Today I did some yard work. I mowed the lawn and swept the leaves off the porch, driveway, walkway and deck. I was pleased with my work.

I took a walk down the path to the “pond.”  My outdoor critters accompanied me on my walk. The path is still nicely “canopied” since the leaves have not yet begun their fall ritual.

As I neared the pond, I spied a bit of red. The brilliance of autumn is starting to burst out.

I came to the pond and was amazed at what I saw. The pond, now dry since the dam broke three weeks ago, has sprung a new life.  The pond floor is green with growth and the birds and critters have taken over, where the fish can no longer swim.

Dracula, my cat was very inquisitive, but leery of walking out on the soft muddy pond floor.

Killian, my dog, was too excited to have any such reservations! She was off on an exploration of the new and different terrain!

We walked back up the path together, Dracula, Killian and I.  Dracula and Killian chased each other and played like children.

As we came past the side of the house, I saw the other reminder that it had been a week since I took a nice long walk on my property.  The Impatiens had taken over, growing completely over the opening to the crawl space.  I was reminded, once again, life doesn’t just happen…it happens FAST and if you aren’t paying attention, you’ll miss it!

 

My grandfather was the 20th Century man. Born in 1904 in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, he was the eldest of five children. He was somewhat sickly, took a little longer to get through school than was normal, lost his mother at age 16 and was required to help raise his younger siblings.  His father worked long hours at the mill. Larry, my granddad, took over as the other parent. 

Larry did graduate and went on to attend and graduate from the Pennsylvania State College (Penn State) in the mid 1920’s.  His degree was in landscape architecture.  Jobs were scarce but Larry found work in Washington, D.C… He met my grandmother there, where she was also working.  He fell in love with this lovely southern lady, transplanted from her home in Sumpter, SC.

Married some time later, and with a young child, Larry found himself out of work.  It was the depression and he had to do something.  He wrote a letter to Frank Lloyd Wright asking about the possibility of coming to apprentice with him.  Larry had a great deal of admiration for Mr. Wright’s work.  He was accepted and the family moved to Arizona where Larry worked with the other apprentices on Taliesin West.  Ruth (my grandmother) worked as a cook on the project, and Ruthie (my mother) played amongst the construction, carefree, as only a two-year old can be.

Through the years, Larry had interesting jobs, and then the jobs dried up, and he had to find a new way to support his small family. When my mother was in her early teens, Larry decided to start an earthworm farm.  He was the original. Articles were written about his earthworm farm, and made magazines and newspapers all over the world. Headlines such as, “Turn Dirt to Gold” brought letters from people far and near, hoping to get a “hand-out” from this wealthiest of men! Of course, he was barely squeaking by, and, though his concept was unique at the time, it was so readily duplicated with the purchase of just a few buckets of worms, his income from this enterprise died as quickly as it had begun.

During these years the family had returned to northern VA, and Larry eventually landed a job with the federal government, one that he would keep until he retired at age 71.  He was one of the architects who planned the Pentagon. In his later years, he served as the director of the Parks in the District of Columbia.

In the early 60’s, at age 55, when many have stopped taking on new challenges, Larry decided he wanted to learn to draw and paint.  He took classes and the teacher immediately saw his potential.  He was a wonderful artist.  He drew and painted everything.  My grandmother, Ruth, was his favorite model.  But, sitting those long hours was hard for her.  So Larry took photos of her, intending to paint from the photos.  When the photos were developed, he looked at his wife’s image in shock.  She was so thin.  He had not realized until he looked at her photograph.

It turned out that she had cancer and lived less than a year after he took those photos.  He never painted again, after she died. He became somewhat of a recluse, going to work, but nothing else, For one year he kept quietly to himself, writing a book of their life together.  He titled his book, “The Golden Years.” 

Once completed, he was able to take on the world again.  Before long he met and married my grandmother Evy.  Together, they moved to Maryland to be closer to Ruthie and our family.  At age 71, Larry retired and turned his focus on “hobbies.”  He built a dark room and took up photography. He worked alongside my brothers and me as he directed our transformation of a quarter acre, very steep hill into a terraced series of good sized vegetable gardens, with earthen stairs down the center. And he took up Geneology.

