gets the last laugh.
Well, I now know where Frankie went yesterday afternoon...it didn't take long to figure out. I found her in the sun room watching a movie...with the sound turned down...sneaky little rascal.
She said she had to use the bathroom and would be right back, so I didn't miss her at first. But, when I just happened to walk by the bathroom and saw the door open and the light off...Well, let's just say it doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out I'd been snookered. However, I didn't find out until this morning the lengths she had gone to...really, she posted in my blog I was maniacal and a monster. Well, now the posting of Facebook from my granddaughter makes sense...I didn't understand why she wanted me to drag Frankie "back by the hair". I was not aware how far Frankie had gone to escape.
Okay, okay, I admit...I was a little hard on her yesterday. But, you have to remember, it was at her insistence we put away all the Christmas decorations, and I might have become a little maniacal about it...but once I got into the groove, my butt was moving, girlfriend...it was moving. And yes, I might have been a little bossy about how the job got done, there were piles of decorations hither and yon (for a while), but I don't think I was anywhere near being a monster.
(I did allow her to have lunch, talk on the phone and even take the necessary potty breaks.) So I don't think that qualifies me as a monster either. I did not breathe fire, growl fiercely, or threaten her life and limb.
As it got dark, all the boxes had been filled, and we were ready to place them in their proper places in the garage, or various closets. Frankie was frazzled...it was sooo funny. Her hair was askew. Her make-up slightly out of place, and her clothes covered in sparkles. And, as she climbed the ladder in the garage for the last time I could tell she had learned her lesson.
Frankie: (Leaning against the rungs of the ladder). "I hate you!"
Me: "Really?" (I try not to look smug).
Frankie: "Yes, I really, really hate you. You dang near worked me to death."
Me: "Awww, really? I am sooo sorry."
Frankie: "No you aren't."
Me: "You're right...I'm not..." (picture me grinning broadly). "Need I remind you it was your idea to get rid of the decorations...'today...it won't be bad...the sooner we start, blah, blah, blah.'
Frankie: (Quizzical look on her face. Elbow on top rung of ladder.) "So...you been teaching me a lesson?"
Me: "Yep."
Frankie: "And that would be????
Me: "Don't mess with an old lady...if you remember back to early December it took a couple of days to put all the decorations up...I would have taken a couple of days to take them down...YOU on the other hand decided we could do it all in one day. And, we almost made it."
Frankie: "What the heck 'you talkin' about Willis?' Almost done, almost done.?"
( I knew she had not noticed.) I help her off the ladder and lead her to the morning room.
She gasps, I laugh.
There in all it's unlit glory was the Christmas tree...still flufed, full of unlit lights, ornaments and garlands. I thought Frankie was going to break her gusset.
She pulled at her hair, stomped about, made a monster-ific growling sound and left the room.
Me: "Frankie," I call out, " 'We'll start early in the morning...it won't be that bad...the sooner we start, the sooner we'll get done.' "
All I hear a "GGGGGrrrrrrrrrr-r---rr----rrrr." Fading into the distance. Maybe I am maniacal and a monster.
Baaaaaa, haaaaaa, haaaaaa.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Help
Shhhhhh, be quite, very, very quite.
I have sneaked away...it is getting late...we are still working on the decorations. There are piles everywhere.
Some for the garage, some for various closets...
Ssssshhhhhhhh. I must not get caught. Please, PLEASE someone come rescue me. A maniacal woman, will not allow me to sit...she insisted we complete the un-decorating TODAY. She's a monster, I'm telling you, she has become a monster.
Drive up quietly, and I will run out to you as quickly as I can.
Shhhhhhhh. Shhhhhhh.
Frankie.
Determination
Frankie: "We're going to start this morning."
Me: "I don't want to."
Frankie: "But, you promised."
Me: "Don't care."
Frankie: "Come on. It won't be that bad."
Me: "Oh, yes it will."
Frankie, full of determination tries to drag me away from the computer.
Frankie: "The sooner we start, the sooner we'll get done."
I force myself deeper into the chair, and lock my arms around the arms of it. I'm determined, too.
Frankie: "I swear, I'm going to dump you out of there."
Me: "Good luck with that." I weigh substantially more than her, there's no way she can extricate me from my artificial leather island.
She makes some kind of monster-ific growling sound and leaves the room.
I know, I'm a terrible person. I've been promising for a week to take down all the Christmas decorations, and though I didn't put up all that I could have, I look around and see it is going to be an all day job to put everything away.
When my grandson, Marcus, posted on Facebook earlier in the week he wanted to come for a visit on Saturday. I told Frankie we would have to wait until after his visit before putting Christmas in boxes until next year...aha...a reprieve.
Well, that visit has come and gone, so Frankie was like white on rice wanting me to dress and get busy stowing the holidays away.
But...I...don't...want...to. The job seems overwhelming. Every year I tell myself there is no need to decorate the whole house...I do. Every year I tell myself I am not going to purchase any new ones...I do. Every year I tell myself there is no need to go through all the boxes...I do, even thought the box is clearly labeled 'no longer in use.' Shoot, there might be something good in that one that would look nice, here, there or anywhere.
For instance, I have a styro-foam Santa, that is close to fifty years old, I've had to replace his red Christmas ball nose several times...each year...I am not getting him out...each year I do. I have two very, very heavy, old, large, Christmas balls that my mother had on their tree when she was a child. And even though I fear they might get broken, each year they are placed on my tree...how could I not. I love opening the boxes, looking at the treasures, and even though some of them never leave their box, how could I not.
For Frankie, enough is enough..she is insistent and full of determination that we put the holidays away ...today...I don't want to, because it seems like such a chore. However, truth be told...it is not so much it is going to be a chore...it's more that it dredges up a melancholy of Christmases past, all wrapped in tissue paper, neatly packed and stored. It is memories of Christmas present, crinkled wrappings, leftovers, hugs and kisses. It is anticipation of Christmas future...old decorations once more brought out of tissue and time...
...
...
...
... Me: "Okay Frankie, I'm coming...where do you want to start."
Time to drag out new boxes full of snowmen, teddy-bears, icicles and snow flakes to decorate the house for winter.
HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE.
Me: "I don't want to."
Frankie: "But, you promised."
Me: "Don't care."
Frankie: "Come on. It won't be that bad."
Me: "Oh, yes it will."
Frankie, full of determination tries to drag me away from the computer.
Frankie: "The sooner we start, the sooner we'll get done."
I force myself deeper into the chair, and lock my arms around the arms of it. I'm determined, too.
Frankie: "I swear, I'm going to dump you out of there."
Me: "Good luck with that." I weigh substantially more than her, there's no way she can extricate me from my artificial leather island.
She makes some kind of monster-ific growling sound and leaves the room.
I know, I'm a terrible person. I've been promising for a week to take down all the Christmas decorations, and though I didn't put up all that I could have, I look around and see it is going to be an all day job to put everything away.
When my grandson, Marcus, posted on Facebook earlier in the week he wanted to come for a visit on Saturday. I told Frankie we would have to wait until after his visit before putting Christmas in boxes until next year...aha...a reprieve.
Well, that visit has come and gone, so Frankie was like white on rice wanting me to dress and get busy stowing the holidays away.
But...I...don't...want...to. The job seems overwhelming. Every year I tell myself there is no need to decorate the whole house...I do. Every year I tell myself I am not going to purchase any new ones...I do. Every year I tell myself there is no need to go through all the boxes...I do, even thought the box is clearly labeled 'no longer in use.' Shoot, there might be something good in that one that would look nice, here, there or anywhere.
For instance, I have a styro-foam Santa, that is close to fifty years old, I've had to replace his red Christmas ball nose several times...each year...I am not getting him out...each year I do. I have two very, very heavy, old, large, Christmas balls that my mother had on their tree when she was a child. And even though I fear they might get broken, each year they are placed on my tree...how could I not. I love opening the boxes, looking at the treasures, and even though some of them never leave their box, how could I not.
For Frankie, enough is enough..she is insistent and full of determination that we put the holidays away ...today...I don't want to, because it seems like such a chore. However, truth be told...it is not so much it is going to be a chore...it's more that it dredges up a melancholy of Christmases past, all wrapped in tissue paper, neatly packed and stored. It is memories of Christmas present, crinkled wrappings, leftovers, hugs and kisses. It is anticipation of Christmas future...old decorations once more brought out of tissue and time...
...
...
...
... Me: "Okay Frankie, I'm coming...where do you want to start."
Time to drag out new boxes full of snowmen, teddy-bears, icicles and snow flakes to decorate the house for winter.
HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Notes
I used to send about 60 Christmas cards every year, and each one held some kind of a note. Sometimes the note could be quite lengthy, sometimes three or four lines, but each note was personal, meant for just that particular person or family. I don't send cards anymore, it got too expensive, it was hard letting go of that tradition.
Since I don't send Christmas cards anymore, I don't get many either. But, when I do get one I'm delighted, even more so when the sender has included a note. I love the notes, I don't care if they are only a few lines long, it is nice to know that at that particular moment in that person's life they were thinking of me, and that dear friends and family overjoys me.
This year I got a note from a classmate, in it she told me another of our classmates had passed away this year. Sadly, I did not recognize the name..."I don't know this person." I thought. Who the heck is she talking about? For a while I let this information slosh around in my brain, hoping I would eventually have recall. Hours went by... I was still asking myself, who the heck is she talking about?
Finally, I could not stand the mystery any longer. I head for my Yearbook, The Portal. I was sure this person would not be part of our class, there were only 80 of us to graduate, how could I possibly forget one of us. I start leafing through the pages. Sure enough, there he was tucked in between the H's, on page 32.
You have no idea how disgusted I was with myself...not just because I didn't recognize the name much less come up with a face, but because I had reach an age, when an entire part of my life was becoming a blur. A lot of my graduating class, were 'mates' I had from First through Twelfth grades. How is there even an inkling I would forget people who had occupied such a large part of my youth? I want to slap myself silly.
I then had to ask myself a serious question. "How many class mates do not remember me?" Scary thought, that. The only reunion I ever went to was in 1960, and if it were not for the two or three girlfriends from my class who have written notes to me all these years and who attended the reunions, I would never have known what was going on in the lives of my class mates. At each reunion a picture was taken, each reunion I recognized fewer and fewer faces. A little newspaper (The school's "ECHO") would be published updating who is living where, how many kids, grand-kids and now great-grand-kids we have...it was kind of like getting a whole bunch of Christmas notes.
The last reunion, there was not picture, there was no newspaper, fewer people attended. Oh, I got a note from one of my class mates that attended and she told me who was there, and I was grateful, but it was also kind of sad...sad...the end of an era; were we getting too old to care.
I guess this blog could also qualify under "Things They Never Tell You". We graduated in 1955, (yes, I am that old) and nobody ever told me the time would come when that year would seem so far away, that memories would fade, faces would blur, and names would completely vanish from my vocabulary. So I thank goodness for friends who still write notes, that draw me back to lovely memories, smiling faces, and names from times long ago.
Since I don't send Christmas cards anymore, I don't get many either. But, when I do get one I'm delighted, even more so when the sender has included a note. I love the notes, I don't care if they are only a few lines long, it is nice to know that at that particular moment in that person's life they were thinking of me, and that dear friends and family overjoys me.
This year I got a note from a classmate, in it she told me another of our classmates had passed away this year. Sadly, I did not recognize the name..."I don't know this person." I thought. Who the heck is she talking about? For a while I let this information slosh around in my brain, hoping I would eventually have recall. Hours went by... I was still asking myself, who the heck is she talking about?
Finally, I could not stand the mystery any longer. I head for my Yearbook, The Portal. I was sure this person would not be part of our class, there were only 80 of us to graduate, how could I possibly forget one of us. I start leafing through the pages. Sure enough, there he was tucked in between the H's, on page 32.
You have no idea how disgusted I was with myself...not just because I didn't recognize the name much less come up with a face, but because I had reach an age, when an entire part of my life was becoming a blur. A lot of my graduating class, were 'mates' I had from First through Twelfth grades. How is there even an inkling I would forget people who had occupied such a large part of my youth? I want to slap myself silly.
I then had to ask myself a serious question. "How many class mates do not remember me?" Scary thought, that. The only reunion I ever went to was in 1960, and if it were not for the two or three girlfriends from my class who have written notes to me all these years and who attended the reunions, I would never have known what was going on in the lives of my class mates. At each reunion a picture was taken, each reunion I recognized fewer and fewer faces. A little newspaper (The school's "ECHO") would be published updating who is living where, how many kids, grand-kids and now great-grand-kids we have...it was kind of like getting a whole bunch of Christmas notes.
The last reunion, there was not picture, there was no newspaper, fewer people attended. Oh, I got a note from one of my class mates that attended and she told me who was there, and I was grateful, but it was also kind of sad...sad...the end of an era; were we getting too old to care.
I guess this blog could also qualify under "Things They Never Tell You". We graduated in 1955, (yes, I am that old) and nobody ever told me the time would come when that year would seem so far away, that memories would fade, faces would blur, and names would completely vanish from my vocabulary. So I thank goodness for friends who still write notes, that draw me back to lovely memories, smiling faces, and names from times long ago.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Setting goals
Wasn't it January, just yesterday? I'm pretty sure it was.
And summer????? Did we have summer?
I pretty much remember autumn, because I spent those months collecting leaves, pressing some of them, scanning others into my computer, imagining how I might make use of them.
I spent part of the year making plans with my daughter Karen to take my little publishing company to the next level. Look out Internet we're coming.
Then the holidays came...and went....
Poof, the year was over.
