Word Conservation -- Is it Just a Guy Thing?

If a person is making a quilt and seeks input from the Old Curmudgeon, perhaps asking "which do you think I should use, the blue or the green?" the most likely answer is an absentminded "Yes, dear." Infuriating as this is, the quilt-making person, being an optimist, keeps trying. After all, she knows what he is capable of. That summer of nineteen sixty something, they discussed all sorts of philosophical questions, far into the night. Granted, this was partly due to the fact that the person now making the quilt was resistant to attempts at other activities. Because, don't you know, of the nuns standing behind the couch in his parents' basement in Brooklyn.
So how did they get from there--talking their heads off all summer-- to here, where the OC wants the quiltmaker, if she must speak, to get her point across in five words or less, and his eyes glaze over when she doesn't? Has he [say it isn't so!] grown weary of her blathering? Words are toys. She plays with them and moves them around. " Getting creative," he calls it, and she feels vaguely guilty. And retreats to her sewing room and decides on the green, and busies herself quilting.

A Dog Named Suze

Talking with my California Girl recently, and hearing the constant "yip, yip, yip, yip, yip!" of her dog's eleven, yes, eleven, puppies in the background, got me thinking about dogs. Specifically, dogs we have had. Specifically, The Suze.

The OC never had a pet growing up. His family was too busy establishing themselves in this country. My mother was a farmer's daughter, and to her, animals belonged on farms and in zoos, certainly not in her living room. I regularly brought strays home, thinking this time she'd relent. One time she did. She let me keep a black cat I'd found. But he was a promiscuous fellow, always out chasing the ladies, and getting into battles with rivals for their "affections". One time too many he arrived home, after an evening of adventure, with his ear hanging off....

And then there was the time a cocker spaniel followed me home. I was flattered that he liked me and fell hopelessly in love. He was a handsome fellow and charmed my mother too, so she said I could keep him until his owner showed up. For a full week, he followed me everywhere and, unknown to mother, slept at the end of my bed. I felt like a heroine in an Enid Blyton novel, the girl and her loyal canine companion. But by week's end the owner of the LCC showed up, claimed his dog and broke my heart.

When we were first married the OC was studying for his master's and I was teaching. One day in the teachers' lounge I heard another teacher talking about her black lab's beautiful puppies. We went to see them....... And then there were three.....

We were not allowed to have animals in our apartment so had to be very sneaky. We figured that by the time The Suze [named for the song Suzy Q] became unhideable, we'd be out of there and on our way to the OC's first AF assignment.

The Suze traveled to and from classes in the deep pockets of the OC's field jacket. He had to wear thick leather gloves so that she could be kept happy chewing on his hand, while profs expressed disgust that graduate students could be so immature as to make puppy noises while they wrote on the blackboard. The Suze was born to chew. Nothing was safe. Not the covers of the OC's LP collection, not our books, not my lovely, new, cork heeled sandals.....

When we set out on our cross continent trek to the OC's first assignment the Suze came too.

When our first child was born the Suze never showed the slightest bit of jealousy. In time she and Liz became inseparable. If she tired of toddler ways she'd sigh, get up and move to another part of the house or yard. On New Year's Eve the OC always shared some champagne with his girl. She loved it. If her hero was giving it to her it had to be good, even if it did make her lips curl. The Suze sometimes suffered from puppy flatulence. Feeling something happening 'back there' she'd turn and look indignantly at her tail. Never a dull moment. And when she slept she dreamed of chasing rabbits.

By the time Liz was in sixth grade and had two brothers and a baby sister, the Suze was in failing health. It was sad to see her getting so old and blind, and finally the vet said the kindest thing would be to put her to sleep. That was a mournful day at our house. She'd been a loyal and loving friend. We hoped that she was in doggie heaven with a constant supply of her favourite bikkies, plenty of rabbits to chase, and angels available round the clock to administer titsie rubs.

Sayonara Rummy-san....

Goodbye Rummy!
Slawn Lath...
Au'voir... ...
'Wiedersehen...
Adios muchacho...
Ta Ta...
Arrivaderci...
Bye bye...
Later gator...