At age 80, my grandfather decided he wanted to learn how to use the computer.  He went to classes at the local college and purchased a Kaypro.  It was on this computer that he wrote his book of the Lemmon family.  He traveled to Scotland to research the family tree.  At age 90, he decided to write another book about his life.  He titled it, “A 20th Century Sojourn.”

His second wife passed away at age 82, when Larry was nearly 94.  He was devastated.  They had moved some years earlier into a retirement home, where he was the “Social Director.”  In much the same way he had mourned the loss of Ruth, so did he Evy.  Unable to see very well, due to advancing macular degeneration, he put his focus on creating a lovely, finished room in the penthouse of the retirement home.  This room was now suitable for movies, lectures, crafters, or anything.  He dedicated the work to Evy.

Every day Larry sat in front of his computer, writing letters to congressmen, presidents, senators, and local politicians.  His large magnifying screen worked acceptably to allow him to continue, almost until his death. 

When Larry was 95, his accountant sat down with him and said, “Larry, you’re a millionaire.”  My grandfather looked him right in the eye and said, “No, I’m a poor man, I’ve always been a poor man.”  His accountant showed him the proof.  My grandfather's practice to which he had adhered no matter how little income he had, had resulted in a wealth beyond his comprehension. I will always remember Granddad telling me, “The first 10 percent of your earnings are to be given to help others, either the church or charity.  The second ten percent must go directly into savings. And you must learn to budget the rest of your earnings and live within those means.”

And so it was, that at age 95, the man who had always lived as if the dollar in his pocket was his last, found out he was a millionaire!

One month before his 97th birthday, in fact, on my birthday, my granddad passed away.  I was with him his last waking moment, and he went peacefully in his sleep.  As I watched this tiny man, bent quite badly from osteoporosis, who had spent so much of his life toiling out in the beating sun, I was impressed with the smooth, beautiful skin of his face.

My granddad lived a full life, and saw beauty everywhere he looked. He was an avid horticulturalist, ecologist, and believed completely in giving back to the earth everything he had been given.

I am the richest of all, for having known this man. Some of his art work hangs on my walls today. Every room of my house holds one of his paintings.  It is the same for my brothers and sister, and of course, my mother’s house.  The paintings serve a dual purpose. They remind me of where I’ve been, and they remind me that Granddad is still living through them.

I share with you some of Granddad’s Gallery.

Chainsaw lesson 101

Judy lives in a house in the woods on a pond
Judy wants to see the pond from the house.
Judy decides to cut down some trees.
Judy takes the electric chain saw and starts her work

• BUZZZZZ --- Down goes the first tree
• BUZZZZZ --- Down goes the second tree
• BUZZZZZ --- Down goes the third tree
• BUZZZZZ --- Down goes the fourth tree..well, almost..
  

Tree number four gets hung up in the other trees in the woods, only falls part way
Judy surveys the situation
The tree branches in two a few feet up
Judy decides to cut through each branch, then the tree will fall all the way

• BUZZZZZ --- down goes the first branch
• BUZZZZZ --- down goes the second branch
• WHACK!!!  --- Up goes the bottom of the tree trunk, hits Judy SMACK in the mouth
• BOOOOOM!!! --- Goes Judy, to the ground
• THUMP!!! --- Goes the chainsaw to the ground

OUCH, OUCH, OUCH!!!! Judy comes to, on the ground
EWWWWW!!! Blood everywhere, in mouth, bad taste, BIG PAIN

• Judy gets up
• Judy picks up chainsaw
• Judy puts chainsaw away
• Judy goes into the kitchen

John looks at Judy
John says, “what did you do?”

Judy ignores John
Judy goes to bathroom
Judy examines damage
Judy has BIG hole in face
Judy has much crap in hole in face
Judy cleans out crap as much as possible

John suggests emergency room – stitches

Judy decides not enough time to deal with stitches

Judy holds paper towel with ice on hole in face.

Bleeding stops in about 3 hours
Huge, ugly black “thing” still in hole in face
On closer inspection, “thing” is hunk of bark from bad tree

One week later
Inside hole is healed
Outside hole is healed
Big Bark Bandaid left nicer scar than stitches would have

Two months later
Feeling has returned to lip
Scar is barely noticeable
Judy still cuts trees

But Judy makes sure she cut ALL THE WAY through the trunk BEFORE cutting off the upper part!

