today was " Scrumptious!" Very appropriate, as everything was indeed "delightful, excellent, and especially delicious!" Hope it was likewise for all of you here in the U.S.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Here's the finished mystery knitting from earlier in the week! Are you kicking yourself? It wasn't so difficult to see, now was it? And that piece of furniture? You keep it by the chair where you knit and keep your yarn in the bowl part, which being rounded and smooth, allows the yarn to unwind easily as needed. So there !



All across this vast country tonight people are preparing turkeys for their Thanksgiving feast. Ours is in a bucket of apple brine in the garage. An OC discovery that roasts outside on the barbeque grill, it is the most delicious way ever to cook a turkey! An added plus, since it cooks outside, is that it frees the oven for sweet potatoes, green bean casseroles, corn bread, pies and stuffing.

Pumpkin and pecan pies are cooling on the counter; cole slaw is all shredded and mixed and chilling in the fridge; the Bean is planning to make homemade cranberry sauce in the morning. Chicken liver stuffing, a la mother-in-law [whom we'll be missing], remains to be made, along with gravy and rolls.

But what about my pilgrims? Scattered to the four corners. Thanksgiving always stirs mixed feelings in me. It's a lovely idea and television always rubs it in, showing multi generational families gathering 'round a groaning table. But the airlines are working to make sure that this is a pipe dream for many. Thanksgiving is the most expensive time of year to fly. We will make phone calls tomorrow and content ourselves with hearing their voices......Then we will sit at our not so crowded table and be grateful for our many blessings; for health and home and employment; for education and transportation; for music and books and fabric and yarn and friends; for freedom to say and think and feel without fear; and most of all for the blessings of each other, those present and those not. And I will say my own silent, fervent prayer that those who cannot be here will be safe and loved and among friends, and know that I miss them sorely and will always love them.

Under Suspicion.....

When my green card expired at the end of the summer I muddled around for a bit. Got taken to the cleaners by one official-sounding site, after which, greatly chastened, I found the official site of the U.S.Citizenship and Immigration Services and duly submitted my application, along with the hefty fee.

Several weeks passed. Then, one day in the mail, instructions arrived for the next step in the process. I was to proceed, on a certain day, to the Immigration offices, one and a half hours south of where I live. On the appointed day, I drove there, mapquest printout clutched in my sweaty palm, making sure to arrive in plenty of time for my appointment, so as to avoid the dire consequences of "failing to appear."

I was docile and obedient and filled out their silly forms with information I had given them a hundred times before; sat, without causing a disturbance, until my name was called; allowed the fingerprinting technician to repeatedly roll my fingers back and forth on his state-of-the-art equipment; looked straight ahead, as instructed, while my picture was taken. I was very well behaved. Nobody observing me would have attributed to me any criminal tendencies.

Less than a week later, the Immigration Service informed me by mail that the FBI was unable to process my fingerprints. Oh joy.

"It will be necessary," they said, "to have your fingerprints retaken."

They assured me that this would be accomplished at no additional expense to me. Except of course my time, and the considerable distance to be traveled, since fingerprints taken at the local police station would not be acceptable. [Though why the hell not is beyond my feeble ability to understand!] Still, considering the consequences that would ensue should I fail to appear--"Your application will be considered abandoned and denied," I thought it best to show up.

One month after the first appointment, I motored again to the Immigration offices and had my fingerprints retaken. Chatting to the technician and joking about how we might be having a date every month, since I didn't anticipate that my fingerprints would look any different this month than they had last, he told me that it is not uncommon for the fingerprints to be unreadable. Criminals sometimes sandpaper their fingers to render the prints unidentifiable!

I have lived here for thirty nine years and have always watched my Ps and Qs. And now, in the twilight of my unremarkable existence, I am under suspicion, because my fingerprints are not acceptable to the US Government?

And the retaken prints? Also unreadable. No rocket scientist had to put in overtime to predict that!

