In the Interests of Balance....Or....What You Learn After You Say I Do

Some of the comments on my last post......which never set out to depict a smarmy, holding-hands-in-the-moonlight couple......made me squirm, as that seems to be how it was interpreted. I probably should just move on and do a post about butterflies, or playing on the beach with grandkids, but,in the interests of fair and balanced reporting, I need to shake it some more, like a dog with a bone. So here’s a glimpse between the lines, where nobody but the canny, if sarcastic Rise, thought to look.

Love in the early years is all dewy eyes and worshipful devotion. Which lasts a while. Then, after you’ve washed his underwear, and listened to him belch, and worse, and he has endured the raging, monthly hormone storms, you slowly float back down to terra firma, to a comfortable level of fondness and tolerance. You think you’ve got it all figured out. But you’re wrong.

Along come the babies. Who demand all of your time, deprive you of sleep, and render you comatose by nine every night. While he is in the throes of advancing in the work world. All those long, involved discussions, late into the night when you were the girlfriend? Devolve into grunts and monosyllables and vague “hmmms?”

When he comes home at the end of the day [he’s been at work with grownups], and you’re so happy to see another adult [you’ve been tripping over toddlers all day], and he asks “How was your day, dear?” he’s looking for the five-words-or-less answer, NOT the dissertation. The glassy eyes are the giveaway. Them and the furtive glances towards the living room, the TV, the newspaper, the sofa, and the dog, whose only demand is to be scratched behind the ears.

But nobody goes hungry, except, perhaps, for the onset of intellectual starvation brought on by hours of scrubbing [cloth] diapers and mopping up pureed peas. Neither is anyone outside, shivering in the cold. We’re all inside with warm beds and stories to read. He’s steady and reliable as a rock, and makes it possible for you to be a full time mom. Which is good. Because if you had to go out and work, as well as raise five children, they might as well shoot you now and be done with it.

Toddlers turn into children, who variously turn into soccer players, swimmers, runners, dancers, martial arts practitioners, artists, musicians, bikers, hikers, bookworms, comedians, scholars, and at last, into teenagers. Oy. With opinions of their own. Often counter to the party line. They believe that their parents are SO out of step. So pathetically uncool. Oblivious to our wisdom, they must try everything out for themselves, and in the process, turn our hair white. Mine much faster than his. Because there is no justice in the world.

To our amazement we produce a gaggle of free thinkers. Our dreams for them are not necessarily the same as their dreams for them. Hmmm. Back to the drawing board. When they‘re babies you can’t wait for them to be toddlers. When they can’t talk, you can’t wait for them to start. When they start, you hold your head in your hands and wonder what was your hurry. You wish you had more time for each one, but hope they’ll be there for each other. The in-laws are appalled. Five children! Those Irish are like rabbits. What was he thinking?

Hot tempers and cold shoulders and extended sojourns in the guest room. But always, eventually, back to cooler heads and calmer waters. Laughter saves us from ourselves. It's tough to keep your seat on your high horse when you’re laughing helplessly. It all adds up to life, feverishly lived, without a script, making it up as you go along, ad libbing to beat the band, so no-one will find out you're groping in the dark. Not exactly a Cinderella story. But Cinderella is hogwash. Living happily ever after is only the beginning.

There. I feel better now.

Seems like a lifetime.....

As charming and delightful as munchkins are, they are also exhausting! They left last Monday, and on Tuesday I was winging it north to visit the OC, who got me into this munchkin business in the first place. It's been thirty seven years since, in our hopeful youth and blissful ignorance, we blithely said "I do." As he is fond of saying, at least once a year, with a grin to soften it----"Seems like a lifetime!" which may be because it is....

One summer, when I was in college, and facing the prospect of three months of boredom at Shannon Airport, I made a bold move, and got hired, with a little help from my Dad, by Aer Lingus at Kennedy Airport. I didn't know a soul in NY. When I arrived, a friend of Dad's organised an hotel room for me----and, having deposited me safely therein, airily waved goodbye! Seeing my horror-struck expression,[you're leaving me? Here?? Alone??? Waaah!] he assured me he'd see me at work the next day. When I got to my room I couldn't find the key to my suitcase. Consternation. I lay down on top of it and bawled my eyes out. And wondered why nobody had thought to dissuade me from such a hare-brained scheme. And thought longingly of the deadly boring job I'd had at deadly boring Shannon Airport the deadly boring previous summer. And bawled a little louder. And cursed my big mouth for ever asking my Dad to help me get a job in NY.

But I had to stifle my sniffles and show up for work. It was fun meeting and checking in passengers, and most of the summer hires were college students too. But Americans my age seemed so relaxed and at ease. I felt like a country bumpkin. Being of limited means, after that first night in the hotel, I spent the next few nights on the couch at Heather's apartment. Heather was a ground hostess from Dublin, another of Dad's friends. She was pretty and single, and to my bumpkin eyes, very glamorous and sophisticated. The second night I was there, a handsome pilot she knew was going to be in town. Oh dear. What a dilemma. A romantic evening in the offing for sure. With only one fly in the ointment. What to do about the Irish bumpkin on the couch, who didn't have a life? Or, more specifically, anywhere else to go, or anyone to go there with? Oy vey.

Heather was a rare bird, a Jewish Irishwoman. With Jewish friends. One of whom was pressed into service for the evening. He was male. And ugly. And free with his hands. And I hated him on sight. And Heather too, for so unceremoniously dumping me on him. And for whatever unfounded promises of ribald Irish sex she must have made to him. Because he certainly gave the impression he expected to be thusly compensated for babysitting me. All I remember of the evening is feeling the desperation of a hunted animal, fending off his persistent and slobbery advances, and deciding then and there that ugly, sex-crazed Jewish men were not my cup of tea.

Heather helped me find a room to rent in the house of an elderly Jewish woman. So I moved off her couch, leaving her free to entertain all the handsome pilots she could find. Mrs. Eliafson was a harmless old bird. Strict in her insistence that no young men were to darken the door of my room. They were to wait decorously in the entrance hall. Since hordes of lovesick suitors weren't exactly banging down the door, that presented no problem. Her only other requirements, apart from prompt payment of the rent, were that I do small chores for her, such as switching on the lights on the Sabbath! I was fascinated that even such a simple thing was forbidden, but happy to oblige.

Meanwhile, back at the airport, I'd made friends with two co-workers, MaryAnn and O. On our days off we had fun together. We went to Manhattan, shopping, or to Jones' beach, or to parties after work. Sometimes O's father, when he came to take her home, would give me a lift to my digs. He bragged a lot about his brainy son, O's twin brother, who was away at AF summer camp. In the fullness of time this prodigy returned, and got a summer job with Lufthansa, next door to Irish.