And don't let the door hit you in the you-know-what.

Woke up this morning with this in my head. Wondered briefly if it would be unwise. Remember hearing advice to tourists in Ireland---" Just don't talk about Politics, Religion or Sex." And how much that made us laugh. In Ireland, that's all they talk about in the pubs; that and, yawn, sports. Yes, it makes things noisy, and animated, and passionate and sometimes even violent. If it's quiet you're after, visit the churches.

"May you be in heaven half an hour before the divil knows you're dead." But, Rummy, I hope you have connections.......

Ten Happy Things

1. Children who phone home--can you hear me over there in the northern UK?
2. Letters from friends.
3. Polish pottery.
4. Beautiful fabric.
5. "Dream a Little Dream of Me".
6. Visitors bearing chocolate.
7. Being by the sea.
8. The giant redwoods of northern California.
9. A book I can't put down.
10. Hugs from an old curmudgeon.

Mary Had a Little Blog

I love coffee. I love that it kicks me awake in the morning. And I love NaBloPoMo. I love that it makes me do what I want to do anyway---write---and no procrastinating. But too much of either gives me the jitters. Got my post done late last night. Was about to hit publish when " glug....", horrors! my post disappeared. Once I'm done and ready to hit that P button, we're only five minutes away from me having no recollection of what I wrote. I had to work fast to catch the coattails of what I'd written before it galloped off into oblivion. I like to think of this phenomenon as my brain's way of decluttering.......Some, however , say it's CRS syndrome. Can't Remember......yeah, that's it.
So I wondered if I might give my brain a rest tonight and recite some nursery rhymes. How about

"Mary had a little blog, oops, I mean lamb," or

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does the blogging go? " or

"If you should see a blogophile, don't take a stick and poke him," or

"Little Jack Horner sat in the corner, writing his blog on the sly..." or

"Little boy blue come write your blog," or

"Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard to see if her blog was there,"or

"A diller, a dollar, a ten o'clock blogger,
What makes you blog so soon?
You used to blog at ten o'clock
But now you blog at noon." or

" Little Bo Peep has lost her mind
and doesn't know where to find it;
Leave it alone and it'll come home
Dragging her blog behind it." or

'Three blind mice, three blind mice,
See how they blog, see how they blog;
They all ran after NaBloPoMo
But wrote, sad to say, too slow, slow, slow
Did you ever see such a show, show, show
As three madly blogging blind mice."

I think I'll go to bed now. And in the morning I'll be having tea for breakfast........with tranquilizers.

According to Webster's ---
Addiction: enthusiastic devotion, strong inclination, or frequent indulgence. Obsession: the act of a devil or a spirit in besetting a person or impelling him to action................any questions?

Classes at the Temple of the Written Word

There was once a woman who watched in awe as her husband and children played games and wrote school papers on a magical machine called a computer. She thought it would be wonderful to know how to use it to write all the stories that swirled in her head. But the computer did not like the woman. Whenever she tried to befriend it, bad things would happen, and the family would grow angry with her because she had pushed the wrong buttons. This made the woman sad. She stayed far away from the unfriendly machine and scribbled her stories at the kitchen counter between tending to the cooking and the other household chores.

In the fullness of time the children grew, and slowly drifted off to their own lives. The woman missed them and wished to communicate with them, but letters were slow. And already the Age of Instant Gratification had descended upon the land. So the woman went to the Temple of the Written Word and asked to be taught the mysteries of E-mail. The teachers at the Temple were gentle and kind. They did not shout at her when she made a mistake, or call into question the intelligence of her ancestors. And she understood their teachings and all was well.

For several years the woman wrote E-mails and was happy. She even started to write her stories using the great machine. But she was wanting in skill and became dissatisfied. And so she returned to the gentle teachers at the Temple of the Written Word, in search of further knowledge. Miss Robin and Miss Jeannie, the teachers at the Temple, unraveled for her the mysteries of the Word, the talents of the Toolbar, the delights of Cut and Paste and the wonders hidden beyond the Buttons. The woman was grateful, and enormously pleased, and went home from the Temple and wrote this post.