Yesterday's mail brought more communication from the US Citizenship and Immigration Services [working hand in hand with Homeland Security, the same people who require us to remove our shoes before being allowed to board a plane to anywhere!]

I am now instructed to submit, in lieu of my unclassifiable fingerprints, "law enforcement clearance letters from every place you have lived during the last ten years........for the purpose of conducting a criminal background check."

Wait! There's more! I must accomplish this within 87 days. ??!!%&#! Or they will

1)send me back to Ireland in disgrace for having such criminal-looking fingerprints?

2)Arrest me and lock me up with the rest of society's misbehavers?

I know these are tough economic times. I know the government wants to provide employment. But they surely don't have to get idiotic about it. I am insulted! It's enough to make me turn to a life of crime.

The Great OC Slimdown Begins

Long ago, when we were barely twenty, the OC and I had summer jobs at Kennedy Airport. I had become friendly with his sister, and, irony of ironies, was introduced to the OC by their father, who, when we wanted to get married a few years later, raised the loudest howls of protest. The OC had just returned from a stint at ROTC summer camp in Alabama. On our first date we went to the beach. He was lean and muscular from all the physical training he'd been through at camp, tanned by the Alabama sun, and very handsome because he was born that way. That was thirty nine years ago.

Now he is no longer lean. His waistline has thickened considerably in the last five years. He used to run marathons; he still rides a bike, once in a while, but not often enough; he lifts weights occasionally; he plays golf most weekends. But none of this budges the thickness from his middle.

So, whisper, whisper, Rise and I plotted how we could intervene to halt the spread of the spread. Rise is the family fitness guru. Lean as a racehorse, she teaches fitness and swimming to persons of all ages, genders and girths. She herself runs regularly, hikes and bikes, and trots daily, back and forth to the palace. She declared that, for the OC to be restored to the physical splendor of his youth, he should walk. Fast. Every day.

The OC was not impressed. Walking was for sissies; for old ladies; for children and wives; too tame an activity for a manly man. Besides, wouldn't it be much more fun if a new machine were required, something expensive, and intimidating, some kind of treadmill perhaps?

But why, the voice of reason asked, spend a lot of money on something that would take up lots of space, require regular cleaning and maintenance, [not to mention causing brain cells to die from the boredom of trudging along in the same place, never getting anywhere,] when you could operate your own machinery, shank's mare, and achieve the same, or better, results, for free?

We were dismissively pooh-poohed.

And then we went to visit Lily. Lily, who remembers forced family fun outings from her youth. When Pater Familias would drag us all, the willing and the unwilling, to the track, or the soccer fields, or on a long bike ride. Every weekend it was something. She added her voice to the clamor for walking. He tried to pooh-pooh her, but she wasn't having any of it. She took him on a forced march one evening, just the two of them. And, despite our superior wisdom and years of experience, who do you think prevailed upon him to do what he needs to do? Not Rise, his sage and learned sister-in-law; not me, his loyal wife of thirty nine years, but the young, determined whippersnapper, his daughter! Not that he succumbed right away or did anything to give her the least idea she had succeeded. Face, at all costs, must be saved. It was only this morning, that he suggested we go to the track at the end of the work day and walk two laps.

Breakthrough!

And so it came to pass. We went to the track. We walked two laps. Fast. Then we walked another. We didn't die. But we did huff and puff. Proving that walking, fast, is not for sissies, but a good way to lose unwanted, unnecessary and unhealthy poundage. This miracle could not be achieved by mere mortals. It required daughter intervention. Daughters have magical powers over old curmudgeons. Powers to move them to do what they should, even when everyone else fails. Thank God for daughters, I say!

Riddle Me Ree

The week with Lily & Company flew by and now we are home. So, tired and hoarse [but on the mend!] and with the clue bag on empty, all I have for you tonight is a guessing game.