I didn't set any goals for the year, I guess I must have decided somewhere along the line to let it play out however it was going to. I was okay with that. I'm pleasantly surprised how well it turned out, I actually accomplished quite a bit.
Now a new year looms a mere five sleeps away. I don't make New Year Resolutions, I learned even as a teen I would never keep them. Lose weight, exercise, change eating habits, make better use of my time (sigh) I guess I simply do not have the 'resolve' to accomplish these things.
What does 'resolution' mean anyway?
Merriam-Webster Dictionary
Definition of RESOLUTION
1
: the act or process of resolving: as
a : the act of analyzing a complex notion into simpler ones
b : the act of answering : solving
c : the act of determining
What?????? How does the above have anything to do with losing weight, exercise, eating habit or making better use of my time...no wonder my resolutions always failed.
Hmmm, I wonder if I did set some 'goals' if I could accomplish those?
Merriam-Webster Dictionary
Definition of GOAL
1
a : the terminal point of a race
b : an area to be reached safely in children's games
2
: the end toward which effort is directed : aim
Aha......!!!!!! Yes, yes, I can make effort....I can aim for an end result. I like it, I like it.
So, next year, I will continue to work diligently to try to make my little company successful, not so much to become monetarily wealthy, but wealthy from the achievements of doing a job well. I'm simply going to aim myself toward a goal...I'm going to shoot for the stars, there are billions of them out there, so I know for sure I'm going to hit one of them, doesn't have to happen in '13, space is vast, space is mysterious, space is endless, I think I'll ride 'shotgun' and let 'aim' drive to the goal whenever, and wherever it is.
And summer????? Did we have summer?
I pretty much remember autumn, because I spent those months collecting leaves, pressing some of them, scanning others into my computer, imagining how I might make use of them.
I spent part of the year making plans with my daughter Karen to take my little publishing company to the next level. Look out Internet we're coming.
Then the holidays came...and went....
Poof, the year was over.
I didn't set any goals for the year, I guess I must have decided somewhere along the line to let it play out however it was going to. I was okay with that. I'm pleasantly surprised how well it turned out, I actually accomplished quite a bit.
Now a new year looms a mere five sleeps away. I don't make New Year Resolutions, I learned even as a teen I would never keep them. Lose weight, exercise, change eating habits, make better use of my time (sigh) I guess I simply do not have the 'resolve' to accomplish these things.
What does 'resolution' mean anyway?
Merriam-Webster Dictionary
Definition of RESOLUTION
1
: the act or process of resolving: as
a : the act of analyzing a complex notion into simpler ones
b : the act of answering : solving
c : the act of determining
What?????? How does the above have anything to do with losing weight, exercise, eating habit or making better use of my time...no wonder my resolutions always failed.
Hmmm, I wonder if I did set some 'goals' if I could accomplish those?
Merriam-Webster Dictionary
Definition of GOAL
1
a : the terminal point of a race
b : an area to be reached safely in children's games
2
: the end toward which effort is directed : aim
Aha......!!!!!! Yes, yes, I can make effort....I can aim for an end result. I like it, I like it.
So, next year, I will continue to work diligently to try to make my little company successful, not so much to become monetarily wealthy, but wealthy from the achievements of doing a job well. I'm simply going to aim myself toward a goal...I'm going to shoot for the stars, there are billions of them out there, so I know for sure I'm going to hit one of them, doesn't have to happen in '13, space is vast, space is mysterious, space is endless, I think I'll ride 'shotgun' and let 'aim' drive to the goal whenever, and wherever it is.
Monday, December 24, 2012
I've got the blues
There is nothing really wrong. My health is pretty good, I've been enjoying the company of friends, my preparations for Christmas are all on track...I still have to boil up some eggs for 'beets and eggs' and wrap a few gifts...but I am ready for tomorrow.
Why then I keep asking myself am I so blue?
Picture me...pondering...pondering....pondering.
Still thinking.....
...funny how loud silence can be.
I've got it! I know what it is.
There has been a lot of ugly in the world, especially this year and I want to fix it. I know, I know, I know I can't. But I want to very, very badly. We are studying Daniel during Bible study, and his prophecies, and how he had insight into was was going to happen. Like him, I know (well, I'm not a prophet) I can speculate what the future holds, and like him, I cannot change what has already been written, oooh, but I want to. I think the prophets of old although very, very wise they were also very sad when people ignored their sage words.
I have no sage words, just a blueness in my heart.
So, asking myself what can I do...I've decided I'm going to extend my arms as far as my imagination will allow, and blow up my heart at big as I can until it almost explodes, and hug the world and all the people with all my might, till it and they feel all the love I have. I'm sorry weary world for all we have inflicted on you, I'm sorry mankind we have become so vile. I'm squeezing hard...really, r-e-a-l-l-y hard....can you feel it...can you, can you?
....here it comes......
LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE,
PEACE ON EARTH, PEACE ON EARTH, PEACE ON EARTH,
GOOD WILL, TO ALL MANKIND.
Oh, I feel sooo much better.
Seriously...I do feel better.
Merry Christmas everyone.
Why then I keep asking myself am I so blue?
Picture me...pondering...pondering....pondering.
Still thinking.....
...funny how loud silence can be.
I've got it! I know what it is.
There has been a lot of ugly in the world, especially this year and I want to fix it. I know, I know, I know I can't. But I want to very, very badly. We are studying Daniel during Bible study, and his prophecies, and how he had insight into was was going to happen. Like him, I know (well, I'm not a prophet) I can speculate what the future holds, and like him, I cannot change what has already been written, oooh, but I want to. I think the prophets of old although very, very wise they were also very sad when people ignored their sage words.
I have no sage words, just a blueness in my heart.
So, asking myself what can I do...I've decided I'm going to extend my arms as far as my imagination will allow, and blow up my heart at big as I can until it almost explodes, and hug the world and all the people with all my might, till it and they feel all the love I have. I'm sorry weary world for all we have inflicted on you, I'm sorry mankind we have become so vile. I'm squeezing hard...really, r-e-a-l-l-y hard....can you feel it...can you, can you?
....here it comes......
LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE,
PEACE ON EARTH, PEACE ON EARTH, PEACE ON EARTH,
GOOD WILL, TO ALL MANKIND.
Oh, I feel sooo much better.
Seriously...I do feel better.
Merry Christmas everyone.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Saturday, December 22, 2012
What's that I hear
Rat-a--tat---tat.
Rummm-a-tummm-tum.
Boom, booom, Boom! A-T-BOOOOOM!
No, no, no!
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Rummm-a-tummm-tum.
Boom, booom. Boom! A-T-BOOOOOM!
No, no, no!
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Rummm-a-tumm-tum.
Boom, booom. Boom! A-T-BOOOOOM
No, no, no!
Rat-a-tat, Rum-a-tum, booom moom.
No, no, nooooooo....
Am I hearing someone scream...it's dark...the noise is horrific....?
Someone is shaking me.
Frankie: "Wake up, wake up...I'm gonna slap you if you don't wake up."
Me: "Wha....????" Frankie is trying to shake me into consciousness.
I manage to get myself up onto one elbow. My bed looks like a war has played out. Pillows everywhere except where they are supposed to be. Blankets, asunder, half on and off the bed. And heaven only knows where my rice filled feet warmers are.
Frankie: What the heck was all the screaming about?
Me: "I was screaming?"
Frankie: "Yeah, it started out as mumbling, and rose in volume and intensity. Over and over, you were wailing, no, no, no, no."
Me: "Oh, Frankie, I had the worst dream. I dreamed presents kept coming and coming, and coming. There was always a note, it said they were from My True Love. Please tell me the sun room is not filled with Partridges, doves, hens, calling birds, geese and swans."
Frankie: "Well, it wasn't last night, you want me to go check?"
Me: "Yes, please????????????????
Frankie returns a few moments later and tells me the sun room is fine as it the rest of the house.
Me: "And you are sure there are not twelve drummers drumming on our front lawn?"
Frankie: "Didn't look, but I'll go check."
She gently rubs my arm, I think she thinks I've gone mad. I think I've gone mad.
She comes back to the bed room and reassures me there are no drummers anywhere about. She sits on the edge of the bed, much concerned about my well being.
Frankie: "You want to talk?"
Me: "Oh, Frankie, you're not going to believe this...and I can't wait to tell you...It was the Friday after Thanksgiving, and we are excited about December and Christmas coming....there was a knock on the door and a guy from UPS........."
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Sqqquuuaaaa!!!!!!! Squuueeee!!!!!!!!! Squuuuuu!!!!!!!!!
Sqqquuuaaaa!!!!!!! Squuueeee!!!!!!!!! Squuuuuu!!!!!!!!!
Good heavens to Betsy….is somebody getting murdered. What in the world is that terrible racket?
I’m racing through the house trying to track
down the awful sound that seems to be surrounding my neighborhood. It kind of sounds like an old World War II
air-raid siren, or maybe…oh, my word, I hope nothing is attacking my collection
of birds and fowls…I dash to the back yard…where I have allowed my feathered
friends to get a little fresh air and to flesh out whatever creepy, crawlies
might make a nice snack. Nope, all is
fine there.
The noise is getting worse and worse and louder and
louder.
Frankie: “Holy, crap…now
I’ve seen everything. Quick, quick,
quick…get your body out here.”
Frankie sounds frantic.
I don’t run much anymore, but I begin to fear the worst, make a dash for
the front door.
Squuuuuueeeeeee,
sqeeeeeeeuuuuuuueeeeee, squuuuuuu
uuuuu uuuuuuuu
There, smack dab in the middle of the street are eleven Pipers Piping, not with lovely flutes, piccolos, clarinets and trumpet or two my imagination always saw. No….I never…ever….dreamed my Pipers Piping would be dresses in red
and green tartan kilts, with matching shirts and pom-topped tammy hats trying
to inflate their bag-pipes.
But, that’s what I got…oh, yeah, buddy, that’s what I got.
Did I ever mention I loathe bagpipes? And one of the things on my ‘bucket list’ is
to rid the world of them. Well it is. (Sorry if that hurts anybody's feelings.)
Dang…and just when I was beginning to think My True Love was
getting a handle on this gift giving business…well, except for the Maids
Milking which didn't work out too well, and the Lords a-Leaping that were a bit
disastrous also…he really did do a pretty good job.
This time, however, things have gone wa-a-a-y beyond the Milking Maidens and the Leaping Lords.
Neighbors are standing in the street, my yard, my driveway,
while the pipers are desperately trying to squeeze songs like jingle-bells,
out of their bags and pipes. I’m telling
you, the sound was horrific. How long
was I going to have to endure this? The
crowd was growing, and it seemed everyone was enjoying themselves…there was
actual tapping of toes…and clapping of hands….even Frankie was fully engulfed in all this levity. Has she gone mad?
I, on the other hand, wanted to bury myself down deep into
the nearest mole tunnel, curl up and die.
Just about then a police car arrived.
Sqawwwwwwweeeeeeeeuuuuu-uuuuu-uuuuuu….uu…u…went the
bag-pipes.
Mr. Policeman asked someone who was responsible for this ‘Parade’,
in unison, bodies turned, and all fingers pointed my direction. Oh, crap.
Mr. Policeman: “This
your parade?” He asked as he approached my front stoop.
Me: “Er, I guess so.”
Mr. Policeman: “You
got a permit?”
Me: “No, sir.” And I try to explain about the gifts I had
been getting from My True Love, and how I was trying to get things worked out and….(and
all the while I’m hoping the ducks and the geese and the chickens don’t make an
appearance just now.)
Mr. Policeman nods politely and occasionally rubs his chin as I try to talk my way out of this.
Mr. Policeman: “Well, I think you better wrap up this little party, okay? It’s almost Christmas, so I’m not going to
give you a ticket.”
He then turned and faced the crowd. “Okay, folks, break it up…time to go
home. You! Fellas with the bag-pipes! Come with me.” He looks back at me and winks. “I know a guy who hates bag-pipes…he’s gonna’
l-o-v-e this Christmas present.”
Andrew McNabb
How to Appreciate the Great Highland Bagpipe
Any complex style of music requires understanding to be
fully appreciated. Many people find classical music boring. They only listen
for the melody, so they completely miss the variety of instruments and the
interactions between parts. In contrast, a person who can recognize and listen
to multiple parts finds that doing so brings out the beauty of the music.
Similarly, someone who is familiar with the range of a trumpet is amazed when a
skilled musician plays octaves higher than seems humanly possible, while other
people simply enjoy the tune.
Bagpipe music is enough different from most standard western
music that even trained musicians generally fail to fully appreciate it.
Familiarity with the instrument and its art is what turns a loud noise into
music.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Oooooooffff!
I am jarred awake when a rather heavy object hits the bed. What the Sam Hill is going on here? The room is still dark, I know Zorro is under the covers, and this is bump was much too big to be my cat.
“Wake up, wake up, says the bouncing object.”
The overhead light comes on. I blink, trying to focus on the body balanced on one leg at the foot of my bed. I pull my blankets up over my nose, and peer suspiciously as young men in tights are pirouetting in the tight confine of my room.
Frankie, with bedhead, and rumpled jammies makes an entrance and flops on the bed beside me. Zorro is growling menacingly.
“Seriously, get up,” says the handsome young man. And with a wave of his arm and a limber turn he leaps off the bed. He and the other nine ballet attired gentlemen bow at the waist and leave the room.
I’m stunned. Frankie has a strange look on her face; I can’t tell if she is displeased or contemplating. While I scramble to dress, I inquire why she appears perplexed.
Frankie: “I’m just curious, what the heck is that little package ‘you know where’? Is that an athletic ‘cup’?
