Molly Bawn, Film Critic

I'm not much of a movie buff. With the OC away, there are days I don't even turn on the television. But our local movie rental joint keeps wooing me, with phone messages to say they haven't seen me in a while, and they miss me, and if I come in soon they'll have a free rental for me. So, as a big- hearted gesture [wouldn't want them pining away], I went to see what was available last weekend.

Usually the new releases are wiped out. Usually I get in there and suffer instant "deer -in -the headlights" syndrome. Can't recall anything I've read, good, bad, or indifferent, about any of the films. Usually I walk out in desperation with duds, or nothing at all. Not this time though.

I got the last copy on the shelf of The Departed. I was vaguely aware that it was in the running for best Picture at the Oscars. And I got The Illusionist, just because it sounded interesting.

Well.

They won't be calling me to judge the Oscars any time soon. I was appalled to hear that The Departed won best picture. Boo. Hiss. It was horrible. Even if it did have a good story, as my son said. How can you pay attention to the story when you're gasping at the brutality, when people are getting their heads blown off, and you can't hear the dialogue for the gunfire and the cursing?

We get this kind of movie because it's supposedly what the American Public wants. Count me out as a member of the AP then. How can we hope to achieve world peace when violence is our favourite form of entertainment? How can we expect young people to sound civilised when cursing is so glorified? Call me a cantankerous old prune if you like, but I find it dismally depressing, and instead of taking a bow, Martin Scorsese should be ashamed of himself, and slink off into a corner.

The Illusionist, on the other hand, was the best few hours entertainment I've had in ages. I was mesmerised from start to finish. The king's English instead of cursing . Some violence, but so well woven into the story that it didn't make you leap out of your chair in horror. And such a clever, unexpected twist at the end! Add to all that, superb acting, beautiful music, stunning costumes and a little romance. Sigh. At least someone out there is still making movies for us old fashioned types.

Partial Place Setting ---On Hwy 19

After a particularly bad week recently, I was driving down our local main thoroughfare, en route to the in-laws for the daily visit. Minding my own business, observing the speed limit, watching the road. But for all the watching, I never saw it. Just suddenly heard a loud "Bang!" Momentary panic! Was that ME? A quick glance in my rear view mirror revealed nothing unusual . Nothing behind me had burst into flames. Other drivers seemed unconcerned. The universe seemed to be unfolding according to plan.

I slowed and made the turn into the filling station. My tank was low. Filled it up. Paid. Adjusted my mileage meter. And started her up again. Oh-Oh. Now what? Something was definitely amiss. Heart in mouth, I got out to have a look. But sometimes you just know. Even when you're as mechanically clueless as I. And sure enough, the tire on the back right side was looking pathetically soft, well on it's way to flat-as-a-pancake. Groan.

Sat back in and gingerly moved the car to the side. Tried to take some deep breaths and gather my few remaining, scattered wits. Life is such a bully. Let's kick her while she's down. And keep kicking. Thank God for AAA and cell phones. The OC may not be here, but he left some capable sitters on call. Endured the thousand questions from the AAA lady, including [my favourite!]---"Are you calling from a cell phone or your house phone?" Tempted to answer "Oh yes. I'm just relaxing here in my easy chair. Nothing interesting on the telly. Just finished the last chocolate in the box. Calling AAA just for grins seemed like as good a way as any to alleviate my boredom." But I didn't. I knew which side my bread was buttered on. This woman had my life in her hands. I didn't want to give her any reason to make it even more unpleasant. So I was excruciatingly polite, and bit back anything that might have been construed as sarcasm.

In less than twenty minutes a tow truck arrived and a cheerful young man removed the offending tire and mounted the spare, and I was on my way. To the garage. Where the cause of the flat was discovered. The mechanic showed me a glint of metal. Morbid curiousity. I asked if he could pull it out to see what it was, since they were telling me it had caused enough damage that I'd need a new tire. He got some pliers and pulled. One inch, two inches, three inches, four inches. At four and a half inches it was finally out. The handle of a piece of sturdy cutlery. A tablespoon maybe, or a fork. Must have fallen off the back of a redneckmobile. Wish they'd keep their *#!#!%! cutlery in their kitchens!

Scrotum ist Verboten

Somewhere in these United States there is a group of school librarians who don't have enough to worry about. So, they have decided to worry about this: the word "scrotum" in a book aimed at the 9-12 year old crowd. Because? Because, dontcha know, that is a scandalous word, and the youth of the country should be shielded from it.

I myself have never been scandalised by this particular word. In my opinion, it is a mildly comical word for a definitely comical body part. A body part I'm glad I do not have. I mean, have you seen one lately? Proof positive that God has a sense of humour. No scrotum envy here. I'm sure it has an important function for that segment of the population who were born with one. I wonder if they know they're supposed to be ashamed of it? Mental pictures forming of a group of tight-lipped librarians wagging their fingers at the male half of the population, and saying , all together now, "shame on you guys!" Then turning their eyes heavenwards and wagging those same fingers at God and saying "and shame on You too!" These librarians do not think that 9-12 year old children should be allowed to read a book that mentions such a scandalous body part. That, in the book, belongs to a dog.

For those of you still in the dark, I am referring to the book "The Higher Power of Lucky" by Susan Patron, which was voted, by a more rational segment of the population, obviously, best children's book published last year.

My dictionary defines scrotum as "the external pouch that in most mammals contains the testes." As I said before, glad I don't have one. But I don't hold it against the unfortunates who do.

Certainly wouldn't wish for them to get bitten thereon by a rattlesnake, which is how the word comes into discussion in the first place.

Certainly wouldn't prevent 9-12 year olds of my acquaintance from reading this book based on the fact that it mentions this word.

Certainly wouldn't be getting my knickers in a twist over it.

If they're so desperate for a life,I have one that's up for grabs. Call me. We can negotiate.

Alphabet Meme

Isabelle tagged me for this a few days ago, so, jumping right in.....

Available/single? No, married thirty seven years this summer. The OC's comment? "Seems like a lifetime!" He's not much for the gushing....

Best friend? First I'd have to define "best" friend. I'd say it was someone with whom you are totally at ease, and who unconditionally accepts you, warts, smelly feet, paranoia and all. I have several dear friends from all the places we've lived, including here. But my best friend, hands down, is my sister. The OC is always in awe of how much she and I talk, and talk and talk, when we're together....

Cake or pie? My daughter's Brown Bag Apple Pie. It's actually sealed inside a paper bag as it bakes! Best ever. Followed closely by French Silk and Chocolate Pecan.

