Om........

YOGA @ WORK, a photo by P1nc on Flickr.

A long time ago, in a country far, far away, I signed up for yoga lessons. It was at the British School, down the road from where we lived in Belgium. The biggest advantage was that the instructor was a native English speaker. Since I expended tremendous amounts of mental energy "speaking in tongues" every time I left the house, I didn't have any reserves to use on figuring out what a yoga instructor was saying----unless she said it  in English. Buying bread at the bakery, or vegetables at the village market, or cheeses from the delicatessen  all necessitated "speaking in tongues," my own special blend of French, which I'd learned in school, German, which we'd learned while living in Germany, Flemish, which was the official language in our village, mime which I made up on the spot, and a generous helping of  Gibberish to balance everything out. I had even taken the extreme measure of signing up for Flemish lessons in our village. What made this move extreme was that the only flemish classes available were taught in French....as if I didn't have enough chaos in my head already! But I was determined that it was worth a try.  As for my forays to the market, the bakery and the deli, believe it or not, I usually arrived home with exactly what I had set out to buy. But it took it's toll. My clothing would be damp and clammy, and my face scarlet from the combination of my linguistic exertions and acute embarrassment.  Not the effect I was after in a yoga class.

And that was only the half of it. We still, at that time in our lives, had a full house which included a black lab with escape-artist tendencies, a Belgian Malinois puppy one of the children had brought home from the nearby stables, a supercilious Himalayan cat, a pair of chinchillas, an ever changing parade of lizards, frogs and geckos, and several young humans at various stages of development. Getting activities and meals and schedules organized so that I could go to yoga was, in itself, a major feat. I was usually dashing out the door, calling last minute instructions over my shoulder to whichever child I was leaving in charge, and skating in on one heel, after everyone else was already breathing deeply on their mats in preparation for the start of class. Mumbling incoherent [but English!] apologies, I'd flop down onto my mat and fill my lungs with air, then exhale, slowly, until my lungs were as empty as I could get them, then fill them up again.........

And then I'd wake up.....

 ......to the sounds of everyone around me rolling up their mats and gathering their belongings. Almost every time I'd fall asleep after those first few breaths. I must have slept quietly, no snoring, since no one ever poked me in the ribs to either wake me up or shut me up. The instructor never called in the janitors to remove the unresponsive body. She might have been miffed that someone would sleep in her class, or, if one of the purposes of yoga is indeed to relax, she might have thought me her star pupil.....I was too embarrassed to stick around long enough to find out, but scurried off while her more actively enthusiastic students engaged her in after class chit-chat. And while each class was a restful and relaxing experience, I didn't come away from them with any greater knowledge of yoga than I'd had at the outset. So my yoga career was shelved indefinitely.

Until now.

 A few weeks ago, having had it in mind for months, I finally went to a yoga class. And stayed awake the entire time! I seem to have finally reached a point in life where I am, absolutely, ready for this. No use crying over the fact that if I had started a few years ago I might have been much better equipped for some of the curve balls life has thrown this way recently. No matter.  No amount of knowing you should do something, or having someone else tell you how good it would be for you, can make it happen. The only way it happens is to pick the day, ascertain that a class is offered on that day, rummage in the closet for something to wear that is comfortable, cool, and not too ridiculous looking, then get in the car and GO! There's even the added bonus of learning some words in yet another foreign language!

I'm loving it! Even if it is sometimes a hassle to fit it in around everything else, I'm always glad I made the effort. If you have even the slightest inclination to try it I'd say don't wait another day. I've already felt the preamble to rigor mortis---in my lack of flexibility, or the creaking that goes on when I bend my knees. Yoga can change all that, strengthen our core muscles and restore flexibility, and if you find it all a bit strenuous at first you can breathe deep and take a nice, restful nap. I promise not to tell.

Divinity Fluttering By.....

IMG_0946, a photo by Mollybawn on Flickr.

It really is true that the nuns haunt me still. So much of how I think and feel and live hinges on things they taught me, even after all these decades.

Number Three: "Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath day."

 Way back in Senior Infants we learned the Ten Commandments. Does it count as reverence for creation if this butterfly, spotted outside my window, makes me gasp in awe?

Even God rested on the seventh day. And He was a pretty important guy....

And I don't think He ever made phone calls that ruined someone's otherwise perfectly pleasant Sunday. Of course not everyone had nuns as teachers, so they might have missed the memo on the Sabbath, and the one about maintaining some civility when speaking to others.Words are so powerful. Once they're out of their cage there's no calling them back. Much better to give some thought to which ones you want to release.

While we're being Biblical, another phrase pops into my mind.

 "The meek shall inherit the earth."

 Hmmmm. I may not be inheriting the earth in that case. Since meekness is out,  maybe I'll just turn off the phone on Sundays.

Meanwhile I'm focusing on that beautiful butterfly.

Bird Watching, the Best Therapy

I often think if I have to come back again, and live another life, and another and another, to try and get it right, please God, let me come back as a bird! How lovely to fly above everything, to drift along on invisible currents, changing direction with the merest tilt of a feather. I could fly to the tops of the tallest trees and have a ringside seat every evening for the setting of the sun.

There's a lake a stone's throw from the house and I've been going over there evenings, an hour before sunset, with my camera, to spy on the birds.

On good days I'll see several kinds of wading birds.  Sometimes they're difficult to spot, standing so still, listening so intently......But this evening I met a very lively fellow.

 He hardly stopped moving the entire half hour or so that I watched him. He danced and skipped around in the water with what I can only describe as exuberance, at being alive, and having so many tasty morsels, right there for the catching.....

 Want to learn how to focus and "live in the moment"? Watch the birds!

Forget television, and the pesky procedure of pushing this button, and that, in some ritualized sequence that makes no sense to me. When I need entertainment I grab my camera and walk to the lake. Three minutes on foot and a different performance every evening!

Beaches and Sunshine....and Things that Slither

We went for a walk in the Wildlife Preserve a couple of weekends ago when the OC was home for a few days, and found this fellow, sunning himself along the side of the trail.......I kept my distance as the OC thought he might be a water moccassin.  I had no desire to have a close encounter with a snake of any kind, especially not a poisonous one. We were enjoying the beautiful afternoon and he was too. I was not always so chill about snakes, and I am chill now only by comparison to how I used to be. Our older boys loved snakes and begged to be allowed to have one as a pet. But if that had happened I'd have had to move out.....and they needed a mother more than they needed a pet snake.

Then along came The Bean. From the time he learned to walk he loved anything that ran on four legs, or swam, or flew.........

Or slithered.