One day O's father came in to chat with us at the check-in counter. We were planning to go to a party that evening after work, and he wondered if his son could come with us. Since O had a date, this suggestion was aimed mainly at me. Being an agreeable, easy going person I said it would be fine. Besides, "party" gives such a jolly impression. The party venue was a nearby pub, where the music was usually deafening. I didn't exactly enjoy them. They were just a better alternative than going back to my lonely room to pick lint from my navel.

The last flight of the evening left for Shannon. Work was done. Time to party. People and cars started leaving. No sign of the prodigy. Not wanting to be stranded alone at the airport, I made a call to O's house. The prodigy answered. Was he coming? Or should I catch a lift in the last remaining car?

I later learned he'd been sitting in his boxer shorts watching sports on TV. He had blown off his father's plans for him, thinking I had probably agreed just to placate the old man. He didn't know that I wasn't some bored, blase American cheerleader type; that if I'd said I'd go to the party with him, I'd be waiting until he showed up; that if he didn't show up it would confirm my status as a social outcast.

Ten minutes later a car screeched to the curb outside Irish. Out jumped a guy of slender build and average height. He had short dark hair and was wearing AF issue 'birth control glasses' [so dubbed because they were SO ugly!] But behind the glasses were the most beautiful dark brown eyes I had ever seen. He was wearing god-awful greenish pants [his mother still dressed him in those days] and falling over himself apologizing.

When he dropped me off at my digs that night he asked if I'd like to go to the beach the following week. I said I'd love to. To me, a finely tuned brain was the sexiest attribute a guy could have. Especially if it was covered with dark brown curly hair. And looked out on the world from soulful dark brown eyes. Only much later did I find out that this also surprised him. Only much, much later did I find out why. He had recently been dumped by one of the aforementioned cheerleader types and was still nursing a wounded ego. I might have been slower to fall if I'd known I was catching him on the rebound. But I didn't know that. And I drowned in those deep brown pools.


That was forty tempestuous years ago. Who knew forty years could go by so fast? Five children and eleven moves, and when my head stopped spinning we were in Florida. Why Florida? To be close to the out-,I mean in-,laws, to help them in their declining years. Hmmph. Turned out it was too close for the OC. He lasted three years before an old friend lured him north with an irresistible job in rocket science. But I know the truth.

It's a little bit weird, it's a little bit lonesome. But I enjoy my own company; I putter convincingly; I have a cheerful telephone voice. I visit the AO's regularly. And gamely listen to all the new and interesting aches and pains. And the same stories over and OVER. If I were my MIL I'd have shot my FIL long ago, and hang the consequences.

But I digress. I miss those come hither brown pools. And so I come hither every now and then. We've weathered a lot in thirty seven years. It's tough enough for two stubborn people to live together in relative peace. Throw in five more cut from a blend of those two cloths and you're not looking at a Norman Rockwell painting. We've sailed through turbulent waters and weathered severe storms. Sometimes the boat was on the verge of sinking. But the sun always came out again, eventually, and we always got back to calmer waters. As each of our five set off to chart their own courses we've crossed our fingers and held our breath, and spent time on our knees negotiating with the Guy in the Sky.

As one of my blogfriends so wisely said----"The only person we can really do anything about is ourselves... we can help and guide others, but when it comes to the crunch they have to make their own way. We can be there, we can love, we can hope. To thine own self be true. We all have to keep moving...." A wise woman, that. I knew it, of course, just needed a reminder. Thanks Ali!

So. Thirty seven years---a lifetime---and still hangin'. They say men marry women hoping they'll never change, and women marry men hoping they will! That's a bit simplistic. If nothing and nobody ever changed, I'd die of boredom. The OC is a rock. On which I have often bashed my stubborn head. My attempts to change him perished on the rocks of futility. But time wrought what I could not! He is now as mellow as he's probably ever going to be. And, finally, I'm fine with that. He has stoically withstood the emotional, illogical, and often incoherent onslaught of me. For which he should probably be awarded a medal. He is the clearest thinker, the best problem solver [which is fortuitous, since I am probably the best problem maker] and the most logical person I know. But better than all that--- he still has the power to make me laugh. And that's what keeps the boat afloat.

Bloggers....In My Living Room!

It was such a lovely surprise. I came home to find my living room blogger-clogged. They were everywhere! Stuffed side by side on the sofa. Perched on armchair arms. Squatting cross-legged on the floor. Each with a laptop. Each in a different pose---raptly typing; finger to lip, thinking; chin in hand, musing. It was surprisingly quiet.

Across the room I spied a pleasingly plump lady with a creamy Celtic complexion and long raven locks. When she glanced up the twinkle in her eye left no doubt.
"Isabelle!" I cried, delightedly. She didn't look a day over thirty five. There was a scholarly looking gentleman with a thick mop of iron gray hair and John Lennon spectacles sitting on the floor in front of her. She had obviously brought Mr. Life along. Another blogger called to him from across the room.
"Tell us who's got a bad reputation in OUR House of Lords!" [I never said this was going to make any sense!]

I looked eagerly around the room, feverishly trying to match faces with blog friends.
With dread I realised that my bladder was going to spoil my fun. As usual. I got up to go, glumly aware that by the time I came back they'd all have vanished into the gloaming.

That happens with my dreams a lot. I wanted so badly to dream on, and chat with you all, and serve you tea and cake......That bladder of mine is one malicious organ.

Wordless Wednesday

Missing: My Super Powers

I think I’m done with bugs and critters for a while. I’m even starting to bore myself. It’s a great tool for denial though. If you’re busy concentrating on four- and more-legged critters, you’ve much less time for obsessing about more worrisome matters. And lord knows, worrying about problems doesn’t solve them or make them go away. It just gives you a headache.

What I tell myself is that these are just more advanced, more complicated steps in this dance called life. If I don’t twist away, just go with it, lean into the rhythm, I can learn these steps too.

Maybe what I loved about being a mom was the super power. When children are small and get hurt, you can gather them into your arms and kiss it all better. You can hold them close and whisper love into their little ears until the sobbing stops.
You can snuggle them in your lap and read a story to distract them from the harsh realities they’re finding out there in the sandbox and on the school playground.

You taught them about love and honour, and truth and integrity. You sent them out into the world and hoped it would be gentle with them. But the world is not gentle. And you see the bright eyed trust, in those eyes you love more than life itself, replaced by hurt and disillusionment. And why were you not able to protect them? Could it be that you’re not really a superhero? That it was all just a game of make-believe?

I’ve been demoted. I no longer play a lead role in my childrens’ lives. I'm a bit player now. Have to be content with watching helplessly from the sidelines. And when it is good it is very, very good. But when it is not......I can’t fix the hurts anymore; can’t kiss away the tears; can’t scare away the monsters from under the bed. All I can do, while my heart is breaking, is hope they’ll be strong enough to learn from each challenge life tosses their way. And come out stronger on the other side.