Me: (With just a bit of embarrassed giggle.) “No, I think it’s kind of a thong thingy, to hold ‘you know what, you know where.”
Frankie: “Oh.” (Insert a few seconds of silence here. Followed by:) “OOOOOOOOOHHHHH!” She is now grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
Me: “Frankie, cut that out. These young men are serious dancers and are here at the request, I’m sure, of My True Love. Now hurry and dress, apparently we've another show to watch.” However, I must admit, as old as I am, their packages were indeed ample, which did not leave a lot of room for my imagination run a- muck.
I made a quick repair of yesterday’s make-up, dressed better than my normal holey sweat pants and shirt, and ran a comb through my hair. I thought I was moving pretty quickly, but by the time I got to the living room Frankie was already there…grinning from ear to ear.
The Lords were Leaping about in wild abandon. The leader of the group, started the music, and some semblance of dance began. Oh, my poor house…furniture was knocked into, while nick-knacks and decorations got strewn about. There was no room for all the Glissades, Pas de Chats, Pirouettes and Grand Battlements.
Handsome, talented, and well-endowed as these young men were, they were destroying my home.
Me: (Abruptly standing) “Gentlemen, gentlemen, it not the fact we aren't enjoying your performance and your talents, and, it is with regret I must ask you to bring your show to a close. I don’t believe My True Love expects house repairs to be part of the gift.”
The music stops, my Lords a-Leaping form a line bow politely, kiss our hands and silently disappear. I felt miserable.
Frankie’s chin begins to quiver…I think she’s going to cry…I have never seen her in such a state…at our ages we have simply never talked about sex…and our lack of it…but having never seen this gleam in her eyes before, I’m starting to think maybe we should. (Talk about it…not have it). I’m a bit choked up myself.
Suddenly an old saying creeps into my fog shrouded brain. “There might be snow on the roof, but, there’s still some fire in the furnace.” Who knew that's really true?
Me: (Sighing deeply) “Come on, Frankie, let’s have some coffee and a nice long talk. (I put my arm around her shoulder) I have to admit, I've never been a fan of ballet before, but I gotta tell ya'.......
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
I'm conflicted
Last night before I went to bed I watched the late news. The broadcasters were 'all a twitter' that there might be snow overnight.
My first thought was 'bummer'.
Slept through the night.
My first thought this morning was 'please, oh, please, don't let there be snow out there'.
I literally forcefully, yank the drapes open.
There's snow. I see it on my neighbor's roof. Carefully, almost dreadfully, I pull the curtains apart.
Yes, there is snow on the roofs, some of the shrubs, and on the grass. It is a beautiful, magical scene. I think I'm glad it snowed.
Whew, the sidewalk is bare. That is a relief. I do enjoy shoveling snow...at least I used to, but now...not so much.
My husband had a thing about snow filled sidewalks and driveways. He worked in the insurance business and understood the liability aspects of accidents that can happen on one's property, and was persistent that I keep the sidewalk and driveway clear of snow. He worked all day, I was at home, so shoveling was simply part of my activities. Besides, I grew up in the mountains of Pennsylvania, so I know all about snow.
For more years than I can remember, I had to use a heavy, metal, garden shovel to keep everything 'plowed'. It was hard labor. But, I loved the cold, I loved the work, and I loved that my dogs loved being outside with me. I would make snowballs they would chase around the yard, and try to catch mid air. It was fun.
Finally, a few years before Paul passed away, he bought me an actual snow shovel. It is light weight, has a huge plastic scoop, with sides that sweep outward, so I can use it like a snow plow and push the snow from the garage door to the street gutter in a fell-swoop. It is a great shovel.
Then.
I got old.
Oh, I still shovel the snow, cause, I don't want some delivery guy to slip, fall and break his butt on the way to my door, but, the joy, fun, and sweet smelling winter air no longer entice me to enjoy the labor.
So, you can see my conflict. Through the eyes of a child, I love the snow...bring it on Old Man Winter.
Through the eyes of a Rambling Old Woman....'ppppbbbbbbttttttt'.
My first thought was 'bummer'.
Slept through the night.
My first thought this morning was 'please, oh, please, don't let there be snow out there'.
I literally forcefully, yank the drapes open.
There's snow. I see it on my neighbor's roof. Carefully, almost dreadfully, I pull the curtains apart.
Yes, there is snow on the roofs, some of the shrubs, and on the grass. It is a beautiful, magical scene. I think I'm glad it snowed.
Whew, the sidewalk is bare. That is a relief. I do enjoy shoveling snow...at least I used to, but now...not so much.
My husband had a thing about snow filled sidewalks and driveways. He worked in the insurance business and understood the liability aspects of accidents that can happen on one's property, and was persistent that I keep the sidewalk and driveway clear of snow. He worked all day, I was at home, so shoveling was simply part of my activities. Besides, I grew up in the mountains of Pennsylvania, so I know all about snow.
For more years than I can remember, I had to use a heavy, metal, garden shovel to keep everything 'plowed'. It was hard labor. But, I loved the cold, I loved the work, and I loved that my dogs loved being outside with me. I would make snowballs they would chase around the yard, and try to catch mid air. It was fun.
Finally, a few years before Paul passed away, he bought me an actual snow shovel. It is light weight, has a huge plastic scoop, with sides that sweep outward, so I can use it like a snow plow and push the snow from the garage door to the street gutter in a fell-swoop. It is a great shovel.
Then.
I got old.
Oh, I still shovel the snow, cause, I don't want some delivery guy to slip, fall and break his butt on the way to my door, but, the joy, fun, and sweet smelling winter air no longer entice me to enjoy the labor.
So, you can see my conflict. Through the eyes of a child, I love the snow...bring it on Old Man Winter.
Through the eyes of a Rambling Old Woman....'ppppbbbbbbttttttt'.
Monday, December 17, 2012
My house is alive with the sound of music.
When I woke up this morning, my fuzzy brain thought it heard music. I had to be wrong. I check everything before I head off for bed at night...every light off, every door locked, every window closed and locked. Oh yes, I check not just once, or twice...three times at least...sometimes more, because I think I might have forgotten something.
No, this cannot be music, unless Frankie is already up...what time is it anyway. I roll over and look at the clock. 8:15. 8:15!!! I told Zorro last night we were going to sleep in, but this is ridiculous. If I were still twenty, I would have jumped out of bed, since I'm not, I lie there and rub Zorro's tummy for a while.
However, the music has peaked my interest, and I throw on my slippers to go investigate. As I approach the living room, I see all the furniture has been pushed up against the walls, and there are 9, count 'em, 9 beautifully clad young ladies dancing a waltz. I wish you could see their costumes, beautiful, shiny satin, in red, green, gold and silver. At the shoulders the sleeves were puffy, and they tapered down tightly to the wrists. Around their right wrists hung intricately carved ivory fans. The bodices hugged their figure, and were cut to accent their well endowed bosoms, while at the waist bum-rolls carried the weight of the skirts, allowing the gowns to sway in time to the music. They all wore high, bouffant, powdered wigs, magnificently curled, topped off with tiaras that sparkled like Tinker Bells magic wand.
I was agog. My True Love had outdone himself in splendor.
Frankie appeared from the kitchen. She handed me a cup of something she called 'Grog', and escorted me to the sofa...(but she called it a divan) and we settled in to watch the show. The 'Ladies Dancing' did the waltz, the minuet, a whimsical gig, and other steps I had never seen before.
Frankie and I drained our 'Grog's' and had another.
When they were through, Frankie and I jumped to our feet, with a standing ovation, and many, many, BRAVO, BRAVO, BRAVOS. I'm telling you it was amazing...it was astounding...it was mystical...it was magical...it was the bestest present ever.
Good bye Ladies Dancing, farewell Ladies Dancing, Adieu, adieu.
I think My True Love is finally getting the hang of gift giving. Stay tune, folks...can't wait to see what happens next.
No, this cannot be music, unless Frankie is already up...what time is it anyway. I roll over and look at the clock. 8:15. 8:15!!! I told Zorro last night we were going to sleep in, but this is ridiculous. If I were still twenty, I would have jumped out of bed, since I'm not, I lie there and rub Zorro's tummy for a while.
However, the music has peaked my interest, and I throw on my slippers to go investigate. As I approach the living room, I see all the furniture has been pushed up against the walls, and there are 9, count 'em, 9 beautifully clad young ladies dancing a waltz. I wish you could see their costumes, beautiful, shiny satin, in red, green, gold and silver. At the shoulders the sleeves were puffy, and they tapered down tightly to the wrists. Around their right wrists hung intricately carved ivory fans. The bodices hugged their figure, and were cut to accent their well endowed bosoms, while at the waist bum-rolls carried the weight of the skirts, allowing the gowns to sway in time to the music. They all wore high, bouffant, powdered wigs, magnificently curled, topped off with tiaras that sparkled like Tinker Bells magic wand.
I was agog. My True Love had outdone himself in splendor.
Frankie appeared from the kitchen. She handed me a cup of something she called 'Grog', and escorted me to the sofa...(but she called it a divan) and we settled in to watch the show. The 'Ladies Dancing' did the waltz, the minuet, a whimsical gig, and other steps I had never seen before.
Frankie and I drained our 'Grog's' and had another.
When they were through, Frankie and I jumped to our feet, with a standing ovation, and many, many, BRAVO, BRAVO, BRAVOS. I'm telling you it was amazing...it was astounding...it was mystical...it was magical...it was the bestest present ever.
Good bye Ladies Dancing, farewell Ladies Dancing, Adieu, adieu.
I think My True Love is finally getting the hang of gift giving. Stay tune, folks...can't wait to see what happens next.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Oh, dear, what can the matter be.
And, I'm not talking about Johnny being to long at the fair.
Frankie and I are tending to our flock, I might mention we covered everything in the room with old sheets, so that these creatures can roam about...except for the partridge, who still refuses to leave his pear tree. They seem much more happy and I think, content. It is surprising how easy this is, and I feel myself growing attached to my feather friends. However, I'm keeping them at a distance because I've always heard if you give them names or otherwise personalize them, it is extremely difficult to break ties when it is time to part.
Me: "You know, Frankie, after Christmas we are going to have to find homes for this flock?"
This is met with silence.
Me: "Frankie, did you hear me?" (I know she did.)
Silence. This can't be good. As you all know, she frequently makes me speechless, on the other hand, Frankie is never at a loss for words.
Me: "Frankie, seriously, we have to talk about what to do about all these creature." I extend my arm and make a generalized sweep of the room.
Frankie: "Even Aristotle and Homer?"
Me: "Who?????????????????'
Frankie: "Aristotle and Homer."
Oh, brother. I'm doomed I tell ya, doomed. I'm afraid to ask, but somehow find the courage to inquire, "And who, exactly, are Aristotle and Homer?"
Frankie, tenderly, carefully, lovingly, cups one of the turtle doves in her hands. Meekly, she hold the dove out to me. "Meet Aristotle."
Me: Frankie, (I'm trying to sound as stern as possible) Didn't I tell you when these birds started to arrive, DO NOT BECOME ATTACHED...WE WILL NOT GIVE THESE CREATURES NAMES...THEY ARE NOT GOING TO BE HERE THAT LONG.
Frankie: (Head bowed, full of remorse) "I know, but I couldn't help it, they are so gorgeous, and they look so...so...so...proud, yet humble, their plumage regal, as though they are sages of sort. Not rich by any means, yet dressed as though they were. They remind me of college professors."
Funny, I'd never thought of that...but they do indeed.
However, this does not help when it comes to getting Frankie to give up Aristotle and Homer when the time comes. I feel very badly. Somehow 'Charlotte's Web' flashes through my mind. But,I'm going to have to put on my 'parental' face and be firm.
Me: "I'm sorry, Frankie, we can't keep the birds. After the holidays we are going to have to give up them up. Can you imagine what 'Bird Lady' would do if she knew we had this menagerie in our house...she would have a conniption fit...she would puff up, turn red, purple, black, blue and then bust a gusset. We cannot keep the birds."
Frankie looks as though she going to cry.
Me: (Feeling like an ogre.) Okay, okay, we don't have to decide anything today. Just don't name any more of the birds? Promise me you won't name any more of the birds.
Frankie nods her head and holds Aristotle close, nuzzling him to her cheek. I've never seen her so child-like. Well, it is Christmas, the time for wonderment and joy. Maybe a miracle will happen, time will tell.
Frankie and I are tending to our flock, I might mention we covered everything in the room with old sheets, so that these creatures can roam about...except for the partridge, who still refuses to leave his pear tree. They seem much more happy and I think, content. It is surprising how easy this is, and I feel myself growing attached to my feather friends. However, I'm keeping them at a distance because I've always heard if you give them names or otherwise personalize them, it is extremely difficult to break ties when it is time to part.
Me: "You know, Frankie, after Christmas we are going to have to find homes for this flock?"
This is met with silence.
Me: "Frankie, did you hear me?" (I know she did.)
Silence. This can't be good. As you all know, she frequently makes me speechless, on the other hand, Frankie is never at a loss for words.
Me: "Frankie, seriously, we have to talk about what to do about all these creature." I extend my arm and make a generalized sweep of the room.
Frankie: "Even Aristotle and Homer?"
Me: "Who?????????????????'
Frankie: "Aristotle and Homer."
Oh, brother. I'm doomed I tell ya, doomed. I'm afraid to ask, but somehow find the courage to inquire, "And who, exactly, are Aristotle and Homer?"
Frankie, tenderly, carefully, lovingly, cups one of the turtle doves in her hands. Meekly, she hold the dove out to me. "Meet Aristotle."