"Hooked on Classics"

" Dad, can we change the channel?"
" No."
"Why not?" ...whining.
"Because." No dirty rotten rappers while I'm driving.
"This sucks..," glumly.
The OC leans over, increases the volume slightly on Beethoven, the Three Tenors, Wagner, whatever NPR has on offer. Adversity, he believes, is good for the soul, builds character.
Destination reached, they climb out, glad the torture is over.
The OC turns off the radio, and with the ghost of a grin, inserts U2 in the CD player, and continues on his way.

When we met, way back in the late sixties, I was crazy about the Beatles and the Beach Boys. He was a Stones fan. He introduced me to all his other friends too; Janis, the Bobs [Dylan and Marley], Neil Young, Santana, Cream, Moody Blues, Deep Purple, Three Dog Night, Cat Stevens, Simon and Garfunkel, Judy Collins, Joan Baez, Carole King, Sergio Mendes, Creedence..........I was dazzled and went home to Ireland at the end of that summer, my head awash in great music.

Fast forward to Sunday night. The YB [youngest son] is taking a music class this semester, for which he is required to attend several live performances of classical music. We sat in the concert hall and listened and watched, while Stefan Sanderling conducted the Florida Orchestra and the Master Chorale of Tampa Bay in a performance of "Schubert's Magnificent Mass". Not once did the YB grumble "Geez Mom, this sucks..... Can we change the channel?" And not once did I have to dig him in the ribs to restore consciousness. Which affirms my faith that there is a God. And He is in his heaven. And, at least for now, all's right with the world.

Beware, All ye Who Enter Here

I'm a grizzly bear. With maternal instincts. And fearsome claws. Don't get between me and my cubs, or the he-Bear either. It won't go well for you...... Growl, lumbering off into the woods.

Had a large slice of humble pie tonight, served by one who ignored the above warning. The choices were my pride, or irreparable damage to the fabric of family. Practiced some deep breathing en route to the table, to calm the agitated bird trapped in my chest and frantically trying to get out. The pie was dished up with a bowl of failings-and-faults soup, and a side of hair shirt. Humble would not make it onto a list of my favourite pies. I prefer apple or pecan or chocolate. The taste is less bitter and they don't give me indigestion.

I'm Just a Woman in a Big Empty House

I'm usually quite content with silence, but, while making pancakes this morning, I thought I'd liven things up with a little music......and maybe shake the YB [home for the w.e.] from his slumbers. So I put on the Moody Blues and cranked the volume. To the frenetic strains of "I'm just a Singer in a Rock and Roll Band " I poured and flipped. While waiting for bubbles, I boogied around the kitchen, singing along and waving my microphone [aka my spatula]. Not a stir from the sleeping giant. It wasn't until I switched to the mournful and beautiful "Songs from a Secret Garden" that he came stumbling out to the kitchen to know what all the caterwauling was about. Go figure.

Hair--Not the Musical

One of the things that affects how I feel on any given day is my hair. Long gone is the glossy brown of youth. It started when I was eighteen, the horror of finding stray grey hairs, and gathered momentum through my twenties. My mother had always messed around with rinses and tints and streaks and touch ups. I wanted no part of that. Only once, in my thirties, did my resolve weaken, when my sister begged "Please let me put a rinse in it, I promise you won't be disappointed!" Since wearing a bag over my head wasn't an option, I stoically walked around for a month thereafter with green hair.

Our first year in Germany we went to Stuttgart's Oktoberfest. Beer was flowing and everyone was having a jolly time when one of the young lieutenants' wives, looking at the OC, brightly inquired if I was his mother in law. She had assumed that our oldest daughter was his wife! The OC was hugely amused, and flattered, and still cackles about it. The young lieutenant's wife scored big with the boss that day, he of the dark haired good looks. She did have the grace to be embarrassed, and of course I gamely went along with the "joke", grrrr, smiling through clenched teeth, while the young lieutenant crept under the table and wept.