I may have sworn off grasshoppers and spiders for a while, but tonight I’ll be collecting another kind of wildlife from the airport. Five year old granddaughter and three year old grandson are coming to visit, along with their darling dad. So if it’s more quiet around here than usual, you’ll understand it’s because I’m off dancing with munchkins.

"Step Into My Parlor....."

....... said the spider to the fly.

I don’t think he meant me exactly, but I blundered in anyway, as we hiked through the woods yesterday afternoon. His parlor was strung across the path, between two trees. I didn’t know it was there until I felt its sticky walls wrapped 'round my face. Extracting myself, I fervently hoped that HE was not in my hair too.

I needn’t have worried. He was sitting, inscrutable, in an undisturbed corner, waiting for more palatable tidbits.


We kept moving, since standing still was understood, by the hordes of blood thirsty mosquitoes, as an invitation to belly up to the bar. It was hot and muggy and there was thunder in the air.

There are deer in these woods but, no matter how stealthily we step, they always hear us coming. As I fumble frantically to focus, they flick their tails and bounce away.

Once we saw a diamond backed rattler, slithering quietly through the dried leaves. I won’t mind if I don’t see him again. And there was the time we happened upon a family of armadillos, so intent on snuffling through the undergrowth for supper that they hardly noticed us.

With thunderclouds threatening, and the persistent whine of mosquitoes in our ears, we traipsed through the trees in record time. There’s always some little surprise though, to make you glad you came, even on a dull day. Yesterday it was this pristine beauty...



And these fine fellows.....


.....who were happier than we about the bounteous selection of frogs and mosquitoes.......

And, of course, the surreptious pictures I took of Spiderman's parlor.

Ugly Bugs and Cranky Codgers

Look who I ran into in the driveway this morning. My first impulse was to chase him away, since he and his voracious ilk are not welcome in the garden. But wait! I know that he has beautiful scarlet wings. Maybe I could get a picture of them.....Looks like he could be in a monster movie, doesn't he? Even if he couldn't act. The sum of his parts are ugly, but the parts themselves beautiful. Just zoom in close, if you need proof.

He wasn't happy that I was persuing him. A lens bigger than his eye, aimed at him, may have made him think I was a predator with less than honourable intentions. What passersby thought, at seeing me lying in the middle of the driveway, is anybody's guess.....He didn't seem inclined to humour me by spreading his wings. He appeared to be injured. He seemed to have all his legs and all his antennae, so why he couldn't fly away remained a mystery.

I wasn't too sympathetic. I knew that, given back his flying ability, he would think nothing of dining on my flowers. I didn't call the insect ambulance. Just followed him around, clicking. Since he wasn't co-operating on the wing thing, I gave him a little push. He toppled over, exposing his yellow belly, thusly:



Not a very flattering shot. So I helped him to his several feet again, to save him further humiliation. Seeing him like that, flailing helplessly on his back, reminded me of something.

When we lived in Belgium,I was driving home from church one Sunday morning. I came to a traffic circle near where we lived. It was quiet. Sunday. Very few cars about. As I came around the circle I spotted a man wobbling on a bicycle, coming towards me, but on the sidewalk. As I watched in horror, he gave one last quavery wobble and fell off, with the bike on top of him. Being a compassionate person, I pulled over and got out of my car to help him.

He was an elderly gentleman---for want of a better term. He didn't seem hurt, just a little disoriented. I was talking to him in English and he was muttering to himself in Flemish. Obviously we weren't going to be communicating verbally. But the concern in my voice should have been apparent no matter the language. While he lay there, looking bemused, a cyclist came zooming along. One of the serious kind, complete with helmet and skin tight lycra. He stopped to see what had happened. The man on the ground spoke to him in Flemish. He looked at me. It wasn't a friendly look.

"He says you knocked him off his bicycle," he told me.

I was incredulous. The "gentleman" on the ground was proving to be no gentleman. He was in fact proving to be an unscrupulous liar. The biker dude ignored my protests, seeming to think the old codger was telling the truth. But he had a bicycle to ride. And miles to go. And a lack of interest in further involvement. I sputtered my outrage. Probably swore never to stop and help a Belgian in distress again. Biker Dude shrugged and left. Old Codger struggled to his feet, dusted himself off and was still muttering to himself in Flemish as I flounced back to my car, and drove away.

That ugly bug was lucky I let him limp off into the grass instead of squashing him under my crocs.

Early Morning Magic

I was drinking my coffee, Sunday morning, when I spotted the quail from the window. Putting the mug down, I picked up my camera, opened the door as quietly as I could, and went towards him with all the stealth I could muster. And pleaded silently for him to stay put, and not get all skittery and shy.



I was surprised he didn’t move, though he kept a wary eye on me. The shot might be sharper if I'd been more fully awake. Emboldened, I tried to creep closer, for a better shot. But he decided it was time to cut and run. Only then did I realize he must have been perched there as a lookout, because half a dozen of his family were disappearing into the bushes with him!



I was glad he’d lured me outside. It was a beautiful morning. The rain had made the fairy lilies pop.



Water, like drops of liquid crystal, trembled on leaves in the shade.



A dinner plate sized mushroom had materialized from nowhere. And over it all the morning sun sparkled through the trees.

God, I thought, is surely in His heaven. And telling me to embrace the moment. This moment. Because fretting about yesterday, or worrying about tomorrow, just distracts us from fully appreciating today.

End of sermon. You can stop yawning now. Amen.

Happy Birthday Britboy!

July is hot. Was hot. Possibly always will be hot. Except perhaps in Alaska. Where I don't live and never expect to. In Montana in July of 1977 it was most assuredly hot. Especially for someone very large with child. Even though I'm not scientifically, or analytically inclined, I knew when I woke up on July 25 th. that it was going to be a different kind of day. Not a Braxton Hicks kind of day, but a Real Thing kind of day.

He wondered if he should stay home, but I shooed the OC,then the MYC [Much Younger Curmudgeon] out the door to work. The base was across town. I'd be fine, I assured him. Yes, I'd call, now go already. I knew if I'd asked him to stay home,the contrariness of the universe would kick in, and nothing would happen. And I wanted something to happen. I was thoroughly fed up with being pregnant.

Besides, if he'd stayed home he would not have let me do what I had an overwhelming urge to do. Clean.