Me: Frankie, (I'm trying to sound as stern as possible) Didn't I tell you when these birds started to arrive, DO NOT BECOME ATTACHED...WE WILL NOT GIVE THESE CREATURES NAMES...THEY ARE NOT GOING TO BE HERE THAT LONG.
Frankie: (Head bowed, full of remorse) "I know, but I couldn't help it, they are so gorgeous, and they look so...so...so...proud, yet humble, their plumage regal, as though they are sages of sort. Not rich by any means, yet dressed as though they were. They remind me of college professors."
Funny, I'd never thought of that...but they do indeed.
However, this does not help when it comes to getting Frankie to give up Aristotle and Homer when the time comes. I feel very badly. Somehow 'Charlotte's Web' flashes through my mind. But,I'm going to have to put on my 'parental' face and be firm.
Me: "I'm sorry, Frankie, we can't keep the birds. After the holidays we are going to have to give up them up. Can you imagine what 'Bird Lady' would do if she knew we had this menagerie in our house...she would have a conniption fit...she would puff up, turn red, purple, black, blue and then bust a gusset. We cannot keep the birds."
Frankie looks as though she going to cry.
Me: (Feeling like an ogre.) Okay, okay, we don't have to decide anything today. Just don't name any more of the birds? Promise me you won't name any more of the birds.
Frankie nods her head and holds Aristotle close, nuzzling him to her cheek. I've never seen her so child-like. Well, it is Christmas, the time for wonderment and joy. Maybe a miracle will happen, time will tell.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
The debate is over.
Make no mistake...
it IS the gun...
it IS the person...
it IS the BULLET THAT CAUSES THE CARNAGE.
Friday, December 14, 2012
There's a whole lot of mooooo
...ing going on around here.
I slept in until almost seven thirty this morning; it was only when the heavy lump on my hip woke me that I realized it was already daylight. The lump was my cat, my guess is she was hungry.
I rouse Frankie, and I open the living room drapes. I'm overcome with laughter, the kind that takes your breath away, and brings tears to your eyes.
Picture this.
8 three legged stools, 8 Guernsey cows, in bad need of milking, and 8 rain bedraggled maidens, their golden braids and bangs plastered to their heads. Even the cows looked forlorn.
"Frankie", I wailed, "throw on a pot of coffee. Now! Snap to, snap to."
I throw open the front door and invite the be sodden maidens in. Towels are brought so they could somewhat dry themselves, and their shoes were placed on the hearth near the fireplace to dry.
I'm at a loss what to say, except how sorry I am for their condition, and explain the situation with My True Love who has the most peculiar way of showing his affection...
One of the maidens, with a most delightful Swedish accent, told me they knew all about 'My True Love', and how she felt about his gifts, and that she would be delighted to tell him exactly where to go. I inquired about the cows, and was told they were 'rented' from a local dairy, and like themselves would 'clock out' at noon.
By now the coffee was done, and the maidens wrapped in blankets had stopped shivering, but the cows were of great concern.
My front yard fence is only about three feet high and was intended to keep Zorro safely in the yard and was not meant to enclose a herd of Guernsey Cows. We decided we would not be able to contain them till noon, and yon maiden whipped out her phone and called the dairy..."...yeah, vell, you vait till noon and these cows guunna to be all over der neighborhood, so I dink ewe bedder come suuun." I felt reassured and relieved the cows would soon be gone.
I understood the maidens were quite uncomfortable in their wet attire, and I certainly didn't want feel responsible for any sniffing and sneezing that might be in their future; so I released them from their contractual obligation. Soon a humongous, white, stretch limo pulled up to the curb, and the maidens prepared to take their leave. With hugs all around, Frankie and I bid the milk maidens adieu.
I really wanted them to stay, because their accents were so delightful, I could have listened to their stories 'til the cows come home'.
I slept in until almost seven thirty this morning; it was only when the heavy lump on my hip woke me that I realized it was already daylight. The lump was my cat, my guess is she was hungry.
I rouse Frankie, and I open the living room drapes. I'm overcome with laughter, the kind that takes your breath away, and brings tears to your eyes.
Picture this.
8 three legged stools, 8 Guernsey cows, in bad need of milking, and 8 rain bedraggled maidens, their golden braids and bangs plastered to their heads. Even the cows looked forlorn.
"Frankie", I wailed, "throw on a pot of coffee. Now! Snap to, snap to."
I throw open the front door and invite the be sodden maidens in. Towels are brought so they could somewhat dry themselves, and their shoes were placed on the hearth near the fireplace to dry.
I'm at a loss what to say, except how sorry I am for their condition, and explain the situation with My True Love who has the most peculiar way of showing his affection...
One of the maidens, with a most delightful Swedish accent, told me they knew all about 'My True Love', and how she felt about his gifts, and that she would be delighted to tell him exactly where to go. I inquired about the cows, and was told they were 'rented' from a local dairy, and like themselves would 'clock out' at noon.
By now the coffee was done, and the maidens wrapped in blankets had stopped shivering, but the cows were of great concern.
My front yard fence is only about three feet high and was intended to keep Zorro safely in the yard and was not meant to enclose a herd of Guernsey Cows. We decided we would not be able to contain them till noon, and yon maiden whipped out her phone and called the dairy..."...yeah, vell, you vait till noon and these cows guunna to be all over der neighborhood, so I dink ewe bedder come suuun." I felt reassured and relieved the cows would soon be gone.
I understood the maidens were quite uncomfortable in their wet attire, and I certainly didn't want feel responsible for any sniffing and sneezing that might be in their future; so I released them from their contractual obligation. Soon a humongous, white, stretch limo pulled up to the curb, and the maidens prepared to take their leave. With hugs all around, Frankie and I bid the milk maidens adieu.
I really wanted them to stay, because their accents were so delightful, I could have listened to their stories 'til the cows come home'.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
"Hey, Lady...
where do you want the pond?"
There's a big burly guy standing at the front door. A truck and backhoe are sitting at the curb. He's not intimidating in any way, but it sure looks as though he is here to do some heavy, laborious work.
"Pond," I inquire, "what pond?"
"I got a work order here says, I should install a pond in your yard, you want it in the front here, or in the back."
I try to control my voice so Mr. Burly does not sense the panic I feel creeping up from my toes.
"I don't have room for a pond, front or back. I think you must have the wrong house. Can you tell me who ordered this work?"
"Says here," he said, pointing to the signature on the work order. "Somebody called Your True Love."
Hoooonnnkkkk, hoooonnnnkkkkk honk, honk, honk.
Honk........honk........honk.
Oh, my...waddling up my driveway are seven swans...being herded by a dog and an elderly gentleman carrying a staff. I'm surprised how easily the swans allow themselves to be led into my yard, and they immediately make themselves at home and begin to search out grubs and slugs lingering in my lawn and gardens.
Mr. Elderly joins Mr. Burly on my front stoop. He hands me a note...I do not have to read what it says, I know these swans are a gift from you know who. I thank Mr. Elderly for his time, and he and Rover make their way back down the driveway while I direct my attention back to Mr. Burly and the pond.
I finally convince him I don't need a pond, and to please contact My True Love and say I appreciate his offer but the swans are only temporary (I hope) and I will have no need for a pond.
"Okay, lady...but them swans really needs water...they loves swimmin' don't ya know. Well, good luck to ya, an' Merry Christmas." With a loud backfire, and a plumb of black exhaust Mr. Burly and his backhoe disappear.
I'm thankful for the creek behind the house, I think the swans might like it, but I'm also fearful for them because we have an abundance of coyotes in the neighborhood. Frankie has great concern for their welfare too, and I concede we should probably herd them around the house and back to the sun room. You cannot imagine all the cheeps, chirps, quacks, coos, and honks that are making music in the room. Oh, and let's not forget all the feathers, water troughs, and seed containers that are contributing to the mess strewn around, but at least my flock is warm, well fed and out of harms way.
However, the room is pretty much filled to capacity, I'm desperately trying to recall the verses to the song Twelve Days of Christmas...surely this has to be the last of the birds...I hope, I hope, I hope... but, I guess there is no sense in worrying about tomorrow's gift until tomorrow.
Right now Frankie and I are going to fix ourselves a good stiff drink and maybe even get a little sloshed...it has got to be happy hour somewhere in the world, right?
Now, how does that song go...On the Eighth Day of Christmas, My True Love gave to me....la, la, la, la, la, la, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.
There's a big burly guy standing at the front door. A truck and backhoe are sitting at the curb. He's not intimidating in any way, but it sure looks as though he is here to do some heavy, laborious work.
"Pond," I inquire, "what pond?"
"I got a work order here says, I should install a pond in your yard, you want it in the front here, or in the back."
I try to control my voice so Mr. Burly does not sense the panic I feel creeping up from my toes.
"I don't have room for a pond, front or back. I think you must have the wrong house. Can you tell me who ordered this work?"
"Says here," he said, pointing to the signature on the work order. "Somebody called Your True Love."
Hoooonnnkkkk, hoooonnnnkkkkk honk, honk, honk.
Honk........honk........honk.
Oh, my...waddling up my driveway are seven swans...being herded by a dog and an elderly gentleman carrying a staff. I'm surprised how easily the swans allow themselves to be led into my yard, and they immediately make themselves at home and begin to search out grubs and slugs lingering in my lawn and gardens.
Mr. Elderly joins Mr. Burly on my front stoop. He hands me a note...I do not have to read what it says, I know these swans are a gift from you know who. I thank Mr. Elderly for his time, and he and Rover make their way back down the driveway while I direct my attention back to Mr. Burly and the pond.
I finally convince him I don't need a pond, and to please contact My True Love and say I appreciate his offer but the swans are only temporary (I hope) and I will have no need for a pond.
"Okay, lady...but them swans really needs water...they loves swimmin' don't ya know. Well, good luck to ya, an' Merry Christmas." With a loud backfire, and a plumb of black exhaust Mr. Burly and his backhoe disappear.
I'm thankful for the creek behind the house, I think the swans might like it, but I'm also fearful for them because we have an abundance of coyotes in the neighborhood. Frankie has great concern for their welfare too, and I concede we should probably herd them around the house and back to the sun room. You cannot imagine all the cheeps, chirps, quacks, coos, and honks that are making music in the room. Oh, and let's not forget all the feathers, water troughs, and seed containers that are contributing to the mess strewn around, but at least my flock is warm, well fed and out of harms way.
However, the room is pretty much filled to capacity, I'm desperately trying to recall the verses to the song Twelve Days of Christmas...surely this has to be the last of the birds...I hope, I hope, I hope... but, I guess there is no sense in worrying about tomorrow's gift until tomorrow.
Right now Frankie and I are going to fix ourselves a good stiff drink and maybe even get a little sloshed...it has got to be happy hour somewhere in the world, right?
Now, how does that song go...On the Eighth Day of Christmas, My True Love gave to me....la, la, la, la, la, la, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Things they never tell you
My daughter Pam, and I were out Monday morning. We both had lab work that needed to be done, and I also needed to get my flu shot.
The clinic was all a bustle, and the line up for the lab was quite lengthy. Fortunately we were able to get two seats together, and (as is so like our outings) we find things about which we can get silly.
I happened to mention I had to clip my toe nails over the weekend, and I said to her. "How come nobody ever tells you that a day will come when you can no longer swing your foot up onto the knee of the other leg in order to trim your nails?" I then proceed to demonstrate, I can still swing my right foot onto my left knee, and then show how it is impossible for me to do the same with my left foot to the right knee. We realize I look absurd, and we both have a good, hardy laugh.
After our commotion dies down, in a very serious tone she says: "Why don't you just put your foot up on the toilet seat, that way all you have to do is lean over."
HUH?
It is like she is speaking a foreign tongue. I kind of sit there for a few seconds taking that last statement in. In my mind I'm visualizing this might actually work. Toilet, definitely the right height, I'm not tall by any means, so I can see me bending at the hips, allowing my tummy flab to rest against my thigh and easily reaching my toes, even the one that cried, 'wee, wee, wee, all the way home'. Plus, and this is huge, on the days my vertigo is not too bad, I can still balance on one leg, so falling onto the corner of the sink, or the linen cabinet that sits in the corner is not very probable.
I'm now so intrigued I wish I was home so I could try this out.
I finally sputter that I think that is a terrific idea and will definitely try that next time my tootsies need a clip.
How come I never think of solutions to my mundane problems is a question I frequently ask myself, and, how come nobody ever tells you there is often a simple answer to life's perplexing quandaries...especially on the day you are shocked looking in the mirror and wondering who that 'rambling old woman' is looking back at you.
So, I have made it my mission to report to you all the things that are going to sneak up on you as you mature, and my blog is the vessel from which I will exude my gems of wisdom, it is a duty and obligation to keep you informed of all the things that nobody else is going to tell you.
The clinic was all a bustle, and the line up for the lab was quite lengthy. Fortunately we were able to get two seats together, and (as is so like our outings) we find things about which we can get silly.
I happened to mention I had to clip my toe nails over the weekend, and I said to her. "How come nobody ever tells you that a day will come when you can no longer swing your foot up onto the knee of the other leg in order to trim your nails?" I then proceed to demonstrate, I can still swing my right foot onto my left knee, and then show how it is impossible for me to do the same with my left foot to the right knee. We realize I look absurd, and we both have a good, hardy laugh.
After our commotion dies down, in a very serious tone she says: "Why don't you just put your foot up on the toilet seat, that way all you have to do is lean over."
HUH?
It is like she is speaking a foreign tongue. I kind of sit there for a few seconds taking that last statement in. In my mind I'm visualizing this might actually work. Toilet, definitely the right height, I'm not tall by any means, so I can see me bending at the hips, allowing my tummy flab to rest against my thigh and easily reaching my toes, even the one that cried, 'wee, wee, wee, all the way home'. Plus, and this is huge, on the days my vertigo is not too bad, I can still balance on one leg, so falling onto the corner of the sink, or the linen cabinet that sits in the corner is not very probable.