This is something Lily inherited from her husband's grandmother. I had never seen such a thing before, but having seen it, I think it's an ingenious invention. I don't know whether it was intended for the use the granny, and now Lily, put it to, but it is perfect for the purpose! Can you guess what it is? If you can see over the edge of the bowl, you might get a hint...


Since I knew that Lily has a great variety of leftover yarn from her knitting projects, I brought a pattern I've had since the seventies along when I went to visit! I didn't get it finished, but this is what it looks like so far.......



Care to hazard a guess? I'll post a picture of the finished article later in the week. Meanwhile, it's off to bed with me. And as lovely as it was to see Lily and Crew, I won't need forty blankets, nor a hot water bottle! There's no place like home, especially when the temperature is in the seventies!

No Axe Murderers Turned Up....

.....and the only casualties were some leaves.


When Lily told M where we were going on Thursday night, he was incredulous.

"Your mom has a date with someone she met on the internet?"

Lots of ribbing, but, nothing daunted, off we went to meet Jen. who'd been warned about but was not deterred by "The Bug." We'd told her we were both tall, one with dark curly hair, the other with white. She'd told us she was short with straight blond hair.

No searching was necessary as, when we walked into the restaurant, the first person who caught my eye was a short blond, looking straight at us with a big smile. It's uncanny, but I almost felt I recognized her. Is it possible to form an accurate mental picture of someone from reading their blog?

Over a delicious dinner we talked non stop for close to two hours! Jen was so friendly and easy to talk to. We talked about families, blogging, her teaching, and how her husband was worried and warned her, as she left the house, to keep her phone at the ready, in case we turned out not to be a blogger and her daughter! Jen's blog is accurately named; she is very upbeat and positive, someone you'd be delighted to have as your child's teacher.

Especially for Thimbleanna, to carry on her tradition of "Wilson" photos at blog meets, we took a picture. Not very flattering to either of us, but we'll offer it up for our sins!




This is the kind of caper that convinces the OC his wife has bats in her belfry. But it was so much fun! I'd do it again in a heartbeat. The chances of meeting an axe murderer are fairly slim. You're much more likely to make a new friend, since you already, sort-of, know each other from blogging. If you like the way the blogger writes, chances are good you'll also like the blogger. We were glad Jen's husband let her take the risk!

Signs of Fall In Ohio.....

Golden leaves,


And kids playing ball.....

From The Mouths Of Babes.....

While Lily and I went to meet Jen tonight, M took care of feeding and watering the munchkins. The littlest enjoyed the dinner his mom had made so much that he remarked to M

"That was a yumster dinner Dad! Maybe if I pray to God she'll make it again?"

Getting them to eat and pray? That recipe needs to be bookmarked with five stars!

Tea With Lemon, Bread With Memories

Somehow I seem to have adopted an Ohio bug. Or it has adopted me....Probably sees me as a cheap trip to Florida! Scratchy throat, cough, general blahs. Lily has acquired another hat, to add to her varied collection: a nurse's hat. Not by choice, but because of my exuisite timing. Who wouldn't think that the best time to be playing host to unwelcome germs is when you are around young children...? Tea and lemon, humidifier in my room, cough drops, more tea, more lemon, and, not necessarily part of the nursing treatment, but so comforting when you're feeling under the weather---Irish Soda Bread!

I followed my nose into the kitchen to investigate the divine aroma emanating therefrom, and there it was, on the counter, a delicious, round loaf of soda bread! Transporting me back to my mother's kitchen. My mother though, would not let us have any until it was thoroughly cooled---some nonsense about it turning to stone in our stomachs!

Lily and I slathered it with butter and jam and dug right in. Yum! Even the little boys liked it. When I make it at home, my boys are less than enthusiastic, citing increased flatulence as their main objection. The devil can be fastidious when it suits him! The one son, who likes soda bread as much as his mother and sister, no longer lives at home. He it was who renamed one recipe for Oaten Farls [a variation on Irish soda bread,] Farten Oals.....Oh, the hilarity we had over that one. But I am not one to give up easily. I will try Liz's recipe on the fastidious ones when I get home.