If about to have baby, must first clean. I didn't just vacuum. I moved furniture that hadn't been moved since we'd moved in. Dust bunnies that had settled into quiet corners and started families of their own were routed that day, because the gospel, according to mother-in-law, decreed that the skirting board behind the couch had to be spotless; no crumbs could be left to lurk in anonymity beneath the cushions on the couch; unreachable corners must be cleared of even the suspicion of cobwebs. Between the grunting and the heaving, a contraction would come and I'd down tools and get through it on the couch, and when it receded I'd get up and press on.

And so it went throughout the morning. By early afternoon I thought I'd better go to my friend's house. My two little people were going to play with her two little people when the time came. The time,I began to think, was at hand.

So we piled into the jeep and set off. And pulled over at the end of our road, for a contraction to pass. And drove like the hammers to get as far as possible before the next one hit. Which was soon. So we pulled over onto the shoulder again, until it passed. In this manner, drive, stop, breathe, repeat, we finally arrived at friend's house. Who promptly called MYC. Leaving little people in friend's capable hands we headed for the base hospital, where at five that afternoon our third child/second son was born.

I had been convinced this one was a girl. Poor guy. None of the names we had picked seemed appropriate. Not Aislinn, not Margaret, not Olivia. You'd have thought we had only discovered the week before that we were going to have another baby. Nothing pleased us. If I liked it, the MYC didn't, and vice versa. And of course the in-laws were consulted by telephone and had veto power. What can I say? I'd be smarter now?

Finally, in desperation, we named him for his father. Which made for years of confusion. But in his teens he solved the dilemma by telling his friends to call him by the last three letters of his [long] name, which makes him sound like a Russian space station. Took me years to get used to it, but finally it seems to fit, and it certainly is unique.

When he was a mere day old, nurses came to my room with papers for me to sign so they could circumcise him. What?? Again with this crap?? Didn't I tell them with my first son that we were having none of it?? But they kept coming, and kept bugging me. And tried to send me on a guilt trip, telling me I'd have it on my conscience if women he might be involved with got cervical cancer. I had just given birth to a beautiful baby boy. I didn't give a rat's ass about women, as yet unborn, who might fool around with him in the distant future. For these faceless creatures I should put my precious baby under the knife?? For a procedure that had no precedant in my family or my husband's? The nurses were disgusted with me. But I stood my ground. I was outraged that they would be so agressive when I was in such a vulnerable state. If I hadn't been Irish, and stubborn as a mule, they might have persuaded me that it was the right thing to do.

I'm not saying it's the wrong thing to do. But for me it would have been. Since then there's been a lot of controversy on the subject. I'm not sure if it still rages, but I never regretted taking a stand. A few days later we took our little bundle home, all of him, to his eager older sister and brother.

And a few days ago he turned thirty! On exactly the same day that his little nephew turned three. Unfortunately, "my bonny lies over the ocean," so getting together to celebrate wasn't an option. But you can bet all your parts, I was thinking of him in the sweltering heat of another hot July.

D turns Three!

I am an equal opportunity birthday wisher. More than Christmas, when I'm overwhelmed, I love to let friends and family know that I'm thinking of them on their special day.

And it is a special day. The first step in a new life journey; the first words in a brand new book; the day your mother finally looked down and saw her toes again. So, I was very disgruntled, a few days ago, when, upon trying to upload a picture of my little grandson, D, I kept falling on my face. And could not do it. I called him on the phone. I sent him a birthday card, but I could-not-put-his-picture-on-my-blog as I had done for his little cousin's birthday just a week ago.

Very disheartening. Begs the question "Do I really suffer from CRS syndrome?" This is a medical condition discovered by the OC after years of living with me, and conducting regular field experiments. The main symptom is an inability to retain information, or "stuff". He doesn't call it "stuff" but, in the interests of keeping my G rating, I will....

This morning I thought "Let me try one more time before I toss in the towel...." I did the same things. I pushed the same buttons. I swear. Then I crossed my fingers, and squeezed my eyes shut..........and it worked! I'm beginning to think there's more at work here though than mere technology....the satanic arts, perhaps? Or the trolls that live inside my computer trying to undermine what remains of my sanity?

Enough! To the Birthday Boy......

This picture of D was taken last month, when Rise and I met him and his family at the Assateague National Seashore. He was trying to befriend one of the wild ponies who wander the beach there. His dad [my oldest son] and mom are skittish about having his picture on the internet, so you will have to content yourselves with this view from behind. But take it from me, he's cute as a button, with his dad's dark brown eyes, his mom's nose, blond hair, and an attitude of open-faced innocence that makes you want to squeeze him.

So several days late, with lots of love .................

Hope you had a very Happy Birthday D.....and wishing you many, many more!

Quiet Desperation

"The mass of men" Thoreau said, "lead lives of quiet desperation."

Have you ever had the kind of day, or week, where you would get immense satisfaction from taking a pile of dishes, obviously not your prized Lennox, or my beloved Polish pottery, and hurling them with all your might against a brick wall? I don't lead a life of "quiet desperation", but I sure have a day of it every now and again.

And then there's only one thing for it, smashing crockery not being an option. I have to get out of here. Even stomping around in the trees out back won't help. I have to go where there is vastness and beauty; enough to humble me, enough to make me realise I'm being an ass, that most of it is in my head, and help me regain some perspective. It helps if there is water there. When I was young, I'd flounce out of the house, slamming doors behind me, and head for the banks of the Shannon, and walk, and walk, and vehemently walk, until the anger, or the fear, or the frustration was all stomped out of me.

I'd return like a lamb, and deal calmly with whatever it was had set me off, thereby avoiding the necessity of buying new dishes,and the possibility of an ass kicking from an authority figure.

So down to the water I went, a few nights ago, to watch the sunset, and clear my head. I brought my camera, in hopes of finding interesting clouds, but all the clouds were behind me as I stood at the water's edge, looking out at the gulf. Nothing but a swiftly sinking orange ball.


There's always a good turnout to watch the sun go down. Old folks come, shuffling along on the arms of younger friends. Retirees bring their guests and their folding chairs. Young parents bring their offspring, in hopes, perhaps, of tiring them out before bedtime. Teenagers come to hang out, and clown around at the water's edge. Old couples, young couples, families, dogs, teenagers.....and me.

After the glowing sun sinks below the horizon, the little knots disperse. There's a sigh in the air, of contentment, and peace. Mother Nature has come through for us again. Proving that no matter how good or bad a day we had, she can be depended on to finish it off the same way she always does, unmoved by our nonsense.

The sky turns dull, and as I watch, a dapper little dog dances at the dark edge of the water; a boy and girl have a few last "go's" on a boogie board; silhouettes drift towards the parking lot, and I think how insignificant we all are, for all our angst and agonizing.

The light is fading fast, from purple to navy. A few stars are out, and a pale "fingernail"* moon. The drone of cars rises, then falls away as the parking lot empties.