So, for me, the cut is everything. When we moved, eleven times, I'd go on haircut watch. When I saw one I liked I'd just ask who did the lovely job. It worked. Most people are happy to share, and I was happy to find a good stylist, without wasting time on the also-rans.

I have this fantasy of, in my dotage, having long hair that I could wind into a bun or an elegant chignon. My grandmother and everyone else's grandmother wore their hair this way when I was a child. But when it gets to a certain length, and the neighbourhood dogs start howling at my approach, it's off to the chopping block and back to the short bob.

I had a haircut this week and I feel wonderful.

It's Comfy in our Little Rut

Adding 'coffee beans' to the list on my fridge this morning I paused, pen in mid air, and decided to live dangerously. Also known [accusingly, by the Old Curmudgeon] as Trying to Change my Lifestyle, Living Dangerously means buying toothpaste other than Colgate, mouthwash other than Listerine, beans instead of ground, so, with a flourish of my favourite weapon, I added '....or ground'. And then I thought I might really go for the gusto and buy something other than Starbucks.........maybe Seattle's Finest .......just hope there won't be an earthquake. I'd feel responsible.

"Crabbed Age and Youth"

Some of the things I wish for are:

• peace in the world
• politicians who actually give a damn about conservation and the environment
• a measure of "success" for my children, in love and in life [I like Ralph Waldo Emerson's definition]
• the ability to wiggle my nose--and presto!--land in the middle of my sister's kitchen in Ireland.

But, more than all of the above I want to grow old gracefully. To:

• listen with eyes, ears, and respect when young people talk, because they learn from our example;
• lend an ear to old people because they're lonesome for their youth, and the way things used to be;
• give time, talent and thoughtfulness, cheerfully, and not keep a tally;
• exercise and eat healthily to keep the wits and the bones well oiled;
• give advice sparingly, and only when asked;
• if I have to dig a little to find something to praise, hand me the shovel;
• never give up on anyone;
• hope and trust that God, the Great Pumpkin, or whoever is in charge of such matters, forgives me for all the times I shot from the lip, without care for the consequences, which were sometimes...bad;
• live with and accept my faults, knowing that, most of the time, my intentions were ...good.

There was a dog-eared copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse on the dining room bookshelf when I was growing up. I loved to curl up by the fire and dig around in that old book. I learned many of those delicious wordsongs by heart. This one," Crabbed Age and Youth", has been bouncing around in my brain of late.....Growing old does not automatically confer wisdom. I guess you have to work at it. I intend to give it my best shot.

Time Traveling on Country Roads

At 6:46 a.m.my brain peered into the bathroom mirror and asked my body "What the hell are you doing up?" Normally, I don't surface before 7:30 or 8. But for the last few days my body's been thinking it's an hour later than it really is. The confusion is caused by the Spring forward, Fall back thing. Are we gaining an hour or losing it? The brain knows but the body takes a week to catch up .
I remember daylight savings when we were growing up. It was only in the town though. It would be one time in Limerick, where we lived. But twenty five miles out the country, on my grandmother's farm, it would be an hour later or earlier. So you could, literally, go backwards and forwards in time! Depending, of course, on our cantankerous old Morris Minor, which had a habit of breaking down near The Four Elms, about half way between Limerick and the village of Ardpatrick. Would that have made us frozen in time, I wonder?
No matter. Just as well to be up early so I can try to stick with my new rule....

1 down, 29 to go!

Bugs for Dinner

Before he headed back to school yesterday [he comes home most weekends for the chance to sleep in a bed that is actually long enough for him], the YB and I decided to go for a little hike in the Withlacoochee forest. It was still in there, and dappled and sunny and green. We moved along the trail as quietly as we could, the better to spot some "critters". Saw a good sized deer early in the hike, but, as he bounced off into the distance, we thought we'd have better luck if we stood as still as possible for as long as possible.