Some day I'll have to write about Lauren, the little mouse he brought in from the garden and made a nest for in his room....When he brought home long strings of frog eggs in a bucket I was, at the same time, repelled and fascinated. Because of his persistence I gradually lost [some] of my heebie jeebies and could [to a limited extent] appreciate the wonders of the reptile world. In kindergarten he was an authority on dinosaurs. In middle school he had a subscription to Reptile magazine. The child who wasn't interested in reading stories devoured every word, every month, of that magazine.

Since I had my camera with me I couldn't resist taking a few pictures, brave only because there was a rescuer at hand, should things turn ugly! When we showed the photos to The Bean he confirmed the OC's suspicions. Since this is Florida, and the snakes and the gators were here thousands of years before we moved here, I figure I can be generous, I can share. Live and let live....

Except when I walk out to the patio and find one of their kind in my space! As happened this morning. I headed out the door, crossed the deck and reached to open the pool cage door. Something at the base of the door moved, slithered in fact!

I moved too---three feet, straight up into the air. Didn't know my old knees had it in them! When I landed I very gingerly opened the door to let him out, but he didn't appreciate my kind gesture and started rattling his tail at me. Neither of us was happy at this point. Heart in mouth, I decided I needed a broom to nudge him in the right direction.

 The door was right there, wide open, but we had a merry dance before he twigged it and raced off  into the grass. [Mental note: don't walk barefoot in the grass!] He was just a black racer, nothing dangerous, but still, not welcome that close to the house!

You'd think that was enough excitement for one day....but there was more. After watering some plants outside, I was coming back into the house when I heard a rustling sound from the back corner of the garage where I had thought there was nothing but inanimate objects. Something is alive back there and I'm too spooked, with snakes so recently on my mind, to investigate alone. I'm also not confident that I could move with the alacrity that might be required........It's the weekend though and The Bean should be home this evening................In the meantime I'll be watching my step. Stay tuned!


Note: You'd think that if Zoombrowser is going to put the date on my photos it could at least get it right!

"It was a dark and stormy night....."

A blizzard in fact. Almost nine months pregnant, I had protested loudly  "No no no! Not now! Don't go!"  He assured me he'd be back before the baby came. Whatever wild hair made him decide that now was a good time to go to California to pick up the sporty little car he had left there with friends when we had moved to Montana was beyond my capacity to comprehend.

And now it was the 8th.of April, my due date, and our hero was headed home, somewhere between California and Montana....

In the dark....

In a blizzard....Stop for a little bad weather? Nonsense! He was a man, not a pansy! Real men stick their heads out the window if they can't see through the windshield....and keep going.

And he had been right. There was no baby yet. Even before he was born, our Chuk E Boy was a gentleman.

I waddled from door to window to kitchen to bedroom.....No matter what they say about tall women carrying better, at nine months you're a duck, lacking only the quack. Where was he? Shouldn't he be home by now?

I dozed off for a while, then woke with a start. The garage door? Surely I'd heard it opening? I peered out the window but all was dark, nobody there. Then the phone rang.

It was a nurse at the hospital. In a gentle, soothing voice she told me I shouldn't panic, they had my husband, he'd had an accident, but he was going to be alright.

I have no idea how I got to the hospital.....Did I drive? Did someone else drive me? What did I do with Lily? She was two and a half at the time. I know I didn't leave her alone. I must have taken her to a neighbour.....

I only remember waddling through the hospital entrance,  and seeing the OC being wheeled somewhere on a stretcher. He had bits of glass sticking out of his face. He didn't look his best.

He had gone off the highway in the middle of nowhere, with zero visibility, in the blizzard. Still driving when any sane person would have pulled off somewhere and waited it out. Probably read too many superhero comic books as a child.

On the 12th. April I woke up at 6:30 a.m.to the realization that Oh boy! I was in labour! And how. It had been moving along quietly while I slept and now it was getting serious. The plan was to call our friend, Tom, to come and get me, since the OC had broken a few toes which were now held together with steel pins and plaster of Paris, rendering driving impossible, not to mention unwise. Tom 's wife was also due around the same time so this was a practice run for him. It was a bumpy and wild ride to the hospital with contractions coming close together and poor Tom, who was a Montana boy, born and bred, who only took off his cowboy hat and cowboy boots to sleep, and had doubtless seen plenty of calves born, begging me to hold on; he didn't want to deliver any babies in his old rattletrap of a car and could I please just wait a few more minutes....

At the hospital it seemed to me the most comfortable place to be was on all fours, on the floor, dignity be damned.  The nurses were having none of that though, all bustle and business and deaf to my pleas. They were determined that no babies would be born on floors, no matter how comfortable it was down there for mothers.

At around 7:30 a.m.the doctor announced that we had a beautiful baby boy. A little brother for Lily. I remember the euphoria, and sunshine streaming in the window and the mountains visible off on the horizon.....Believe it or not, there was a window in the delivery room, open to let in the sunshine and the view of the mountains ---only in Montana!

Since then there have been thirty seven April 12ths.and lots of water under the bridge.

It was often said of my dad that "He was one of Nature's Gentlemen."  Is it too outlandish to imagine that one's son could be the reincarnation of one's father? He certainly is also "one of Nature's Gentlemen." My dad died on April 8th [my due date] the year before this son was born....

Food for thought or at least speculation!  Happy Birthday Chuk E Boy!

Ambushed by Contentment

It was not your traditional Easter here. With such a skeleton crew, it's difficult to get worked up about it. The Bean was home. Turned a quarter century very quietly yesterday.

Spent some time talking to siblings by phone, but, funnily enough, showed no interest in hunting for eggs on Easter morning! Not like when he and his brothers and sisters were little, and sleep deprivation was the order of the day, and still they'd come bouncing into our bed before dawn, all excited to start the hunt. "It's the middle of the night go back to bed there's a good child come back in the morning when your mother's not in a coma from staying up late hiding painted eggs and organizing Easter baskets" fell on deaf ears, and, awake or not, the hunt was on. What fun we had! But in your twenties? Not that interested....Unless you have little people of your own, then the craziness starts all over, but we're in no hurry to go there. It was nice to sleep 'til we woke.

Even though it would have been nice to have everyone here, I was happy knowing that Oldest Son and the OC were getting together up north, closing the five hour driving gap to spend the weekend together.

And, Joy of Joys, Sister-in-law has reluctantly left her house and beloved garden up north and returned to play nursemaid to the Prince. He could hardly wait for her to get here but started arguing with her before she had her suitcase unpacked! We'll see how long she can last this time..... Meanwhile, respite for moi!

The Bean took himself off to hit little white balls for the afternoon leaving me on an island of blissful tranquility---several uninterrupted hours to sit outside, sipping my lemon water, immersed in my book---The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles by Haruki Marukami which Oldest Son and I are reading together, comparing notes as we go. So far, very interesting. [Yes, Birdy, this is for you!]