In case you'd like to try it, here's the recipe. You can make it with all white flour, or half white, half whole wheat, as Lily does. The raisins are optional, but in my books, they only serve to increase the "Yum" factor!
I hope you enjoy it as much as we did!

Yield: Makes 1 loaf

Ingredients:

Nonstick vegetable oil spray
2 cups all purpose flour
5 tablespoons sugar, divided
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
3 tablespoons butter, chilled, cut into cubes
1 cup buttermilk
2/3 cup raisins

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 375°F. Spray 8-inch-diameter cake pan with nonstick spray. Whisk flour, 4 tablespoons sugar, baking powder, salt, and baking soda in large bowl to blend. Add butter. Using fingertips, rub in until coarse meal forms. Make well in center of flour mixture. Add buttermilk. Gradually stir dry ingredients into milk to blend. Mix in raisins.

Using floured hands, shape dough into ball. Transfer to prepared pan and flatten slightly (dough will not come to edges of pan). Sprinkle dough with remaining 1 tablespoon sugar.

Bake bread until brown and tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 40 minutes. Cool bread in pan 10 minutes. Transfer to rack. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Originally from the magazine "Bon Appetit." So, Bon appetit!

Remind Me To Have My Hearing Checked

Lily needed to do some grocery shopping yesterday. She waited until after both munchkins were home from school. Is she nuts? I wondered. Why would you go shopping with two young children, when you could easily do the shopping while they were in school?

"They love to go grocery shopping with me," she said with an enigmatic smile!

Once in the grocery store we didn't head down the aisles right away. We went to the Eagles' Nest. Aha! Now I understood! The Eagles' Nest is an enclosed supervised play area, where children can play safely while their mothers shop in peace. They didn't give us so much as a backward glance! When we were finished and came to get them, they were in no hurry to rejoin us, enthralled as they were, sitting side by side playing a game.

As we walked to the car, Lily tried to curb their exuberance enough to keep them from getting run over. After they had both come to heel, one holding on to each side of the grocery cart, she asked

"What do we need to do boys?"

"Listen!" lisped the five year old.

"Exactly!" said their mom, "and what else do we need to do?"

"Kick ass!" I thought the 6 1/2 year old said.

My eyes widened as I looked at Lily for confirmation.

"Did he say what I think he said?"

"What do you think he said?"

"Kick ass?"

She nearly fell over laughing.

"Mom! He said 'Get Gas!'

"Oh," I said, relieved.

So we drove to the gas station and "got gas."

What Molly doesn't want you to know

Guest Blogger, Lily, Molly's eldest and an unrepentant delinquent blogger...

Molly is a perfectionist blogger... a bad fit, in other words, for this nah-mo-blo-poo. She likes to take time over her words, saving a draft, revisiting it days later, tweaking it just right with a well-placed picture. I blame myself really, I introduced her to blogging, then abandoned her to it as life got nuts and kids stopped napping and the house demanded ripping apart and putting back together.

But Molly loves to write, to communicate, to connect. So she loves blogging, but blogging everyday drives Molly to what she considers drivel. She feels compelled to tell you a story, convinced that you do not wish to hear the mundane details of her ordinary life. Could you possibly care what she ate for breakfast, what errands she ran, how many cups of tea consumed, how many times she missed the kitty and shuddered at the screeching of young boys?

But maybe these are just the things you're wondering about Molly, just the details you need to complete the picture.

Today Molly ate Oat Bran cereal for breakfast -- she may or may not have added dried fruit... I was jogging the 1st grader down the road when she ate it. After breakfast she checked email and I dragged her cross town to Home Depot -- we bought blinds for my kitchen -- then to the fabric store where we bought fabric for a curtain I've commissioned. Didn't really eat lunch, but had a cup of tea and some Honey Pecan Tart (yum). The rest of the day was a blur of child pick ups and trips to the grocery and ended in a dinner of chicken taco soup which she claimed to enjoy.

