Almost Wordless Wednesday

Danger!



No water entry.




Violators....




....will be prosecuted.....




Just as...





....soon as....




.....we fish them out...

NaBloPoMo Makes My Warts Show

Last night, at a few minutes to midnight, I pressed "publish." Whew! Ten days of NaBloPoMo, and holding. But, as I crawled into bed, I had misgivings.........I blog about whatever occurs to me, about what happens to be going on in my head, especially when I'm under the NaBloPoMo gun.

But maybe there are some things that should be off limits? Maybe I should only talk about cheerful, upbeat stuff? And keep the gloom, the irritation, the frustration, the impatience, the uncensored, unpolitically correct Molly to myself? And how believable would she be? Besides, I argued with myself, who am I writing for? My official answer to that is "Me!" But, truth is, I love when people take the time to put in their two cents. I love to feel I've connected.....

The OC gets up before I do, and so, when I arose, I crept quietly past his office, knowing he'd probably already, in his capacity as chief snoop on my blog, had a look, to see what mischief I had wrought while he'd been snoozing. He smiled and said "G'morning!" [that's our version of "g'day!"]. And so I relaxed a little. It can't have been that bad. After fortifying myself with coffee, I slunk over here to see if there were any comments. And what did I learn?

I learned, once again, that bloggers are empathic souls who roll equally easily with problems shared and mumbly grumbling, as with happy carefree times;

That no family is as perfect as it might seem. We all have problems. Sometimes problem children, sometimes problem elders. Fniucking** about them doesn't mean we don't love them; it just means we're human; that we get frustrated; and exasperated; that once in a while we need to have a little rant. Just a little one.... And then our heads will clear and we'll get things back into perspective.

I learned I'm not the only one to have to stifle a yawn when a story I've heard, at least a million times, is trotted out as a priceless, newly resurrected gem, never before recounted, by a man who is inordinately proud of his prodigious memory.....

I learned that others wonder, too, how we, who presently have the world so firmly by the tail, will deal with the tribulations to come? The misplaced glasses, the fading eyesight..... And the problem of how to find the former without the latter? The brittle, so-breakable bones, the creaky joints, the southerly migration, or total disappearance, of bosoms; the hearing loss. Eh? What's that you say?---THE HEARING LOSS!! And how about those trips to the back of the house? The ones where, once you get there, your mind is blank, and you scratch your balding pate, and wonder what in heaven's name you came here for?? And so you return to the scene from whence you started, in hopes of a glimmer..... It's all good exercise, if you want to look at it in a positive light.

I've warned my daughter, that when these signs and portents become chronic, I'm to be taken out quietly to the north forty, like old Yeller........never to be seen again.

Meanwhile, now is the time to develop the hobbies that will keep our minds occupied so we don't drive our children to distraction with daily organ recitals.* The way I see it, if I'm trying to figure out an intricate quilting pattern in my head, that'll leave less room in there for dwelling on the condition of my liver.....

When I look, in dismay, at the amount of fabric I've accumulated, and the number of patterns I've earmarked in scores of quilt magazines, I remind myself that they represent insurance against idleness in my dotage. I'll feel so useful,[and isn't that the biggest issue?] to be stitchin' something for someone---I may not know who, but I'll trust my children to find homes for all my finally finished projects!

Then there's the small matter of wanting to spend enough time in Ireland to hike all around the coast, taking millions of pictures, and filling notebooks with random babbling, and painting.........

The trouble with the in-laws is they never had the leisure, or the means, to develop hobbies. They were too busy learning new languages at every new place along the way. Hobbies were a luxury enjoyed by people who weren't strapped for cash; people who struggled daily to make a living, so they could feed and clothe and educate their children, so those children could grow up and marry people who would wonder why the in-laws had no hobbies.

And so it goes.


**Fniuking: a "word" of uncertain origins, invented perhaps, by one of our children and meaning grumbling and grousing about something or someone.

*I wish I had invented this one! An organ recital is what you get when you ask a hypochondriac "How are you today?"

Those Were The Days, My Friend.....

The Ancient Ones have had interesting lives. One of the things I'm always saying I must do is write down all their fascinating stories......Some day.

Old age and failing health have taken their toll. Their world has narrowed so much, that sometimes, all they want to talk about is the latest ache or pain, the newest medication, or the most recent visit to the doctor. I'm interested, in general, of course, but the mind reels in rebellion when every minute detail is reported, and the possible ramifications dissected and discussed, as if it were truly scintillating stuff.

Which it is not.

To my profound embarrassment, I have, on occasion, lost the battle to maintain consciousness in the face of the onslaught. The male of the species has a wider range of topics. But it is no less exciting to be his captive audience when he decides to wax pontifical on politics, world affairs or religion.

Because his views are the only rational ones. If he were in charge of the world it would run smoothly, like a well oiled machine. There would be order, and discipline, not to mention hangings and court martials. Everything would be either right or wrong, black or white. Politicians would be honest; young people would be respectful, or else! Doctors would be more courteous and not keep people waiting; teachers would have control of their classrooms; drug dealers would be shot; crime would be non-existent; what criminals there were would be doing hard physical labor and would be on diets of bread and water.....

And we'd all live in a yellow submarine.

But, today I was in luck. He was in the mood to reminisce about his youth. Which I really do find fascinating. Much more so than his latest squabble with the insurance company. Because he has lived through history, and experienced, first hand, things I can only read about. Things I'd prefer to only read about.