Meanwhile a fat little red bird [a cardinal, I think] was chirping persistently and noisily in one of the pine trees with the low, throaty coo of doves as his backup....

Between chapters I paused to fill my lungs with the intoxicating perfume of the confederate jasmine that is indulging in some riotous living at the moment, unhampered by the pruning it so desperately needs.

A different, but equally intoxicating aroma wafted out from the kitchen----the aroma of roasting lamb with overtones of garlic and herbs..... 

As the sun sank lower, throwing exaggerated tree shadows across the grass, I felt peaceful and contented. It's a feeling that sneaks up when you're least expecting it. Petty worries and nagging aggravations just melt off into the trees for a while, letting you enjoy this moment. Now.

All in all, a lovely day. I hope you all had one just as lovely.

Recent Kickle Sighting

We had life, cameras and action here last Saturday. The OC was home, a brief twenty four hour stop on his way to Chile. Lily, Son-in-Law and the Spinny Kickles, heading back from their beach week,

stopped in for a visit; the Bean was back for the w.e.; and the Girlfriend came over.  Rather than torturing the Kickles by visiting the Prince in his castle, where they would have to remove shoes, and sit like little girls with hands in laps, and make no loud noises or boisterous movements, the Prince came here.  And got reaquainted with his darling grand-daughter and great grandsons. His eyes lit up when they fell on Son-in-Law, a perfect victim for the Threadbare Tales! So the boys were free to romp while their Dad took it in the ears with his usual grace and aplomb!

The OC and Son-in-law manned the grill and nobody left the table [outside, glorious weather] hungry, though youngest Kickle hesitated over his Brat Wrap, pushing it aside and munching on greens and pasta salad instead. Finally, he chanced a nibble. And found, to his surprise, that "it wasn't as bad as he expected!"

With a long road ahead, the travelers left early, the Prince returned to his still-pristine castle, mollified to have been invited, and having an opportunity to give the Tales an airing, and the OC fell asleep on the couch. By daybreak on Sunday he'd already taken to the skies, en route to Santiago, where he landed safely, in spite of the earthquake they'd arranged to welcome him!

Bright and early tomorrow the OC lands here again for a few days of relaxation [perchance].....Though he will be in hyper-efficient, tax return preparation mode..............Hmmmm. To stay or find a quilt shop to visit?

St Patrick Said I Could...Eat Cookies for Dinner

Note: I tried to post this on Sunday evening but blogger wanted to have a fight instead.....The fact that I'm able to post it now, three days too late, is a testament, if not to my technical savvy, to my stubbornness....So there Blogger! MB



Ireland scenic, a photo by Larry Gaskill on Flickr.

"It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment?"

This quote, from Vita Sackville-West, someone long dead, popped up somewhere during the week and caught my eye. Necessary indeed, but what if nothing but rubbish flows from my pen....? What if no butterflies inhabit my moments? Keep writing, the sages say! At this moment there are several half-baked blatherations stacked in a teetering pile in my drafts, and not a one of them worth a tinker's curse. As a schoolgirl I always had secret notebooks in which I'd start stories. There were lots of starts, but not too many finishes. I came to the sad conclusion that I would have to put my stories on hold 'til I'd lived a little longer and had some kind of idea how life actually happens when one is released from the clutches of the nuns, with all their "thou shalts" and "thou shalt nots." Not realizing at the time that, long after the nuns were no longer a physical presence, the "thou shalts" and "thou shalt nots" would be indelibly imprinted on my brain.

Besides, stories written by other people were so tidy! There was a beginning, a middle and an end. The plot was developed early, it thickened 'round the mid-point, and all conflicts were satisfactorily resolved before, or on, the last page. Was it me, I wondered? My life didn't seem very tidy. All kinds of threads seemed to hang in mid-air, indefinitely, unresolved. How to stitch them all into the seams so I'd have a clear beginning, middle and end? Because of course, when you're fifteen, it's all autobiographical . It's all about you, thinly disguised as "fiction!" And now, even though so many years have gone by, and I have experienced beginnings and middles, I'm still waiting to find out "What happens next?"

Reading another book by Maggie O'Farrell, "After You'd Gone, " I noticed no frayed edges there! She takes her loose, seemingly disconnected threads and magically weaves them into a complicated, but coherent tale with a beginning, a middle and an end, though her beginning is likely to be in the middle, her middle at the beginning, and her end, at least, at the end, where it belongs! And as she flits between the three, building suspense, layer by layer, and every bone in your body is screaming for "Sleep!" you have to keep those pages turning 'til you reach the last one because how could you sleep without knowing "What happens?"

She left me mesmerized, again, wondering what kind of living she had to do to come up with such ingenious plot twists and turns......Or could it be that she was born knowing? Or was she "here before," as they say in Ireland of children suspected of having been brought by the fairies? That and heaping helpings of talent and imagination.....Whatever it is, may I have some please? Meanwhile, I'm half way through "The Hand That First Held Mine."

There was skinny dipping here today! Two live-wire, incredibly tall [since I saw them last] "Spinny Kickles"* blew in on the early morning breeze, looking for pancakes. They were en route to The Beach for Spring Break, and since they're not yet old enough to drive [9 and 7] they brought mom and dad along. Having driven through the night, mom and dad were a little frayed around the edges....Which is why we keep pillows and beds around. The reason we keep sofas around is so that canny cats can retreat thereunder at the first boy-sterous shout, the sight of swiftly flashing boyish limbs and ---hurry! dash!---the loud and extremely wet splash of water!

I was restless when they left and thought they should live closer to me, or I to them, as my grandmother did, twenty five miles out the road.....I wonder if Karma is catching up with me? Because of choices I made, my own mother rarely saw her grandchildren..........and then she died. Which, I'm beginning to realize, could be in the cards for me! "And miles to go before I sleep!"

How to drive out those twin snakes---Sad and Lonely? And it St. Patrick's Day, for pity's sake! I hauled out a big coffee table book of photos of Ireland. That didn't exactly help, though it was soothing, looking at all those photos of familiar places. And to read snatches of familiar poetry-----



Scenic Ireland, a photo by iwinatcookie on Flickr.


"I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee.
And live alone in the bee-loud glade."                  By W. B. Yeats

And some not so familiar---

"We are the music makers,
And we are dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams..."             by Arthur O'Shaughnessy

Obviously this was not improving my mood. I was becoming more maudlin by the minute. What I needed was some music; some jigs and reels to keep my toes tapping while I..........baked something! That's what I'd do! Soda bread maybe? It being St Paddy's Day and all? But I wasn't in the mood for soda bread. Maybe later in the week. For now I decided on chocolate chip cookies, because how can you be sad when there are home made chocolate chip cookies in the house?