It's so still now. A lone, lazy gull flaps low over the water; a little wave slaps on the pebbles; the murmuring voices and quiet laughter of a young couple carry across the stillness. Was I ever that young, I wonder? If I was, it was too long ago.


The beach is quiet. Like my life. Everyone is leaving.

I sprint for my car across the parking lot. The gates close at sundown.....I drive home slowly through the darkness, serenity restored. Desperation, quiet or otherwise, has been pushed away for another while.....




Note: No dishes were smashed in the writing of this post. Just so you know.


*A phrase, coined in great excitement one evening in California, by my oldest son, who came inside to call us to come out and see "the beautiful fingernail moon." We've never called it a crescent moon since.

Happy Birthday Boo!

Here is one of the sweetest compensations for growing old. He's three today. Happy Birthday Boo!

Drooling in Dunedin

I went south last week to the town of Dunedin. It's an arty little place, right by the water, with lots of interesting shops and cute, if pricey, boutiques. When I'm in the area I like to nose around there for an hour or so. But this particular day I was on a mission. To the Dunedin Fine Arts Center, which was hosting the travelling quilt exhibit of the winners of the 2007 American Quilter's Society contest, New Quilts From an Old Favourite.

My first response to the roomful of colourful and awe inspiring quilts was "Wow!" Followed closely by "Drat!" Because, in my usual, last-minute dash out the door, I'd forgotten my camera. But, all is not lost*. By going to the MAQS website you can see the top five quilts for yourself. When you get there scroll down to "contests" and click on "New Quilts From an Old Favourite."

Rose of Sharon is not one of my favourite blocks. But since the aim of the contest is to put a modern spin on old designs,the results are always interesting. I liked the second place winner, Rio Rosie, better than the first, maybe because it was less recognisable as being based on Rose of Sharon! But also because it zinged with oranges, pinks and yellows, and rhythm from those swirling, dancing, shapes.

The fifth placed quilt made me think of Meggie's Leo!

Too bad the site doesn't have pictures of all seventeen of the quilts. There was one called "Leave Room In Your Garden For Fairies To Dance." I loved the title, but thought the background fabric detracted from the beautiful appliqued fairies.

I'm no fairy but I flitted off next to another Dunedin landmark,a huge quilt shop, aptly named "Rainbow's End." When I go there,I feel like a kid in a candy store --- drool, drool, drool.

In a moment of insanity [or guilt, perhaps], I volunteered at our last quilt guild meeting to take over our monthly fat quarter sale. Which simply means I keep my nose to the ground and sniff out fat quarters, on sale, at quilt shops, which we then mark up a little and sell at our meetings. Which was my excuse for going to the quilt shop. Turns out it wasn't an act of insanity after all! I have way too much fabric myself, so have to rein myself in regularly when I'm tempted to buy more. This new "job" allows me to buy fabric AND feel virtuous about it, since I'm actually doing a service for my fellow guild members! Can you see my halo? And would you like a preview of the loot?


Any ambitious quilters out there? You still have time to enter MAQS's 2008 contest! The old block this time will be Sawtooth. You have until November '07. Go for it! Maybe ,I'll see a quilt from one of my blogger friends at next year's exhibit. Don't look for one from me though. I have at least five years of work to finish current quilting projects.


*Saw a sign while driving there that said "If all is not lost, then where is it?" Anybody know?

Casper's Advice

Casper, is a sociable fellow. If I'm in the kitchen, he hangs out nearby, in the family room. If I'm sewing, he strolls in, tail aloft, and curls into a ball on a stool by the window, killing two birds with one stone---sunshine and company. Or, if I'm working on a quilt,he'll position himself, with a languid stretch, in the middle of it.[He thinks I make them solely for that purpose.] So,it's a no-brainer. If I'm on the computer he's right there at my feet, snoozing away companionably, or frequently, in my lap, having a blog read right along with me.

In this way he became aware that there are kittens out there. At Isabelle's, to be exact. So for the past week he's been giving me no peace. He wants a shot at being a guest blogger. What can I say? This animal is my roommate, friend, confidante, cuddler, and comforter. It would be churlish to refuse. Without further ado, here's Casper,cat extraordinaire.



"Greetings Bloggers! She [who must be humoured] thinks I'm suddenly interested in blogging. Not so. Blogging makes me yawn. But, sitting on her lap recently, I caught a glimpse of some very fetching kittens, which made me sit up and pay attention. I am of the opinion that kittens get way too little advice from grown up cats,and I would like to rectify that situation for Sirius and Cassie, by giving them the benefit of my own experience.

People like to think they own us cats. They even think they can train us. Harmless myths. Ones you might want to play along with in the interests of keeping them happy. Just as long as you never forget that it is you who own them, and you who need to make sure that they are properly trained.

The most important things in a cat's life, I'm sure you will both agree, are, food, comfort, grooming, playtime, comfort, clean litter, comfort, more food, and the biggies, relaxation and sleep. Oh, and in case I forgot to mention it, comfort.

Food is essential. Without it you will never grow into the lithe, graceful, creatures you are meant to be. You should establish at the outset, that you will not settle for just any food. Make sure they provide you with a varied diet. If, every time you come to your dish, with a great hunger on you, and find there the same boring old dry food, be brave. Stalk away in disdain, even though you feel faint. This will worry them enough that they will go to the store and fetch something new,with which to tempt you. This behaviour should be reinforced, perhaps by a little reward, such as, after you have partaken of the new delicacy, climbing into a lap, and purring appreciatively. They will be charmed with you and will know how to respond the next time you turn your nose up at the offerings in your dish.

Early in your life with your people you should ascertain which are the most comfortable chairs and claim them as your own. This may take some perseverance, but the results will be worth it. The first time he comes home from work and finds you curled up in his favourite chair, the man of the house is likely to be grumpy, and perhaps even go so far as to shove you off. By acting injured and hurt by this ungentlemanly behaviour you can win other members of the family to your side. Enough "Poor kitty!"s and "How could you Dad's," and you'll be well on your way to ownership of that chair. Of course you don't want to alienate him altogether. After all, he is labouring under the illusion that it is his house. It might be best to try to work out a compromise wherein you share the chair.


People are naive. When they are new to cat co-habitation they have no idea of what fun we can have with ordinary things. Lace curtains, fluttering in the breeze, for instance, are there to be climbed. The tantalising wiggle of yarn, as the lady in your life works on her knitting, is an invitation to a romp, with the aim of getting deliciously tangled in it. We practice our hunting skills by capering after the shadows cast by sunlight on walls, and by stalking every bug who has the temerity to crawl across the carpet. Paper sacks from the grocery store make the greatest hiding places. And boxes. Insist that they keep a variety of boxes around for you to play hide and seek in. Likewise baskets. Who can resist an adorable kitten curled up in a basket? However, they should be of high quality, not those substandard objects sold as "cat beds." Settle only for the handmade variety..... They'll buy "toys" for you, but feel free to ignore them. It will finally dawn on them to put a little creative effort into your toys. A feather, for instance, can provide hours of enjoyment. And who would want a store bought "mouse" when a much better creature can be achieved with some good quality fur and a piece of string?

