Recklessly Dancing While Supper Burns

The Indestructible Resurection Fern

2014-03-12T15:32:00.004-07:00

The beautiful Resurrection Fern is an "epiphyte", or an air plant. In the Deep South, these lush little ferns have a fondness for the beautiful Live Oak trees, as you can see in this photo I took along the streets in Downtown Mobile. But I read that they grow as far north as New York, and as far west as Texas.

In the dusty Central Florida town where I grew up, Live Oak trees are everywhere, inhabited by squirrels who romp amongst beards of Spanish Moss, and clamber over branches covered in beautiful native ferns. It's one of nature's most magical combinations.

Well, once upon a time, I found a chunk of a dead limb that had fallen from one of the above mentioned oak trees during a storm. Ferns clung to it for dear life, not realizing that their anchor was destined for the trash pile. Neither did the two tiny fairies who were recklessly dancing along amongst the fronds. (But that's another story...)

Being a nut for houseplants, I took my free plant home and put it on the stoop out back, where my houseplants lived in the summertime. I had no idea what to do with it yet, but I was excited. I would think of something. Of course, I was a busy girl, and by the time I got back to my lovely green treasure, it was an ugly shriveled mess. I promptly tossed it out.

Ah, but I had acted hastily, dear reader. Unfortunately, I hadn't realized that this lovely little fern, like the possums that live in the woods nearby, likes to play dead. The leaves curl up and appear to be turning brown, but that is just its way of telling the world that it's thirsty. As soon as it gets even a small drink of water, the leathery fronds perk up and show off with broad palate of lush green.

It's no surprise that someone decided to call this resilient, wild fern the "Resurrection Fern". And since many of us are celebrating the season of Lent right now, it seems like a really cool time for me to write about this rugged little plant. (Especially in Mobile, just after Mardi Gras, when the oaks, still draped with dozens of bright colored beads, glisten in the sunlight with every new breath of Spring.)

Bring one inside for Easter. What a nice way to tie the resurrection of Christ to an activity you and your children could do together. The resurrection, the living water, and being born again.

Bill and I were driving around Mobile, Alabama the other day. I told him that I would love to find a little chunk of these cool little ferns to take home for a terrarium. Being super sweet, he drove around until we spotted what turned out to be a downed limb which had shattered into smaller pieces beneath an oak along the roadside. I picked up as many pieces as I figured I could get away with without annoying my patient and accommodating hubby. (I can always determine that by the size of his eyes when I come heading towards the car...) Of course, some of the pieces I'd gathered looked dead. "I think they perk right up," I said. Sure enough, this photo was taken after they had been dunked in the fish pond and allowed to revive for a couple of hours. You can still see some curled up leaves.

The Resurrection Fern is an "epiphyte", or a plant that attaches itself to a rock or tree or other support, using trailing stems, similar to an orchid or a bromeliad. It doesn't live like a parasite, sapping strength from its support. Instead, it is watered by the rain, and is fed by debris that washes onto it's roots from its anchor of choice.

Also like orchids and bromeliads, these trailing ferns can be mounted on wood or rocks, and displayed in a window that gets filtered light (like the light they would get, shaded by upper branches in an oak tree.) And because they are so small, they are perfect for terrariums and the newest craze, the "Fairy Garden".

I'd like to share with you what I did just yesterday, with one of the small pieces Bill and I rescued from the debris at the base of a public street side tree:

First, I studied the chunk of fern which was already well anchored to the piece of wood I found it on, and I decided what would look best "up" and "front". (As you can see, one of my china girls and a wooden cat decided to stop in and watch.)

I have a roll of black wire used in construction for tying rebar, which I bought at Home Depot a while back. I use it for all kinds of projects. (It will rust, but I like that quality. You may prefer to use copper, brass, or any other sturdy, but pliable wire.) I cut a piece about 9" long, and pushed one end into one upper side of the wood, until it came out the other side. This was easy in this dead piece of branch. Otherwise, I would have drilled a hole through the middle for the wire to be inserted through. Using my jewelry tools, I made a hook with the wire, where it came out of the wood.

As in the picture above, I brought the wire over the top of the piece of wood, and made a loop at the top to use as a hanger, attaching the remaining wire to the "hook" I had made on the other side.

Next, I cut some pieces of wire, about 4 or 5 inches in length, and curled each end. (You could make them longer, depending on what suits your fancy.) They hook together nicely to form a chain. I ended up straightening out the first loop a bit, so I can easily remove the plant from the chain for watering.

Since we are in a rental, I used a "nail free" hook to hang it from a bathroom window frame, where it will get plenty of humidity, morning sun, and where I will see it often enough to keep it watered, because though it can go quite a while without water, it will need to be watered fairly often to keep it healthy and beautiful.

Voila, my friends! One of the easiest things I've ever made, and so pretty, too.

I am going to start by watering my ferns once a week, or whenever they seem to be wilting. Whenever possible, I will water them by dunking them into a fish pond, because the fish water will help nourish the ferns. If you don't have a fish pond, you may want to spritz your fern with a little orchid fertilizer, or a mild solution of fish emulsion...but fish emulsion is stinky, so keep that in mind, if that is your choice. You also can leave your fern outside for the summer, under a tree limb.

To find your own Resurrection Fern, keep your head up and your eyes peeled. When you do find one, I'd love to see what you do with yours! If it doesn't grow in your area, you can buy it on Ebay. Just google "buy a Resurrection Fern". They are not expensive.

I am working on a follow up post, to show you how to mount one of these cuties to a piece of wood. I have this great knothole that I found the other day! I'm thinking, ferny bird house...if only I had wings...

Until we meet again, my ferns...I mean, friends. Heads up, eyes peeled. Think Resurrection.

Happy trailing ferns to you!

UPDATE;

After just two days hanging in the window, I realize that my little fern is a very thirsty girl...or boy. I found it this morning in this condition:

In a word, "Shriveled". In another word, "Already."
So I took it out to the pond in the garden here (where we are renting temporarily), dipped it, and brought it inside. When I get back home, I do have a small pond which will be great for a once-a-month watering (to nourish it), but it isn't in an easy to reach location.
So, it would be easy to water in the shower or using the kitchen spray. The biggest thing is not forgetting about it. It will be fine for a few days, and maybe even weeks, but I am not going to take any chances. I will water it every day or two. The others will need a terrarium, where the atmosphere can be kept more constant.