I even added oatmeal as a virtuous nod to nutrition. And since we'd had a barbecue before the beach goers departed, I didn't see anything wrong with having chocolate chip cookies for dinner---one as an appetizer, two for the main course, one in place of salad and one for dessert. With a tall glass of milk, because, if you never drink milk on any other occasion, you must drink milk with chocolate chip cookies. Otherwise they don't go down right! I may have to have one more as a snack before bed, along with another serving of Irish music, played loudly...............

And when I wake up tomorrow it'll no longer be St. Patrick's Day, and, God willing, I won't have a bellyache, and I can shake off this homesick melancholy and figure out "what happens next."

Grandma, What Big Teeth You have!

Wolf as Grandma, a photo by Mona Besharati on Flickr.

Out running errands this afternoon I found myself in step behind a young woman and her little daughter. A tiny, sweet-face child of about three with dark tumbling curls. She was clutching a banana. Childbirth had left mom rather chunky, but she was nonetheless dressed in the current popular fashion of clothing that looks like it was painted on. Never mind that it emphasized all her bulges, leaving nothing much to the imagination. She was impatient with the child, urging her roughly to hurry up, refusing to open the banana for the little girl, saying it was easy, she could do it herself. And I thought how often I use a knife to make a nick in the banana skin to make it easier to open!. The mother continued complaining at the little girl, saying she should have waited 'til they got to Target where the banana would have been cheaper. The little girl kept pleading for her mother to open the banana, and her mother continued to churlishly refuse. I would have offered to open it for the little one but that probably wouldn't have gone over too well with mom, so I passed them on the sidewalk and kept going.....

But they stayed in my head. I found myself wondering how the woman felt when she was pregnant. Was she excited? Was she in awe of the fact that a little stranger was growing and developing inside her? Was it impossible to imagine what the child would be like? Did she wonder if it would be a boy or a girl? Did she daydream for hours about names, about how she would play with her child, teach her songs, read to her, dress her in pretty clothes, put ribbons in her hair?

What happened between then and now? What happened to turn her sweet-faced little girl from a miracle into an irritation? What happened to make her refuse to open a banana, expecting the little girl, with her tiny bird-like bones, to do it herself?


A little nine year old girl's death was in the news recently. Her grandmother is being charged with her murder She died from extreme dehydration after being punished for eating chocolate by being made to run continuously for several hours. By her grandmother. If I was to be thusly punished for eating chocolate when I shouldn't, I'd have had to "put my affairs in order" a long time ago. Grandmama will cool her heels in prison for a long time but that poor little girl's life is over. All because she ate some chocolate she wasn't supposed to. That and the small matter of having a witch for a grandmother.

Anyone who has had children knows that the little darlings can push you to the brink of insanity. I'm just wondering what happens in your head to push you over that brink?

Cat And Mouse

SHERLOCK HOLMES.SEMANA NEGRA.GIJON 1998, a photo by COLECCION CAMARAS DE COLORES on Flickr.

The OC was in England this week. Which means, in spite of work, and meetings, he visited with Son, little grandson and the lovely Natalie! All without me. And the world didn't end....But my turn will come!

Meanwhile, back on the Redneck Riviera, we have a situation.....At least The Prince thinks we do.

Possible gadding about by a woman of a certain age, with no husband on hand to supervise her; fears that she will lose the run of herself entirely, thereby disgracing herself and all the members of her family. No worries though. The Prince is working the case and he is skilled in espionage. With the stealth of a cat, he is conducting a surveillance operation....

Since the OC has been operating mainly in the Frozen North, my father-in-law has taken it upon himself to keep an eye on me. He likes to know what I am doing, where I am going, when I am going there, who I am going there with and when I'll be back...In a general sort of a way. Last week though, with the OC further away than ever, The Prince upped the surveillance.

He thinks I need watching. My erratic comings and goings are causing him concern. I am not here every time he calls. Where on earth could I be? What mischief could I be getting into? If I am not at work, or visiting him, or at the grocery store, I should be home, cooking chicken soup, baking, washing windows, doing laundry, pulling weeds, sweeping, or raking leaves, lest, God forbid, a few accumulate in the corners and lend an air of unkemptitude [poetic license!] I should be ironing sheets---who irons sheets? Or vacuuming the garage.....yes, he vacuums his garage! The spiders in my garage would have a collective heart attack if I revved up the vacuum cleaner in there. We have an understanding, the spiders and I. They're welcome in the garage as long as they stay out of the house.

The Prince is eighty nine years old. An old school, dyed-in-the-wool, card carrying male chauvinist.

He considers women inferior to men. We do not know our place. We should hang on his every word and bow to his expertise. Instead we argue with him, disagree with him and don't take his advice...Women in cars are a menace, and he doesn't think we should be trusted to handle money, the shopping gene being so strong in us. And women in politics? They should be at home taking care of their husbands and children!.

He likes things done on a schedule....
.
dinner at four; pills at six; bed by eight.....

Whereas I am, willy-nilly, all over the map.

It irks him that I am not more regimented......

Sometimes I go grocery shopping in the evening.......Imagine!  I'll sometimes use this as my get-away card when visiting him late in the afternoon. His lip curls and I get a withering look. Obviously I was not brought up right! He keeps his counsel though. As unsatisfactory as I am, he wants me to come visit. He needs someone to listen, anyone, even me, not only to The Threadbare Tales, but to his more recent adventures in medicine.....He is researching the possibility of living forever. Since my long-suffering sister-in-law has scarpered back north.......Tag! I'm it!

I have heard more than I ever wanted to know about the prostate, in general, and his in particular. If I took such a variety of pills and changed my prescription as often as he does, I'd have died of mental confusion, or an overdose, long ago. And if I never hear his opinions of Mr. Obama again it'll be too soon.....though he'll probably regale me with them this afternoon.

He always wants to know exactly when I'll be over.

I don't tell him because I don't know myself, exactly.

And I won't tell him because, if I do, and I'm not there on the dot, he will fuss and fret and work himself into a lather of indignation.

He'll call the house to find out if I've left. If he gets no answer he'll call my cell phone. If that gets him no satisfaction he'll call the Bean, to ask him where his mother is, to tell him he can't find me. Exactly what he expects the Bean to do, sitting in a lecture hall, fifty miles away, is a mystery to all concerned, even, I suspect, to The Prince himself. Like a dog chasing a cat......What will he do if he catches it, faced with all those claws?

He calls on the flimsiest of pretexts. Did I see such and such on television? Do I know how many inches of rain we got last night? He calls to tell me which doctor he's going to harass today. And which doctor he gave a piece of his mind to yesterday! And which lucky medical professional he's going to see next week. If there were anything seriously wrong with him he wouldn't have the energy to be bothering them.