In mid standing-still-mode I heard a furtive but steady rustling in the leaves just off the path. No noisy gallumphing creature this. I peered towards the noise and saw --- a long, thick, glossy snake. A few years ago I would have taken to my heels at a high rate of speed. Now I stood, rooted to the spot, not breathing, signalling soundlessly to the YB to come see. "Rattlesnake," he whispered. He has always been a wildlife nut, but still I cocked an eyebrow at him to be sure he wasn't pulling my leg. "Look at the diamond shaped markings..." After his years of devouring Reptile magazine and keeping various kinds of snakes as pets, I didn't doubt him. I was glad, though, that I'd worn jeans and sneakers and thick socks. We watched for a while longer, then went quietly on our way, keeping a wary eye on the path for any of his friends.

Soon we heard more rustling . Much more vigorous this time, so we stopped, and listened again, and soon spotted the rustler. It was a large armidallo. He looked like a turtle on stilts, or a football, with his scrawny pointy-eared head on one end and his crazy tail on the other. Whatever bug he was finding must have been delicious, he was poking so enthusiastically in the leaves for more. We pretended we were trees as, snuffling this way and that in his quest for tasty bugs, he shuffled closer and closer. Every now and again he'd rear up on this hind legs and sniff the air. His underbelly was ridiculously pink and naked looking. He knew we were there, but it didn't seem to bother him. At least not until the YB lunged at him to see if he'd really roll himself into a ball! He didn't. He just took off nimbly into the bushes. Probably thinking "Silly humans . Why don't they go back where they came from and let me get on with dinner?"

No Pressure.....

In the spirit of "Don't go out in the sun between ten and two," I'm making myself a new rule. Something like "Keep your butt away from the computer between the hours of, say, nine and six." Otherwise nothing gets done. There's a house to be maintained, weeds to be pulled, quilts to be finished. But, of more immediate importance, there are two cans of paint putting roots down through the tile in my laundry room. If I'm messing about on the 'puter the dull white walls will never be transformed to "pale cowslip", which I desperately want.

How to make this change now? With the NaBloPoMo thing looming? There will be a lot of drivel, my friends. As it is, I write reams of rubbish, then walk away, do a load of laundry, go grocery shopping, do sudoko. Later, I slash and burn my way through the verbiage in search of what I'm trying to say. Sometimes I find it. Other times I don't. You can always play with it some more tomorrow. Before nine. After six. No pressure......except in November. November should be a trip.

Bemused, Beflustered and Besotted

Sometimes I stay up late, reading, puttering, making lists of what needs doing [instead of doing ....] So it's a rare morning that I'm up before seven. Except for last Friday. I am not a giddy person.[You, in the peanut gallery, have a little respect.] But last Friday, early, I knew it was going to be a giddy day. How did I know? My eyes flew open at five a.m. and would not close again. Lately I've noticed, the life in my mind is much more exciting than my real life. Hence, even though I have no trouble getting to sleep, once I'm there, I don't get much rest. Crazy dreams with whacko details, one tumbling over the other. Have to wake up to catch my breath.

So. Five a.m. Lying in the dark. Eyes wide open. A whisper in my head makes me bolt from the bed [move over Mr. Frost]. The OC 's coming home tonight! That's why my eyes are being so stubborn! Stumble to kitchen to make coffee. Shuffle to computer to check e-mail and write. Write? At five a.m.? Yes, write. To turn down the decibels on the din in my head. Besides blogging I have to write for a writing course. A course that is more encouragment than technique. Encouragement to stay off the roads and out of harm's way. Remember, I live in God's waiting room.....no wonder the OC jumped at the job up nawth [loved it, stole it from Jess]. Am I babbling ? Those dreams? Ideas. Have to nail 'em 'fore they fly away, nilly willy, like butterflies [I think it should be flutterbyes, but that's neither here nor there...]