And now you know the saga of the CHAINSAW, THE WENCH and THE BARK

Do you have a cell phone that you carry with you everywhere you go (even to the bathroom?)
Do you have  a Blackberry that accompanies your every move in a similar fashion?
Is your T.V. turned to the 24X7 headline news 24X7?

If so, you may be suffering from a new disease I have coined AMS. 
Afraid of Missing Something

Yes, I suffer from this disease.

I recognized my complete failure this morning as I ascended the stairs to my office,

• juggling the cordless phone,
• the cell phone,
• the blackberry,
• my bottle of soda, and
• my laptop

so that I could

• connect into my VPN for work,
• while my personal laptop spun away in eBay Blogville,
• my personal desktop refreshed the 24X7 headline news and
• I was still in my “jammies!”

Geez, Louise!  I need a support group FAST!!

Please note..at least I do get exercise in my world of AMS..cell phone in ear, laptop on treadmill bookstand....

And then there was the time when my (ex) husband decided to cook the squirrel he’d shot and serve it up for supper.  A mighty hunter, and a fledgling cook, he called me at work to get my “opinion” on how best to cook the little lovelies.  I told him I had been OK with the last batch, which he had pressure cooked, but that I wasn’t particularly crazy about the lead in my mouth (or whatever it is they shoot those squirrels with!)

When I arrived home, he had supper almost ready.  He told me he’d decided to “fry” the squirrel parts and serve them, telling the kids it was fried chicken.  I was skeptical, because I was pretty sure my kids, even as young as they were, would recognize how small these “chicken” legs were.  But, I was sworn to silence and the meal began.

Stephen, always my slow, careful eater, was the first to get a look of “YUCK!” on his face.  But, knowing his dad had made the supper and was NOT known for his charitable nature when complaints were “filed with the management,” he simply put his “chicken down and moved on to the beans…one by one.

Jen, was enthusiastic, two years younger, and her mother’s daughter.  Never afraid to speak her mind, when she bit into her “chicken,” she revolted in alarm.

“WHAT IS THIS,  DADDY????”

“It’s chicken, Jen, EAT IT!”

I had not yet been brave enough to try mine, but since my children hadn’t actually keeled over from their experience, decided it was time for me to take the plunge.  It was AWEFUL!!!

With the best smile I could muster, I asked (how many times have I asked this question?)

“So, how DID you make it?”
“Well, I didn’t have a recipe, but I saw how you make fried chicken…I washed the meat, dipped it in egg and milk, and rolled it in the white stuff.  Then I fried it.”

Hmmm..the white stuff…what , pray tell, is “the white stuff?”

“White Stuff?”

“Yeah, you know, in that jar on the counter.”

My chef d’maison pointed in the direction of the counter, and my canisters filled with dry goods…..  I followed his pointing appendage and there it was…the white stuff…

NON-DAIRY CREAMER!!!

Now, I ask you, have you ever had a wild notion of rolling your chicken (or squirrel)  in a big bowl of non-dairy creamer, and then dropping it in to fry.  Just in case you have, I am here to ADVISE AGAINST IT!!!

I laughed my head off, as I quickly cooked a batch of hotdogs and tried to offer the “chicken” to the dog…..even she was NOT IMPRESSED!!!!

Another story from the “my former life” series.

When I was a newlywed, living in a trailer park in Tallahassee, FL, we owned one car. My husband drove it to work and I, working as a seamstress at the time, took the bus to the mall where I made custom clothing.  My husband and I worked different shifts…I worked days and he worked nights.

Those were the days…we were in love…I was pregnant with our first child…my husband was helpful…life was bliss….

One day, I got off the bus just across the street from the trailer park.  My nostrils were immediately thrilled to smell the lovely aroma of a fresh baked apple pie!  Yummy!  I loved living in that trailer park, so close to my neighbors I could smell all their great cooking, even if I couldn’t have any!