Also, she uses sensodyne toothpaste. And now you know. Good night.

Wherein I do Not Quit, Thanks To Pauline.

Rise and I have been floundering....a post a day for thirty days? Were we out of our minds? And then I read a comment from Pauline, who has loyally encouraged us along the way, regardless of what we wrote [and whether or not it was worth reading!] Yesterday Rise hit a low point and Pauline had this to say:

" A post is a post is a post - inspiration is often highly overrated. Just write your day, or your thoughts about your day, or what you wish your day might have been. Or do as you have done, post your weariness. Life is life, Rise, and you have risen to the occasion!"

She is so right. Thanks Pauline! You said it to Rise, but I was paying attention too!

It was an early start to the airport yesterday, but The Bean, having come back from school the night before, gamely dragged himself from the scratcher [Rise's word], and off we went to the airport, cat-less.

The OC, spending as much time in the sky as he does, travels light, with only his carry-on. But people, we're headed to Ohio, in November, brrrrr! So he was a man about it and said nothing at my definitely-not-carry-on-size suitcase. Even checked his own, since, what the heck, we were going to have to wait at baggage claim anyway. It's taken me years, but I think I'm taming him.....

I trotted along meekly, not having to think, since The Thinker had it all in hand. Trot to baggage claim, trot to car rental....and then we were there! Pulling into Lily's drive way! And here she comes, a vision of loveliness, in her jeans and her pretty green sweater, and I have to pinch myself, as I always do, at the fact that we gave birth to this wonder. Proof indeed that "They come through you but not from you." There were munchkins too, skittering just out of reach, to avoid the danger of being hugged! And football throwing and Grandad wrestling and oh, I love the new paint job in your kitchen! and what are you knitting and what are you reading, and Oh! Joy! The Buckeyes won!

And dinner at Giusseppe's and ice cream at Graeter's and heads bumping and howls resulting, and hugs, but only from Mommy, and peace restored and all finally, exhausted, to bed!

Cat Dreams....

I had been suspicious for the last few days. I can always tell when people are plotting to leave me. The vibrations change. My worst fears were confirmed last night when the suitcases were hoisted onto the bed....Oh-oh! I knew it. They were about to abandon me!

There's only one way to deal with this kind of situation......climb into the suitcase. How cruel and heartless could they be? All they have to do is stuff their clothing, and other bits and bobs in on top of me, zip it up, and away with us to the airport. It's a well known fact that I'm happiest in small, dark, confined places. No problem there.

Of course, there might be complications at security, especially if I were to let out an accidental "meow!". Or express my pleasure at being taken along by purring extra loudly. Has bribery gone completely out of style? Because I'm sure a nice crisp twenty, passed to the guy inspecting the carry-ons, would enable him to forget he ever saw a cat shaped object on the screen......

Oh well. A cat can dream. They unceremoniously shooed me out of the bag, blew me a kiss, and without the slightest bit of shame, got into the car and off to the airport. Without me. Unconscionable, I call it.

But I do have My Boy all to myself for the weekend. Well, almost. I'll probably have to share him with the girl friend. Sigh. And he is going to come back and forth from school next week, between classes, instead of staying down there, so I suppose, sniff, it could be worse.

But, some day, my dreams will come true. Before I die, I intend to find out what it's like to fly through the air, to Columbus, in a suitcase. Pray it will happen before I'm too old to enjoy the trip!

Foto Friday

Wouldn't you rather be a ladybug?

No bad hair days;

Sunday best, every day;

Aphids for supper....always;

Washed down with a drop of dew;

A green curl of leaf for a bed;

A petal for a blanket;

The warmth of the sunshine;

And raindrops to cool you;

Don't like the company?

Fly away home!