I'm now so intrigued I wish I was home so I could try this out.
I finally sputter that I think that is a terrific idea and will definitely try that next time my tootsies need a clip.
How come I never think of solutions to my mundane problems is a question I frequently ask myself, and, how come nobody ever tells you there is often a simple answer to life's perplexing quandaries...especially on the day you are shocked looking in the mirror and wondering who that 'rambling old woman' is looking back at you.
So, I have made it my mission to report to you all the things that are going to sneak up on you as you mature, and my blog is the vessel from which I will exude my gems of wisdom, it is a duty and obligation to keep you informed of all the things that nobody else is going to tell you.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
I hear quacking...
a LOT of quacking. What the heck is going on.
Frankie comes charging into the office. "You are NOT going to believe this! Come, quick!"
I jump to my feet, as quickly as a rambling old woman can, and follow Frankie to the front room.
Outside at the curb is an old, beat-up, flatbed truck. At one time I suspect it was shiny, apple red and new; but now it is mostly rust, with occasional blobs of red here and there. Barely visible, the lettering on the side of the truck reads.
Old McDonald's Farm
Oh, thank goodness, someone must have read my message from a few days ago, and on my behalf has contacted Farmer McDonald to come for my feathered menagerie. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Farmer McDonald appears to be my age, and is attired exactly the way YOUR imagination pictures him.
Worn, tattered denim coveralls, heavy winter flannel shirt, and a tan cowboy hat, with a head band stained with years and years of summer toil.
I open the door and shout "Hello There. Can I help you?"
Farmer McDonald: "Nope, jes' got a little somethin' for ya."
Quack, quack, quack, quack.....quack. One by one Farmer McDonald removes crates from the back of his battered truck and struggles to bring them into my living room.
Frankie is going around in circles...muttering..."OMG....OMG....OMG"
"Frankie." I shout, "That is not helping."
Frankie: "OMG, OMG, OMG."
By the time Farmer McDonald is done, there are six crates each containing a large, very large white goose all sitting just inside my living room door. "Sign here," he says, "don't feed 'em too much today, they've already 'et."
Reluctantly, I sign the receipt, and I watch Farmer McDonald return to his truck. Well, so much for hoping he would take my growing feathered family.
Frankie and I collapse onto the sofa and I read the note that was stapled to the top of one of the crates.
"My dear, true, love, I've heard the white goose is associated with Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love' I hope these birds show you the deep affection I have for you."
Suddenly, one of the geese lets out an ear-splitting Q-U-A-ccc-kkk!!!! An egg rolls out of the crate. Frankie gasps. I, on the other hand realize what these creatures are...THE SIX GEESE A-LAYING, from the Christmas song, 'The twelve days of Christmas.' OMG, OMG, OMG.
There is much quacking, eggs are dropping like bombs inside the crates, rolling hither and yon. Frankie can barely keep up with their mass production. I thought fowl only laid one egg a day...are these creatures magical? I'm hoping all my friends are in need of fresh eggs for holiday baking because I intend to get busy and call everyone I know to tell them not to put a dozen eggs on their shopping lists.
After a while, the quacking, and egg laying stops and Frankie and I breathe a sigh of relief. We have slumped back in uncomfortable heaps on the sofa. Neither of us speak for a while.
Frankie: "Is this egg laying going to happen every morning?"
Me: "I've not a clue."
More silence.
Frankie: "You know what?"
Me: "What?"
Frankie: "Not a damn one of them has laid a golden egg."
Frankie comes charging into the office. "You are NOT going to believe this! Come, quick!"
I jump to my feet, as quickly as a rambling old woman can, and follow Frankie to the front room.
Outside at the curb is an old, beat-up, flatbed truck. At one time I suspect it was shiny, apple red and new; but now it is mostly rust, with occasional blobs of red here and there. Barely visible, the lettering on the side of the truck reads.
Old McDonald's Farm
Oh, thank goodness, someone must have read my message from a few days ago, and on my behalf has contacted Farmer McDonald to come for my feathered menagerie. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Farmer McDonald appears to be my age, and is attired exactly the way YOUR imagination pictures him.
Worn, tattered denim coveralls, heavy winter flannel shirt, and a tan cowboy hat, with a head band stained with years and years of summer toil.
I open the door and shout "Hello There. Can I help you?"
Farmer McDonald: "Nope, jes' got a little somethin' for ya."
Quack, quack, quack, quack.....quack. One by one Farmer McDonald removes crates from the back of his battered truck and struggles to bring them into my living room.
Frankie is going around in circles...muttering..."OMG....OMG....OMG"
"Frankie." I shout, "That is not helping."
Frankie: "OMG, OMG, OMG."
By the time Farmer McDonald is done, there are six crates each containing a large, very large white goose all sitting just inside my living room door. "Sign here," he says, "don't feed 'em too much today, they've already 'et."
Reluctantly, I sign the receipt, and I watch Farmer McDonald return to his truck. Well, so much for hoping he would take my growing feathered family.
Frankie and I collapse onto the sofa and I read the note that was stapled to the top of one of the crates.
"My dear, true, love, I've heard the white goose is associated with Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love' I hope these birds show you the deep affection I have for you."
Suddenly, one of the geese lets out an ear-splitting Q-U-A-ccc-kkk!!!! An egg rolls out of the crate. Frankie gasps. I, on the other hand realize what these creatures are...THE SIX GEESE A-LAYING, from the Christmas song, 'The twelve days of Christmas.' OMG, OMG, OMG.
There is much quacking, eggs are dropping like bombs inside the crates, rolling hither and yon. Frankie can barely keep up with their mass production. I thought fowl only laid one egg a day...are these creatures magical? I'm hoping all my friends are in need of fresh eggs for holiday baking because I intend to get busy and call everyone I know to tell them not to put a dozen eggs on their shopping lists.
After a while, the quacking, and egg laying stops and Frankie and I breathe a sigh of relief. We have slumped back in uncomfortable heaps on the sofa. Neither of us speak for a while.
Frankie: "Is this egg laying going to happen every morning?"
Me: "I've not a clue."
More silence.
Frankie: "You know what?"
Me: "What?"
Frankie: "Not a damn one of them has laid a golden egg."
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Leisurely Sunday Morning.
It's a grey day, fog hangs in the taller trees, outside the air is crisp and sweet. And, it is quiet, so,so, quiet. A perfect Sunday morning. Frankie is still asleep, it seems the colder the morning, the longer she stays snuggled under her blankets.
I've been up for a while, made coffee, fed my furry creatures and am contemplating a long hot shower. I'm standing at the living room bay window, enjoying my neighborhood scenery, when a midnight blue, luxury car pulls into the driveway. I don't panic because I think it is someone who realized this is a dead end street and is turning around. I can see writing on the side of the car, but without my glasses I cannot read what it says.
Oh no!
It stopped!
I'm in my flannel nightie. No time to dress, but perhaps I can at least put my hair in some kind of order before I hear knocking. I dash to the bathroom and run a brush through what's left of my thinning hair, when the knocking starts.
Zorro's barking.
I make it to the door, and apprehensively open it a crack. There on the stoop stands a well groomed gentleman, in a charcoal double-breasted suit. His tie holds a diamond stud tie-tack. (Who wears those anymore.) He reminds me of a mortician, except he is holding a shiny, black attache case that appears to be attached to his wrist with a handcuff. Oh, crap...that the heck have I done...what kind of trouble am I in now.
He smiles and announces the is Mr. So-and so, from, "Well Known Jewelry Store", could he please step in.
I'm speechless, but open wide the door and Mr. So-and-so enters. Zorro is quite calm, so I know this guy is okay.
He takes a key from his pocket, unlocks the end of the handcuff attached to his wrist, and with another key he unlocks the shiny attache case. There, inside are five royal blue, velvet covered boxes along with a card from "Well Known Jewelry Store". Inscribed on the note in excellent script it says "A small token of my deep affection...Your True Love."
Mr. So-and-So, places the boxes in my hands, closes his case, clumsily tries to shake my box filled hand, while wishing me the best of Christmases, and excuses himself.
I'm a-gog.
I slowly open the first box. It is a golden ring. I open the second box, it too holds a golden ring, as do the remaining three fuzzy boxes. They are beautiful, all delicately filigreed, each unique in their design. Now I'm not only a-gog, but absolutely speechless.
I don't know whether to weep or laugh. I'm so thankful today's gift was not birds I wanted to have a good belly-jiggling, throwing my head back, shaking all over kind of laugh. At the same time, I am so touched by My True Love's devotion, and thoughtfulness at these beautiful rings I want to bawl my eyes out.
I wish I knew who he was, I would at the very least call him...and if he were here, he would be getting the hardest hug he ever got in his life, along with the most long, sloppy, kiss. I'm touched beyond words.
Hey, maybe the birds weren't such crazy gifts after all. Now I'm kinda looking forward and kind of excited to see what comes next. Aren't you?
Thanks My True Love, whoever, and where ever you are.
I've been up for a while, made coffee, fed my furry creatures and am contemplating a long hot shower. I'm standing at the living room bay window, enjoying my neighborhood scenery, when a midnight blue, luxury car pulls into the driveway. I don't panic because I think it is someone who realized this is a dead end street and is turning around. I can see writing on the side of the car, but without my glasses I cannot read what it says.
Oh no!
It stopped!
I'm in my flannel nightie. No time to dress, but perhaps I can at least put my hair in some kind of order before I hear knocking. I dash to the bathroom and run a brush through what's left of my thinning hair, when the knocking starts.
Zorro's barking.
I make it to the door, and apprehensively open it a crack. There on the stoop stands a well groomed gentleman, in a charcoal double-breasted suit. His tie holds a diamond stud tie-tack. (Who wears those anymore.) He reminds me of a mortician, except he is holding a shiny, black attache case that appears to be attached to his wrist with a handcuff. Oh, crap...that the heck have I done...what kind of trouble am I in now.
He smiles and announces the is Mr. So-and so, from, "Well Known Jewelry Store", could he please step in.
I'm speechless, but open wide the door and Mr. So-and-so enters. Zorro is quite calm, so I know this guy is okay.
He takes a key from his pocket, unlocks the end of the handcuff attached to his wrist, and with another key he unlocks the shiny attache case. There, inside are five royal blue, velvet covered boxes along with a card from "Well Known Jewelry Store". Inscribed on the note in excellent script it says "A small token of my deep affection...Your True Love."
Mr. So-and-So, places the boxes in my hands, closes his case, clumsily tries to shake my box filled hand, while wishing me the best of Christmases, and excuses himself.
I'm a-gog.
I slowly open the first box. It is a golden ring. I open the second box, it too holds a golden ring, as do the remaining three fuzzy boxes. They are beautiful, all delicately filigreed, each unique in their design. Now I'm not only a-gog, but absolutely speechless.
I don't know whether to weep or laugh. I'm so thankful today's gift was not birds I wanted to have a good belly-jiggling, throwing my head back, shaking all over kind of laugh. At the same time, I am so touched by My True Love's devotion, and thoughtfulness at these beautiful rings I want to bawl my eyes out.
I wish I knew who he was, I would at the very least call him...and if he were here, he would be getting the hardest hug he ever got in his life, along with the most long, sloppy, kiss. I'm touched beyond words.
Hey, maybe the birds weren't such crazy gifts after all. Now I'm kinda looking forward and kind of excited to see what comes next. Aren't you?
Thanks My True Love, whoever, and where ever you are.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Christmas, Christmas time is here...
...time for joy and time for cheer. I know this because it is part of a Christmas song, and I was listening to it just a few days ago.
Frankie and I have been diligently decorating the house...just about every...single...room. Whew. Well, as you know we've also been distracted by birds...but that's a whole other story.
Anyway, the last thing on our holiday romp through dozens of boxes is to put up the tree. I bought a new one a few years ago, the kind with the lights built in. I wish I had invented this, cause Frankie and I would be living in the lap of luxury by now, but as always I was a day late and a pound short.
I love my tree, and I love the decorating...but dang...I "Hates" the 'fluf-ing' of the branches. So not fun, and in my opinion boring. I also loved when Karen was still living at home, because for some reason, she loved the 'fluf'. Yes, I know it's actually 'fluffing' the branches out, but one year one of us accidently said 'flufing', and the word stuck...so we don't fluff the branches, we fluf them.
Every year I remind Karen it is time to 'fluf' the tree....now, wouldn't you think a loving daughter would drop everything, hop a plane and come a thousand miles to 'fluf' her mother's tree? Is that really expecting too much? Well, maybe. See, if I had just invented the artificial Christmas tree with the lights built in, I would probably have my own Lear Jet, that I could fly to her and in about three hours she could be here, 'fluf' my tree and be back home by dinner time. Life just isn't fair. (Picture me stomping my foot.)
I really don't want to 'fluf' the tree. so guess what I'm going to do? I'm gonna be Tom Sawyer painting the white picket fence. I'm gonna make 'fluf-ing' look like sooo much fun Frankie is going to fall all over herself wanting to do the job. She will never know what hit her. This is going to be fun.
I'll be right back, phone is ringing.
Frankie here...Sandy's no idea who she's dealing with. (Insert evil laugh here.)
Press: Publish.
Frankie and I have been diligently decorating the house...just about every...single...room. Whew. Well, as you know we've also been distracted by birds...but that's a whole other story.