Drink of Choice? Tea, preferably Barry's, with milk and sugar please.

Essential item I use every day? Electric tea kettle. Car.

Favourite color? Blues and greens, especially together. I also like lavender and related shades....BUT! Once, when we lived in Belgium, I had a good friend, Julia. We used to meet once a week and explore different parts of the city. One day we strayed into the red light district, and somehow it came up, that in her country, Bulgaria, purple is the colour for prostitutes! So, when in Bulgaria, do not wear purple, unless of course, you're looking for some action.....

Gummy bears or worms? Neither. I'll have a heath bar or some spearmint mentos, thank you.

Hometown? Limerick, Ireland.

Indulgence? Soaking in a warm bath while reading a book or doing sudoku.

January or February? February. Sweater weather. Best time of the year in Florida.

Kids and their names? Five. They probably wouldn't want me putting them out here.

• Liz is the oldest, no secret there, since she uses her name on her blog. We, her family, are probably the only people she knows who still call her Elizabeth. It was my grandmother's name, and is my middle name . I always thought it would have been much more satisfactory if they'd given me that as my first name. She also answers to the name of a ferocious striped animal, generally found in a zoo. Even though she is very feminine and dainty, back in infancy she had a fearsome roar.
• If you rooted around in the British royal family, you'd find our oldest son's name.
• Second son was named after the OC. He wanted his own identity though, so, in his teens, choose the other end of the name [it's a long one] and goes by that, for short. Which makes him sound like a Russian space station.
• When our California Girl was born she had tiny little ears, pink and soft, folded in against her head like flower petals. Her name sounds like a flower.
• And last, but not least [he's the tallest], our youngest son has a name like a Russian tzar.

Life is incomplete without? The OC, the human hot water bottle.

Marriage date? 22 nd. August, 1970.

Number of siblings? Two. A brother and a sister.

Oranges or apples? Apples. In pie, as is, applesauce on potato pancakes.....

Phobias or fears? None really, but I wouldn't like to be caught in an earthquake.That would freak me out for sure.

Quotes--favourite? How much time do we have? Because I couldn't possibly limit it to one ....Confucius say "Better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness." "Treat your friends like family, and your family like friends." "People will forget what you said, they'll forget what you did, but they'll never forget how you made them feel." "Treat people as if they were what they ought to be, and you will help them to become what they are capable of being." And my all time favourite, Kahlil Gibran On Children

Reason to smile? Grandchildren. Favourite songs. Blog comments.

Season? Growing up?---Summer. Here?---Spring.

Tag people? Liz and Kelli.

Unknown fact about me? In my last year of high school I was school captain. My most important duty was the ringing of the clangy old bell--such fun to make so much noise and get away with it!

Vegetable you dislike? Eggplant. Yuk.

Worst habit? Where is the OC when you need him? I have a habit of burning food. Even as I was writing this, I paused to put some eggs on to boil, to make some egg salad, set the timer for five minutes, then came back to this. Totally missed the beep, and now the house stinks---of burned.boiled.eggs. Even I have trouble believing I could do this. Who burns boiled eggs? I'm sure there are more, and worse, but this is the one assailing my nostrils at the moment.

X-rays you've had? Chest, neck and dental; mri of wrists and ankles.

Your favourite food? Potatoes. How cliche is that? I love mashed potatoes, baked potatoes [with butter, no sour cream], potato pancakes, potato soup, pierogies, potato salad, croquettes----but small servings. I don't have a big appetite.

Zodiac sign? Gemini

Music Hath Charms....

Friday night found me sitting, for the second time in one week, in a church. Faced with the choice of looking at the four walls for the evening, or going to a concert I'd read about in the local rag, I opted for the latter.

The musicians were three:

• the pianist, a young man whose grandparents attend the church where the concert was held, which was probably the sole reason such accomplished performers found their way to our little rural Florida backwater;
• the cello player, a young woman from Germany;
• and the violinist, a young Asian-American woman.

Between them, they had impressive credentials, and had performed all over the world. I can look at the four walls any night of the week.

I have no pretentions about classical music. I either love it, or it makes me yawn. I have neither a trained nor an educated ear. The Radio Eireann Light Orchestra spilled regularly into our kitchen from the radio, when I was young, and the background music on many of the best Disney cartoons is classical. In our earnest, newly married quest for grownup culture, the OC and I bought records of all the popular composers. And who doesn't love Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops?

I do know that, without understanding why, classical music can go in through my garden variety ears and summon a sob from my soul; or, just as unexpectedly, fill me with wild exuberance.

And so it was, Friday night. I'm sure I did not fully appreciate the pieces they played. I know they played them excellently. But a live performance is as much a treat for the eyes as the ears. The constantly changing expression on the cellist's face, as she coaxed heavenly notes from her instrument; her shy smile as she looked out at the audience between pieces, and rapt concentration when the music started again; the graceful curve of the violinist's neck; the delicate and expert movements of her wrist; the pianist's effortlessly flying fingers; the sheer physical energy all three put into making the music...... Sigh. I was in the presence of angels. Talented, hardworking, dedicated and disciplined angels.

How many of us ever develop our talents to this level? Such perfection, such harmony, does not just happen. Our children tried a variety of instruments: french horn, accordian, trombone , saxophone, violin and cello. They all loved music, but music was not their passion.

And passion is what you need to achieve excellence. Passion, and maybe a little bit of deprivation. We are much too comfortable. Maybe we need sparser cupboards and harder chairs.

The nuns did not encourage passion, and warned us against having notions about ourselves, or getting too big for our britches. We were cautioned constantly against the sin of pride. Humility was the virtue to be cultivated. Ireland in the fifties was in tradition's stranglehold. Looking back, I think of all the things I could have been. I was a good student. I would love to have been an architect, but that was unheard of for a woman, and never even entered my head. I would like to have gone to art school. But that would have put me cheek by jowl with beatniks and teddy boys, artsy-fartsy fringe elements, definitely not to be encouraged. Journalism---did I even know the definition of that word? Better to stick with something traditional, something safe. Girls became teachers, nurses, secretaries, joined the civil service, became air hostesses for the national airline [although this, being new, was eyed with suspicion, as possibly bordering on the flighty], or worked in a bank. Inevitably, you'd marry and have children, and all that time and expense [they'd have you believe] would have been for naught.

The final piece was by Mendelssohn, cheerful and lively. The piano, the violin and the cello melded together in one glorious sound. The crowd rose to its feet. The musicians beamed and bowed. There was hootin' and hollerin' from the back [this is rural Florida, not Carnegie Hall!] As people milled about, I slipped out into the dark, and home, humming all the way.