Coffee's ready. To the fridge for cream. Encounter chunk of cow [courtesy of Joke--I'm thieving all over the map today...] It's been sitting in there , shivering , for days. Waiting for me to make pot roast. Brown the cow [how now brown cow? feeling better--a little warmer at least?] Onions, garlic, broth, beer, s & p, herbs. Cover, simmer. Prompt from brain-- "get dressed". Wander out to garden. Sun is up and climbing. Weeds , as usual, flourishing. Fill the birdfeeder. Haven't done so in a while. Not since seeing small, furry, black creature, under the tree, feeding on seeds dumped out by bratboy, the squirrel. It was either a large mouse or a ---no---don't even want to think it.......When I opened the birdfeeder two creatures scuttled. Two large, shiny, black bugs--- the crunchy kind, the kind that make my skin crawl. Poured in birdseed, gingerly, to avoid contact with creatures, in which event the screams would be heard.....in Buffalo.....but muffaloed by snow.

The afternoon creeps by. The phone rings. It's the YB, at the airport--- "can't find him." Five minutes later, ring, ring, "we're on our way!" Forty five minutes. Serious pacing. Go sit out front on the porch in the balmy darkness , waiting for lights to turn into the driveway..... Happiness! They're here. The two remaining people from the life I used to have, who stoically clench their jaws and put up with me. Who alternately make me crazy, and keep me from falling over the edge into the abyss. I'm so glad to have them home.

It's been a week. Time to move on. Yawn. New topic tomorrow. Promise.

CSM [Chocolate Seeking Missile].

There is no trouble in life whose sting cannot be, at least temporarily, alleviated by chocolate. I have prowled the pantry late at night, searching, searching......."What are you hungry for when you don't know what you're hungry for?" Chocolate! Don't know what sets the craving in motion. A full moon? A strange cosmic beam? A particular alignment of heavenly bodies?Or sadness? Longing? Loneliness? Whatever. It will not be ignored!

From the snows of the north he came, to where the palm trees grow, just for the weekend. And when he left again I realised just how lonesome I've been without my Old Curmudgeon. Almost four tumultuous decades and many mutinous plots to pack and leave and now, I miss him? So much that the lonely drive back from the airport triggered a craving. To the kitchen, the kitchen. I'm a chocolate seeking missile. Mutter, mutter, mutter, gotta be here somewhere. At last. In the refrigerator. Two week old, dried out, crusty brownies. That still tasted like heaven!

Munching, munching. Thought occurs. How did we get from there--- when a pan of brownies was GONE before the pan cooled, to here---when a pan of brownies lasts for WEEKS?

Better now. Will survive 'til Thanksgiving. And still they linger. Anyone for a crusty, dried out, two week old brownie? It'll cure what ails ya, guaranteed!

Been There

I never thought the word "poop" would appear on a post here, let alone be the main feature! But after reading some intensive and hilarious discussions, cruising through "mommyblogland", the hour is at hand. As starry-eyed new parents, thirty some odd years ago, we quickly discovered that poop, henceforth, would be looming large in our lives. We had just come in the door from the hospital with our first wee bundle and were standing, still in our coats, not sure how to proceed, when said wee bundle let fly. Through diapers and receiving blankets the yellow, breast- fed- baby poop shot noiselessly out, all over my nice grey wool coat. We looked at each other, aghast. For five days we'd been cosseted and babied at the AF hospital. We had been shown how to hold, nurse, burp, diaper, and bathe the baby, but it didn't prepare us for the enormity of the realization that we were alone now; this tiny scrap of humanity was totally dependent on us [ yes US! Had God lost his mind??] for survival. And next thing I knew, the Old Curmudgeon , who was then only a trainee curmudgeon, was cackling maniacally. Why not? the alternative was uncontrollable weeping....

That first wee bundle grew and thrived, to our delight and amazement. She has always been a very private person, even when she was a very small person. Her grandmother, who is a very clean person, could spot the poop clouds gathering when she was a toddler, and would try to scoop her up and get her to the toilet before another diaper was soiled [no Huggies or Pampers in those days!]. But she would knit her brow and frown, and intone, as she disappeared under a table or to some similarly private location, "Go away Grandma, I don't like you anymore!" This same clever child later coined the word "ire-a-dia".