As I walked the dirt road into the park, toward my trailer, the aroma of the pie grew stronger.  I was loving it….the lady next door must have been baking all day!  She liked me…I bet she’d give me a piece of that pie….

When I got to my own door, I used my key and entered my empty home….OH MY GOODNESS!!!   The apple pie smell was GAGGING me now!  It was coming from MY kitchen!  What the heck was going on???

The phone rang, as I began to try to find the source of the now overpowering aroma.  It was my dear, sweet, loving husband.

“Hi Judy, I made supper…it’s in the crock pot!” (I heard the pride in his voice)

So I go to the crockpot, lift the lid and YEP!!!  That’s the source! WHEW!!! HELP ME!!!  OPEN A WINDOW!!!

Of course, this is not the correct response to such a loving and caring husband.  So, I asked,

“Really, what did you make?”

“Irish stew!” Was his proud response!

 

Well, I don’t know about you, but I have never had Irish stew that smelled like apple pie before.  So, of, course,

“Wow, where did you get the recipe?” I asked.

“Oh, it was on one of those cards in your recipe box.  I went to the store and bought all the ingredients.  It said to use two stalks of celery, but I thought one was plenty.  It said to use two cloves, but that seemed too little, so I figured it was a typo, and it meant two tablespoons of cloves.”

Well, there you have it…the source of the apple pie smell…..and should I mention that this dear, sweet man did not know the difference between a stalk of celery and a head of celery?  You guessed it…that Irish stew was chock full of celery (thankfully he stopped at one head) and overpoweringly favored in cloves.

And that, my dear friends, is the true story of the first ever (and last, I hope) Irish Cloved Celery Stew!

The telling of this story was inspired by profish who was asking for a good recipe for stew...

My son was always small.  He was the shortest in his class in grade school, the shortest in the school in middle school, and high school, until his junior year. He was never picked on for his size, rather, he was treated as somewhat of a “mascot.”

To say he was happy with his stature would be to lie.  He wanted to be tall, like the other kids.  Heck, he wanted to be able to stand taller than his sister, two years younger, who had passed him in height at age 3.  His big wish, when in middle school, was to be able to get sneakers that didn’t have super-heros on them! 

Still, he didn’t let his size get him down.  He played flag football with the Parks and Recs in Tallahassee, FL at age 7.  He used his size to zip past they others…they never saw him coming! But, football was really never his love…(he’d just as soon stop on the field to pick a buttercup.)

He was always an avid reader and a smart kid.  He excelled academically. He actively participated in Boy Scouts, community theatre, marching band, and tennis, and a zillion technology clubs.  When he was in seventh grade he was inducted into the National Junior Honor Society. He stood solemnly with his peers and accepted the recognition of his achievements to-date and affirmed his dedication to excellence in the future.

As I looked at the young men and ladies, their backs to the audience of proud mothers, fathers and teachers, I saw my son, standing tall with assurance beyond his tiny height.

Do you have a “Queen of Stale News?”

When my daughter was about three, she LOVED company.  It didn’t matter who or why they had come to the door, once in the house, they were regaled with ALL the important things this little child with a big vocabulary could remember…she reeled off her list, as if she were the news announcer on the T.V.

One day, my brother Tim, having visited only the night before, came over for dinner.  He rang the doorbell (which apparently was my daughter's countdown…OK in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1..) I opened the door and his foot barely crossed the threshold before Jen launched in.

“Hi Uncle TIM!!
Mommy took Stephen to the doctor, cuz he can’t walk cuz he hurts
Daddy took Lady to the farm so she can run
We got a new car
Mommy made me a new dress
Mommy  made cookies
Daddy got mad at Stephen, cuz he wouldn’t eat his peas…”

My poor brother, smiled as he endured the current round of, “as Jen sees it” (an almost word-for word repeat of the night before) and when she FINALLY paused to catch her breath, he tousled her hair and said,

“Hey there, Jen, how is my little Queen of Stale News?”

She BEAMED up at him and said, ever so politely,

“fine!”

I remember being driven crazy by this greeting method!  Today, I LOVE talking with Jen on the phone…she still is great about updating me on her news, but I rarely get the repeats of yesterday’s news! 