The Bible - LAV (Liberal Agenda Version)

2014-02-26T09:39:00.000-08:00

I knew this wise old German man once. Well, he was actually first generation American, and he was probably younger than me at the time.
of course.,
But he used to say, "By God! The whole damn world is going to Hell in a hand basket." He had a booming, deep voice that caused the air to vibrate and a brisk wind to tussle every hair on every head in the room when he spoke in anger. Cursing was saved for those special times. Optimum impact, of course. He always said this when watching the news. With a heaping bowl of goulash sitting on the dinner table between him and the television, he would pound upon the table with his fist, causing the bowl jump enough to go clunk against the wooden table top, but not enough to spill over the edges. Everyone at the table would jump, too, just a bit.

When he spoke that way, I believed him. Even if I wasn't quite sure where the expression "going to Hell in a hand basket" came from, I knew exactly what it meant.

Tell you what. If only I had a bowl of goulash sitting in front of me, and a young girl for an audience, I would pound my table right now. I would speak with my deepest voice and cause the wind to blow her hair like a hurricane.

"By golly," I would say, "This old world is going to Hell in a hand basket," and you would know exactly what I mean.

What is happening in this world when the President of the United States of America says things like, "God bless you, Planned Parenthood." Reporters who were there said he actually told the abortionists, "You're doing God's work."

God's work? Abortion?

Nancy Pelosi has said similar things recently. As a matter of fact, I have begun to notice that the radical left is perverting God's word more and more, until very little of what they attribute to God resembles anything I might find in my Bible.

I have to wonder. What god are they talking about?

Faith in the Wind

2013-09-04T12:28:00.003-07:00

We know the wind is there because we see what it does,
yet we do not see the wind.

Jesus said (my interpretation), "Faith is like the wind. You can't see the wind; you don't know where it comes from or where it's going, yet you know it is there."

You can hear it in your ears and feel it on your face. It bends the trunks of mighty trees and is powerful enough to rip buildings apart or carry them away. It pushes water into waves that crash along the sandy shores.

God is like the wind. Though we can't see him, He is a powerful force, and not to be mocked or taken lightly. God is real.

Oh, you can have faith in Science. Especially if you are one who requires "proof".

But don't forget, great scientists once said that the earth was flat. It took a sailor to figure out that the earth was actually round. Scientists believed long ago that draining blood from people (called bleeding) made them well. Let's face it. Scientists believe what they want to believe, too often having it in their power to interpret (or skew) evidence in the direction of their personal theories and preferences. Many of these theories require great faith to believe in and thus, actually are a form of religion, accompanied with the same zeal and enthusiasm that go with belief in any other god. Yet, Science constantly changes because our understanding of the world is changing with new knowledge and technology. It takes faith, my friends, to believe in Science without question.

But faith in God does not rely on what is seen, but what is unseen, Faith is not believing in what is known, but what has been known and sometimes what has been felt, like wind in our hair. There are miraculous answers to prayers that go unexplained. Too often they are also unacknowledged - written off as coincidence. Faith is sensing God's loving presence though we cannot see him. Faith requires the acceptance that we cannot know and we cannot possibly understand everything. We never will. But Jesus assured us that there is a good God, the creator of order and life who was, is and will always be. When we feel his presence, that is awesome. We don’t know where he comes from, but we know he is here. When we don't feel his presence, he's still here. Be still and listen. You may have to wait, but He will reveal himself to you if you dare to hope in Him.

Why are you cast down, O my soul?
And why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God, for I shall again praise him,
My salvation and my God.
Psalm 43:5

But Life Digresses...

2013-08-30T16:00:00.001-07:00

Ah, Music. It has the power to soothe man's soul, I always say. I might have heard that somewhere.

Indeed, music takes us to wonderful places we've never lived. It can tell us a story without using words. It lifts us up from the mirey clay and then drops us back into said pit of dispair. It can make us laugh; it can make us cry...it can move us to protest...or to worship, realizing that music is not empty of spirit, whether good or bad.

Music has power over me. You, too?

I figured as much. I can be moved in one simple series of chords to dance the Dance of Joy. But if the next song is loud or aggressive, I may take up a broomstick and break it in two with my bare hands, panting like a pirate in battle, while threatening to kill me a li'le squarelle or somethin'. I know that's dumb. But it's what music does to people like us - you and me.

Music is powerful.

So, I am a Beatle's girl, myself. I was just fourteen. You might say I was a musical perverbial kneehigh...oops. Wrong song. (Now we're both going to sing Nashville Cats for the next week or so, being forced to make up lyrics where we know none...)

But I digress. So I was actually in the 7th grade when I remember the Beatles hitting the airwaves like a tsunami from Across the Perverbial Pond.

I promptly fell in crazy-mad love with John, Paul, George and Ringo...along with every other woman-child under the age of 22 in the modern world. Dressed in their tidy matching suits, hair just an inch or so "too long" with those adorable English accents and crooked smiles, I confess I worshiped them. More than Elvis. Four times more. More than even God, I suppose. I'm being honest.

(Have I told you this story before? If so, then read on. It won't hurt you...besides. I've got a new angle this time.)

Now, my mother did not love the Beatles, John, Paul, George and Ringo. As a matter of fact, she hated them. She saw their "long hair" as an omen of change. She saw right through those cute, innocent boyish faces singing sweet love songs like "Love Me Do" and "I Want to Hold Your Hand" to the rebels they would later become with hair like Jesus without a comb. My mother was not fooled. Nosirree!

So while my best friend and my neighbors were all listening to the Fab Four for hours every day, I had to settle for listening to WTMC Radio playing Sonatra (I still don't like him) or worse...my mother singing "Birmingham Jail", off key, and very loud. (I miss that a little bit, though.) I got to hear the Beatles only when I was visiting someone else's house. Sigh. For a girl jacked up on Pre-teen Hormones, I was beside myself with shame, frustration, and grief brought on by being the only dork in the neighborhood. And, mind you, that was before we even knew there was such a thing as a "dork"...

Yes, I was a dork before ever there was such a thing as a dork, thanks to my stubborn, Beatles-hating mom. Disgraced, I told no one except, mayhaps, my best friend, Molly.

Enter: The Beatle's First Real Song. Yep. Paul McCartney finally wrote a song that I knew my daddy - himself, a fabulous singer - would actually acknowledge as "good music". So I borrowed Molly's new 45...(that was a small vinyl record with a big hole that played one song on each side at 45 RPM's...)

Daddy came home that night and got his usual martini - moderately priced gin, 3 olives, on the rocks, a splash of Vermouth...). I had a plan. While Mama was cooking, and before he could get himself situated at the piano with previously mentioned martini, Daddy's nightly routine, I grabbed his hand and escourted him into the family room where a small record player sat on a humble little brown table, lightly dusted with cigarette ashes and marred with numerous water rings, awaiting the miracle that was soon to transpire.