It doesn't matter how smart you are, he opined, everybody needs a little luck. He mentioned several close calls he's had in his life. And then he reached back even further, to when he was seventeen. He was a schoolboy still, but was a member of a resistance group, fighting against the country that had taken over control of his country. He was caught [because, he says, he was young and stupid and nationalistic...] along with a few of his friends. They were lined up against a wall to be shot.

But then a car drove up. In it was a major in his country's army, wearing a white band around his hat, as a symbol of surrender. With the major was a general of the country now in power. The car stopped and the major jumped out. He had recognized our boyo and told the general that he was the son of a friend of his and did not deserve to be shot.......

And so he lived.......to regale me with his tales of how much better the world was, back when he was young, in the old country. When men were men, and women were their servants, and children were seen and not heard, and there was discipline, respect and order in the world.....

Oh-oh! I think I'm about to lose consciousness again.

Quilts In The Gardens.......continued

Our little quilt show at the botanical gardens yesterday was such a success everyone wants to make it an annual affair. Other quilt groups in the area want to be included, which would be great! The more the merrier. There were several sections of the gardens that had no quilts yesterday, so there's definitely room for expansion.....We even had some vendors peddling their quilty wares.......




Before the show, we wondered if birds, and the possibility of birds doing what birds sometimes do when sitting on tree branches, might be a problem. Such activity is completely natural, but some quilters might be outraged at Mother Nature if their quilts were, to put it delicately, fertilized! No such problems arose, I'm happy to report. The only birds who caught my attention were these.......





Even the squirrels behaved themselves and stayed in the background. We are in Florida though, and if there's one animal everyone expects to see in Florida , especially if they have students at UF, it's the Gator!





On the subject of orange and blue, here's a bright Snails Tails quilt....





Stars were a recurring theme.......





As were appliqued flowers......





Here's Jane, a good quilting friend, who had her eightieth birthday today...Happy Birthday Jane! That's her pretty wall hanging, beside her.........






This hanging was one of my favourites!





If you've been reading my blog for a while you've probably seen my kitty. I dragged him out of mothballs and gave him a turn in the fresh air yesterday.....





This last quilt was best of show at a much bigger quilt show this year. No prizes for guessing why!





I had a wonderful time during my few hours on quilt patrol. I met some very interesting people, from as far away as London, and Finland. Everyone was in a relaxed and friendly mood. I talked to the Finnish lady for quite a while. She was in awe that "humans could do such beautiful work!" I'm pretty sure she's going to leave no stone unturned when she goes home 'til she finds someone to teach her how to quilt!

I hope you've enjoyed following me around. We plan on doing it again, so if you're in this part of Florida, in this part of next year, be sure to stop by our Botanical Gardens!

"You're Closer To God In A Garden.....

.....Than anyplace else on earth." Especially if there are quilts on display throughout the garden!





One of my favourite places is a small Botanical Gardens, designed and maintained entirely by members of the local garden club. Many quilters like to garden. Some gardeners, while not being quilters themselves, admire quilts. A few months ago, some gardeners and some quilters put their heads together and decided to have a quilt show in the botanical gardens. Everyone in our little guild was asked to loan some of their quilts for display. I loaned four of mine. We had a total of one hundred and three.

Today was the day!

The weather was lovely. The sun shone, but not too brightly, the better not to fade the quilts! The advertising worked. More than two hundred people, who had never been to the gardens before, turned up for the show, in addition to regulars, quilters and gardeners.

So sorry you couldn't come.....but follow me! I'll give you a peek.

Here we are at the entrance.....




Here you can see the first quilts, just ahead......




Before we proceed, please heed this gentle warning!




Here's one of mine, on the left. I made it for The Bean when he graduated from high school. I don't think he likes it very much, even though I'd saved animal prints for a few years, since he's been animal crazy all his life. C'est la vie....




I'll bet whoever this was made for appreciates it! Of course I like the colours here better too.



Take a good look at the quilt in the middle here. Who would have believed that purple and brown would look so good in the same quilt? It was gorgeous!





Since I spent the whole afternoon on quilt patrol at the gardens, I had no time to blog! So I will have to continue this tomorrow, or risk being thrown out of naBloPoMo for non compliance with the rules. It is three minutes to midnight! Ciao!

When We Were Very Young.....

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

1.I loved to play tennis

2.I loved to be outdoors

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

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

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

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

When I got there I found that---

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hitler Is A Quilting Instructor

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

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

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

Says who?", said H.

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

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

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

Here's how it looks so far---



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

Wordless [Almost] Wednesday

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

A First For The Bean

We didn't set out to have five children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better Late In Life Than Never

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

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

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

Tales Of A Brazen Hussy

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

And the rest of the day to come back.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

What were the chances she'd be home?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

When I'm eighty eight.....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apple Picking in Ohio

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




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




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

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




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




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





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

A Day In The Life Of A Royal Seamstress

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

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

A clown, may hap?

Or a witch, perhaps?

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

Such a dearth of glisten and glitter,

paucity of pinks and purples,

total absence of baubles and bangles!

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

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

Somewhere in the middle, S decided. Size 6.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lalalalalalala.........

I'm rarely stuck for words.

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

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

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

Maybe.

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

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

Tempus Fugit

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have the time now.

I could babysit.

I could read stories.

And bake cookies.

And throw footballs!

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

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

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

Words [Just A Few] On Wednesday

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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


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



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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tis Well For Some"

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

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

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

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

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

But no cat. Much to his chagrin.

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

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

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

And pigs might fly.

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

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