A Walk by the Gulf

life Has its momentsA doctor's appointment took me south today, and after being poked and prodded and declared sound, of body at least, I was free to go. Having come so far, it seemed a waste to just turn around and head home, so I didn't.

First, to a quilt shop. It's one of the nicer ones, and I felt like I'd stepped into the middle of a rainbow. Such beautiful, vibrant colors! Didn't need anything special, but did find, way at the back, a bin of clearance priced fat quarters at fifty cents each! AND there were even some pretty ones, not just rejects....

Came out into the blue and breezy sunshine, and spotted a leafy green lane, right across the street from the quilt shop, at the end of which lane the waters of the gulf glistened invitingly. I'm a sucker for leafy green lanes. Add some water, and how can I resist? I set off, on foot, down said leafy green lane to see what I would see. It wound along between the gulf and the big sprawling gardens of some lovely old houses. There were lazy swings in some, suspended from big gnarly, old Florida trees. A small dog yapped at me from a porch. The woman sitting on the porch with him smiled and waved.

"He's just saying hello," she called out.

I smiled and waved back.

On the gulf side of the path there were small docks with a variety of boats tied up to them. One little pier, in particular, caught my eye. Squadrons of gulls were standing on it , all facing into the brisk breeze. They looked so military. I wondered if their commander had issued the order "beaks south, gentlemen," and that was how they ended up, to a man, I mean bird, all facing in exactly the same direction.

As I retraced my steps towards the car, I stopped to talk to another woman who was weeding in her lovely garden, in front of her lovely house. I wondered if she knew why the birds all faced in the same direction? She believed they faced into the wind so as not to get their feathers ruffled. Sensible birds. I also like to do things in a way that won't get my feathers ruffled. In spite of my best efforts though, I often seem to ruffle other feathers.

As we chatted, in civilised fashion, my Inner Beachcomber was making a pain of herself inside my head.

"Go on, ask her! Ask her if you can move into a small room in her attic! Tell her you'll be no bother, she won't even know you're there! Then we can walk along by the water every day, and gaze out on it from our attic window every night. Go on, ask her!"

I managed to squelch the beachcomber, and making a last complimentary comment about the lady's lovely garden, I went on my way.

"Rats!" said the beachcomber. "You're no fun!"

And so we wended our way slowly homeward, stopping at this shop and that, and most importantly, the nice bakery along the way. The beachcomber sulked, but her spirits lifted when I promised that on the next trip to the doc, we'd bring more sensible shoes and go a little further, to a really nice beach and have a really long walk.

Love and the NRA

I don't go to church regularly. Shhh! don't tell the nuns. But last weekend I went to a quilt show some distance away, and stayed overnight with good friends. Friends who go to church. So I went too. When I occasionally go, it's like slipping into an old and comfortable pair of slippers. They know me. They're molded to the shape of my feet. And I know them. The responses come effortlessly to my lips, the hymns roll smoothly off my tongue. So why don't I go every week, you ask? Thereby hangs a tale, or a blog, or two, for another day. I never expected to become a person who doesn't go to church. But life has a way of turning out other than how you imagined. In more ways than one.

The reading for the day was from Corinthians.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, does not boast, is not proud. It is not rude or self seeking, nor easily angered, and keeps no record of wrongs.........."

I was glad I'd come. I've always liked those words. They lingered, like the taste of a fine wine, as I drove homeward. Comforting words. Words to inspire one to aim high. Until reality intrudes. The reality that love is not always patient, or kind, and is sometimes rude and quick to fly off the handle.............but wait! There's been a mistake. Because that wouldn't even be love then, would it?


And while we're on the subject. I was driving along today behind an SUV. I squinted to read his bumper sticker. It said "NRA* --- Sportsmen for Crist**". My mind immediately conjured up a picture of a handsome, bearded man, with soulful eyes, Biblically attired, who instead of a shepherd's hook, had a rifle slung on His shoulder. But then I noticed there was no "H". Truly an Emily Latella moment. Never mind.

Another day recently I was behind a cop. His bumper sticker advised me to "Smile. I could be behind you." So I did. Because I'm an agreeable person. And because it's comforting to know those guys have a sense of humor.

*NRA stands for National Rifle Association.
**Charlie Crist is the newly elected governor of Florida.

P.R.O.C.R.A.S.T.I.N.A.T.I.O.N.

Our monthly quilt guild meeting was today. After all the boring stuff, minutes of the last meeting, treasurer's report, etc., we had Show and Tell. Yup. Just like in kindergarten. And just as much fun, if you had anything to show, or anything to tell, which I did not.

"When do you sleep?" I whispered to one prolific quilter as she passed me on her way to the front of the room. She was staggering under the weight of four big, beautiful, finished quilts. She gave me a "duh" look, and replied "We've had two months!" [we took a break in December]. Yeah, I thought, that explains it. These women look well rested. They certainly don't look undernourished. So, where do they find the time to be so productive?

I oohed and aahed with the best of them, as quilt after beautiful quilt was held up for inspection. Mentally, I was taking a tally of my own dismal accomplishments in the needlework department since January first.

1. I finished a sweater for little grandson, T, that I had started knitting in Ireland, two summers ago. Yes, I'm ashamed it took me so long, but I'm taking a bow anyway because it's finally finished!
2. Mended torn out knees on two pairs of the YS's jeans. Torn out while doing BMX stunts, or rather after he had sailed through the air, independent of the bike, and crashed to earth, apparently on his knees.....shudder. He continues to strenuously resist all offers to teach him how to quilt---no adrenaline rush there, I guess.
3. Resewed two seam sections that were coming undone on my all-time favourite, floaty cotton, around-the-house, dress. They were probably protesting the constant wear.

There is no number four. Hence the glumness. The problem appears to be procrastination. While those productive ladies are busily stitching, I'm busily rearranging my one thousand and one unfinished projects, so the groaning shelf on which they rest doesn't come crashing down. Maybe I can buy some time by redistributing their weight. But first I have to open each one out and stroke it so it knows I still love it and will get to it soon. After that it seems like a good idea to make a written list of these same projects, in order of 'urgency to finish', with side notations on what is done, and what remains to do. And let us not forget the time devoted to daydreaming about new projects to start. Arrggh! I can't believe my brain allows me to do that. If I worked steadily for two to three hours a day for five years I might make a good dent in the pile. So why would I even consider starting something new? Does familiarity really breed so much contempt? I love all my half-done projects......