I said, "Daddy, I want you to hear a song." And then I put it on...

"Yesterday...life was such an easy game to play...now I need a place to hide away...Oh, I believe in yesterday..." Paul's sweet, romantic voice wafted through the smoke-filled room, (it was the '60's, my friend) even into where my mother was cooking chicken, wooden spoon in one hand, cigarette in the other.

Daddy was gonna love this song. I knew it. The Beatles with their long hair and their not yet rebellious ways, had stumbled at last, into a new world of music beyond anything other rock and roll bands had dared to explore. This sweet love song was accompanied, not only by the usual guitars, but a romantic symphony of strings, as well. Yes, something that my father could appreciate...for sure.

"That's a beautiful song, isn't it, Daddy?"
Of course, he agreed. How could he not?
"There's nothing bad at all about that song, is there, Daddy?" I asked.
Daddy agreed. So then I layed the punch line...or set the line. Whatever. You get the picture.
"Paul McCartney is singing that song, Daddy. He's one of the Beatles. This is a Beatle's song."

Daddy smiled. He loved the song. It was evident. He probably was thinking of how he could sing that song, playing it on the piano, and we would sing it together...just me and my Daddy. We did that a lot, me...and...okay. And my sisters, too. We all had our times, with Daddy at the piano. What a sweet memory...
By now, the room was filled with peace and romance that only can come from a love song. That was when I had to make my biggest move. With tears...yes, but genuine, I swear - the pure tears of a girl child...trying innocently and with all her might, to manipulate her dear father...I asked him if I could have some Beatle's music, and he pulled me onto his lap, chuckled softly, and hugged me as he said, "Yes, of course you can, honey." (I've a feeling he was feeling a little guilty, not having known it was so important to me. I mean, the tears might have dealt the final blow. Probably. As a parent, I know that feeling well.)

Mushy story? Indeed. I love mush.

Oh. But Mama? Mama insisted from that moment until the day she died, that "Yesterday" was an old song that the Beatles had stolen from some little known crooner lost in the desert of Nevada or...I don't know. Something like that...I still watch for it on the evening news.

ENTER: Miley Cyrus and her latest adventures in performance video.

I don't want to talk about how trashy it was, though it was more than a little softly pornesque, but I want to talk about how things digress over time.

From her latest video, it was obvious that Miley was not coming up with anything truly original. She just took the sluttyness of her music heroines one step further than sluttiness has been in a long, long time...let's say, for instance, the Romans might have been more trashy when they entertained the citizens of Pompeii with sexually explicit song and dance moves, right before they fed the Christians to the lions...

Back to Miley. The influence of Madonna and Lady Gaga was quite obvious to me. Skimpy clothes, vulgar movements, the big, wandering tongue thing going on - blaacht! Of course, long ago, Madonna's influence might have been Cher's old botoxed self, skinny as a light pole, hollow, overly made up eyes, dressed scantily in a see-through dress, split between her breasts down to her...belly button...in the front and in the back. And then, let's see... Good Old Hollywood does have its moments, too. Bonnie and Clyde...Mrs Robinson...those are the ones I saw...

Think of the song "Maggie", by Rod Stewart. Or was that the one about spreading wings...I loved that song. I can't tell you the lyrics, because my granddaughter might read this. They're totally suggestive, and not something a mother would want her innocent, virgin daughter listening to.

Back once more to Miley. This stuff has been coming for a long time. Like my father once said, if you give people an inch (as in the Smother's Brothers and their cuss word on TV, and Lucy and Ricky sharing the same bed instead of twins), they will take a mile. And then another and then another. It is human nature.

So when we all look at Miley, and Harumph in disgust, we need to realize that we have all had our hand in these changes. Every time we accept a lowering of the moral standards of the day, humankind digresses.

Look at abortion, for example. Who'd have thought in 1973 that abortion on demand in the first trimester would ever lead to partial birth abortion in the '90's? Now there are whispers of post-birth abortion? (Yes. Killing the baby after birth. You hadn't heard about that? It's true.)

So, dear reader, everything in the world deteriorates - ashes to ashes, dust to dust and all that old graveyard talk. Buildings tumble, bridges rust, paper crumbles (and paper money loses its value), linen and silk and wool all eventually fall apart. Even societies falls apart. Especially in absence of (or rebellion against) a most high God. That's what is happening to us, my friends. We in America and around most - maybe all of the world, are abandoning the powerful Godly principles of the 10 Commandments laid down for all of us by a good and just God. (Kicked the Bible out of school libraries, and the 10 Commandments out of courts, kicked prayer out of graduation assemblies, for starters.) And what we are finding in it's place is a life floating on a sea of despair, without purpose, without order, without logic. Hungry sharks circle us.

Okay. I'm depressing myself. You, too? Sorry. But you get the point.

So you see, Miley Cyrus is just one more rock star rung in the ladder downward into the pit we were warned about in the Good Old Days. But as citizens of this beautiful world, we can't just sit by and let things continue in this downward spiral, doing nothing. God has called us to do more. But what to do? I suggest to start with getting back in touch with God. See what he really says in that how-to book called the Bible. And then, even if it means losing a kinda-sorta-friend or two, we need to be speaking up for what is good and true and just. We need to lovingly (and I emphasize "lovingly") educate people to what is happening, and what has been lost.

That's a start. From a little seed grows a mighty mustard tree.

Confession of a sinful artist/writer/wifey-mom/living-in-my-childhood-as-much-as-possible type: Righteousness too often illudes me. I know you knew that. Don't remind me...However, righteousness is my life's goal. It is a worthy goal, it is.
Yours, too? Yeah! Pinky finger pull.

See you in the near Whenever. In the meantime:
Be brave.
Be true.
Be Godly.
Be strong.
Be wise.
Be have, my darling, be have.
And...Pray. Pray a lot. It's not too late.

Hallelujah!

Deborah

Beans and Cornbread - The Way Mama Used to Make It!

2013-06-18T15:16:00.000-07:00

I am tempted to start out with that poem my brother used to say in front of my friends, just to embarrass me. But I'm going to resist the urge. We both know it and surely agree that there is a good amount of truth to that stinky old poem. I think Ben Franklin wrote it, by the way. I don't know if he did, but it sounds like him. He was a naughty Founding Father, that Ben.

The Cook's Taste - Mmmm!

No need to say a lot about beans today. They're good for you and everyone knows it. Except for that one friend of mine who still thinks...well, never mind. I don't count her.