Earlier this week I took the car for some routine maintenance. I wasn't on the road five minutes when my phone rang. It was The Prince. He's sending his lawn guy over to give me an estimate.....

"But I'm not there!"

"When will you be back?"

"I don't know....I'm getting the car worked on.....Can it wait?"

Do we have a date? Is the house on fire??

He doesn't listen. Did I think he would? Silly me!

He tells me I shouldn't be alarmed if I see a strange man wandering around in my garden. It's only Chris, his lawn guy.

"And who asked you to send him over?" I think......but I do not say.......because I'm a good old girl......at least to all outward appearances.

"Well, I'm driving! Gotta go!"

When the work on the car was finished I went to visit a friend. We decided to go out to eat. It had been a few months, she'd lost her job and we had catching up to do. We stretched it out over dessert and coffee, looking out over the water, yakking away.

It was getting dark as I drove home when my phone rang again. It was The Prince. I didn't answer. I didn't want to be rude, and this harassment was making me feel decidedly rude!

I stopped to pick up the mail. While I was out of the car I heard my phone ringing. Yup. It was him again.

I got to the house and sorted out my bits and bobs; put the mail away, fed the cat and checked the house phone......

Six missed calls! All from the same person......can you guess? I shook my head, put the kettle on, went to the loo. The phone rang again.

And again, five minutes later. This time I answered.

"_____, Is your house on fire?" I get away with this because he's busy talking and he keeps his hearing aid in a lovely little velvet box......for safekeeping.

"I was worried about you."

"Hmmm....."

"You might have crashed."

"Hmmm....."

Pardon my skepticism. He's not worried. He's annoyed that I'm out, possibly enjoying myself! He just doesn't like that I have friends he's not acquainted with and freedom he never allowed his wife. He doesn't like that I'm gallivanting....It's not seemly.

It was dark already.

Where had I been?

"Visiting a friend."

Hmmm...." His turn to be skeptical! He doesn't trust me. He can't understand why the OC doesn't keep me on a tighter leash........


I'm really not such a witch! I do go to see him. I do listen, though I'm somewhat lacking when it comes to heeding. He is so much into controlling everyone and everything, the evil twin in my head enjoys keeping him off balance.

As long as I can come here and vent, with some degree of anonymity, all will be well.

I'm off to drop in on him now, unannounced. I hope he has room on his dance card!

Later: Because I had my little rant here, I was civil and attentive. I even got him talking about interesting stuff: his war-time adventures long ago. And then I went home and settled in for a quiet evening just me and the cat. The spiders kept to our bargain and stayed in the garage.

At a quarter to eight he called again! Allegedly to ask when the Bean would be home. But I know it's all part of his surveillance operation! He had to make sure I had actually gone home after my visit with him! Now he can sleep easy, gathering strength to resume his covert operation tomorrow.

If, in your travels, you see a woman gallivanting, behaving erratically, grocery shopping in the dark, walking laps at the park unaccompanied by a male relative, living an upside down life, please call The Prince's hot line. All leads will be conscientiously investigated. He is committed to solving this case.

A Delicious Read.....

It's just as well it wasn't a very long book because, from page one, I could not put it down .

" The Vanishing Act Of Esme Lennox" carried me back, heedless of dust and dirt, dishes and laundry, unmade beds and unvisited princes, turning page after page after page until it washed me up on the shore of my neglected house, sleep deprived, but completely satisfied!  It reminded me, in a way, of the whole Irish Laundries scandal. Different, but similar in that, in both cases, women or girls who were too spirited, or unconventional, or unwilling to sit quietly with their needlework while their brothers had all the fun, were shunned by society or, as in Esme's case, locked away, so as not to embarrass their families. What a glorious read! On the lookout now for more books by Maggie O'Farrell........If you can find "Esme" read it and tell me what you think.

Presto Chango

Here's the tie:

Here's the little purse I made from it:

You may call me Houdini.

A Couch Is For Sitting....

Is'nt it strange the names we give things? Living room, for instance. Makes you wonder what goes on in all the other rooms. And how can you speak of living rooms without speaking of living room furniture.....

Our very first set of living room furniture came to us as a wedding present from the OC's Godfather. He gave some money to my father-in-law to pass along to us to buy the furniture. But the thought of what we might choose, left to our own devices, made The Prince shudder. Obviously it would be a much better idea for him to choose what we should have, since he, unquestionably, had superior taste in such matters.

And so we lived for the first decade of our married life, with a very formal, brocade-covered couch, matching love seat, coordinating chair and the ugliest Scandinavian modern, glass-topped coffee and end tables ever. He had been thwarted on the whole subject of our getting married at all, so this was one small way in which he attempted to continue to control our lives. I was meeker then, a little afraid of him, conscious that I was supposed to be grateful, and happy enough that we wouldn't have to sit on the floor.

A decade or so later, living in California, with a whole continent between us and him, we lost the run of ourselves entirely, ditched the brocade and the glass, and bought a tweedy blue and beige set of couches. On a trip to San Diego we bought a coffee table made from an old hatch cover from The Star Of India. We have it still. To the Prince it looks like a piece of junk, but it is likely the thing that each of our children will want when we die!



 The only couch we had when I was growing up in was in the "sitting room." If you were posh, you called it the parlor, a word that sent us into fits of giggles. We were not that posh. The sitting room windows faced north and it was frigid in there. My mother didn't have a freezer but that didn't matter---- she had the sitting room, which was just as good. Bigger even. The door was kept shut all the time, except for Christmas and Easter, and any time relatives from far away came to visit. Back then, fifty miles qualified as far away.

 I think the reason it was called the sitting room might have been because the people for whom it was opened, aired and warmed, were the kind of people who could be depended upon to actually sit. There was very little danger  for instance, that my grandmother, or my aunts,  would suddenly take it into their heads to start jumping on the couch.....or that my uncles would suddenly get the urge to wrestle and roll around on the floor. Definitely not a room where horseplay was encouraged.

When we did use it, my mother lit the fire and it became downright cozy in there! The couch faced the fireplace and there were two comfortable chairs on either side. There was a lovely  glow from the lamps on the bookcases, and the  water colours on the walls lent a genteel touch. My mother had made fitted slipcovers for the couch and chairs. The fabric was off-white and linen-y, with an old fashioned flower design. I thought they were beautiful, and that it was a shameful waste that we couldn't live so elegantly all the time. Though I might have thought differently if I'd been paying the heating bills.

Since they were not subjected to daily wear and tear, those couches looked as good the day I left home as they did when I was a little girl.