Steps need to be taken. If I talk [or write] about my quilting projects, then I have to spend an equal or greater amount of time actually working on them. At the end of each month I will give an account of what I have finished in that month, here, so I can't weasel out of it. If I ever figure out how to put pictures on here, I can even provide pictorial evidence, for those who might be inclined towards skepticism.

So. In this spirit of renewed determination, I spent the afternoon working on a quilt top that I finished six years ago. The pattern is called Goose in the Pond. The fabrics are green and white with a little bit of yellow. I went on a digging expedition into the depths of the closet in my sewing room and emerged, triumphant, with a nice piece of batting of suitable size. Further digging produced the perfect backing fabric. I sandwiched all my layers in the prescribed manner, secured them with pins, proceeded to the sewing machine and stitched in the ditch. Now all that remains is to apply the binding. Before you break into wild applause I should add that this quilt is two feet square. With a little bit of luck, the friends I'm going to visit this weekend will still have that cute little table for which this topper was intended when I started it all those years ago. And if they don't, I'll still have the satisfaction of adding a number four to the list above.

Let Me Tell You 'bout the Birds and Bees

It's always possible when I hit " publish" that that's it. The well could now be dry, my blogging days over. But I'm an optimist, and Irish to boot, and at home they always say "the Lord will provide." I don't know about the Lord, but Liz came through with some inspiration in a recent post.

The whole subject of the birds and the bees was pretty much shrouded in mystery back in Ireland in the fifties. The most a child with an enquiring mind could hope for was to glean a little info here, another little bit there, then try to cobble it all together in a way that made sense....

In our fourth grade class there was at least one girl who was "well up" on the mysteries of the grown-up world. I'll call her Nora, to protect myself in case she should stumble upon this and come after me with an axe. I didn't particularly like Nora. She was a large, pale girl with a doughy complexion, and small unfriendly eyes. And she sat directly behind me at the back of the class.

Some chance remark on the playground tipped her off that my information on where babies came from involved storks and cabbages. So she embarked on a mission to educate me. After all, we couldn't have people running about, entertaining such primitive ideas. She felt she was doing a service to society, and to me in particular, although I was less than grateful for her efforts on my behalf. Not least because they were delivered into my ear in full view of the nun up at the blackboard, droning on about fractions.


I was appalled at the revelations, and not altogether sure she wasn’t making it all up. My parents, surely, would never do that? And how could a kind and loving God, the same guy who looked down on us with His beard and His gentle eyes, from the wall over our kitchen table, have such a twisted sense of humor as to make it necessary to be a contortionist if you wanted to be a mommy some day?

Next time we went out the country for a visit with the relatives, I watched
my uncle and his wife with new interest. I had attended their wedding the year before, and they had recently had a baby. I was fascinated that they had been able to maneuver themselves into the necessary positions, as explained to me by Nora. I decided that even though it sounded messy and complicated and embarrassing, I might as well get over it, as it seemed to be the way things were done.

Those nuns have a lot to answer for though. We were not encouraged to think of the human body as beautiful. The feeling they most encouraged in us was shame. Better to cover up. We'd have it on our conscience if, God forbid, a boy should have an impure thought after glancing at us. It was a sin, they told us, for girls to wear trousers. Proof positive that there was a bottom under there. It was a sin, they told us, to wear a sleeveless blouse. Consider, if you will, the sexiness of the upper arm. Feeling aroused? Wanton hussy! Go put your burqa on this minute....The onus was on us, they told us, to keep things under control in our dealings with the opposite sex. Men and boys, they told us , were in the clutches of forces over which they had scant control. They depended on women, whether they acknowledged it or not, to be pure and strong and keep them off the devil's doorstep.

When our own children were born I wanted to be sure that they would not have to depend on furtive whispers at the back of the class from a modern day Nora. I tried to answer the inevitable questions with humor and at least a smattering of truth. Too much, too soon, is as bad as too little, too late. But I'm done. It's much more fun sitting here on the sidelines, chuckling , while Liz wrestles with the questions.

When the Mooooon is in the Seventh House...

Great deal on clearance rack at favourite store last week. Liz Claibourne pjs in pretty pastels --- stripey bottoms, pale blue top, lace trim. One pair only. L. Grab. [Go away to mull it over, come back, it'll be gone, so yes, decidedly, grab.] Even though L is pushing it. Fine for the top. Like 'em roomy. But dodgy on the bottoms. They need to stay UP. Rationalised ---need L for length, else they'd flap around the knees.

Smiling smugly, paid and left. Tossed in the wash.

Ready for bed, swanning around the kitchen in elegant new attire. Bend over [gracefully] to start dishwasher. Bottoms slide to floor. Leaving bottom....bare. Inner Princess averts eyes. Inner Nazi snorts. Obviously, some stitches are called for. Note to Inner Bargain Hunter --- first, make sure it fits. Note to Inner Alzheimers patient [memory issues]---write that down.

The Flylady Cometh

After a few long, meandering posts recently, my Inner Nazi barked one morning, as I passed him in the living room "Genug! Kein blogging mehr! Wir mussen das Haus sauber machen! Wir mussen auch die Weihnachten Ornamenten to put away....Gott in Himmel! Still with the Christmas ornaments?"

"Ja, ja," I mumbled as I shuffled onwards. I hadn't yet had a cup of tea, and if it's co-operation you're looking for mister, don't get between me and the tea kettle at eight a.m..... He drew himself up to his full six foot two and curled his lip at my comfy, ratty robe. He himself looked very smart in his uniform, brass buttons winking in the early morning light. He was dressed to the shiny, laced up military boots. I was wearing my slippers. Handsome he was, in that Germanic, blond, blue-eyed way, but what a hatchet face! Come on, I thought. Could you manage a smile? Or at least allow me eine Tasse Tee zu haben?

He gave an involuntary shudder and I smiled with satisfaction. "Yes," I said. "I am perfectly capable of inflicting even worse damage on your language, if you don't move aside and let me make some tea."

The Inner Nazi was activated by the Flylady. Interest in the Flylady came with the usual New Year determination to finally, this year, get it all in one sock.

So now...........

My sink is so shiny I've taken to wearing sunglasses in the kitchen. [They look especially fetching with the ratty robe and slippers.]

My laundry basket is empty.

My kitchen drawers are organised. The YS came home for the weekend and couldn't find a blessed thing.

I've been boogie flinging all over the place.