Anyway, the last thing on our holiday romp through dozens of boxes is to put up the tree. I bought a new one a few years ago, the kind with the lights built in. I wish I had invented this, cause Frankie and I would be living in the lap of luxury by now, but as always I was a day late and a pound short.
I love my tree, and I love the decorating...but dang...I "Hates" the 'fluf-ing' of the branches. So not fun, and in my opinion boring. I also loved when Karen was still living at home, because for some reason, she loved the 'fluf'. Yes, I know it's actually 'fluffing' the branches out, but one year one of us accidently said 'flufing', and the word stuck...so we don't fluff the branches, we fluf them.
Every year I remind Karen it is time to 'fluf' the tree....now, wouldn't you think a loving daughter would drop everything, hop a plane and come a thousand miles to 'fluf' her mother's tree? Is that really expecting too much? Well, maybe. See, if I had just invented the artificial Christmas tree with the lights built in, I would probably have my own Lear Jet, that I could fly to her and in about three hours she could be here, 'fluf' my tree and be back home by dinner time. Life just isn't fair. (Picture me stomping my foot.)
I really don't want to 'fluf' the tree. so guess what I'm going to do? I'm gonna be Tom Sawyer painting the white picket fence. I'm gonna make 'fluf-ing' look like sooo much fun Frankie is going to fall all over herself wanting to do the job. She will never know what hit her. This is going to be fun.
I'll be right back, phone is ringing.
Frankie here...Sandy's no idea who she's dealing with. (Insert evil laugh here.)
Press: Publish.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Dear Diary
And...
another
day has begun.
Frankie
and I are very busy getting the house decorated for Christmas. I'd say we are about half way done. As we
bustle about we see a FedEx truck pull up and stop smack dab at the end of the
driveway. Uh-oh, we look at each other
in stunned silence. It has been weeks
since I have ordered anything, so we've no idea why a delivery truck of any
kind would stop at our place.
One
thing crosses my mind...My True Love.
Deary
me, I have no idea what to expect. Oh
my, the box has holes in it...whatever is inside must be alive.
Pllllease,
don't let this be birds.
We
stop what we are doing and slowly walk around the box. A label states:
THIS SIDE UP
HANDLE WITH
CARE
FRAGILE
Something
in the box is flopping around. Frankie
goes for our package opener. There, in
four separate compartments of the box, stand four, shiny, satin finish
feathered birds. They are about the size
of robins. Their beaks are bright
yellow, and stand out like sunshine against their coal feathers.
A slightly pecked note sits atop the birds enclosures. It reads. "I hop ou are d ighted with these Fo Cal ng Birds. I coul ot afford to pu hase the Four and Twenty reqi ed to make a pa ry, and I knew you wou never 'bake them into a pie' an way; so, simply enjoy the comp nship of these del tful creatures. Your True Lo
A slightly pecked note sits atop the birds enclosures. It reads. "I hop ou are d ighted with these Fo Cal ng Birds. I coul ot afford to pu hase the Four and Twenty reqi ed to make a pa ry, and I knew you wou never 'bake them into a pie' an way; so, simply enjoy the comp nship of these del tful creatures. Your True Lo
Frankie
is about to become unglued, and I must confess, I'm about birded out
myself. The birds have already made
themselves at home, and we fear there will be rather raucous outbursts in the sun
room until we can decide that to do with our growing menagerie. I don’t
know who My True Love is to begin with, and his idea of a dowry is astonishing…
...actually,
I would much prefer more personal gifts, perhaps a shawl to keep my shoulders
warm these chilly December evenings, some chocolates to munch, or even a
variety of teas would be nice. Please,
True Love, enough with the birds.
Suddenly
Frankie and I ponder what the heck a Calling Bird is, and thanks to
Answers.Yahoo.com on the good ole’ Internet, we discovered that the four “calling
birds” refered to in "Four and Twenty Blackbirds" is an Americanization of the traditional English wording for “colly
birds”, and in some places, such as Australia, the variation “calling” is
supplanting the original. “Colly” is a dialect word meaning black and
refers to the European blackbird Turdus merula.
Well, that takes care of that…
Frankie: “Why in the world would one bake blackbirds
into a pie?”
Me: “I’ve no idea?”
Back
to the Internet we go. And, there on Wikipedia we found the following:
“It
is known that a 16th-century amusement was to place live birds in a pie, as a
form of entremet. An Italian cookbook from 1549 (translated into English in
1598) contained such a recipe: "to make pies so that birds may be alive
in them and flie out when it is cut up" and this was referred to in a cook
book of 1725 by John Nott.”
Really??? I think I would be most startled if I found
some live birds flying out of a pie in my kitchen.
However,
we did also find several actual recipes for Blackbird Pies. Most thankfully most were filled with fruit, not
birds; while some did appear to be ‘meat pies’ like the kind you can buy in any frozen
food section of your favorite store…thankfully their meat is of the beef or
fowl variety.
None
of this, of course, helps our quandary.
But, we are blessed in the fact all of the birds so far are in well-
kept containers…except for the Partridge who refuses to come out of the Pear
tree. We are seriously thinking that
after the holidays we will pay a visit to the local Audubon Society surely they
will appreciate our growing collection.
Perhaps they can use them as a ‘learning tool’ at local schools.
Please
True Love…a gift I don’t have to feed would be really nice.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Today is December 6th...
...and I'm sitting in my office working, but out my office window I can see a collection of trees. Some coniferous, some deciduous. The coniferous are all a tired dark green, while the deciduous are now all naked...well, except for one.
The exception is a birch, it is in my next door neighbor's back yard. It is still full of bright yellow leaves. I've been contemplating this phenomena for several days, because there are two other birches in this yard and there is not one leaf left on them. What is the matter with the sunny birch it refuses to give into the ritual of going to sleep for the winter?
Maybe life is like that birch. As we get older, we become more tired, less quick, our lust for life not as robust as it was in our youth, yet the alternative is so unattractive, no matter what our age our hearts continue to do it's work, like the birch, unwilling to let go of precious life.
I like seeing this tree every morning, it's beautiful and inspiring. I like to think its refusal to let go of this years growth is its way to ward off the fact winter, and the winter of life, is inevitable. It, and I, are about to start another year in our circle of life. Neither of us want to accept that so, we willing to fight until our hearts give out. We are strong and hardy stock, that birch and I, though it is inescapable we must face the coming winter, we will cling to autumn until a blast of winter wind blows the last leaf from that tree.
Hang in there birch tree, I'm your greatest fan and cheer leader, because with every day, and every remaining leaf, you are a sign there will be one less day to my winter.
I wish I could be the last leaf to cling to that tree, I would hang on till spring.
The exception is a birch, it is in my next door neighbor's back yard. It is still full of bright yellow leaves. I've been contemplating this phenomena for several days, because there are two other birches in this yard and there is not one leaf left on them. What is the matter with the sunny birch it refuses to give into the ritual of going to sleep for the winter?
Maybe life is like that birch. As we get older, we become more tired, less quick, our lust for life not as robust as it was in our youth, yet the alternative is so unattractive, no matter what our age our hearts continue to do it's work, like the birch, unwilling to let go of precious life.
I like seeing this tree every morning, it's beautiful and inspiring. I like to think its refusal to let go of this years growth is its way to ward off the fact winter, and the winter of life, is inevitable. It, and I, are about to start another year in our circle of life. Neither of us want to accept that so, we willing to fight until our hearts give out. We are strong and hardy stock, that birch and I, though it is inescapable we must face the coming winter, we will cling to autumn until a blast of winter wind blows the last leaf from that tree.
Hang in there birch tree, I'm your greatest fan and cheer leader, because with every day, and every remaining leaf, you are a sign there will be one less day to my winter.
I wish I could be the last leaf to cling to that tree, I would hang on till spring.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Commotion
Something is going on in the front room. I hear Frankie talking to someone. Zorro is racing up and down the hall, he wants me to go 'check this out', but I'm in the middle of a project and I can tell Frankie is in charge, so I continue working.
Soon I hear a scrape, scrape, scraping sound coming from the direction of the hall.
Frankie: (In a sing-song voice.) "Special Delivery."
I turn, and there in the office doorway stands Frankie with three rather large, ornate, painted white wrought iron bird cages. One in each hand with the third being pushed along the floor in front of her.
In each cage sits full grown white chicken looking bug-eyed, and gently clucking to each other. I'm assuming they are discussing which one is going to end up in a stew first.
I open the envelop Frankie thrust at me. The note read, "Dearest, I hope you enjoy your French Hens. Your True Love."
What does he mean, enjoy them? And, why would a True Love keep giving me birds, surely he must know I am a great lover of these creature. He can't possibly think I would actually make a stew out of them, nor can I keep them...I have a cat. She has already discovered them and is circling the cages like a lion stalks prey in the wild. And Zorro...I've never seen his nose work this hard.
Poor hens. They each could use one of my pills...I see their anxiety level rising.
Frankie and I are in quite a quandary ourselves, what are we going to do with these beautiful birds, 'er fowl?
We've no room to keep them, we are certainly not going to eat them, and we most certainly don't want to scare them to death, which is where they seem to be headed at the moment.
Oh dear, and by the same token I don't want My True Love to think I'm not appreciative of his gifts, as unconventional as they have been, so diplomacy is definitely called for. Frankie and I have decided to place the French Hens in the sun room with the two turtle doves, and the Pear Tree and Partridge that arrive a few days ago. We are hoping we will think of some solution later on.
I am hoping My True Love is done sending birds, there is quite a din going on at the back of the house. I'm also hoping should any more gifts arrive, they are small, quite and do not require a feeding schedule.
What? One of the hens wants to know if I will help her bake some bread? Mercy me!?
Looks like I've got to go.
Soon I hear a scrape, scrape, scraping sound coming from the direction of the hall.
Frankie: (In a sing-song voice.) "Special Delivery."
I turn, and there in the office doorway stands Frankie with three rather large, ornate, painted white wrought iron bird cages. One in each hand with the third being pushed along the floor in front of her.
In each cage sits full grown white chicken looking bug-eyed, and gently clucking to each other. I'm assuming they are discussing which one is going to end up in a stew first.
I open the envelop Frankie thrust at me. The note read, "Dearest, I hope you enjoy your French Hens. Your True Love."
What does he mean, enjoy them? And, why would a True Love keep giving me birds, surely he must know I am a great lover of these creature. He can't possibly think I would actually make a stew out of them, nor can I keep them...I have a cat. She has already discovered them and is circling the cages like a lion stalks prey in the wild. And Zorro...I've never seen his nose work this hard.
Poor hens. They each could use one of my pills...I see their anxiety level rising.
Frankie and I are in quite a quandary ourselves, what are we going to do with these beautiful birds, 'er fowl?
We've no room to keep them, we are certainly not going to eat them, and we most certainly don't want to scare them to death, which is where they seem to be headed at the moment.
Oh dear, and by the same token I don't want My True Love to think I'm not appreciative of his gifts, as unconventional as they have been, so diplomacy is definitely called for. Frankie and I have decided to place the French Hens in the sun room with the two turtle doves, and the Pear Tree and Partridge that arrive a few days ago. We are hoping we will think of some solution later on.
I am hoping My True Love is done sending birds, there is quite a din going on at the back of the house. I'm also hoping should any more gifts arrive, they are small, quite and do not require a feeding schedule.
What? One of the hens wants to know if I will help her bake some bread? Mercy me!?
Looks like I've got to go.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Cooo, cooo, cooo
It's a beautiful December morning. Frankie and I are getting ready to watch some football. I've not opened the living room door yet, so we are both surprised when there is a knock. Usually we can see when someone approaches.
I open the door, a guy dressed like a chauffeur is standing there. He's holding a box with many, many holes in it, and grinning from ear to ear, I'm thinking this guy sure has the wrong address.
He holds out the box, wanting me to open the door and take the package. Frankie whispers in my ear, "Be careful, it might be a bomb."...Yeah, like somebody would really want to take the time to build a bomb to blow OUR brains out.
I open the door and questioningly ask, "Yes?"
"A gift," he states, "from Your True Love." He shoves the box at me, and quickly turns to leave.
Frankie laughs. "Well, at least we know it's not a bomb, considering his last gift was a Pear tree and a bird."
I gingerly open the box. There inside are two beautiful, beige and grey birds. I recognize them immediately, they are Turtle Doves. I've never been so close to one, even though some used to come to my feeding spot during the summer months. Their dark eyes look sad and pleading. I try to reassure them it is going to be okay, no harm will come to them, but I certainly can't keep them in the box for long, so the first order of business will be to find a place to keep them. This is quite a quandary.
Fortunately I am a keeper of cardboard boxes, and also a keeper of leftover anything, so I just happen to have some 'left-over' chicken wire on an overhead shelf in my garage.
Frankie and I construct a make-shift cage, and contemplate where to put the two Turtle Doves for safe keeping. I guess CC will have to give up her sun room for a while, because there is already a Pear tree and Partridge in there, and with these birds arrival, the temptation of harassment by my cat will be overwhelming I'm sure. She will have to be content hanging out in the garage for a while, until I can figure out what to do with My True Love's presents.
These gifts can't surely be headed in the direction that I think they are, but I warn Frankie things could get a little strange this month. I'm starting to wonder if I should rent a storage facility...or perhaps see if Old McDonald might have a little space to share on his farm. I think he just might understand a sudden increase in animal population.
Does anybody out there have his number?
I open the door, a guy dressed like a chauffeur is standing there. He's holding a box with many, many holes in it, and grinning from ear to ear, I'm thinking this guy sure has the wrong address.
He holds out the box, wanting me to open the door and take the package. Frankie whispers in my ear, "Be careful, it might be a bomb."...Yeah, like somebody would really want to take the time to build a bomb to blow OUR brains out.