Looking For Meaning In All The Write Places

"Good writing is always about things that are important to you, things that are scary to you, things that eat you up. But the writing is a way of not allowing those things to destroy you." John Edgar Wideman

Family; relationships; friendships;

the meaning of life; the ancestors from whom we came;

the grandchildren who will come after us, for whom we need to protect the environment;

the uniqueness, individuality and diversity that make the world such an intoxicating, maddening, crazy, scary, exciting place.

Nothing comes properly into focus until I write it down. It's a way of decoding the world, of making sense of the nonsense, of bringing order to the chaos, of not allowing life to eat me up.

One essential requirement for coherent writing is sleep; sleep that "knits up the raveled sleeve of care." Since NaBloPoMo began, I've been burning the midnight oil. There are bags under my eyes; yawns in my throat; ants in my pants and meaningless jangling in my brain. Early to bed tonight, perchance to dream of brilliant things to write, or creative excuses not to..... on the morrow. Goodnight!

Unclaimed Treasures

The first one I read was "A Long, Long Way." I loved it. It was a sad story, but the writing was amazing. When anyone asks me to recommend a good read I tell them

"Anything by Sebastian Barry."

He writes about a time in Ireland that was already gone, or slipping fast away, when I was born. I caught the last wisps of it and it left a lasting impression. I often think I would have been more at home in that time, that I should have been born fifty years earlier; when people got around in a horse and trap; when there was no TV and no need of it as people talked to each other, played cards and visited their neighbours. Of course, I'd be a hundred now, or gone myself.

Rise gave me "The Sacred Scripture" for my birthday. And once again I was off, preaching the gospel according to Sebastian B. She laughed when I told her the ending took me completely by surprise. She's a canny one that; had it all figured out before she got there.

Then a friend, to whom I had lent "The Sacred Scripture," lent me "The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty." And after I had devoured that I got "Annie Dunne" from the library.





From the first page, it swept me away to the hills of Wicklow, to the small farm where Annie Dunne and her cousin, Sarah, were living out their old maid lives in quiet desperation. It made me think of Auntie Bid, my very sensible mother's free spirited sister. Who was daft about a man who ditched her for another, broke her heart, and made her crazy.




[She's on the right in the picture and that's Dee on the left]

When I was born, Auntie Bid came to stay, and minded me while my mother went back to work as a nurse. Years later, when my uncle's wife started having babies out on the farm, and another one came every year, like clockwork, Auntie Bid had herself a full time job.

But we saw her regularly. Once a month she'd come in from the country, armed with her infamous List. She'd sit and have a cup of tea with my mother, then whisk me off to town to search out all the items on The List. She was exhilarating company. She was cheery and happy, always ready with a smile or a joke. Half way through the list we'd give up, and hie us to the Dainty Dairy for coffee and marzipan cakes. This, I thought, is living!

She was known like a bad ha'penny at the drivers' testing office in town. She took the test at least once a year, scared the daylights out of the examiner, failed miserably, but, nothing daunted, went home determined to practice and do better next time. She never did pass the test.

After I got married and moved so far away, she wrote to me regularly, and loved to be sent photos of her grandnieces and nephews.

Turns out the happy smiles and cheeriness were not enough to get her through. She fell into depression, and while living on the farm would refuse to take the medicine that kept her on an even keel. So now she lives in a nursing home. The cousins come and bring her home to the farm on Sunday afternoons. Last time I met her she didn't recognize me. She, who used to bounce me on her knee, and change me, and push me around in a pram. Bewildered beyond belief that she's still here when all of her generation are gone.

Annie Dunne says
"We will survive in the creak of a broken gate, the whistle of a bird, the perpetual folding and unfolding of the blossom of my crab apple tree, a thousand little scraps of crinoline fiercely crushed and fiercely released. Like the spider, although we will decay, something of us ever after will remain."

Auntie Bid may be fading away, but I have her smile and her carefree spirit locked up in my memory just as surely as Sebastian Barry has Annie captured between the pages of his book. Unclaimed treasures both, with so much love to give.

Want something good to read? Go read Annie Dunne. Or anything at all by Sebastian Barry.