One 'hotspot' in the bedroom was a neat pile of notebooks from pre-blogging days. Another was a collection of newspaper clippings. Articles of interest and inspiration, interspersed with recipes to try....someday. Referred to by the OC as my "history notes." One sample from the pile was titled "Fresh Year, Fresh Start", a detailed list, room by room, of what one needed to do to get one's home and one's life in order. The date? December 27 th. 2003. It got flung.

Die Ornamenten sind weg.

Between the three of us, we got a lot accomplished. When the IN started moving towards my sewing room, I cut in front of him, but the FL got there first. My cheeks burned with shame as I stuttered about my plans for a clean sweep in there, and some big-time flinging, and the merciless turning of hoses on hot spots......I just wasn't sure where to start was all...."Baby Steps," she chirped enthusiastically.

The IN has gone to the mess hall now for some chow. I hope he stays there. The FL has fluttered off to pester some other poor soul. She'll be back tomorrow. [Just please, have mercy and don't bring him with you!] So here I am, at twilight, limping at last to the computer. I come to you from a shiny sink, an empty laundry basket and toilets you could drink from. Now may I blog?

A Tale of Two Ts

The grownups always told us to savor our youth. "The best years of your life," they said, getting all misty-eyed at the too-sudden demise of their own. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but I had a normal childhood, untraumatic, and reasonably happy. The sixties were fun, whether because they really were fun, or because we were on the threshold, waiting impatiently for our real lives to begin. Elvis was on the radio, crooning "wiiiise men saaaaay, only fools rush iiiin ...". Four lads from Liverpool were driving us all crazy. Cliff Richard was warbling "when the giiiirl in your arms is the giiiiirl in your heart..." No wonder we were all half daft and dreaming of romance. You know what they say about life. It's what happens while you're busy making other plans.

There was what Stomper Girl calls an Inner Princess inside me. She was a free spirit, wise, witty, and willowy. To know her was to love her. She was not, however, visible to the naked eye. You had to be a noble prince, or my Dad, in order to see her. And T. O'Conner certainly was not a noble prince. He was a long drink of water, with spectacles perched on his bony nose, to whom an aura of coolness inexplicably clung. Probably because he hung out with the in-crowd at school, one of whom had what most boys their age, at that time in Ireland, could only dream of having: a van, known as the Passion Wagon.

What the naked eye did see was a tall, coltish girl-child, with wavy hair and freckles. The nuns saw a quiet child, conscientious, responsible, a good student, a possible convent recruit, all the things that, socially, marked you as a total loser.

Boys and girls all went to school together to the nuns until about age six. The boys sat on one side of the room, girls on the other. T. O'Conner and his ilk made a career out of flicking spitballs across the room. It was a relief to the feminine gender when they were finally herded off to be whipped, literally, into shape by the Jesuits or the Brothers. But we hadn't seen the last of them.

The Jesuits occasionally held dances in the auditorium of their School for Young Savages, I mean , Gentlemen . Girls from all the girls' schools around town were invited. These dances were big events on our social calendar. Occasions of much twittering, and speculation as to who might get to dance with whom. Hair had to be fixed, and, since we spent most of our days encased in our school uniforms, great thought had to be applied to the question of what to wear.

What to wear indeed. Did I mention that I was a good girl? a tall girl? a girl whose mother dressed her? My mum, who was an excellent seamstress, made most of my clothes. But for one dance she splurged and arrived home from town with a new outfit for me from Todds'. I guess it never occurred to her that I might be picky; that I might want a say in what I wore. She just assumed I would love whatever she picked out for me. And be grateful. And I was. Grateful. For the thoughtfulness. Somewhat less so for the outfit.

In her vicarious excitement about the dance, Mum insisted on "setting"my hair, and then expertly applying, to my unwilling lips, a little of her own ruby red lipstick. But, most inglorious of all, on my twinkling toes I had to wear my sensible brown leather shoes, [my feet were too big for any of her shoes]. I would have traded my soul to the devil for one pair of "bad for your arches" slipons. My mother was a great believer in sensible shoes . For children. She herself got honorable mention in the Imelda Marcos sweepstakes.


I went off to the dance that night feeling like Tweedledum, resplendant in my new, brown, box-pleated skirt. Which ballooned out ridiculously from my waist, only to crimp back in around my knees. My new pink jumper clung embarrassingly close to my ribs and collar bones, announcing to all the world that Marilynn Monroe had nothing to fear.

The sensible thing to do would have been to go hide out in a tree until it was all over. I should have trusted my gut, that told me loud and clear I looked like a clown. But Mum said I looked lovely. And in her eyes I probably did. After all, I was wearing her choice of clothing, her choice of shoes, her choice of lipstick, and my hair was fixed the way she liked it. But --- there was always an outside chance that gorgeous George or some other handsome fellow would see right through the clown costume to the princess within.

Things were about to change. We were coming to the times that I would love. Times when they didn't throw you in prison if you went out without "setting" your hair. Times when fashions became more natural, more Molly-friendly. Twiggy, and bare feet, and flowers in your hair were just around the corner.

Bravely I stepped out on the dance floor for the first dance of the evening, a Paul Jones. When the music stopped I found myself eyeball to eyeball with......drumroll please....... T. O'Conner. Who, do I need to remind you? was no great beauty himself. He took one look at me and took to his heels. Almost forty years later, I have still not forgiven him.

When The OC and I turned fifty, and it started to look like certain of our offspring might soon be saying "I do", I should have issued a warning. But I missed my cue, certain memories from childhood having faded almost into oblivion. And so it came to pass that we became grandparents to a little boy named....drumroll please.....T! Today is his fourth birthday. Gradually the gorgeous T has supplanted the lanky geeky one in the Instant Images Department at the Funny Farm. Happy birthday T! I love you.

Blogging Comes to the Funny Farm*

*The Funny Farm is the real estate between my ears.

This time last year I had no idea what a blog was. When Liz, my DD, started one, I wrinkled my ancient nose, cocked my ancient head and said "Eh? What's that you say? A blog? What in tarnation be that?" Patiently, she tried to explain. But, as they do in the face of most technobabble, the eyes of the Ancient One glazed over. So, steadying her voice and trying hard to keep the I-don't-have-time-for-this-crap tone out of it, DD sweetly told me to just type in http://notinyourear.blogspot.com and all would be revealed.

Well.

Lights came on all over the Funny Farm that night; rocket ships roared into the wild blue yonder; the farm band broke out in celebratory oompah-pah, oompah-pahs; fireworks razzle-dazzled into the heavens above; a choir of angels sang over the oompah-pahs; all the denizens of the farm jigged and reeled in ecstacy over the fields, and a strange glitter came into the eyes of the Ancient One. A tiny seed had been sown.