I open the door and questioningly ask, "Yes?"
"A gift," he states, "from Your True Love." He shoves the box at me, and quickly turns to leave.
Frankie laughs. "Well, at least we know it's not a bomb, considering his last gift was a Pear tree and a bird."
I gingerly open the box. There inside are two beautiful, beige and grey birds. I recognize them immediately, they are Turtle Doves. I've never been so close to one, even though some used to come to my feeding spot during the summer months. Their dark eyes look sad and pleading. I try to reassure them it is going to be okay, no harm will come to them, but I certainly can't keep them in the box for long, so the first order of business will be to find a place to keep them. This is quite a quandary.
Fortunately I am a keeper of cardboard boxes, and also a keeper of leftover anything, so I just happen to have some 'left-over' chicken wire on an overhead shelf in my garage.
Frankie and I construct a make-shift cage, and contemplate where to put the two Turtle Doves for safe keeping. I guess CC will have to give up her sun room for a while, because there is already a Pear tree and Partridge in there, and with these birds arrival, the temptation of harassment by my cat will be overwhelming I'm sure. She will have to be content hanging out in the garage for a while, until I can figure out what to do with My True Love's presents.
These gifts can't surely be headed in the direction that I think they are, but I warn Frankie things could get a little strange this month. I'm starting to wonder if I should rent a storage facility...or perhaps see if Old McDonald might have a little space to share on his farm. I think he just might understand a sudden increase in animal population.
Does anybody out there have his number?
Friday, November 30, 2012
Tra, la, la, la, la.....la, la, la....la
It's here, it's here, it's almost here.
December...
the last but best month of the year....where did the rest of the year go???????
Today I feel like a kid left all alone in a candy store with a fifty dollar bill.
So here I sit trying to figure out exactly how to spend my December momentsgoggling...'er blogging, when there's a knock on my door.
There on my front stoop is a guy from UPS with a package...it was "A Partridge in a Pear Tree".
The card read that it was a gift from, 'MY TRUE LOVE.'
WOW!
What a great gift. Partridges are edible, I know because I immediately went on-line and found a few recipes, that sound delicious. Apparently you roast them, as you would a duck, chicken, or turkey, and smother them in bacon, mushrooms, and if you like a zesty flavor, you can drizzle lemon juice over them 'whilst' they are roasting. Or, you can prepare a hardy stew with them by adding potatoes, onions, carrots and cabbage, perfect for the 'family home decorating' evening meal.
Poor Partridge. Such a pretty little bird...sad he should end up in a roasting pan or cooking pot. Perhaps I will keep him for a pet.
However, the second part of this gift is even better...it's a Pear Tree. How delightful. Who would not like to get a pear tree for Christmas. AND...WHERE IN THE WORLD DID 'MY TRUE LOVE' FIND ONE IN FULL LEAF THIS TIME OF YEAR IN ORDER TO HIDE A PARTRIDGE IN IT?
Aside from the fact I have no idea what to do with this tree til spring when I can plant it, chances are it will eventually sit leafless in a room somewhere. Also, considering my luck with growing trees I don't believe it will have much of a future at all...and will remain leafless, and lifeless in a pot somewhere in a back corner of my property.
Still, I do appreciate 'my true love's' thoughtfulness, I must think of something to send him in return.
Hmmm, can't wait to see what else might turn up on my stoop this month.
December...
the last but best month of the year....where did the rest of the year go???????
Today I feel like a kid left all alone in a candy store with a fifty dollar bill.
So here I sit trying to figure out exactly how to spend my December moments
There on my front stoop is a guy from UPS with a package...it was "A Partridge in a Pear Tree".
The card read that it was a gift from, 'MY TRUE LOVE.'
WOW!
What a great gift. Partridges are edible, I know because I immediately went on-line and found a few recipes, that sound delicious. Apparently you roast them, as you would a duck, chicken, or turkey, and smother them in bacon, mushrooms, and if you like a zesty flavor, you can drizzle lemon juice over them 'whilst' they are roasting. Or, you can prepare a hardy stew with them by adding potatoes, onions, carrots and cabbage, perfect for the 'family home decorating' evening meal.
Poor Partridge. Such a pretty little bird...sad he should end up in a roasting pan or cooking pot. Perhaps I will keep him for a pet.
However, the second part of this gift is even better...it's a Pear Tree. How delightful. Who would not like to get a pear tree for Christmas. AND...WHERE IN THE WORLD DID 'MY TRUE LOVE' FIND ONE IN FULL LEAF THIS TIME OF YEAR IN ORDER TO HIDE A PARTRIDGE IN IT?
Aside from the fact I have no idea what to do with this tree til spring when I can plant it, chances are it will eventually sit leafless in a room somewhere. Also, considering my luck with growing trees I don't believe it will have much of a future at all...and will remain leafless, and lifeless in a pot somewhere in a back corner of my property.
Still, I do appreciate 'my true love's' thoughtfulness, I must think of something to send him in return.
Hmmm, can't wait to see what else might turn up on my stoop this month.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Two hundred miles from home.
I guess I must have had some kind of look on my face.
Frankie: "Uh-oh."
Me: "Uh-oh, what?"
Frankie: "Somethings the matter, you look like that grey cloud from the breakfast sandwich commercial."
Me: "I thought I was going to get through November without getting depressed."
I sigh heavily.
Frankie: "Except for the day before yesterday, you were doing pretty darn good. Did you sleep well last night?"
Me: "Yeah, I slept okay. And, day before yesterday, was well...just a bad day...that had nothing to do with with my November slump. Today I feel...I feel...I feel..."
Frankie was settling in, I know she wanted more, how was I going to be able to explain. Maybe I should write rather than talk. Frankie is looking over my shoulder, her arms firmly planted on the back of my office chair as I begin to type.
'---November is my month of melancholy, and I have always allowed myself to be swept along on the swells and troughs as each day slowly ebbs to December. However, after last year's horrible November, I decided enough was enough and I was not going to let this month to get the better of me this year, or ever again.
This morning I awoke and felt as though I was two hundred miles from home. You know what I mean?
It's like you've been on a fantastic, adventurous, vacation. You're tired, and yearn for your own pillows, blankets and bed. Excited to pull into your driveway.
You check the time, gauge your speed, miles traveled, and realize you are two hundred miles from home.
Suddenly you don't want your holiday to end. The urge to slam on the brakes is overwhelming.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Why are these last two hundred miles so important? It's that spot between a rock and a hard place...tiny, insignificant yet hugely important. It's that space between getting out alive or getting crushed.
I've been hustling and bustling through November, it was a holiday/vacation, it had gone so well. I was having a ball. Then this morning I realized I had two hundred miles to go before the month was over. I wanted to speed ahead and get it over with...but at the same time I wanted to slam on the brakes. November had been good and I had accomplished so much. If the month didn't end, I'd still have time to finish things.
What was I going to do with these last two hundred miles?---'
Frankie: "Yeah, what are you going to do?"
Me: "I guess the only thing I can. Slow down...take it one mile at a time, accomplish what I can with each mile that remains...and pull into the driveway at midnight November 30th."
Frankie: "Uh-oh."
Me: "Uh-oh, what?"
Frankie: "Somethings the matter, you look like that grey cloud from the breakfast sandwich commercial."
Me: "I thought I was going to get through November without getting depressed."
I sigh heavily.
Frankie: "Except for the day before yesterday, you were doing pretty darn good. Did you sleep well last night?"
Me: "Yeah, I slept okay. And, day before yesterday, was well...just a bad day...that had nothing to do with with my November slump. Today I feel...I feel...I feel..."
Frankie was settling in, I know she wanted more, how was I going to be able to explain. Maybe I should write rather than talk. Frankie is looking over my shoulder, her arms firmly planted on the back of my office chair as I begin to type.
'---November is my month of melancholy, and I have always allowed myself to be swept along on the swells and troughs as each day slowly ebbs to December. However, after last year's horrible November, I decided enough was enough and I was not going to let this month to get the better of me this year, or ever again.
This morning I awoke and felt as though I was two hundred miles from home. You know what I mean?
It's like you've been on a fantastic, adventurous, vacation. You're tired, and yearn for your own pillows, blankets and bed. Excited to pull into your driveway.
You check the time, gauge your speed, miles traveled, and realize you are two hundred miles from home.
Suddenly you don't want your holiday to end. The urge to slam on the brakes is overwhelming.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Why are these last two hundred miles so important? It's that spot between a rock and a hard place...tiny, insignificant yet hugely important. It's that space between getting out alive or getting crushed.
I've been hustling and bustling through November, it was a holiday/vacation, it had gone so well. I was having a ball. Then this morning I realized I had two hundred miles to go before the month was over. I wanted to speed ahead and get it over with...but at the same time I wanted to slam on the brakes. November had been good and I had accomplished so much. If the month didn't end, I'd still have time to finish things.
What was I going to do with these last two hundred miles?---'
Frankie: "Yeah, what are you going to do?"
Me: "I guess the only thing I can. Slow down...take it one mile at a time, accomplish what I can with each mile that remains...and pull into the driveway at midnight November 30th."
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Sixes and sevens
Man, today I am at sixes and sevens...can't keep a clear thought in my head for more an a minute and a half. I started out great, at 6:30 AM I was up and bunching Thanksgiving decorations together to store til next year. But, then I thought maybe I should check e-mail, Facebook, and do a little company business, so the decorations are still in piles.
Then, I decided I should take a look at all the new Christmas decorations I had bought last week, and now they are scattered all around my office, and my hands are covered in glitter...no doubt my face is, too.
Jump, jump, jump. I'm now inspired, and I'm back on my computer scanning my newly purchased Christmas card decorations in to my publisher program to make more holiday cards.
Bam...What am I thinking...clean-up, clean up. So I start to file some things away...boring...and besides I had forgotten to post anything on Facebook, and also, I had neglected my blog this morning. And, here I am, bippity, bippity, bopping around trying to put words here on this page.
Christmas decorations cover my desk, and two work spaces. The Thanksgiving decorations cover the top of my storage chest of drawers, and my kitchen counters.
My dog is antsy...my hands are freezing...I'm hungry...flippity, floppity, flop.
I'm going nowhere...and the day is fleeting away.
I think I need one of my anxiety pills before I make myself crazy.
Zippity, zappity, zit....I'm out of here.
Then, I decided I should take a look at all the new Christmas decorations I had bought last week, and now they are scattered all around my office, and my hands are covered in glitter...no doubt my face is, too.
Jump, jump, jump. I'm now inspired, and I'm back on my computer scanning my newly purchased Christmas card decorations in to my publisher program to make more holiday cards.
Bam...What am I thinking...clean-up, clean up. So I start to file some things away...boring...and besides I had forgotten to post anything on Facebook, and also, I had neglected my blog this morning. And, here I am, bippity, bippity, bopping around trying to put words here on this page.
Christmas decorations cover my desk, and two work spaces. The Thanksgiving decorations cover the top of my storage chest of drawers, and my kitchen counters.
My dog is antsy...my hands are freezing...I'm hungry...flippity, floppity, flop.
I'm going nowhere...and the day is fleeting away.
I think I need one of my anxiety pills before I make myself crazy.
Zippity, zappity, zit....I'm out of here.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Move over hairspray
...there's a new kid in town.
I week ago I was chatting with a friend and mentioned how I was trying not to use hairspray much anymore, but I missed not having better control over my hair.
She mentioned I should try Hair Gel. I said I have even thought about that, but having never used it I was not sure if I could get the hang of that, and that maybe it wouldn't work very well.
Surprise...I eventually did decide to at least check Gel out, and the next time I went shopping at my refurbished Fred Meyer's store I went to the hair products aisle. Oh, my gosh, I could not believe the products...for an old lady who has for years been a cheap shampoo/conditioner, one brand only hair coloring and cheap hair spray kind of gal, I went into culture...'er...coiffure shock.
There's stuff to enrich your hair, strengthen your hair, straighten your hair, add body to your hair, bring out the natural curl to your hair, color the roots to your hair, and on and on and on products.
My cart and I had pretty much clogged the aisle, and I was so lost in my thoughts that when a young woman walked up behind me, it took me a few seconds to moved my cart out of her way.
She politely said I was fine, and added she was looking for a new hair dryer, that her husband had finally, and at last blown their ten year old one out the night before...they badly needed a new one. So while she was searching the products behind me I was still standing there like a deer in the headlights wondering whether to take flight, or fight. I finally asked, "Do they still make Hair Gel?"
She replied they did indeed, but they didn't have a special section, the hair products were lumped by manufacturer, so I needed to look for a specific brand.
"Oh, dear." I said, and started to walk back to the beginning of the aisle.
She took pity on me...I must have looked perplexed as all get out.
"This is the brand I use," she stated, "although, I don't need or use their Gel."
She lead me to a brand I recognized immediately. You know the one with the cute Kangaroo, that carries all their products in it's pouch...but loves to share.
"Here it is." She said pointing to their Gel. "And, look, it's on sale."
And, it was...boy, was I excited. I told her I was going to buy the two, and with her recommendation, I would definitely give their other products a try.
I thanked her profusely, and left her standing there trying to make her own decision...man, there are a lot of hair dryers, too.
Picture this, everyday, ever since my Gel purchase, I'm trying to learn how to use the darn stuff. Too much, and my hair clumps together...I look like the young guys that walk around with 'spike' hair. Too little, and I don't have the proper amount to complete my 'do'. So, I never know exactly what my end result is going to be...but no matter what, it is much, much, much better than trying to coiffure first then glue it into place with spray. Gel stays wet much longer and I have time to fool around with my hair until I am at least 75% happy with my result. I'm getting better, but there is still a long row to hoe.