Tonight's menu:
A Big Ol' Pot of Great Northern Beans
Cottage Cheese - I prefer Small Curd, whole fat.
Cornbread (I just use the recipe on the back of cornmeal)
Fresh tomatoes, chopped (if you have them on hand) or a can of chopped tomatoes
A small tossed salad - I throw this in for my husband who is of mixed Northern extraction.

This is how my mama always cooked beans, so I think it qualifies as a Southern recipe. Southerners love beans, which unfortunately, brings me back to that poem...

Cookin', cookin', cookin'!

Great Northern Beans

1 bag of dry Great Northern Beans (or you can use Navy Beans - most any beans can be prepared this way.)
Soak beans overnight, or at least for a few hours in the morning. Drain water off. Put in a pot and fill with fresh water. Bring to a boil and reduce heat. Allow to simmer.
(If you don't soak the beans first, you can still cook them for the evening, but the poem we both know so well will take on a renewed meaning. Plan on cooking unsoaked beans for several hours. Bring to a boil, drain, and bring to a boil again. Crock Pots come in handy at times like this.)

Chop the following, or cut into bite sized pieces and Add to beans:

1 giant clove of elephant garlic or 3 or 4 cloves of regular garlic
1 large onion (Vidalias are my favorite)
1 or 2 stalks of celery
2 whole carrots or a dozen mini-carrots
1/2 bell pepper, if you'd like bell peppers

Add 1 teaspoon salt - you're going to want more. Add and taste, add and taste. Let it meld between tastings. Salt can sneak up on you when you're not looking. Sea Salt is best. Kosher is good, too.
2 or 3 fresh or dry whole Bay leaves

Optional:
A hunk of Salt Pork or a couple of slices of bacon - to reduce fat, you can cook and drain the bacon, and crumble into beans.

Before serving:
Add fresh ground pepper. I never use canned pre-ground pepper.

Bring everything to a boil, and reduce heat to a simmer. You'll need to add more water in 20 or 30 minutes, and keep adding water as needed. Cook a couple of hours, or until tender.

About 30 minutes before supper is to be served, cook the cornbread. I don't have my cornbread recipe here, because I use the one on the back of whatever package of cornmeal. They're all basically the same. If I want to go "gluten free" or less gluten, which I will tonight, I substitute wheat flour with spelt flour (a non GMO wheat) or a blend of rice and tapioca flours, and maybe some ground almond meal, which I buy at Trader Joe's. The secret to cornbread is to cook it in an iron skillet, heated in the oven and seasoned with butter or olive oil before pouring the cornbread in. Then stick it in the oven and bake.

When ready to serve, remove the Bay leaves (especially if serving for kids. The school cooks left them in when I was a kid, and I was grossed out with having leaves in my lunch.) Put the cottage cheese and tomatoes into pretty bowls and serve. We never do that, but it's a much more pleasant experience when you do. I'm going to do it tonight just to be fancy.

Now this is what makes beans and cornbread...well, Beans and Cornbread:

Cut a serving of cornbread in half, and lay open in a large dinner bowl. Put the beans on top of the cornbread, and cottage cheese on top of that. Top with tomatoes. Or you can put the tomatoes and cottage cheese on the bottom. Whatever. Heat in the oven or microwave until the cottage cheese begins to melt and everything is all hot and sassy.

Yum! Beans and Cornbread. Health food from Mama's kitchen to yours.

Excuse me whilst I check the beans...

They're ready already! It's not even been one and a half hours. Time for a teeny weeny taste of the Beanies...need just a liiittle more salt.

Note: This is a great Crock Pot food, as I hinted above. After soaking overnight, put the beans with water and veggies and spices in a crock pot and cover. Voila! It'll be done when you get home!

(Pesky Alter Ego: Did you tell them about the jalapenos?
Moi: It's not Jalapenos. It's pronounced: Jalapenos. But you'd spell it like, "Halapenios".
Alter Ego: I don't get it. Why din't you spell it like that in the first place?
Moi: I know you don't get it. You're not real, Annoying Alter-Ego. Anyway, Mama never used jalapenos.
Alter Ego: Well, I like it best with a dollop of Jalapenos on top.
Moi: That's not a dollop. It's a "few". Besides, this is Mama's recipe. She was probably 60 the first time she even tasted jalapenos. And you're not even Mexican, for goodness sake, Pain-in-the-neck Alter Ego.
Alter Ego: So? And you are not Franch.)

Sigh. Later, Gaters. Ignore that last imaginary conversation. It's beneath your dignity to even read such foolishness. It's beneath mine to write it, but I can't help myself.

Until next time, Happy Beans to You!

If You're Guilty and You Know It, Clap Your Hands

2013-06-03T11:03:00.003-07:00

I feel guilty when I do something.
I feel guilty when I do not.
I feel guilty for forgetting some things and I feel guilty for remembering.
I feel guilty for things from the past, even if it isn't that I did something wrong, but actually, that someone somewhere - anyone anywhere - thinks I did.

Yep. Guilt rides me like a pony sometimes. Shame follows close behind.

Case in point: Speaking my peace. (Or is it "piece?") Whether I do or I do not, I feel guilt.

I was talking to my sister about this just the other day. I fear there may be a few people who think badly of me, because a couple of times on one of my blogs or in conversation, I was "too honest" about some controversial things I should have kept to myself. Of course Those Who Would Disagree jumped to conclusions about me that were rather unsavory, shall we say? But also, downright wrong. Years later, I still feel bad and ashamed, even though I know that what I meant and what they thought they heard were two different things.

Well, Big Sis ended the conversation by saying, "Deborah, you are too much like Mama sometimes. She always had to say what she thought. Don't tell strangers how you feel about controversial things, even if you know you're right. It just gets you in trouble. It's better not to say anything."

I know that. I do. I felt duly guilty when I hung up. And significantly ashamed.

In my behalf, I must tell you that I knew better, even then, but I was experimenting. (Uh-oh. That's even worse, isn't it?) In one instance, I was writing and as a new writer, didn't really believe anyone was listening but they were. Now lots of people have the courage to blog about controversial things, nowadays. But not if they care what others think. Hate mail...they get lots of it.

So naturally, I say a whole lot less these days. I do so in several ways:

One, I bite my tongue a lot. It's downright bloody sometimes. But I do, because my opinion is my own and not everybody needs - or wants - to know it. I really don't have to say Everything.

Two, I "consider the source". I debateth not with yellers nor liars nor fools. Not only does it not accomplish anything, but its just not worth it. I end up frustrated and they end up mad. (Because many people get mad at everyone who has a thought that doesn't jive with their own. I'm sure you're not that way, though.) I try to remember what Jesus said. "Don't throw your pearls after swine." (Every time I hear that, I wince a little bit to think that Jesus would refer to people as "swine". But you know, Jesus had no problem feeling guilty or with speaking his peace...of course, he was always right...I'm not always right.)