It has been mentioned on these pages before how slowly the penny drops down here on the farm. For a full six months I hogged DD's blog. And waxed poetical in her comment box. And pompously opined on every subject she raised. And generally acted the buffoon. Until, one day in mid-July it dawned on me. Mommy needs her own blog.

Because the particular brain cells required for setting up a blog do not live on the Funny Farm, DD wasn't out of the woods yet. With patience and grace and the "assistance" of her smallfry, she set the whole thing in motion. Kind of like getting a kid you know can ride the bike up on it, steadying her for a moment, then giving her a tremendous shove to send her careening off down the hill.

The Ancient One was exhilarated by the wind in her hair as she whizzed over hill and dale. The denizens of the Funny Farm were intoxicated by the fresh air whistling through the ears at the farm boundaries. But elsewhere in the kingdom there was disgruntlement . Down in neighboring Curmudgeonly Hollow mutterings were heard about "this blogging nonsense". Horror was expressed by the youth of the region at the thought of mother, the technologically challenged one, taking over the computer, twiddling buttons at will, and generally increasing the chances of crashes and freezes and such. It was hoped it might just be an ill wind that, given time, would blow over.

So the Ancient One blogged her way randomly through July, August , September and October. She was really starting to enjoy herself. Then NaBloPoMo came along and transformed her from a casual blogger into a rabid blogmaniac. It began to look like the ill wind wouldn't be blowing over after all.

She is holding fast. Nobody will be prying her ancient fingers from the blogbike's handlebars anytime soon. She craves contact with intelligent life forms; more than can be provided in a five minute phone call..... She regularly casts blogbottles upon the waters, and hopes someone finds them on another blogshore, and sends them back with a friendly "Ahoy!"

At first I told myself "I'm doing this for me." Right....... But truly, I am. Because I love to write. I love what happens when I sit here, clueless, and start with a tiny germ of an idea, and it grows, and from the din and clatter of the farmyard, I mold and carve and shape something coherent. But most of all I love it when I throw the bottle out there and it strikes a chord with someone, touches a nerve, tickles a funny bone. I love it when I connect. And that's why I blog. So thank you DD , for bringing blogging to the Funny Farm, and for pushing your ancient mother down the hill on the blogbike. Wheeeee!

On the Subject of Knickers

My darling daughters should be gratified to hear that their mother no longer wears granny panties---those awful, elderly looking undergarments that come all the way up to what is anatomically known as the "waist". After holding out for many years, fashion and availability made me cave. Now said undergarment ends a few modest inches below my bellybutton.[Can't resist---what does an older woman have between her boobs that a younger woman doesn't? I usually forget jokes as soon as I'm done laughing at them, but this one has stayed with me, to the tune of much eye rolling from les hommes. The answer, of course, is a bellybutton, but I digress.] I realise an inch or two is a small concession to fashion, but it keeps me in my comfort zone, no panties peek above the slightly dropped waist of my jeans, and my bottom is covered, which, unless I'm greatly mistaken, is the purpose of panties.

I am morbidly fascinated, when shopping for underthings, by the phenomenon known as a thong. For this few inches of skimpy fabric they want how much? So that I could spend every waking hour twitching and wriggling as though there were ants in my pants? Because there would be fabric, all day, in a place where fabric was never meant to be. Better, if I can make so bold a suggestion, to wear nothing at all.

When I was growing up, as soon as summer departed, my mother bought winter knickers for us. She was a practical woman who loved me, I'm sure, and wanted me to be warm, but she was disturbingly unconcerned about permanent damage to my delicate psyche. Darling daughters [and concerned passersby], granny panties are haute couture compared to those abominations. Not only did they cover the bellybutton, they had legs that plunged almost all the way to the knee. Even in that far distant time they were very uncool. Todds' department store provided them in two luscious colours---Pepto Bismol pink and Mawkish Blue. I don't think my younger sister, the cooler one, ever wore them. No,no, darlings....your auntie wasn't that cool [or wanton]. She merely shoved the offending garments under her mattress, pilferred her summer knickers from the back of the hot press and went about her business. But me? I was a martyr for the cause. If Mum said I had to wear them ,I was unaware of options that didn't involve me freezing my young butt off. My sister has a lovely name, but in Irish [and the nuns always used the Irish versions of our names] it is Siobhan --- yes, exactly like the bald one. She suffered years of torment from her peers,
who would snicker "shove on your knickers, your mother's coming...."

I loved to ride my bike to the other side of town to visit my Auntie Ita. She was not really my aunt, but an elderly friend, who had introduced my parents to one another. She fed me banana and jam sandwiches, and treated me like a grownup and was great fun and I loved her. In Auntie Ita's neighbourhood there were lots of children who went to posher schools than I. I was delighted to be accepted into their group and happily followed them around. One day we ended up in a field where there were lovely, climbable trees. Imagine my surprise when they encouraged me to go first.......what an honour.......until I attained some height, and chortling and guffaws broke out below. Two late I remembered what I was wearing under my billowing skirt.........I squirm still at the humiliation I felt that day. To think that I trusted them and thought well of them. Amazingly, it didn't scar me for life as I undoubtedly thought it would at the time. I still trust people, for the most part, and believe the best of them, unless they give me reason to do otherwise. But , as a precaution, whenever someone invites me to climb a tree with them I always insist that they go first.........and I never, ever wear granny panties any more.......

Please Don't Scribble on My Nice New Year.......

……..or at least, if you must, use your very best handwriting. The belfry is crowded with crazy bats, all flapping their wings and clamoring “pick me! pick me, anyone can see, I’m the most important thought in here, let me sit on your shoulder and twitter in your ear, ignore those others, they’re insignificant compared to mememeeeeee!” Welcome to the funny farm, that acreage between my ears.

Organizing my nice new calendar is a welcome respite from fending off those crazy critters. The pristine pages lying before me--what mysteries will unfold on them? What joys? What happiness? What sorrows and surprises? What silliness? What hurts? What misunderstandings? What laughter? What forgiveness? What love? Timidly I approach their vastness and their purity, pen in hand, hope in heart.