If you have such a queen living amongst you, enjoy her!  One day, she is sure to become a lot less willing to share….but then….she will cross that magic line and become your Queen of Current Events!

 

Today I will take yet another jar of coins to the bank. The jar is heavy; it is one of more than twenty such jars. My bank offers a cool money counting machine that takes my coins and produces a receipt, which I then take to the teller for deposit into my account. I have been taking these jars to perform this activity every day for the past few days.

Yesterday, as I lifted the heavy pickle jar  up to pour the coins into the mouth of the beast, I was caught by the realization of what I held in my hands, and was pouring from the jar.  These jars of coins are the fruit of probably 50 years of exercise.

Every day of his life, my father-in-law took his “walk”.  His walk took him through the small streets of Woodruff, SC, down through the parking lots, and past the shops on Main Street.  And always, though he looked all around to greet those he met along his route, he never let a coin miss his eye! 

When he returned home each day, he slipped the coins collected into his “current jar.”  Sometimes, though rarely, dollar bills were found and even the occasional $5, $10,  or $20 bill.  All went into the jar.  Each jar was filled to capacity before being stored in his “safe” (home-made within his basement work table) for a “rainy” day.

On rainy days, when gardening was not an option, Bud would go into the basement and spend some time sorting through his coins, putting his collectible ones into a special container, separating nickels and dimes, from pennies and quarters, and generally “working” his coins.

On August 30, 2006, Bud passed away.  He was 81 and was still going strong, when his doctor told him he needed stents put in his heart.  Upon arriving for the procedure, they discovered his blockages required open heart surgery (double by-pass), which he underwent on August 28, 2006.  Though the surgery went as well as could be expected, the reality of his heart was revealed. He should NEVER have been able to live for the past 20 years.  His heart was in no condition to sustain life. And yet his had.

With each step, and each stoop to pick up a coin from his path, Bud lived the old adage,

“See a penny, pick it up, and all the day you’ll have good luck!”

So far, the monetary value of his daily exercise has tallied over $5000.00.  What the teller at the bank sees as I make these deposits is a listing from the machine of pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, half dollars and dollars, tallied and totaled on a single receipt.

What I see is the years of exercise, the smiles and words shared with those he met along his way, the care tending to the coins accidentally discarded by others, the jingle in his pocket and smile on his face as he returned from his daily  walks and the love he had for his family, ensuring he saved every penny he found, making him lucky enough to share years with them his heart was not equipped to live.

Yes, friends, me thinks it might be time for another trip the the eye doctor!

When I checked my email just now I saw I had received an email from PayPal...I also swore the subject line said,

"Your Payment Has Been Irritated"

What? How does a payment get irritated in the first place?  And what did I do to irritate mine?  Or did someone else irritate my payment and PayPal is just letting me know about it?

Well, when I opened the email, the larger print quickly told the tale....my payment had been INITIATED!!!  Ahhhhhhh....now I see!

I suppose I am unaccustomed to seeing these particular emails, as I rarely send a payment via PayPal except to pay for an auction item.  Today was different.  I received my order from chuckiebabies and she had not charged me NEARLY enough postage (silly, silly girl!)

So, I gave her great feedback because, for the loss she took on my shipping she:

• Wrapped each item as if it were to be put under the Christmas tree
• Wrapped the items in a soft, yellow blanket to shield them from the cold
• Stuffed the box with newspaper to protect the contents
• Clearly labeled and carefully taped the box
• Carried it to the post office
• Paid for Priority Mail (She shipped it Saturday, I got it today)
• Paid for Insurance
• Wrote me a note thanking me for the purchase and giving me the tracking number

And for this honor, she "gave" me $5.00! (and did I mention, everything was PERFECT?)

So, knowing that keeping a wonderful seller such as chuckiebabies in the eBay community will only be possible if she doesn't PAY people to buy from her, I went to PayPal and sent her a payment for "services."

And now you know the story of the IRRITATED PAYMENT!!!

Mystery Box Auction # 3 was a BIG HIT!!! YEAH!!!

Wow, did I hit the jackpot, Thank you so much, wonderful mystery auction.u rock!

Buyer  myhomeisinheaven( 65)

Sep-25-06 12:57

120032395559

 

She likes it!! She LIKES IT!!!  HEY MIKEY!!!!!!