Not so our couches now. The blue grew old and tattered, helped along by five energetic children, a variety of dogs, and one snooty cat with very sharp claws. It was replaced in North Dakota by an over sized, tan set which we have loved, not wisely perhaps, but very well. Unlike the Prince, we actually live in the room we call the living room. If those couches could talk it would set tongues wagging! Small people have bounced on them;  larger people have snored on them; young men have slept off varying degrees of inebriation on them; there has been a certain amount of canoodling on them; people who would never dream of snoring find them comfortable for sitting and stitching; a certain cat thinks they belong exclusively to him. The same cat is not above sharpening his weapons on the sides, and so the couches, while comfortable and endearingly familiar, are showing their age. "Shabby" would not be an exaggeration. They have traveled with us to Europe and back; trundled in moving vans from North Dakota to Minnesota and finally, to Florida, sometimes called God's Waiting Room.

 Their wait is over.

The couch god in the sky is calling them home.

Even though there is no longer a continent between us, I will not be asking The Prince to go couch shopping with me. He still thinks we are not to be trusted; still thinks he would choose better. But I am no longer the meek, pliable little innocent of forty years ago. I think I know the kind of furniture that will fit our "living," our  bouncing, even our "sitting."  And I'm certain I know what I do not like, at least as far as couches go.

 If he is very good, I might invite him over to sit on the new couch when it comes, just as long as he promises not to deliver a lecture on what he would have bought, had he been consulted. Sniff.

 And, just to be on the safe side, I'll tell him there's to be no bouncing.

Addicted

In the recent sewing room excavations, my shovel turned up some interesting blocks........

So I played around with them and made this......





It will find its way, eventually, to my 9 year old grand daughter as it has scraps in it from the quilt I made for her when she was born.


It all started in early January when I needed a small gift for a friend's birthday.  Digging around in my patterns, I found instructions for a little purse made from two 8 1/2" blocks. It didn't take long to make and was a big hit.









A project started and finished in less than a day? Like catnip to El Gato! So I made another, for the un-
blogger over the water. Batiks, but I forgot to take a picture. Schade. The Girlfriend saw it and oohed and ahhed, and before I could bite my tongue, I was making a third!

This week I made a fifth, for another friend's birthday.....

  Boys and girls, do we know how to spell addiction?

Nettled....

Rathcoffey House, a photo by DavidSoanes on Flickr.




As I made coffee on Sunday morning I was vaguely aware of an itch on the index finger of my right hand. As my head cleared and I became more fully awake, the why of it came to me......the nettles!


Saturday had been a beautiful day and I wandered around in the garden, pulling weeds here and there. By the front door I bent  to pull one weed, then drew my hand back in alarm, thinking it looked an awful lot like the nettles back home when we were young, just more compact.

Couldn't be, I thought. Too small, and besides, I've never seen nettles growing in Florida before. So I pulled it up and instantly felt the sting! I was right! It was a nettle. Wish I'd gone with my hunch!

Just like that, I was back at home, walking along the river bank with The Blister. She had humoured me by bringing me out the country to a part of the River Shannon our parents used to take us to for Sunday walks. I had never been back as an adult and  was delighted to see that it was as lovely a place in real time as it was  in my memory. We walked  for a while under the trees along the riverbank path, but off in the distance my eyes were drawn to the ruin of an old manor house standing alone on a slight rise, boarded up windows staring out disconsolately at the heedless world, in which it no longer played the vital role it must once.have had. 

Ignoring the dilapidated No Trespassing sign, we climbed over a barbed wire fence, veering away from the river and across the field towards the house.

"You're going to get us both in trouble," the Blister said as I peered through a gap in one of the boards. I'm not sure what I was hoping to see.  Ghostly "genthry" sitting around the table? Coweb-encrusted antiques standing around, waiting for their long-dead owners to return? There certainly was no shortage of cobwebs, but only vague shapes were discernible in the gloom, and my imagination could have persuaded me they were anything I wanted them to be. 


Disappointed that we couldn't get a better look inside, we circled the square mass of the house. There was no way in, and my interest in finding one was making the Blister very uneasy. My family tell me I romanticize Ireland. They tell me the Ireland I remember is gone. But it's there in my head. It's there in old manor houses like this one. And every time they knock one down and pave it over, and build another housing development, they rip a page out of the area's history, bury the lives and stories of generations who lived there under the concrete. This kind of thinking makes the Blister slightly impatient with me. Soppy Yankified thinking. But I used to think like this when I still lived there. How many times, on drives around the country, did I go into a sulk because my mother wouldn't stop to let me traipse across the fields to have a closer look at some old ruined castle or falling down stately home? Piles of rocks, she called them. I'm glad that some, at least, of these "relics of auld dacency" have been restored to new life as Manor House Hotels.........

We continued walking away from the river. We passed the walls of the kitchen gardens, surprisingly intact. I know, just from living with The Bean, from whom I absorb such information through my pores, even when my ears are not listening, that the walls surrounding such gardens probably provided little micro-climates where vegetables, fruits and herbs that would not normally grow in Ireland could be pampered and coaxed along, protected from the elements, so that The Five Percent could enjoy fresh and delicious produce, while the rest of the populace existed on spuds.

We found ourselves walking down an overgrown driveway. We walked and walked, deep in conversation, laughing for sure, because she always makes me laugh and see things from a quirky angle..............And suddenly, looming up before us was the gate to the estate. And on the other side of the gate a narrow country road, overhung with trees. We could find our way back to the car on the riverbank by walking along this road.....surely?

But first we had to get to the other side of the gate. Easier said than done.

First of all, the gate was an old iron, Gothic-looking affair, at least six feet tall, with pointed metal spikes all along the top. Neither of us felt inclined to climb over it and risk impaling ourselves on those spikes! Secondly, a very high, mossy stone wall stretched away on either side of the intimidating gate. Thirdly and not least in importance, the gate was padlocked, and the lock looked pretty rusty. But, most intimidating of all was the lush crop of eye-high nettles growing thickly in front of, and barring access to, the gate!

We were overcome with mirth at the improbability of our situation. But the Blister is a woman of action. She looked around for a stick with which to beat down the nettles, which brought on more gales of laughter, possibly tinged at this stage with just a hint of hysteria. There were no decent sticks on offer. The twigs that were, were  totally ineffectual, like jousting with noodles....