Carefully and neatly I transcribe all the mundane details, the fine print, of everyday life: birthdays, anniversaries, dental and doctor appointments, reminders of when this should be done, and that. And DRAT! I messed up in October, wrote all the November notes there instead. Scribbled them out, softly muttering obscenities under my breath. A bad omen? No. I prefer to think of it as human frailty. To mess up so soon? When I had hoped I could creep quietly, unnoticed, into this new terrain, and make a better job of it than last year. And carefully dot all my “i”s and cross all my “t”s, and watch my wayward tongue. My satchel is full of all the tools I’ll need: ideas, knitting needles, empathy, fabric, sewing machine, paints and brushes, smiles and kind words, wire for my jaws, an awe-inspiring new camera, compassion to replace the anger and impatience which got the upper hand too often last year; love for those who love me when they must sometimes wonder if it’s really worth the effort; and a little sprinkling of high-mindedness to help me love those people it’s easier to dislike.

I am going to be a better, braver, nobler, kinder person this year. Thus spake the hopeful one on January the fifth, two thousand and seven, even as the bats were flapping in her belfry. Wish her luck, as she does you, because, human frailty being what it is, we're going to need it. Happy New Year everyone.

One Lovely Book

I discovered a wonderful book this Christmas. I guess it's true, for better or worse, that we buy gifts for others that we'd love to receive ourselves, allowing for our knowledge of their tastes, of course. So, after I'd picked it off the shelf in the bookstore, and read enough to love it, I had to decide whose gift it would be. Hmmm.......several people came to mind, but I settled on S, my little four year old granddaughter. It's not the kind of book a four year old could read by herself. But I didn't buy it with that intent. I bought it so that my Oldest Son could read it to his daughter. Because he will love it too.

OS has been passionate about books all his life [30+yrs.?Aghhh!]. The depth and breadth of his interests is astounding. DIL despairs of ever getting his book collection under control.....Their daughter, S, is a bright, highly imaginative child [who me? bragging? no.o..o...o! just stating the facts...] who already shares her Daddy's addiction to books and stories.

The book in question is "The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane". It was written by Kate DiCamillo, of whom I am extremely jealous.......because I would like to have written it. It's charm is enhanced by Bagram Ibatoulline's lovely, old fashioned illustrations.

And then I was shopping again. And bought another copy. For another relative. A relative who is the same age as me. Stay tuned for a report on whether or not I scored a coup.

It is an acknowledged fact in our family that the penny drops slowly with me. Turns out Kate DiCamillo is probably familiar to many eager readers. She has other books up her sleeve --- Newberry Medal and Honor books. And one of her books was a National Book Award Finalist. Now that my head has been pulled out of the sand, one of my New Year's resolutions is to read everything she has written. Because I love how she writes. This resolution should ensure that I'll be off the streets and unavailable for trouble-making of any kind....at least in January. So, tell me, what wonderful and enthralling books did you discover this Christmas?

Merry Christmas, One and All

It was a lovely morning and the sun beckoned me to walk out back, among the pine trees. Not the most beautiful trees in the world, like telephone poles with a few wisps of green, way at their tops. The payoff is underfoot. I strolled along the soft piney pathways carved out by YS and his friend , John Deere. The air was a warm hug around me, the little breeze delicious. And once again I thought, "there's no place like home."

I've always hankered for a Norman Rockwell sort of life. You know the one, with the old homestead, where all the children grew up, and to which they flock back at the holidays, offspring in tow, to gather round the groaning table....And hark! I hear the OC groaning too, in exasperation. Option #1 : Stop lurking! Option # 2 :Bear with me while I indulge my little fantasy!........The NR grandparents are portly [we're not], and jolly [hmmm]. They've got their **** figured out, and don't visit their angst on the younger generations. They love all their children and grandchildren, regardless of long hair or piercings, or strong opinions or outlandish choices in clothing..... The grandchildren run and jump and laugh, and swing on the same swing, under the same old oak tree that Mama and Papa swung on in their day.....ok, ok, even I'm laughing now.......

At the back corner I walked in under the graceful, whispering shade of the Budda's Belly, pride and joy of the OC and YS both. They brought it home five years ago in the back of the car, a mere sapling, and now it reaches thirty feet into the sky. Up front, near the road, another variety of bamboo flourishes, lower-growing and spreading, beloved by quail and other shy creatures. Along the side of the house I come to YS's pepper patch. The boy has a green thumb--from farmers on both sides---Ukrainian and Irish both, perhaps? The plants are past their prime now, and probably need to be pulled up, but skinny peppers, like miniature red and orange lights, still cling to their tired stalks. A few yellow blooms still swagger, nearby, on the bedraggled marigold plants.

The azaleas are blooming by the front door, blazing red, just in time for Christmas, and behind them, bunches of red berries hang on the tall nandina. But best of all is the maple, between the front porch and the road, half of its beautiful foliage already deep red.

"He that planteth a tree

is the servant of God;

He provideth a kindness

for many generations,

and faces that

he hath not seen

Shall bless him."

My boys, on this score alone, have secured their places in heaven. Over on the opposite side from the pepper patch, in a shady little grove, a camelia is blooming---beautiful creamy white blossoms---what good, after all, is red without a little Christmas white to set it off?

So it's not a NR homestead, and it's not the Lake Isle of Innisfree, to which, in lonely moments , my heart often flies. Nor is it exactly a small cabin "of clay and wattles made". We don't have "nine bean rows " here, nor " a hive for the honeybee". But peace does "come dropping slow", and I realise maybe I've come to love this latest "home".

Holidays make of me a worse emotional wreck than usual. I miss the children my children used to be. It all went by in such a blur, too fast, before I had a chance to savour each one of them.....and then they were gone.

My eyes, like the rims of overflowing buckets, carefully carried over uneven terrain, can spill over at any moment....sending the menfolk running for cover. Best to talk to her only of the weather, or politics, or bills to be paid, or the aged and infirm drivers out there on the roads, endangering the rest of us........just don't get into any family drama.....please.

I need to get comfortable in this new Phase.....After all, isn't this what I dreamed about all those frazzled, child-raising years? To not be needed so much and so constantly; to not have to have all the answers; to, once in a while, have a moment to daydream, all by myself, without the chorus of " mommy, mommy, mommy!"

"you may give them your love but not

your thoughts,

for they have their own thoughts."

and

"their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow

which you cannot visit,

not even in your dreams."

And so "I will arise and go now", to the kitchen, to count my blessings, and banish that persistent Grinch to his dark corner, and set to baking....

I wish for peace in the world at Christmas; peace in my family and in yours; peace for my children and their families; for my OC and YS, who I'll be so glad to have home; peace for my scattered friends everywhere, and for all my lovely new blogger friends. A merry and peaceful Christmas to one and all!