Three, I avoid people. No I didn't say "I avoid confrontation"; I mean, I do that, too. But I am saying that I avoid "people". I find that if I don't get myself into those situations where everyone sits around in a circle in uncomfortable chairs talking about philosophy, then I don't feel the need to open my candy trap whenever someone says something stupid that I think worthy of debate. (Yes, I said, "stupid". See what I mean? Some would say that stupid is a Mean word. It is. But it is frank. You know what Forest Gump said, "Stupid is as Stupid does." If Forest can say it...oh please. He was nice! He was like, the nicest of all.)

But if I were to analyze my real reason for feeling such a need to speak my peace, it is this. If I don't speak up for what I really believe in, then who will? And if no one else does, the world I love (and have grown accustomed to, and am leaving to my children and grandchildren) may fall quite apart.

No, I'm not kidding. Remember Hitler? Some people saw it coming. Others who were empowered by the things he had to say, ignored the world falling down around them. For convenience sake, they knew nothing, they saw nothing, and they did nothing. Eventually they learned that their hero actually was a bad guy - even worse than they had been warned about. Tragically by then, six million Jews and countless other people had been slaughtered.

Even so, today some people are saying that Hitler did some good things. He brought pride to Germany. Then the mean old Allies bombed Germany and destroyed the beautiful buildings. So the Allies were the real bad guys... Say what? Well, they were butting in where they didn't belong. You know what I say to that, don't you? Are You Crazy??? And there are actually Holocaust unbelievers, who claim it never happened. They are either Neo-Nazis or they are Muslim. There. I said it. The "M" word. (*there she goes again...the radical...*)

So nowadays, it's Facebook, Facebook, Facebook.

Everyone does Facebook. And why do they do Facebook? Because...well, to keep in touch, I suppose. But they don't really want to keep in touch. Not with who they are behind closed doors. Nope. They want to build a facade that they can be proud of. Say clever things, put up family pictures, make up for the stupid teenager they used to be or remind people how "cool" they have always been. I don't mind that they do that. Heck. I do it myself. There's nothing wrong with keeping up with family and old friends.

In so doing, however, many are missing a great opportunity to share with and learn from a variety of people about what really matters in life - two things in particular, that were banned in many 1960's households:

Religion and Politics. (Imagine that in a deep voice with a slight echo.)

To be honest with you, I'm not sure that in this day and age, the two are not one single thing, though they should not be. But I digress...

One thing that covered both subjects came up on the Internet today. I shared it on Facebook, though I hated to be "that pesky conservative" again. It was an article on a school in DC that is going to allow Muslims prayer in school. No, not "prayer" in school. "Muslim-only prayer in school". It's not a school-wide student-wide religion-wide thing, but it will be allowed for Muslim students to go off to pray toward Mecca, I think the article said.

Now. This disturbs me. Not because it isn't fair, but because it isn't right. There's a difference, you know. Some things that are fair aren't right, but that is a concept to cover in another post. But as for school prayer, either the first amendment is allowed in schools for everyone, or it is not.

I've had a problem with preventing prayer in schools since it was removed from school in the '60's. That and The 10 Commandments and the Bible and Bible club and tracts and religious reports and religious t-shirts, etc... All removed because of one atheist. One. She didn't want her son to hear about God. So our First Amendment rights were trampled under foot in order to satisfy the desires of one person. I was a kid, but even then I knew that an entire nation's right to freedom of religion was more important than a single person's problems with religion.

My preacher wanted people to get involved. But the good Christians in my church didn't want to stir things up. They didn't like what was happening, but they weren't willing to make any waves in the peaceful cove that was their life.

I'm sad to say, I don't think people understand the Constitution these days. Perhaps not even people I went to school with who studied under the wise guidance of Coach Lowery's History classes. Nowadays, I guess instead of learning about the unique freedoms guaranteed in our constitution, kids are taught Family Planning or given sensitivity training. What a shame.

What a disgrace.

Now I find myself again watching as Muslims are given rights that have been withheld from me and my children for 50 years. Yep. Radical Muslims came in and bombed the World Trade Center, but we deserved it (right?) and it is now up to us to stop offending them by giving them special privileges that the rest of us aren't allowed to have.

It makes no sense. None, whatsoever. And guess what else. Muslims in America are pushing to be allowed to practice Sharia Law, too. You know. The law where if a man says his wife cheated on him, they bury her waist down and stone her to death. Yep. The one where if a daughter or sister disgraces the family by getting pregnant, they can murder her? The one that doesn't allow a woman to show her ankle or walk unescorted in public or she will be beaten, or go to a doctor or attend school...yep. That's the one.

Now I had to post that on Facebook, but at the risk, once again, that I will offend someone by putting up something political. But the way I see it is, this is important, and maybe even dangerous to our future as a nation. You may disagree, but the point is this.

If I believe this and don't say it and it turns out to be true, I will be neglectful in my duty as a citizen of the US. And one of those things that maybe I shouldn't say because I might offend someone -Well, this is it: I think you will be neglectful if you don't speak out, too. You may very well be complicit in what takes place in the future, if you don't investigate those things you don't want to question, but know in your heart that you should.

Not seeing, not hearing, not knowing - these things are not evidence of innocence, dear friend.

Do I feel guilty now? (Thinking...thinking...thinking...)

Nope. I feel good.

(*That one thing you said was mean. That day when you were in a sullen mood and thinking unkind thoughts. And stupid ones.* Oh. Dang. That's right. I'm so ashamed...I hate myself. Thanks for reminding me. The worst was that I heart a nice person's feelings *but you didn't know anyone was reading your crap* Still...I'd give anything if I could take it back. I didn't even mean it...*Don't ever forgive yourself.* Don't worry. I won't. It's not in my DNA.)

Kermit Gosnell - Serial Killer By Abortion

2013-05-04T11:14:00.001-07:00

Abortion.

That word stirs up emotion in every body's heart these days.

Democrats want to ignore the facts - the science of the human life cycle, the evidence of ultrasound, and ignore the cries of empty arms and voices silenced before they could ever be heard.

On one hand, the Dems scream that the right to bear arms should be taken from the law-abiding citizens when a horrific shooting by a lone crazy man takes place, killing innocent children and leaving their parents broken-hearted. On the other hand, Abortion is such a precious right that it has been taken to the extremes of partial birth abortion and even leaving babies to die uncomforted and unattended when born alive during an abortion. "Fetuses" have no rights unless they are "wanted". But then they are called "babies". Pro abortion supporters (pro choicers) deny the evidence, consequences, the statistics.