While we were alternately beating nettles and gasping with laughter, thinking only cows in neighbouring fields could hear us, we heard, between our gasps, the unmistakable murmur of human conversation. Hushing our noise, we stood on tiptoe and saw two heads bobbing along on the other side of the wall. We would be in full view when they reached the gate. It was pointless to duck or try to hide. So there we were, two middle aged women, trapped behind a wall of nettles, behind an iron gate, looking sheepish, when a man and his wife hove into view. . We couldn't just stand there, tapping our toes until they passed, before resuming our assault on the nettles.. We owed some kind of explanation, no matter how lame, to these two startled locals, out for their evening stroll. Reassured that we were somewhat normal and not a pair of looney bin escapees, they tried to be helpful, though obviously amused by our predicament. The man was carrying an umbrella, a prudent move on any walk in Ireland as one never can tell when the heavens will open. Against our protestations, he urged us to take the umbrella to assist in the battle. We assured them we would be fine now that we had such a stout weapon. They bid us good luck and good evening and continued on their walk. It's a well known fact that an Irishman can spin a good yarn out of the flimsiest of materials. We took comfort in knowing that, though he'd lost an umbrella, our benefactor gained the makings of a great story for the next time he stopped in at the local pub.


We did eventually beat enough of the nettles into submission to be able to reach the wall and climb over it, back into our humdrum, middle aged lives, unstung.   

Palachinki Fit For A Prince

Every time I make crepes [once in a blue moon] I wonder why I don't do it every week! You'd expect that something so delicate and dainty and scrumptious would be difficult to make but they're super easy.......
My mother-in-law, Maria, who is gone to her hard-earned, eternal reward, R.I.P. called them palachinki, which seems to cover Ukrainian, Czech and Polish versions, and possibly others. She always made them with a sweetened cheese filling, and if she needed something from The Prince, making palachinki guaranteed she'd get it! Back in the Old Country,  The Prince's  mother went to what would now be called "culinary arts school" but was probably called plain old cooking school back then! He frequently waxes poetic about what a wonderful baker and cook she was. Maria, my mother-in-law, was the only cook who came close to being the equal of Mama!

He is 89 years old now. Mama is long gone, and so is Maria. And his teeth don't fit properly, and are uncomfortable, in spite of the small fortune he spent on dental work. He can't hear, and doesn't listen anyway, and keeps his hearing aid in the safety of a velvet lined box. He's on a mission to find a cure for old age, but he's not having much success. Everything but the blandest food upsets his stomach.  He laments loudly and frequently that Americans don't know what good cooking is. And me?  Can't refuse a challenge. He's probably manipulating me!  But no matter. Today I made palachinki. Because I can! I mixed up the batter last night which didn't take more than five minutes. The crepes are lighter if the batter sits overnight [or at least a few hours] in the fridge.

My first few are  usually not so good, but after I hit my stride [or the pan gets hot enough!] I'm as good as his Mama! Who's going to prove me wrong?!  I cook them just until the edges look dry,  then flip, or, if  not feeling courageous, turn them with a spatula, and cook a few seconds  more, until some freckles form on the underside.

I cool them on a wire rack, then stack them on a plate with wax paper between.

The cook always has to sample a few. Wouldn't want to go poisoning anyone! This cook tried a few, a la Blister, with a sprinkle of sugar and a squeeze of fresh lemon. Oh, yum!

She did manage to restrain herself so there were a few left for The Prince! This last one, obviously, would not pass quality control....but the cook's not fussed. It tasted just as delicious to her as the perfectly round ones!

When the children were growing up palachinki disappeared as fast as they came off the pan! Sugar and cinnamon was the favourite topping.  Roll them up and eat them on the spot!  They also taste yummy spread with your favourite jam. And, if you want to get really fancy,  pour brandy on them, light a match and you have Crepes Suzette!  Leave the sugar out of the batter and you can fill them with vegetables or any other savory filling.

But for tonight---Maria's cheese filling, which mixes up in about five minutes. It consists of 1 lb.Farmers' cheese, 1/2 cup sugar, 1-2 tsp vanilla, a handful of raisins, two egg yolks and a dash of salt. If Farmers' cheese is not available you can substitute half cream cheese and half cottage cheese, well drained, or half ricotta. If the mixture is too thick you can add a tablespoon or two of sour cream.

Mix  together, spoon onto the crepes, roll them up and place in a single layer in a baking pan. Sprinkle with sugar and chopped nuts and they're ready for the oven.

Cover with foil and bake at 350 degrees for twenty minutes. Remove the foil and bake five minutes more.

After his first bite The Prince gave me a thumbs up! Gasp! No complaints? I hope Maria is watching from the Great Kitchen In The Sky. I was never quite good enough, but damn! I can make palachinki fit for a Prince!

They've Got To Be Joking!

I promised myself [or the gods of unfinished projects] that I would do some hand quilting before going to bed tonight. It's on a beautiful quilt that I just-need-to-finish-already. But first, a quick peek at a few blogs. That's a rock my good intentions have perished on before!

I was happy to see a post from The Lassie who has been very quiet of late, and delighted to hear that her baby boy was born just before Christmas. Which would explain the un-blogging. That, and not having an easy birth. I was eager to congratulate her and offer some comforting words. But I had to log in or register in order to read the full post

Wordpress instructed me to enter my name and password. Hmmm. This could be tricky. I try to operate with as few passwords as possible, not having exactly a steel trap between my ears.

 I tried

 It didn't work.

 Either Wordpress had never heard of me, or I had forgotten who I was, or where I was going, or what day of the week it was, or what my password was, or if I was still on planet earth or off in la-la-land!

Wordpress graciously offered to e-mail me a new password. I clicked over to my e-mail to get it.

Here's my new password:

VLP1Zbcipox2

?????

There are rude words that occurred to me, but I'll content myself here with question marks.

Are they serious?

Or are they bored at Wordpress tonight and having a little joke?

Have a little mercy boys!

Proof That I'm An Optimist

I can't help myself.

 I make New Year's Resolutions every year, in spite of an abysmal track record. Have to maximize that surge of energy that comes with hanging a brand new calendar on the wall.

 "Organize the sewing room" has tenure on my list. It is the granddaddy of my resolutions, an outgrowth of another one --- to bloody well finish what I started---an unspecified number of half-done, almost there, and barely out of the starting blocks quilting projects. It's been on the list as long as I've had a sewing room, about twelve years. What a luxury to have a place where I can leave the machine set up, ready for whatever opportunity---five minutes here, half an hour there! You'd think I'd keep it neat as a pin, but it always seems to be in some degree of chaos..... I never actually get it as organized as I would like, but making a resolution to at least attempt the daunting task encourages me not to give up the fight! If I did, then I'd have to sit and sew in the midst of what can, at times, look like the aftermath of a hurricane.  In my heart I am a tidy person. [No cackling from the peanut gallery please.] In the rest of the house everything is pretty much in its place, but step over the threshold of the sewing room......and it looks like the National Guard needs to be called in.

Or did.

I've been in there every day this year so far, sewing and organizing...