Reindeer Droppings

These not my favourite Christmas cookies, but they are my California Girl's favourites. So I try to send her a box of them every year. Obviously I'm a little behind the curve this year, but I hope to take them to the P.O. this afternoon. The original name was less than inspiring, so I renamed them, as I only make them at Christmas, and this is what they look like.....They are easy and quick to make. They just need time in the fridge before packing and putting on Santa's sleigh, slapping Rudolf on the rump and telling him you have faith in him that he can gallop through the sky fast enough to get them there by Christmas.

Reindeer Droppings

1/2 cup of butter [1/4 lb.]
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup cocoa[unsweetened]
1/2 cup milk

Mix all the above in medium saucepan until butter is melted. Simmer for one minute.
Remove from heat and stir in:

3 cups of quick cooking oatmeal
1/8 tsp. salt
1/2 cup of peanut butter [smooth or chunky] ---optional
2 tsp. vanilla
1/2 cup of nuts [walnuts or pecans]
You can throw in a handful of shredded coconut if you wish [I don't]

Drop by teaspoonfuls on a wax paper lined cookie sheet. You can put them very close together as they won't be growing. Lightly cover with more wax paper. Chill in fridge. Contact Rudolf, as detailed above. Wait for call from California. Expect to have difficulty understanding what C.G. is saying as she will be speaking through a mouthful of fudgy reindeer droppings, her idea at Christmas, of what home tastes like. Happy Christmas C.G. Wish you were here.

It's All About Love, Actually

Home again ,Home again, Jiggety jig. To find that the calendar apparently didn't stand still in my absence, leaving me barely a week to get it in gear for Christmas. Wrote and mailed a couple dozen cards and went with Youngest Son to find a Christmas tree. Intended to bake tonight, but was feeling a little grinchy, and virtuous about above modest accomplishments, so rented a movie and vegged in front of the telly instead. But not just any movie. I've noticed in many blogger profiles that "Love, Actually" crops up regularly as a favourite movie. I've been curious......

Nothing compares to the luxury of having the house to yourself, abandoning the "should do's" for an evening, and giving yourself over to total immersion in a sloppy love story. They're the best kind, right? There just isn't anything tidy and unsloppy about love or about life. I sniffled and sobbed and empathised freely at all the sniffle- and sob- inducing parts, without fear of masculine ridicule [the cat doesn't count].

It turned out to be a very Christmassy kind of movie with a great cast. Emma Thompson is an awesome actress; of course I bawled when she found out that the beautiful necklace she'd thought he'd bought for her, was actually for her husband's secretary. And what woman, no matter how practical and down to earth, doesn't sometimes daydream of being thought beautiful, instead of damned with the"faint praise"of being adequate? Hugh Grant is no Laurence Olivier, but he is easy on the eye, and reminds me of my Britboy, whose current English lass's name also happens to be Natalie!

And I realised why I've been feeling Grinchy. Christmas is supposed to be about love, n'est pas? But where is it? It's not apparent in the horrendous hordes of cranky drivers; nor in the endless snaking lines at the post office; nor yet in the obnoxious, shouting , mind numbing ads on tv, exhorting us to buy more, more, more. That's easy enough to take care off, and I do--by clicking the "off" button. The commercialization of Christmas gets me down. What happened to the little baby in the stable in Bethlehem? He hardly gets a look in any more. If anything, the other guy, the one with the horns and the pitchfork and the pointy ears, has the upper hand, as greed and materialism spin out of control.

As I watched and empathised, I marvelled at how wonderful movies are. All the problems and misunderstandings are cleared up nicely and tidily in the appointed two hours and thirty five minutes. I, unfortunately , am left with my still-messy, unsorted-out life. I can't afford to hire the best scriptwriters in the land to write my lines for me . I have to blunder through scriptless, adlibbing [and not well] as I go. A bull in a china shop looks dainty by comparison.

Gradually the grinchiness melted away. Pictures from the past month flitted through my head; SIL on the basement floor, rolling around with his Daddy-adoring sons, our grandsons; my DD making sure a delicious and nutritious dinner was ready and waiting for her boys, big and small, on the evenings she had to work; both doing a loving and conscientious job of raising their sons ; Oldest Son and his family, same thing, different style--home after a long day at work, not to a comfy chair and slippers and oblivion, but to work of another kind, being there for bathtime and storytime and climbing-all-over-Daddy-time, and soothing tears and calming tempers, and rocking over-tired little people to sleep, just barely sooner than he falls asleep, exhausted, himself; my California Girl, handed back to me after talking to her older brother -- brave words not quite hiding the tremor in her voice that tells me she wishes she weren't quite so far away, so she could see her siblings, and niece and nephews once in a while; my DIL, as happy and excited as her children in their wide-eyed wonder when she turns the Christmas tree lights on; the OC all spiffy for his office Christmas party; and YS, there to meet me at the airport, whisking my bags into the boot; the marvel of everything looking so nice in the garden and the house, due to his TLC while I was away.

Such a cheerful positive, happy movie. It cheered me right up and made me realise that love is all around us, actually.

Driving Through Winter to the Promise of Angels

Sunday was a beautiful day, as I set off on a four hour trek from Buffalo to Albany, to visit oldest son and family. True, it was cold, but the sun shone, and the sky was blue. Naked trees , like sentries, stood guard along the highway, rifles pointing skyward.

Upstate N.Y. appeals to my Irish eyes, and I understand why so many of my countrymen settled here. The rolling hills and green fields, albeit presently fringed with snow, remind me of the green fields of home. The wintry sun gleams off grain silos and farmhouses, and the lovely old red barns make my fingers itch for a pencil or some charcoal.

Lazy jetstreams crisscross the blue, and I wonder , as I always do, where all those people are going.......Black deer on yellow signs leap from the shoulder, shouting their soundless warning, "watch out for us!" And then, the surprise of a black kitten with a white shirt, sitting in a snow-speckled field, head cocked curiously to one side, watching the cars speed by. I sent him a mental message: "Dear little kitten, don't step out here, go back to where you came from."

The ever- present highway patrol were in evidence, hiding in low- slung ditches, waiting to pounce on the heavy of foot. No, they didn't catch me [I'm the gngerbread man...]

Needing to get gas, I took an exit through a tunnel of rock, where five to six foot long icicles hung, far from the reach of the sun......"When icicles hang by the wall , And Dick the shepherd blows his nail...And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail...."

Closer to Albany the trees were more graceful, sporting lacier silhouettes against the dusky pink sky. I took the wrong exit, of course, and got lost. Wouldn't want to tarnish my reputation by getting it right first time.....But, finally arriving, I was rewarded with curly-haired , blue eyed smiles and hugs from two little angels, and who wouldn't travel to the ends of the earth for that?