"Maybe," you say, "...Dr Gosnell's case is a rare instance." I'm afraid he's not. These things happen much more than is reported. They have been happening for years, and many of us have heard about them and have tried to warn and educate others.

Sadly, most people don't want to hear.

The fact is that abortionists can get away with things that your local pet store couldn't. To the abortionist hardened by years of tearing babies apart in what should be the safety of their mother's wombs, the things that come out alive during a botched abortion aren't "babies". They are fetuses and fetuses are something less than human, even if they look fully human, breathe, cry, gurgle and wiggle like new borns. Imagine this: To further complicate the issue, these babies are often damaged from the "procedure". They may be deprived of oxygen, burned, or missing limbs, strangled or mangled. Or they may not be damaged at all. Either way, if those children are allowed to live and go on to have productive lives, then they would come to be seen as...people. In light of that, how will abortion supporters be able to justify even one abortion after that?

Now let's talk about Republicans. They call themselves "conservative", but are they? Most are not when it comes to abortion. Instead of considering the validity of the pro life argument, they call pro life supporters "extremists". They want to ignore the issue - it's inconvenient to be pro life. It's a messy, complicated subject. It upsets people. It turns voters off. "Abortion is a personal choice" - and its a done deal. The law of the land. A medical procedure, like having a tooth pulled or the appendix out...besides, there are bigger fish to fry in the political pot. It's legal.

Sometimes even good governments legalize inhumanities and social injustices. Slavery was legal once. But it was wrong. And after centuries of slavery, that wrong was made right.

Coming into adulthood in the midst of the abortion war, I watched as Dr. Nathanson, an original outspoken abortion advocate, opened a clinic and later closed it, after seeing the workers and doctors in his clinic change from good to bad. He became a pro-life advocate, speaking out in behalf of the unborn. He said that ultrasound was what did it - what convinced him that life in the womb was indeed human life - a baby. Ultrasound wasn't invented in 1973, when Roe Vs Wade was enacted. But that's another story.

Right from the beginning, I somehow knew in my heart, that first trimester abortions wouldn't be enough for the hungry abortionists. How could it be? There's so much money to be made - so many women to exploit.

Oh, I hear you. The same weary arguments that you've been using for 40 years, as millions and millions of children are slaughtered and millions of women's lives are damaged or ruined and sometimes even murdered by reckless, ruthless abortionists. Women have been talked into abortion, coerced, and sometimes forced, by "well-meaning" people who they think care about them.

Enter Dr Kermit Gosnell. Not a licensed abortionist. Not even a gynecologist. Just a man who, like Dr Nathanson, had been a champion for the abortion industry. But instead of realizing with ultrasound that the unborn were indeed people in an early stage of life, Gosnell realized opportunity. He could "serve" people of color - the poor blacks and browns in his town, and make lots of money at the same time.

I was shocked to learn some things about the clinic that Dr. Kermit Gosnell ran. I'll list them for you, to make it easy:
1. His clinic was filthy, with blood on the walls and floors, on furniture, etc.
2. He did abortions at all stages, including late term abortions even though those were illegal in Pennsylvania.
3. He often had no nurses or staff who would attend patients (victims) after the abortions.
4. If the patient couldn't afford pain killers, Gosnell did not always use anesthetics.
5. Drugs were administered by employees, trained on the job - not professional doctors or nurses.
6. His office was inspected three times and didn't do well. The last time was in 1992 or so. They found plenty of things wrong there, but didn't require that they be corrected.
7. Three times at least, women were reported to have died in his clinic, and not once did those deaths get investigated.
8. Tom Ridge, a Republican Governor, didn't want to "interfere with a woman's right to choose", so he didn't insist on abortion clinics being inspected. (Your local restaurants have much more stringent requirements to live up to than these abortion clinics.)
9. Dr Gosnell usually aborted black or brown babies, but if a white woman came in, there was a separate room for them. The reason: White women were more likely to report any abuses than women of color.
10. When the clinic was at last inspected, they found jars of baby parts - especially feet - preserved in jars, and the freezer was full of aborted babies in garbage bags.
11. Some estimate that Gosnell made as much as 10-15 thousand a day aborting poor women's babies.
12. Gosnell performed at least one abortion against the young woman's will, with Gosnell and several office workers holding the young woman down, tying her to the bed, and drugging her. She was so mutilated, she can't have children now.
13. Some women were drugged so much that they slept for hours - long after the safe, normal period of time to be "under". He almost drugged them to death.
14. Many women who were butchered by Gosnell were made infertile - Gosnell aborted the only baby they would ever be able to conceive or carry full term.
15. Many babies were born alive. Gosnell said there was sometimes less risk in letting them be born alive than in killing them before birth.
16. Then Gosnell would kill the babies by plunging a scissor into the back of their necks and severing the spinal cord - which didn't always kill them right away. The pain they suffered - I can't imagine such horror. If dogs were treated like that - even rats in a lab - Americans would be outraged and picketing in the streets. Why do those same people allow the unborn to suffer like this?
17. This is beyond Gosnell's clinic to the majority of abortion clinics which are opened in poor minority neighborhoods in the US. As a result, abortion is the major cause of death in the African American community. Being pro-abortion is a racist sentiment to many people who know this fact.
18. They investigated Gosnell, not because of the reports of deaths and late term abortions, but because he was accused of giving out prescription drugs, like Oxycontin.

There were many more things that shocked and horrified me, but you can read about them in the articles and websites at the bottom of this page.

I know that many people want to believe that Dr Gosnell was a crazy man. I have been hearing things like this for over 32 years, when I realized that a doctor in Richmond Virginia was an abortionist who left babies to die on the table after being born alive during abortion. Later, I heard about women whose uterus were accidentally removed, killing the mothers. And when I heard about women who were forced into abortions by parents, husbands, boyfriends and other "concerned" people. (Lorena Bobbitt was one.)

I am beyond disgusted that this terrible sociopath, Dr Gosnell, and his house of horrors hasn't been broadly reported by the mainstream media. Some have mentioned it or "reported" on it, but how thoroughly? How irresponsible can they be? Women have a right to know. People of color need to know. You and I have a right to know.We have the responsibility to know. There's no excuse for ignorance in this day and age.

We have to stand together against the self-willed ignorance that prevails in this nation. There was a country run by a madman 60 years ago. And while he slaughtered millions of people behind walls and fences across his nation, the people pretended they didn't know. They didn't want to know. When they found out, they realized that they had blood on their hands because they had closed their eyes and their ears to the cries of help. Hitler believed in abortion. He believed in sterilization. He believed in euthanasia. Hitler was what many call these days, "Pro-Choice".