I have another Mystery Box Auction running right now...check it out if you want some nice gifts!

This morning when I awoke, my arms were asleep. I can't stand waking up before my arms do!  I don't see why they need to sleep longer than the rest of my body!  OK, to be honest, my legs take turns being the last to awaken from time to time.  But I digress.  This morning it was the arms.

I know I NEED my arms to wake up so that I can get on with my day.  I mean, I can't even do the morning potty run without them!  The cats and dogs will starve without them..and, I will not be able to BLOG without them.

So, as is my typical approach to raising these weary appendages on mornings they want to sleep in, I lay in the bed and WILLED them to wake up!  That did not work.  Rolling over is a little difficult without the help of the arms, but I managed to get to a sitting position and then started shaking the sleepy creatures.  The buzzing that was their indication of sleep began to subside and normal feeling returned.  I won't say they awoke with excitement to greet the day, but, once fully awake, they were happy and willing to do my bidding!

And so it was that I have decided that, each morning, I should make a call to arms (and legs) and make certain everyone is ready for the task of GETTING ON WITH LIFE!!!

I hope your day is a great one.  I'll check back into the blogs this evening...I have a full day today...(thank goodness the arms kicked in!)

As I was reviewing the "top ten" on the recent posting's list, I found it a little amusing.
The titles blared out, much like billboards.  Read in quick succession, the "message" is amusing.

• God is awake
• already?
• Child endangerment!!
• Add little calorie to your life
• See, there's something out there for everyone
• New WORK: Denver & The West Cowboy Sock Monkey

It brought mind a silly old song we sang as children...origin unknown. I thought I'd share the lyrics with you.

The Billboard Song

As I was walking down the road one bright and windy day,

I came across a billboard and much to my dismay.

The sign was torn and tattered from the rain the night before,

But clearly I could figure out the message that it bore.

"Smoke Coca-Cola cigarettes

 Chew Wriggley Spearment Beer

 Kennel Ration dog food makes your wife's complexion clear

 Simonize your baby with a Hershey candy bar

 and Texaco's the beauty cream that's used by every star!

 SO, take your next vacation in your brand new Frigidaire,

 Learn to play the piano in your winter underwear,

 Doctor's say that babies should smoke when they are three

 And people over 65 should bathe in Lipton Tea!"

 

I thank you for your time and indulging my silliness!

 

 

 

In Artman07's  blog earlier this week she wrote about the perfect gift for young children.  A table and chairs. I was looking through a photo album today.  These photos are from my mother's growing up years.  I had to smile when my eye lighted upon this photo of my preschool-aged mother and her cousin...happily enjoying a meal at my mother's very own Table and Chairs! This photo was taken in the late 1930's...funny how things really haven't changed that much.  We keep discovering what we already knew.

 

Thanks artman, for the post!

Every child I know learned nursery rhymes, most of them little jingles or chants that young voices could accommodate nicely, allowing the expression of joy in a somewhat controlled manner.  In early blogs, I have written about the music gifted to me and my siblings by my father for whom music defines life. So it was, at age 14, as I prepared my song for the school talent show, that I learned the "song" that would help me introduce my own children to the world of music and the beauty of harmony.

My friends, four girls, all age 14 as well, were practicing their entry.  I was intrigued.

Joanie started out first (a capella). She sang a NURSERY RHYME!!! That's right, she sang, "sing a song of sixpence.." Her soprano voice was clear and strong and still..a NURSERY RHYME???  What were they thinking.   When she finished, Kelly started...in her lovely alto voice, again, a nursery rhyme! "Little Jack Horner...". Good grief!  Were these girls nuts?  Then it was Becky's turn..lower soprano..."Little Bo Peep...," I'm dying here, listening to these girls.  Finally, Pam begins to sing her deep, almost tenor voice, "Rock a bye Baby".  I was astounded.  My four 14 year old friends were going to make fools out of themselves.  They were getting up before the toughest audience (their peers), dressed in silly childish costumes, singing nursey rhymes.

And then they pitched a note and began singing...all at once, each her own nursery rhyme.  The harmony was incredible!  I had never heard anything like it! 