Sleeping arrangements are another thorny subject. My own mistress has a very comfy down comforter on her bed. My favourite place to sleep at night is on this comforter, exactly where her feet are. Which makes her cranky, so I am sometimes forced to move, temporarily, to another part of the bed. I just wait until her breathing sounds deep and even. Then reposition myself, if not on, then right next to, her feet.

If, when morning comes, your people are not rising with sufficient alacrity, you can approach the problem in one of several ways. My own first resort is to approach the sleeping head on it's pillow, find the nose, and give it a gentle nudge. If this doesn't work, repeat, a little more forcefully. But proceed with caution. They tend to be difficult to reason with before they have that first cup of coffee. If you're still not getting the desired results, remove yourself to the door of the room, and yowl piteously. Just be ready to dodge flying slippers. Persistence again, is key. You will soon have them dancing to your tune.

One last thing worth mentioning. It's okay to love your people. As long as you do it with dignity. No dog-like slobbering please. And remember to maintain an air of mystery, like me......


.....just to keep them guessing.

Well bloggers, this has been exhausting, but I felt I had a duty to kittendom.I may not have covered everything, but I've made a start. Happy romping,Cassie and Sirius, and please let my mistress know if you have any questions. I will be available again right after I take my afternoon nap. As I mentioned earlier, blogging makes me yawn."

There you have it folks. From Casper's mouth to the kittens' ears. Who knew he would be so long-winded? Cassie and Sirius probably dropped off for a nap after the first paragraph. But it'll all be here on the blog when they have questions.......


Postscript: A comment from Thimbleanna sent me scurrying to her blog to do some intensive snooping. Got caught up reading, and so was taken by surprise when I scrolled back some more---to her June 26 th. post and there looking out at me was a gorgeous relative of Casper's! Scruff, by name. Go check it out. I swear I had no idea! Great minds indeed!

An Embarrassment of Figs

I spent an hour today harvesting figs. And yesterday. And the day before. I expect I’ll do it again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that……

Several years ago, new to Florida, we innocently planted a little fig sapling. It arrived in a small box in the mail. There were no warnings attached. Nothing to indicate that this little sapling would grow into a monster fig tree and inundate us, for at least a month each year, with the fruit of its loins.

Our knowledge of figs was limited. I’ve heard that fig leaves were the cool thing to wear in the Garden of Eden. The OC grew up on fig newtons. I grew up on their Irish equivalent, fig rolls. They wouldn’t have made it onto a list of my ten favourite cookies. We were totally unprepared for how delicious fresh figs are, picked warm from the tree and popped directly into your mouth. Edible sunshine.

I hauled the ladder to the tree this morning to pick today’s crop. They’re ripe when they turn golden and their texture is soft. I stretched and reached and teetered, climbing up and down to deposit my loot in the bucket. Where the ladder wouldn’t go, I intrepidly went, risking life and arthritic limb.

And got scolded by a cheeky bird who ignored my efforts to shoo him, hopping from branch to branch, so close to me that I could, at considerable risk of ending up in the hospital, have reached out and throttled the bugger.

“Excuse me bird---whose fig tree is this anyway? I’m a reasonable woman. I’ll share. Just quit your squawking and flapping!” When I regaled The Bean with my bird tale later he asked ---

“Brown bird? Speckled? Long beak? Bad attitude?”
“Yes!” I said, “that’s him.”
“I know him,” he said.
“He’s the one who sits on the wire while I’m picking the blackberries,that I grew, and squawks at me, as though I was stealing from him! Yeah. His days are numbered.”


Anyhow. The purpose of this post is to beg for HELP! If anyone out there has tried-and-true recipes for using up a gazillion figs I’d love to hear about them. The neighbours are starting to bar their doors and hide when they see us coming, fig-laden. And we’ve eaten them ‘til our bellies ache. We need creative suggestions for the fig inundation. H.E.L.P!!

.......And Beaches.....

Islanders are, of course, magnetically drawn to beaches. They have no choice. Must.regularly.fill.lungs.with.salty.sea.air. Or curl up and die.

Which is why, when we were growing up, the sweetest words our parents could say, on a warm Sunday after Mass, were "Let's go to the seaside!"

While Dad organised the picnic basket, Mum rolled up her sleeves and started making sandwiches.

Lahinch, on the coast of Co. Clare, was about forty miles away. Forty very long miles. As we got closer, we watched like hawks, each of us wanting to be first to see the sea. When the shout went up, we craned forward from the back seat, riveted by the distant gleam of the ocean.

We had to curb our enthusiasm, however, until we found the perfect sheltered hollow in the sand dunes. Blankets were spread and swimsuits wriggled into. Dad set about dolacawling* with the little stove and kettle to make tea, mother set about roasting herself, and we scattered.

Brother made a beeline for the rocks to watch the relentlessly crashing waves. Little sister built sandcastles, and permitted the smaller waves to chase her. And I went leaping like a goat over the smooth rocks separating the dunes from the beach. There was giddy exhilaration in leaping from one to the other, so sure-footed that I knew, while airborne, exactly which rock I'd land on. I sometimes wonder if all that rock lepping had anything to do with the less than nimble condition of my feet now....

And shells! The toy has not yet been invented that could enthrall me as thoroughly as a seashell. On every trip to the sea I'd haul home another load, maternal protests notwithstanding. They were, and still are, endlessly fascinating.

Lahinch is a wide, sweeping arc of golden bliss. When we tired, temporarily, of rock lepping and sandcastle building, we'd go dancing into the waves, and skitter back as a huge one threatened, and advance again, shivering and giggling, and jump with each approaching swell,in a futile attempt to keep from getting completely wet. Eventually we'd surrender, and let the sea have her way with us, and come up laughing and gasping for air. Even on the hottest day in July, the Atlantic is COLD. Exhilarated, and covered in goose bumps, we'd dash for our hollow in the dunes. And lie on outspread towels, hugging the warm sand, until our teeth ceased their chattering.

And then, for sure, we'd be ready for those sandwiches. My mother was a farmer's daughter, so you'd expect that sandwiches made by her, for children rendered ravenous by the salty sea, would be great agricultural slabs of things. But you'd be wrong. Somewhere between the farm and the beach, our mum had fallen in love with things genteel. The sandwiches, and there were plenty of them, fortunately, were dainty things, with the crusts neatly cut off. Suitable for ladylike nibbling at a bridge party. We were no ladies, and this was no bridge party. It was like tossing buns to elephants.