When the first wee bundle was fifteen we brought home the fifth wee bundle who, upon attaining toddlerhood, developed his own line of "alphabet poop." Every day the siblings would be summoned to the bathroom by his excited cries, so they could take their best guess at the featured "letter" of the day!

Reading all these "mommyblogs" is a trip down memory lane. I'm so happy to no longer be intimately involved with anyone else's personal plumbing. Been there, done that, got the tee-shirt!

Blue for a Boy

Somedays I get an overwhelming urge to do something new and creative---and no, if I've been working on it for two years it doesn't qualify! Yesterday
was such a day. Having recently let my mouth get me in trouble [repeat after me: "If you have nothing good to say, say nothing,"] I have been summarily lopped from the family tree, perhaps permanently. Maybe creativity justifies use of space and oxygen. Who knows? Not me.

And so to the sewing room! Some friends of the YB recently provided a reason for creativity. They had a baby. "And it must follow as the night the day," when someone has a baby, I make a quilt. Not a five year project, painstakingly hand stitched for a sweet grandson who has our blood coursing through his veins, obviously, but a quickly and enthusiastically machine stitched project I can race to the finish line with before the devil knows what I'm up to.

I had a small stack of six-inch churn dash blocks, in various shades of blue on a light blue background. I had made them a few years ago, for the quilt I was making for T, my first grandson. But I changed my mind [a woman's prerogative!] , and that quilt went in a different direction. The blocks had been languishing, unloved, in a box ever since. "But today, my darlings, is your lucky day. You're going to be the stars of my next production!"


I spread them out on the floor, El Pussygato's cue to arrive on the scene and throw himself down for a langurous stretch right in the middle. That's one quilt-crazy cat. Or maybe he's just trying to get my attention? Hello? She's making a quilt - aha! If I throw myself down here she's bound to notice me and scratch behind my left ear --- or, at the very least, throw a pincushion my way --- some acknowledgement of my existence.

Too much blue, I thought. With more blue background and some yellow in hand, I sat in front of my sewing machine. Soon I had a happy arrangement of blocks, the yellow adding some oomph! to the blues.

Several days later.....

Top finished, borders on, layered, basted, bound and DONE!! And its only five days since I started. QED ---- that it could be done [by me, the queen of procrastination.]

Words, Feathers and Sport Cars

Born in Europe after the end of WWII, my husband's first language was Ukrainian. When he was still a baby, his family set sail for South America, where they learned to speak Spanish. No sooner was he fluent in Spanish than they decided to move again, this time to New York ,and more linguistic challenges. He was in about first grade and one day a teacher called him "stupid", because he did not yet know enough English to understand her. He did understand what "stupid" meant. I can't imagine what he felt that day, at the mercy of that thoughtless, cruel woman, but it made him resolve to learn to speak English so well that no one would ever call him that again. He has a great ear for languages and accents, and in addition to fluent Ukrainian and Spanish, he has a working knowledge of German and French. He doesn't speak Italian, but after growing up cheek by jowl with so many Italians in Brooklyn, he understands it pretty well [or maybe it's the hand gestures!] And let's not forget that he can curse fluently in Lithunian.

I think what my children probably remember best are the litanies of incantations, in strange tongues, that Dad would let fly as he struggled with flashlights and wrenches under the hoods of our various cars. Then on a trip to Ireland one year, he kissed the Blarney Stone! Coals to Newcastle! Suffice to say the man is never tongue tied. While I think, hours later, of perfect snappy comebacks, they roll off his tongue with exquisite timing, exactly when he needs them.

Today I was reminded of one of his favorite quips [ not coined by him, but funny just the same]. I was filling up at the gas station and a really cool sports car pulled up at the next pump. Out struggled an old geezer of about ninety, bald and wrinkled, with a sizeable paunch. "What a waste", the OB would say! I pulled back out onto the road, and the old geezer in the cool car followed, then moved into the left lane and passed, but kept his signal on, and on, and on! And the OB's voice echoed in my head, "If only I had that car and he had a feather up his a__, we'd both be tickled to death!"