I think I'm getting to old for all this nonsense, and I confess there are days I'm tempted to shave my head and go buy that adorable pink wig I keep seeing in my neighborhood wig shop.
One of these days....
one of these days.
I week ago I was chatting with a friend and mentioned how I was trying not to use hairspray much anymore, but I missed not having better control over my hair.
She mentioned I should try Hair Gel. I said I have even thought about that, but having never used it I was not sure if I could get the hang of that, and that maybe it wouldn't work very well.
Surprise...I eventually did decide to at least check Gel out, and the next time I went shopping at my refurbished Fred Meyer's store I went to the hair products aisle. Oh, my gosh, I could not believe the products...for an old lady who has for years been a cheap shampoo/conditioner, one brand only hair coloring and cheap hair spray kind of gal, I went into culture...'er...coiffure shock.
There's stuff to enrich your hair, strengthen your hair, straighten your hair, add body to your hair, bring out the natural curl to your hair, color the roots to your hair, and on and on and on products.
My cart and I had pretty much clogged the aisle, and I was so lost in my thoughts that when a young woman walked up behind me, it took me a few seconds to moved my cart out of her way.
She politely said I was fine, and added she was looking for a new hair dryer, that her husband had finally, and at last blown their ten year old one out the night before...they badly needed a new one. So while she was searching the products behind me I was still standing there like a deer in the headlights wondering whether to take flight, or fight. I finally asked, "Do they still make Hair Gel?"
She replied they did indeed, but they didn't have a special section, the hair products were lumped by manufacturer, so I needed to look for a specific brand.
"Oh, dear." I said, and started to walk back to the beginning of the aisle.
She took pity on me...I must have looked perplexed as all get out.
"This is the brand I use," she stated, "although, I don't need or use their Gel."
She lead me to a brand I recognized immediately. You know the one with the cute Kangaroo, that carries all their products in it's pouch...but loves to share.
"Here it is." She said pointing to their Gel. "And, look, it's on sale."
And, it was...boy, was I excited. I told her I was going to buy the two, and with her recommendation, I would definitely give their other products a try.
I thanked her profusely, and left her standing there trying to make her own decision...man, there are a lot of hair dryers, too.
Picture this, everyday, ever since my Gel purchase, I'm trying to learn how to use the darn stuff. Too much, and my hair clumps together...I look like the young guys that walk around with 'spike' hair. Too little, and I don't have the proper amount to complete my 'do'. So, I never know exactly what my end result is going to be...but no matter what, it is much, much, much better than trying to coiffure first then glue it into place with spray. Gel stays wet much longer and I have time to fool around with my hair until I am at least 75% happy with my result. I'm getting better, but there is still a long row to hoe.
I think I'm getting to old for all this nonsense, and I confess there are days I'm tempted to shave my head and go buy that adorable pink wig I keep seeing in my neighborhood wig shop.
One of these days....
one of these days.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Shedding Tears
I am a very private person when it comes to crying. I like to do it in private, mostly in my bathroom, or late at night after I get into my bed. In both cases the tears freely flow, and I feel much refreshed after I'm done with a good long, self-inflicted, pity party, downpour.
However, there are occasions when periods of tears sneak up on me, they start with a huge lump in my throat and before I know it tears are freely flow down my cheeks. This morning I can give you a very good example of this, and I sincerely hope you will take a few minutes to watch this little clip. Even if you have seen this before it is well worth watching again.
http://www.youtube.com/embed/vcmfCXwAFs4
The lump in my throat started when the first girl stepped onto the escalator. And, by the time the song was over tears were streaming down my face. I felt good, warm and fuzzy inside, and was delighted at the response of all the people who were entertained by these beautiful young women...imagine how those folks felt, and how these few simple, heart felt, up-beat moments must have changed their day. The mom with a tired child in tow, a husband who would have rather been home watching football, the old couple feeling alone and un-cared for...how this little act of kindness must have changed their attitudes, spirits, and over all outlook on life.
This time of year I'm easily overcome with emotions over the most simple things. The Clydesdale horses pulling their decorated wagon through the snow. The young man arriving home on furlough, making coffee for his family as a surprise, or, those cute little Hershey Kisses Bells ringing out 'We wish you a Merry Christmas', with that last little kiss ringing its heart out....ending with a wipe of his brow and a whew.
So, if you happen my by place between now and Christmas you will no doubt find me in tears, because Christmas music pretty much makes me cry as well. Take "I heard the Bells on Christmas Day" that will cause the dam to open and many tears will reach my chin before I have time to wipe them away. "Oh, Holy Night" is another that will cause an avalanche of water. "Have yourself a merry little Christmas", "White Christmas", "I'll be home for Christmas" will all get me to blubbering. Oh and anything by Mannheim Steamroller, or the local Singing Christmas Tree....(insert tears here, for sure.)
I guess you could say this time of year I turn into a puddle of melted butter, or soft sappy syrup. I simply can't help myself. I think the tears rather than being cleansing for myself and my well being, are more about the things I have bottled up for the hope of humanity. All these songs have such profound messages, that we need to listen to them not only with our heads, but with our hearts. I feel we all long for one certain something to touch us during this time of year. Whether it is to be home for the holiday, or wishing that we could. Or, if it's the bells pealing out for 'peace on earth good will to men', or that we have belief we will have snow on Christmas morning.
Christmas tears, are good tears, emotional gut wrenching tears, Mine I shed for you, with the hope it will be my tears that help make all your Christmas desires, hopes, and dreams come true.
Happy holidays, Merry Christmas, and as Tiny Tim said..."God bless us, everyone."
However, there are occasions when periods of tears sneak up on me, they start with a huge lump in my throat and before I know it tears are freely flow down my cheeks. This morning I can give you a very good example of this, and I sincerely hope you will take a few minutes to watch this little clip. Even if you have seen this before it is well worth watching again.
http://www.youtube.com/embed/vcmfCXwAFs4
The lump in my throat started when the first girl stepped onto the escalator. And, by the time the song was over tears were streaming down my face. I felt good, warm and fuzzy inside, and was delighted at the response of all the people who were entertained by these beautiful young women...imagine how those folks felt, and how these few simple, heart felt, up-beat moments must have changed their day. The mom with a tired child in tow, a husband who would have rather been home watching football, the old couple feeling alone and un-cared for...how this little act of kindness must have changed their attitudes, spirits, and over all outlook on life.
This time of year I'm easily overcome with emotions over the most simple things. The Clydesdale horses pulling their decorated wagon through the snow. The young man arriving home on furlough, making coffee for his family as a surprise, or, those cute little Hershey Kisses Bells ringing out 'We wish you a Merry Christmas', with that last little kiss ringing its heart out....ending with a wipe of his brow and a whew.
So, if you happen my by place between now and Christmas you will no doubt find me in tears, because Christmas music pretty much makes me cry as well. Take "I heard the Bells on Christmas Day" that will cause the dam to open and many tears will reach my chin before I have time to wipe them away. "Oh, Holy Night" is another that will cause an avalanche of water. "Have yourself a merry little Christmas", "White Christmas", "I'll be home for Christmas" will all get me to blubbering. Oh and anything by Mannheim Steamroller, or the local Singing Christmas Tree....(insert tears here, for sure.)
I guess you could say this time of year I turn into a puddle of melted butter, or soft sappy syrup. I simply can't help myself. I think the tears rather than being cleansing for myself and my well being, are more about the things I have bottled up for the hope of humanity. All these songs have such profound messages, that we need to listen to them not only with our heads, but with our hearts. I feel we all long for one certain something to touch us during this time of year. Whether it is to be home for the holiday, or wishing that we could. Or, if it's the bells pealing out for 'peace on earth good will to men', or that we have belief we will have snow on Christmas morning.
Christmas tears, are good tears, emotional gut wrenching tears, Mine I shed for you, with the hope it will be my tears that help make all your Christmas desires, hopes, and dreams come true.
Happy holidays, Merry Christmas, and as Tiny Tim said..."God bless us, everyone."
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Gues Who
Most of this year has been spent trying to establish my small publishing company. It has been quite the ride.
Time consuming, yes. Mysterious, my goodness, yes. Terrifying, sometimes, yes. There are trademarking and copyrighting issues. Research, money, and putting myself and my reputation right out there on one long, blank, empty__________________________________line.
Whew.
Ever since I registered my company with the State of Oregon, I've been getting very unusual mail...they make me feel good, cause financial companies are falling all over themselves offering me incentives to switch over to them, some offering a $250.00 deposit in my brand new checking account. Oh, and Small Company credit, debit cards...wow. Funny stuff, how in the world did these people get the idea I have be-jillions of dollars to start my company. I've barely got the proverbial 'shoe string'. Trust me, these banks are crazy...my company may not even be around this time next year. I'm simply running with it, my ideas, my fortitude, my will, and my excitement at being creative every single day.
However, yesterday was the 'top banana' of requests. I get a call from my cable/Internet/phone company. It is a young lady, almost as eager as I am every day. "Hi, I'm so and so, I see you have started a company and I was hoping you might have time to Blah, blah, blah. Could I set up and appointment with you to have someone come by to talk to you about setting up a business bundle. We think we can probably save you quite a bit of money."
Bless her heart, she really was sweet, kind and most certainly sincere.
When she stopped talking, I tried to be as honest and sincere as she was. "Oh, honey," I said, "I don't know if my business will still be in operation next month let alone next year. I'm still feeling my way, and have no idea where I'm going. I don't think I'm ready to set up a business account at the moment, is there any way I could be put on a list for a call back in, let's say, 6 months?"
"Why, yes," she says, "I can." And, she takes my name, and says she will call again then.
I'm excited...can you imagine...that in 6 months time I might be established well enough to have and need a business account with my cable/Internet/phone company. I don't know what my obligations would be, but what if I could advertise on TV with rates I could afford...wow, that really boggles my mind.
But, I should not put my cart before the horse...like the tortoise...slow and easy will help win my race. I've always said I'm not doing this for the money, but for the love of the challenge, creativity and the joy of having a reason to jump out of bed and go to work.
So, Mr. Mailman, keep them financial company cards and letters comin'. You too, United States Post Office, with your grandiose 'company start up' offers.
Even if my company goes 'bust' tomorrow, it is so great to feel wanted.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Thankfulness
By now you know I discovered I-Ching about a year ago, and I think that I have learned much from its insightful words. I believe they have made me a better person. Today it had sound advise.
It said, and I quote, "It's best to speak your heart today so that you don't mislead anyone. Avoidance will only increase any misunderstandings; honesty is the best policy."
So, I have to admit I'm glad this is my last 'thankful'. I appreciate you tolerance this past month. Thank you, for that.
I want today to thank my family for putting up with me all these years. I would like to list them all here, but with my addled brain I know I would forget someone, and rather than hurt any feelings, even by accident, I will simply say THANK YOU FAMILY, THANK YOU.
I want to do the same for my friends, those in my circle today, those I grew up with, those I worked with, all of whom have touched my life THANK YOU FRIENDS, THANK YOU.
I'm going to say thanks for the roof over my head, food on my table, money enough to survive, heat on chilly mornings, and a comfortable bed to fall into each night. THANK YOU NECESSITIES, THANK YOU.
Then, there is nature, mysterious, beautiful...air, clouds, rain, sun...THANK YOU CREATOR, THANK YOU.
I could go on and on.
So, I think you will be surprised with my thankfulness ending.
I'm thankful for Bird Lady, even though she hurt me deeply.
I'm thankful for the drivers who are so impatient they come up inches behind me as I'm trying to cross the street. (So far they always miss me).
I'm thankful for all the people that will not allow me to get a word in 'edgewise'. Come on people, I just might have something constructive to say.
I'm thankful for healthy food...I don't like you, you taste awful...but, it is great you are an option.
I'm thankful for bad news because that make the good news so much better.
I'm thankful for my aches and pains, because I know my health could be so much worse.
But, most of all I'm thankful this is my last thankfulness posting, because THAT means Thanksgiving is tomorrow...yummm.
It said, and I quote, "It's best to speak your heart today so that you don't mislead anyone. Avoidance will only increase any misunderstandings; honesty is the best policy."
So, I have to admit I'm glad this is my last 'thankful'. I appreciate you tolerance this past month. Thank you, for that.
I want today to thank my family for putting up with me all these years. I would like to list them all here, but with my addled brain I know I would forget someone, and rather than hurt any feelings, even by accident, I will simply say THANK YOU FAMILY, THANK YOU.
I want to do the same for my friends, those in my circle today, those I grew up with, those I worked with, all of whom have touched my life THANK YOU FRIENDS, THANK YOU.
I'm going to say thanks for the roof over my head, food on my table, money enough to survive, heat on chilly mornings, and a comfortable bed to fall into each night. THANK YOU NECESSITIES, THANK YOU.
Then, there is nature, mysterious, beautiful...air, clouds, rain, sun...THANK YOU CREATOR, THANK YOU.
I could go on and on.
So, I think you will be surprised with my thankfulness ending.
I'm thankful for Bird Lady, even though she hurt me deeply.
I'm thankful for the drivers who are so impatient they come up inches behind me as I'm trying to cross the street. (So far they always miss me).
I'm thankful for all the people that will not allow me to get a word in 'edgewise'. Come on people, I just might have something constructive to say.
I'm thankful for healthy food...I don't like you, you taste awful...but, it is great you are an option.
I'm thankful for bad news because that make the good news so much better.
I'm thankful for my aches and pains, because I know my health could be so much worse.
But, most of all I'm thankful this is my last thankfulness posting, because THAT means Thanksgiving is tomorrow...yummm.
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