What can we do, as voters and citizens? We must demand that our senators, house of representatives, governors, all the way down to the local governments get educated and make necessary changes.

Human life may be inconvenient at times, but that doesn't make it disposable. No child is truly "unwanted". There are lots of empty arms longing to hold a baby who can't produce a baby of their own.

Abortion. America is not through with abortion. Abortion is our Holocaust, the killing of the innocent. It's the ultimate exploitation of womanhood to deny the value of motherhood. Abortion is murder - the Genocide of the Innocents.

For more information:
Dr Nathanson: http://www.life.org.nz/abortion/aboutabortion/historyglobal9/Default.htm

Dr Gosnell: http://news.yahoo.com/woman-had-abortion-gosnell-clinic-165031824.html
http://www.foxnews.com/us/2013/04/29/jury-to-hear-closing-arguments-in-gosnell-murder-trial/

Abortion side effects: http://www.abortionrisks.org/index.php?title=Social_Effects_and_Implications_of_Abortion
http://www.abortionfacts.com/reardon/the-after-effects-of-abortion

Accounts from victims of abortion - young women: http://www.standupgirl.com/

Methods of abortion: http://www.lifenews.com/2013/01/02/abortion-methods-and-abortion-procedures-used-to-kill-unborn-babies/

Black pro-life groups: http://www.nationalblackprolifeunion.com/
http://www.blackprolifecoalition.org/

Holy Hot Tamales, Pardner! This Salsa is Homemade!

2013-04-28T16:49:00.000-07:00

Fresh tomatoes, onions and other colorful fruits and veggies will make
your homemade salsa fun and can add variety to your menu.

Fresh salsa is delicious, and pretty darn easy to make from scratch.

Homemade salsa was a regular weekend treat back on the ranch when my young'uns were growing up. But now that the kids are growed I haven’t made Salsa in a few years. However, when my husband wanted to buy Sam’s “fresh salsa”, I offered to make my own. Let’s face it, my friend. Real Homemade Anything is so much tastier than Commercial “Homemade” Whatever.

Well, I chopped and blended and stirred, clicked my cowgirl boots and turned around three times.

For some reason, however, I couldn’t remember all the ingredients I used to include, to save my life. So I'm sorry to say, the first night with the homemade salsa, Bill and I were most disappointed in the flavor. It was mediocre at best - downright boring at worst. We decided to let the ingredients meld overnight while I let my brain search in its memory for the missing secret ingredients.

Homemade Salsa is healthy and delicious, and a great way to get a few
veggies down into your family's hungry little tummies.
Besides the usual fried corn chips, you can serve salsa on baked chips,
pita chips, crackers, or cut up celery and other veggies,
and place them next to it as a dinner time salad substitute.

Last night, after tasting the incomplete salsa, the missing Secret Ingredients came to me, like tumbleweed across the desert on a windy day: Chili Powder, Cumin and other typical Mexican spices! Basic Salsa 101! Easy as pie. Easier, even. Just shake a little in.

Whoooowee!

That did the trick. I’m not gonna tell you “exact” measurements, because I usually cook things like this by tasting and adding and tasting again. Besides, I really think that sort of thing should be left up to each cook’s individual taste. If you don't usually cook that way, I want to encourage you to try it. Develop your own palate. Trust your instincts!

Real Homemade Salsa

1 large can crushed tomatoes (I use organic) OR if you have 6 or more large fresh tomatoes on hand, peel and blend them until they are just to the “crushed” consistency.

1 or 2 large Jalapeno peppers, seeded - depending on the “heat“ you prefer (or if you like seriously HOT salsa, Habaneros are screamin‘ hot. You won‘t need more than one or two, added to the Jalapenos.)

1 or 2 large sweet peppers, like an Anaheim Pepper, Poblano or Banana. Red or Yellow Bells are delicious, too. Any pepper that adds the pepper flavor without the heat is good.

1 medium Onion - I prefer sweet onions, like Vidalia or Texas Sweet, but my son likes plain ol' yellow onions which have a bit of a bite. It's up to you.

1 or 2 large Garlic Cloves, crushed or very finely minced (I used 1 very big one)

Cilantro, chopped (I tore off a small handful from the top of the bunch)

Juice and pulp from 2 juicy Limes (may want to add more later)

2 Tbsp Cider Vinegar (sometimes, I use Balsamic. Again, you may add more later. Taste it, first.)

1 tsp Sea Salt or Kosher Salt

Black Pepper - Fresh ground, only! Lots of it!

1 Tbsp of Chili Powder (for starters - I used quite a bit - probably 2+ Tbsp.)

1 tsp of Cumin (for starters - I probably used 1 heaping tsp)

Fresh herbs: if you have them: Lemon Thyme (strip leaves off stems) and Garlic Chives (Chopped - use flower heads, too, if they’re ready) Salad Burnet

Directions:

Put the crushed tomatoes in a medium mixing bowl. Chop the other ingredients. (Sweet peppers, cilantro and onions can be chunky. I process hot peppers and garlic to a fine consistency - I first cut them into chunks small enough to toss in a food processor and then process until finely chopped. ) Add powdered ingredients, mix well, and add more to taste.

Note: Use disposable gloves to cut and chop peppers.

Otherwise, the oils can be really difficult to get off your hands and out from under your nails, and you can burn your eyes and mouth, or even your kid's eyes. Or your dog's eyes... To be truthful, I didn’t use gloves this time, because I couldn’t find them (we just moved), but I was careful not to touch the inside of the peppers when slicing them for the food processor. But if I had been chopping them by hand, or using the super-duper-hot peppers, I would surely have bought some disposable gloves when I purchased the ingredients at the grocery store earlier. By the way, if the pepper is so hot that you start gasping for breath as I was this time, you know it’s really hot. Be extra careful, little buddy!

Note - To sort of "stir things up" a bit, try one or all of the following:

For a protein boost, you can add beans (black, pinto or kidney beans are some great choices), or Avocado (if you're going to eat it within a couple of days). You can also add corn, for color as well as variety.

Note: When preparing small leaved herbs with stiff stems such as Lemon Thyme or Salad Burnet:

Hold the stem at the growing tip, and run thumb and forefinger down stem to remove stems.

Note: Always use fresh ground pepper, Sea Salt or Kosher Salt, and fresh Garlic and onions.

Okee-dokee, now!

I 'recon it's time to mozy on, so...Happy trails to you, Pardner... Until we meet again.

May the Good Lord hold you and yours safely in his hands, and may He shower your household with healthy cows in the pasture, and not too many bunnies in your lettuce patch.

Cowgirl Deb, also known 'round these parts as Honey B.