My sister-in-law stopped by the other day. Flushed with pride in my accomplishments, I took her back there to show her my progress. She stood in the doorway, nonplussed. She would never say ---

"So. You got all the pins into one box. What do you want? A medal?"

She's too polite for that.

But she was thinking it.

 I could tell.

She was less impressed than I that I had organized my button collection.

Such dilemmas. All those lone, spare buttons in their tiny zip lock bags---should they be in a jar of their own or mercilessly ripped from their tiny bags and tossed in among the monsters in the general button jar, there to sink to oblivion, down through the spaces between bigger, flashier numbers? Or would it maintain for them a little shred of dignity to leave them in their  little bags along with the wisps of matching thread?

She probably didn't even notice that there is now only one jar for pens, fabric markers, chopsticks [invaluable for poking out corners], small rulers and other such essential gadgetry, whereas, as recently as last week, there were at least four. And how could she know, without trying each one, that all the remaining pens actually work?

The fact that all the spools of 100% cotton thread were on the spool rack, and organized by colour, did not move her, any more than the fact that their wrong-side-of-the-tracks cousins, those no-account cotton polyester blends, were herded together into a spare tin, there being no room at the inn  [or on the spool rack] for the likes of them.........

No. I guess it's going to take more drastic changes for her to acknowledge what a good girl I am. Like getting rid of the chair with the irreparably broken back, which is, nevertheless, earning its keep as a beast of burden, laden down with quilts half-done, a project box, a Bean shirt needing repairs, and several  lengths of flannel, variously intended for pajamas bottoms and baby blankets.

 "What's with the doll cradle?" she might ask.

 To which I might reply "A perfect place to store fat quarters!"

As it is, you'd barely know there was a doll cradle under there.

"And the German sewing basket?"

"I just need to make a nice cushion for the seat and it will be a very useful member of the sewing room team!"  I'd keep to myself the fact that I've "just needed to make a nice cushion for the seat" since I got it, second hand, in Germany back in 1991. Was that really [gasp!] twenty years ago??

The Bean arrived home for the w.e. on Friday night.

"You have to see the progress I've made in the sewing room," I enthused.

He stuck his head around the corner.....

"Looks like you've just moved stuff around," he said with a grin. He likes to mess with my head.

"And what's with the cradle? You're surely not planning.....??."

"It's a doll cradle." Smart ass.

The OC will be home next weekend. Surely he will see what tremendous progress has been made. Although..... maybe not. The Bean did not inherit the smart ass gene from me.


Most obvious of all, I need to organize the fabric stash. Which I have been doing, inch by tortuous inch. One thing I've learned from separating the fabrics into colour groups is that blue, in all its incarnations, is my hands-down favourite colour. As if there had ever been any doubt. But here is the cold, hard evidence......

If you had asked me last week how many pin cushions I had, I would have had to make a wild guess. Now I know that I have seven. I probably don't need another one, so I can scratch off the list whatever tentative plans I had for making one of those extremely cute ones over at Bunny Hill Designs!

 I have to admit to a sneaking suspicion though.

I think creativity thrives more in chaos than in order.......This resolution gets re-incarnated every year...... Maybe it is searching for enlightenment, and when enlightenment strikes I will realize that the quest for order is futile. Because we certainly don't want the flow of ideas to dry up!

Maybe I'll just have to make peace with the chaos!

Words Out Of The Silence..........

 Sunday. A good day to give the flabby blogging muscles an overdue workout. I've been reading here but uninspired to write. I breathe in, I breathe out, but things are quiet, which [lest the gods think I'm looking for some action] is a very good thing!  Sirs, in case you're listening, I'm fine with that---breathing in and breathing out that is. Slowly. No need to get my pulse racing, or my knickers twisted. I will not complain if this turns out to be a very dull year. A person needs a dull year here and there to balance out the others. What some might find dull, for me will be pleasant. Yes, really! Aren't you glad I'm so easy to please? No need to arrange a big lottery win for me; no cruises required; no big birthday bash, though "many years from now" has finally arrived.  I am on the verge of finding the answers to all those perplexing questions---

"Will you still need me?"

"Will you still feed me?"

"Will you lock the door?"

Meantime, while I breathe, slowly, in and out in anticipation ---

"I can knit a sweater by the fireside, Sunday morning go for a ride,"

"........doing the garden, digging the weeds" and keeping the ship afloat, playing in the sewing room, stirring the soup--- "Who could ask for more?"   So, gentlemen, please note----happy as a clam, just the way I am. Save the drama for someone else!

The grass is brown, the trees are bare, the season of cracked fingers is upon us!  There's a cold glitter to the sunshine----a good day to stay warm inside, to write and catch up. Christmas is already a distant memory. We found a beautiful tree this year, even had it up before Christmas Eve---quick, someone! Take her pulse! She's not herself! Of course I didn't take it down until Little Christmas, while neighbours all around dragged theirs' to the curb on St. Steven's Day....Agh! I can't do that. Never understood why Americans are in such a hurry. After Christmas is the best time, when all the fuss and bother is over and you can sit, of an evening, with your cup of tea, in the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, and let your  mind wander.

I'm not a great shopper so my Christmas shopping was done, to a large extent, on line. And guess who I met?
Santa Claus himself! Disguised as a young man named Jeremy. Having read about Kendamas on another blog I decided to order some for the grandchildren for Christmas, with an extra thrown in for The Bean, who the grandchildren see as one of them anyway, just a whole lot taller. On-line tracking showed they were delivered three days after I placed my order.

 But not to me.

 Several phone calls and e-mails later, I still had not received my package. And time was running out. Kelly, our mail delivery girl, was apologetic, sure she had delivered the package, but unsure if she had put the key in our box. It left me with a sour taste in my mouth that someone mistakenly received a package, with my name and address and didn't think to bring it to me, or at least return it to the Post Office. Oh,oh...Tidings of comfort and joy.

That's when Santa [aka Jeremy at KendamaUSA] rushed gallantly to the rescue and shipped the appropriate number of Kendamas to their various destinations and got them there in time for Christmas! And didn't charge me another penny. And was so polite and friendly throughout. A scholar and a gentleman---  His mother should be proud!!

One of the nice things about Christmas in Florida is that it's warm enough to barbecue. The OC outdid himself this year and grilled the most delicious roast beef ever. The Prince of Carpathia joined us, along with my sainted sister-in-law. The Girlfriend "took one for the team" as the Bean put it, listening with limpid eyes to the thousandth telling of the threadbare tales......We were sad to have so few of the siblings and co. 'round the table with us but we take what we can get these days....Maybe we'll have better luck next year. We  compensated somewhat by Skyping and phoning points North, South, East and West.

So! Courage my friends! Onward into the New Year,  to face, or embrace whatever it brings.
 
Happy New Year everyone!