Of course they didn't win the talent show (neither did I, but that's beside the point.) Their song, their harmony, stuck with me forever.

When my children were knee-high to a grasshopper, having been singing all their very short lives, I decided it was time teach them harmony.  It did so with this song. With only two children, and a husband who did not sing, were had to modify the song a bit, selecting only three rhymes at any particular singing.  However, the three chosen were not always the same!

Today my children are grown and still, at family gatherings, it is this song that everyone wants to hear and which we sing.  I recorded the three of us singing this song two years ago as part of the gift I made for my dad that year.  If you care to listen, I am including the link.

http://www.esnips.com/doc/82825684-8285-49dc-a355-3af3e9fc0aed/Nursery-Harmony.mp3

Music, nursery rhymes, harmony, giggles and tears...they are the never changing parts of life.  Teach your children well....

Today I was practicing with the rest of the choir for my best friend's upcoming wedding. One song she has requested is the Parable..the one from which the Byrds made their hit, Turn, Turn, Turn.  The words hit me today, in a way I least expected and I could not sing. I could still play, but the tears, choking off my voice and running down my face made it impossible to sing.  Why is it that sometimes a song, one which I have sung a thousand times, can bring me to such depths of emotion?  Yes, the week has been a hard one, and perhaps I should have anticipated this, but it caught me by surprise, nonetheless.

I have found over the years that even little nursery rhymes can hit me and make me choke up.  One such is a little piece from Winnie the Pooh, When We Were Six.  I used to love to read it to my brothers when we were all very young, and can remember it to this day...with cadence and all:

"King John was not a good man

  He had his little ways,

  And sometimes noone spoke to him

  For days and days and days.

  And men who came across him

  While walking in the square

  Gave him a supercilious stare

  Or passed with noses in the air

  And poor King John stood sadly there

  Blushing beneath his crown."

I know I had to have been about eleven the last time I read that, and yet. the words often run through my head, and choke me up.  He was so sad, King John...but then I remember the good ending and I can smile again.

What is it about the words, so tightly tied to memories that stirs emotions so deep and yet seemingly forgotten?

I spent the morning dusting, vacuuming and mopping, getting packages shipped and doing laundry.  I also took the opportunity to take the kitty litter boxes out and bleach them (a once every other week chore).  With everything done, and back in place, I looked at my work with pride.  I had done more than I had originally intended and I had done it in record time.

Then I felt the eyes watching me and I turned.   There he was.....Mel! He is NOT HAPPY with me!!!

How dare I

• take his sacred box and pollute it with foul smelling bleach??
• fill the box with perfumey litter???
• mop the floor in HIS room, taking with me all his good drool???

This cat is so strange. He is actually giving me the silent treatment.  He doesn't just walk away, though, he sits and stares at me with that, "Now look what you've done!" look on his face!

I'm going to have to cave and give him some kitty treats to subdue his pea brain.

Miah, on the other hand, just as annoyed with my morning activity, is expressing herself vocally...in no uncertain terms!

What I don't understand is this....if they think I such a bothersome groundskeeper, why did they hire me??

 

I was born number two child, number two daughter, 14 months after my sister.  In quick succession followed four boys. My parents had six children in seven years.  My sister was the bane of my existence.

• She got to do everything first,
• she was the "pretty" one,
• she was the bossy one,
• she was "miss perfect"

My brothers copied me.  Everything I did, they did. My sister's diction was great, I and my four brothers all had a lisp. By about age eight I recall really formalizing the idea in my head that I HATED my sister! So, as was the natural way of things, my brothers joined me in the "club".  Yes, it had a name, the "I HATE JEANNIE CLUB."  We even had a "secret" club house. OK, so it consisted of two metal lawn chairs, tipped up against the chain link fence to form a sort of lean-to. The five of use would huddle under our structure and chant, "I HATE JEANNIE, I HATE JEANNIE."

(but never loud enough to get caught...Jeannie could really put a hurting on us!)

Of course we grew up, but my sister and I were still at odds. We always shared a room and she was miss "neat stuff" and I was misfit "garbage collector."  Her half of the room was always clean, mine was clean enough, once you dug through all the piles of "stuff". My mother used to threaten the shovel to clean my side. I had two typical methods of cleaning.