And tea by the sea. Oh my! Even though we drank it from the woefully inadequate blue plastic cups that came with the picnic basket,it was surely what the angels drank in heaven.

Sunscreen? Never heard of it. Must be for sissies. With our fair skin we regularly got roasted. Looking like a lobster was proof you'd been to the seaside.... Several days later we could be found,like our cousins the monkeys, engrossed in the ancient grooming ritual of removing crispy wisps of scorched skin from each others' backs.

**************************************************

Liz was born in the Mojave Desert. But her bones know, that even though she lives in land-locked Ohio she is really a sea nymph.


This is our sea nymph in her famous film star pose....

She came to meet us in Miami for a weekend while her aunt was visiting from Ireland. It poured rain, the better to make Auntie feel right at home. But at least it was warm. This fellow was better rigged out than we were for the downpour.


There were three of us, which meant, given our combined lack of expertise, we could only have two of us in any given picture. But we wanted three. Not possible. Unless......Unless we threw ourselves on the mercy of a stranger.....Which is how we came to accost an unsuspecting fellow who had just come onto the beach from his hotel. Running up to him, camera in hand, smiling ingratiatingly, I asked if he would mind doing us a favour. Almost immediately, I knew I'd made a mistake. Of all the cool, laid back people we could have met on the beach, we'd run into the lone,humourless stuffed shirt. As he tsk,tsked,like a fussy old hen who had chicks late in life, I tried to back away, mumbling apologies.

"I came out here to exercise," he said crossly, impatiently reaching for the camera. All business. So...oo.. Its a miracle we didn't stick our tongues out,like naughty children, when he clicked. We began to thank him effusively, the more so because he'd been less than delighted to be accosted by three lovely lassies. But, lo! He was getting into the beach spirit now. "I'll take one more," he said magnanimously. Then, brushing aside our thanks, he went twittering off down the beach, intent on his exercise. We didn't accost any more strangers. Lesson learned. At least 'til next time.


But we did get a picture of all three of us, and we did fill our lungs with enough salty sea air to last us for a while.....

*dolacawling---my phonetic spelling for an untranslatable word used in Ireland that loosely means "messing about with......" Don't say I never include educational content here.

Note: I am guardedly optimistic that I might have finally nailed the picture uploading thing....not to mention ecstatic! Bear with me for a while if I get carried away with my new found abilities.

Of Islanders.......

The word "islander" fills my head with Elvis, crooning songs from "Blue Hawaii". My mind's eye sees the hips of hula dancers undulating across the big screen in my head, their leis swaying to the ukelele music. My nose smells again the lovely perfume my Dad once bought for me called "Fiji". My toes itch for the grit of sand, and I just want to grab my bucket and shovel and head for the beach.

Because I too am an islander. I may not have the come-hither eyes or the lovely olive skin of Hawaiian hula girls. I may not have their undulating hips, or wear exotic flowers in my hair,or swish about in a grass skirt, but these were not requirements last time I checked. My pale eyes, freckled skin, and inability to undulate do not disqualify me. I am qualified by the mere fact that I was born on an island.

For all I know I could be descended from Vikings, those fearsome Scandinavian fellows with horns, who reputedly pillaged and looted all around my part of Ireland several centuries ago. And then, as our diminutive history teacher triumphantly told us, became more Irish than the Irish themselves. Which probably means they outdid the local lads in Guinness drinking and had all the lasses swooning over their stunning Nordic handsomeness.

So what of it, you say? What's the big deal? Well. If you must know, it makes me feel special. Being an "Islander" and all. It makes me feel like the ocean belongs to me. And I belong to the sea. Not that I'm brave or anything. I wouldn't be the one signing on for any Kon Tiki expeditions. I just love to be beside the sea. [Breaks into song---"I do like to be beside the seaside, I do like to be beside the sea, I do like to stroll along the prom prom prom, where the brass band plays, tiddly om pom pom...."

I guess it's really all about water. Rivers are good. Lakes are better. Oceans rock. The most soothing sound on the planet, to me, is the swoosh of waves hitting the shore. When you grow up on an island that sound is never far away. It hangs in the air and has a salty tang.......

One Word Meme

Rise up and left yesterday.
We had a fantastic month.
I was instructed not to mope.
Blogging could be defined as an anti-moping device.
So here goes.
I was tagged some time ago by Rise, and again by jkhenson


One-Word Responses



1. Where is your cell phone? You'reaskingME?
2. Relationship? Turbulent
3. Your hair? There
4. Work? Keptwoman
5. Your sister? Soulmate


6. Your favourite thing? Books
7. Your dream last night? Elusive
8. Your favourite drink? Tea
9. Your dream car? ModelT
10. The room you're in? Den


11. Your shoes? Slippers
12. Your fears? Everpresent
13. What do you want to be in 10 years? Dancing
14. Who did you hang out with at w/e? Family
15. What are you not good at? Electronics


16. Muffin? Poppyseed
17. Wish list item? Wand
18. Where you grew up? Limerick
19. The last thing you did? Commented
20. What are you wearing? Dress


21. What are you not wearing? Bra
22. Your pet? Meowing
23. Your computer? Slow
24. Your life? Interesting
25. Your mood? Apprehensive


26. Missing? Husbandsisterkids
27. What are you thinking about? Words
28. Your car? Focus
29. Your kitchen? Familiar
30. Your summer? Underway


31. Your favourite colour? Bluegreenlavender
32. Last time you laughed? Yesterday
33. Last time you cried? Yesterday
34. School? CouldI?
35. Love? Makestheworldgoround


I know this has been around for a while but I'd love to see responses from Little Miss Moi and Heartinsanfrancisco. No pressure, but if you'd like to do it, consider yourselves tagged.

May the Road "Rise" to Meet You......

It was the longest day of summer, June 21 st., my sister’s birthday. Six years is a gaping chasm when you’re fourteen and she’s eight, so we weren’t that close growing up. When I was twenty two and she was sixteen, I blithely wandered off to the other side of the world and the rest of my life.

She was a beautiful bridesmaid and I an immature bride. Love conquers all,“they” say. “They” neglected to mention that when SHE got married I might not be able to be there. “They” didn’t mention that when I had my first child, I’d miss sharing the magic with her, of watching her hold her first tiny niece. Nor that, if you stuck a skewer through the middle of the globe, we’d be living, respectively, where it went in, and where it came out again, when HER first child was born. That her children and mine would grow up strangers. Of course if I’d had half a brain I’d have figured a lot of this out for myself. But I didn’t, so I didn’t.

It was death, of all things, that brought us closer. First our dad’s, and ten years later our mum’s. We began to see each other as real people. Grown up people. Mothers ourselves.

The OC got assigned to Germany. He went on ahead while we stopped in Ireland. And had a great time, in spite of piddling rain, which made us so desperate, down by the sea, with a house full of energetic kids, that we even taught the BOYS how to knit!

Several years later we were back in Europe, this time in Belgium. We went to Ireland. Rise came to Brussels. Each time I realized, a little more, how much this little sister meant to me. That little kid I used to be so mean to, devising elaborate plots to dodge her when she wanted to play with me and my friends. I couldn’t remember those friends' faces anymore, but more and more, hers was the face I wanted to see. Who would’ve thunk [take your complaints to Merriam-Webster] we’d get another chance?

Without my even noticing it, her’s became the shoulder I cried on when life threw me curve balls. She can make me laugh while I’m still crying. Some wicked Rise wit, some sane Rise philosophy, a little dose of Rise comedy when the world gets you down....it was like a drug, and I was a full blown addict. She’s had tough times herself, and toughed it out, without any help from me. And become a wise, thoughtful, caring woman who I'd count myself lucky to stumble on as a friend, if we never had the good fortune to be related.

I don’t lead a charmed life. It’s pretty good, pretty average. But in the sister sweepstakes I hit the jackpot. I could have been an only child, or had only brothers, or, like Cinderella, had two ugly stepsisters. How many people come into your life who love and accept you, just the way you are? No, you can’t have her, but if you ever meet her, I’ll share. Just remember whose sister she is.

Yesterday was her birthday, the longest day of the year. She’s still six years younger than me. One woman we met, on our recent adventures said “Wait, wait, don’t tell me! Mother and daughter, right?” Not a woman I’d care to get to know any better, sniff. Should have whacked her with my cane.... Maybe it’s because my hair is au naturel, while hers is, ahem, enhanced! She soothed my ruffled feathers, when she finally stopped her delighted cackling, by saying it was too bad she wasn’t quick enough to reply, ”Yes, and isn’t mum looking great for her eighty years?”

In spite of little irritations like this, I no longer devise elaborate plots to give her the slip. Because I’m too busy figuring out how we can spend more time together. Now that our various children are more or less grown, we have a cunning plan to get together more often. When she goes home I’ll suffer for a while from the empty chair at the breakfast table. Coffee and tea won’t seem quite as delicious without her. I’ll miss the gleam in her eye that tells me she knows exactly what I’m thinking, before I even open my mouth. But I won’t start weeping just yet. I’m having too much fun. Happy Birthday Rise, me darlin’!

WANTED - Dead or Alive!

Rise, if you can believe that anyone heading south to beach and sun, would forget to pack a swimsuit, did. Forget to pack a swimsuit.

So one of our first gadabout adventures was a shopping trip. We had something frivolous in mind. In hot pink, or neon orange, or lime green. Sizzling. Tropical.

Store #1---nothing.
Store #2---nada.
Store #3---nulla.
Store #4---zero.
Store #5---zilch.

So we headed glumly to store #6. Which neccessitated crossing to the other side of the highway. The usual route was blocked by construction. Plan B was implemented. Drive to the light. Execute a U-turn. Wait patiently at the red. Then slowly, when it is safe to do so, make the u-turn.

"Are you allowed to do that?" enquires Rise, ever in search of knowledge.

"I think it's okay. Though now that you ask, I'm not a hundred percent sure."

We were about to find out. Shall I even bother to continue?

Bright red and blue lights were suddenly flashing in my rear view mirror. Simultaneously, a horrible sinking feeling settled in my gut.

"Rise," I whispered hoarsely. "There's a cop behind us. He's not coming after us, surely?"

He made no motion to pass, only came closer and closer. My gut was quaking now with dread. I pulled over on the shoulder. The last vestige of doubt evaporated as he tucked himself in neatly behind me.

A burly young whippersnapper got out. A well-fed representative of The LAW.

"You're being pulled over for executing an illegal u-turn back there ma'am," the young whippersnapper growled when he reached my window.

I babbled piteously. Something about the construction and the road that I normally use being blocked.

"Yes ma'am. Too many people have been making illegal turns at this intersection. We've had too many accidents. We have to crack down."
On the criminal element, who are causing mayhem in their quest for beauteous garments with which to disport their aged bones on the beach.

There are crack dealers out there.
Breakers and enterers.
Arsonists.
Crazed lunatics holding up terrified bank tellers at gunpoint.
Abductors of innocent children.
Murderers.
Rapists.
Dirty old men exposing their parts to unsuspecting virgins.

But, no. It was the last day of the month. Have to make our quota. Today, men, we're out to make the fastest buck we can. The honour of the Sherrif's Office rests on your shoulders.
Shake Joe and Josephine Ordinary Citizen out of their complacency.
Never mind the fellow speeding through the red light.
Never mind the guy holding up the bank.
See that woman in the green Ford? Making, nay,executing, a u-turn?She's the one we want. The criminal element, with the silvery hair and the shifty eyes.

"Nab her, boys!
What do you think the taxpayers are paying you for?
Huh?
To sit around eating donuts all day?
Hell, no!
We need to stamp out crime!
And we need to start at this intersection!"

"I don't suppose you could let me off with just a warning?" I ventured meekly.

"Sorry ma'am. You broke the law. "
I'm not feeling merciful today.
My groin itches.
Besides, you're not blonde, twenty, or buxom.

If ever I wished to be blonde, twenty, or buxom, this was the hour. This was the day.

"Your license and registration, ma'am?" he said, holding out a meaty paw.

I fumbled in my purse.
I rummaged in the glove compartment.
Thinking mutinous thoughts.

Produced the required documents. Proof that the shifty-eyed, menace-to-society look was just a halloween costume, getting an early airing.

"Wait here, ma'am."

Leaves us stewing in our own sweat while he returns to his vehicle.
To investigate my criminal history.

Fifteen long minutes later [they must have ALL the dirt on me], he swaggers to my window, again. He looks like he played football in high school. He looks like that wasn't very long ago. Like he only has to shave once a week. But he's got the disapproving frown down pat.

"Here's your citation, ma'am. You have thirty days to blah, blah, blah di blah....." He droned on.

I sat meekly.
Rise, mute beside me, exuded sympathy.

The final outrage?

"Have a good day, ma'am!"

"You too," I mumbled, insincerely.
And may a swarm of sticky lovebugs infest your windshield.
And may your groin continue to itch.
And may they be out of French cruellers when next you stop at the donut shop. And.....but never mind.

I was wrong.
I broke the law.
And now I have to pay.
Ochone, Ochone!

We did find a swimsuit, when we crept fearfully to store # 6.
A sober little black number.
A fitting choice.