• pay my sister to do it (she got to keep whatever loose change she found under the pile)
• or "invite" my brothers to enjoy some of my items...they always wanted my stuff, so, they cleaned me out!

My sister went to college a year ahead of me. I had my own room for the first time in my life. I painted and decorated and (ahem) kept it spotless.....

The following year, I headed off to the same college my sister was attending -- same dorm!  My sister was so appalled by the fact that her goofy sister was coming to the same dorm that she moved out and got an apartment. But, on the day my father drove me from Maryland to Tallahassee, FL, my sister was awaiting our arrival at the dorm.  She told my new roommate to be on the look-out for a goofy looking girl with glasses, probably carrying three violins and a guitar. (Oh, how she did exaggerate...only two violins and a guitar.)

Things seemed to change a little though, once I was down there.  My very presence was enough to drive her away. She lasted not six months before she left FL and returned to MD. (In reality, she decided to quit and go back to live with her boyfriend.) I graduated 2 years later and moved back to the DC area.  Somehow, in the two years of separation, things were different.

My sister, the one I had hated all my life, and who, I might add, reciprocated 100%, became my friend.  I don't know what happened, whether there was no longer a competition, or what, but we grew closer and closer.

We now live in different states, but in all the world I can declare, she is my best friend.  I'm thinking about starting the "I LOVE JEANNIE CLUB", but the metal chairs are long gone, I have no fence against which to erect them, and I doubt the "boys" and I could bend sufficiently to huddle under them!

 

At 21 years old, my daughter knew what was what and what she wanted. She had landed a great job (by her standards, not mine) in Charlottesville, VA.  She wanted to find a place to live, where she could have her cat and maybe a dog. She wanted some room, some space. One day in January, she told me she'd found a cabin she could rent for, well, a reasonable monthly rent.  I was happy for her.  I helped her pack all her belongings from the tiny townhouse in Richmond into the U-Haul, and off we went.

Now the early part of the year in Charlottesville can be downright chilly, and I'm thinking, cool, log cabin, rustic, in the woods...so nice...one mile from work, but remote...probably has a woodburning stove...need to remind her of fire safety...etc, etc,

Imagine my surprise when she directs me down a barely passable road, past a fair number of  "shacks" to her "cabin"....the second to smallest of the 12-14 structure in them there woods!  Now, I must say, I have seen better structures at Boy Scout Camp, but, she was all excited and who was I to tell my grown daughter that maybe a door that had a handle (rather than an eye bolt with a hook on the inside and a padlock in the outside) was more the defining characteristic of "home" as opposed to "camp?"

I took photos, and we laughed as we unloaded all her junk.  I left her in a SEA of "belongings", and headed back to Gloucester.  One month later, I took the three hour trip to see her, and was amazed at the transformation.

 

cabin front door cabin "living room" transformed living room living room taken from loft

I remember when I was a little girl...very little...I couldn't wait to be ALLOWED to iron, just like my older sister.  I was 5, she was 6. Yes, my mother believed in teaching her youngsters ALL the necessary skills, at an early age.

IRONING RULES FOLLOW

• Age 6 - Daddy's handkerchiefs
• Age 7 - Pillow cases
• Age 8 - Linen hand towels and dish towels
• Age 9 - Skirts
• Age 10 - Shirts
• Age 11 - Everything under the SUN

OK, I suppose this might have been typical (if early) for a lot of young ladies learning the fine art of ironing.  But my mother didn't limit this FUN to her two eldest (girls). Every one of the four boys was indoctrinated into the Hallowed Halls of the Ironing Board.

Ironing was just one of the many chores my mother hoodwinked us into believing was FUN. 

She had an official JOB board which consisted of a bulletin board to which she had thumbtacked ALL the household and yard chores.  These were pretty small pieces of paper and, in two columns, stretched from the top of the board to the bottom.  Every day when we got home from school, we had to first check the JOB BOARD to see whose name she had assigned to which chores that day.

In the early days, my mother enjoyed a fair amount of success with her FUN EVENTS....

It wasn't long before we figured it out...she was our boss and work wasn't really all that fun!