*She picks up her Chihuahua, hops on her faithful steed and together they ride off into the sunset. ...By the way, she's ain't no cowgirl from Texas or New Mexico. She's just a small town southern girl sportin' a fancy WalMart farmer's hat. Her faithful steed - a Subaru that goes by the name of Bullet. *

Limequats in Pots - Growing Small Citrus Trees in Cooler Climates

2012-08-26T09:57:00.000-07:00

As you might know, I am a Florida girl. I haven't lived there for many years, but I still think of myself as that barefoot little girl in short-shorts and rib-tickler, dodging sandspurs in the field below our house. The scent of orange blossoms filled my summer days, and will always bring me back to memories of childhood.

I've been dreaming of orange blossoms lately. That's why my husband came home from the store with a small citrus tree in early June, when they were being sold at Home Depot and Lowe's Home Improvement stores.

This is a very small Limequat tree, fresh from the store this year.
Though it is small, there are at least two dozen fruits clinging to those branches.
The blooms are white, by the way. Those pink blooms are just
a neighboring geranium, checking out the activity.

It was one of the last citrus trees left, and is called a Eustis Limequat. I had never heard of it before. But one small fruit hung from the tip of a single branch, smaller than a Key Lime, and the bright green color of a regular grocery store lime. Seven blossoms clung to the branches, as yet unopened. I waited for several days, and when they did open, the blossoms dropped immediately, much to my disappointment. However, it was a new plant in a new home, and I had anticipated that possibility.

Well, almost immediately, my little Limequat started budding again. I waited patiently, and when these buds opened, I took one of my small artist paint brushes and as soon as each began to open, I gently tickled each blossom in the middle to pollinate. (I could have used a q-tip, too.) It takes at least two blossoms to pollinate, and I had dozens. I was hoping to get at least enough fruits so I could make a pie this winter.

On the left is the Limequat that was on the tree when Bill brought it home to me.
On the right are some of the small fruits; the result of my pollination using the artist paint brush.

A week or two later, I examined my little tree, and found that almost every bloom had dropped off; this time leaving a tiny speck of fruit growing there. I counted them. Fourty-four baby Limequats in all. Wow.

Along with the oranges, grapefruits and guavas, we had a Kumquat tree in my yard when I was a kid. It was more of a large bush, I suppose, and it was always full of Kumquats, which are a small orange colored, oval shaped fruit, about 1 1/2" long. My sister Nancy and I would pick them as a snack, eating the delicious, sweet orange flavored skins, but usually discarding the mouth-puckeringly sour, seedy fruits. They aren't sour like a lemon is sour, but like those candies that my kids used to buy that make the glands under the tongue seize up and shudder in shock.

Some things to note if you are looking for information about Limequats:
1. Limequats are more cold tolerant than Key Limes. So if you want to plant yours outside (in a warm region), you can plant it a little further north than you could the Key Lime. I had a Key Lime that survived outside, in a pot for two winters in Hickory, North Carolina, under a deck, in a warmer part of the yard. It didn't survive the third winter, when it had been moved out from under the protection of the deck into the open yard. I'll bring my Limequat in when I bring in my Orchids, at about 40 degrees, though it should survive in a little cooler temperatures.
2. According to the grower, Limequats grow better in smaller pots other than large. When I read this, I decided not to repot this plant when I got it. As it grows, I will gradually move it to a bigger pot. But I want to keep the pot small enough that I can still move it in and out on my own.
3. During growing season, Bill and I fertilize all our plants about every six weeks or so with fish emulsion, an organic fertilizer that stinks to high heaven, but is good for the plants and doesn't contaminate fruits or herbs. (Go by the directions on the bottle. Some plants, such as orchids, need a weaker solution.) So we included our new Limequat in the routine. I have learned that Limequats should be fertilized in the spring, and again in August. We have already fertilized ours with fish emulsion twice. It didn't hurt it, though the first time, it dropped the blooms early, so I won't fertilize it again until next spring.
4. The fruit is ripe when it starts turning yellow, like a Key Lime. This takes a long time. If you are impatient...well...you're going to have to learn to be patient. You can consider waiting for citrus fruit to mature as being Patience 101.
5. Basic information (from Duarte, a seller, below):
Zone: 8-9
Mature height: 4-8 feet
Blooms: late Spring to early fall
Fruit ripens from November 1st to the middle of March
Self-pollinating.

*Later: Alas, I was just inspecting my little Limequat, and it doesn't look like all fourty-four fruits have survived, but there are still at least a couple of dozen there. Still enough to make a fine Key Lime pie. The one mature fruit hanging on is beginning to yellow slightly on its belly. I am expecting it to ripen up within a month or so, and then I will be able to taste it and see if it's more Lime or more Kumquat.

*Much Later: When mature, the limequats turn yellow. The skin is not as tasty as a Kumquat, but the fruit isn't as sour, either.

Limequats can be made into Bonsai trees, or you can buy them already as Bonsai. I want my little tree for the fruit this time, but may want to try one as a Bonsai next year. Or I may decide to grow one from seed, specifically to Bonsai.
Below are some sites you may find helpful or interesting. The first is "Making Your Own Bonsai" from this blog. But others are for more information or to purchase Limequats:

http://recklesslydancingwhilesupperburns.blogspot.com/2011/06/making-your-own-bonsaiin-picturesits.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Limequat
http://lemoncitrustree.com/limequat.html
http://lemoncitrustree.com/care_instructions.html
http://fauntleroyband.tripod.com/bonsaitreesbonsaisnurseriesplantshouseplantsbonsaigardensnurseryplantbonsaitreegardening/id89.html http://meyerlemontree.com/limequatorder.html
http://duartefruittrees.com/?page_id=63

The First Day of Motherhood

2012-08-15T06:36:00.004-07:00

August 14, 2012 - Fourty-three years ago, my unborn child was in the head down position with feet planted firmly beneath my ribs. I'd been watching those tiny feet travel across my belly for two months or so, and by now my ribs ached mightily. I confess, I was a good bit fearful, not knowing what to expect from childbirth or motherhood. But I was mostly excited to get that baby out of me, hold it in my arms and watch it's life unfold like a flower before my eyes. I had begun to have cramps, and we knew it wouldn't be long before I would meet this little person for the very first time.

This is Kathleene. My little girl.

August 15, 2012 - After 23 hours of labor, the baby was born. Doctor Webb, my best friend's father, delivered her. He was excited. His eyes sparkled as he held her up, naked and freshy, her face squeezed tightly between his fingers. Yes, it was a little girl. Still groggy from the anesthesia, I opened my eyes to see that tiny red face in Doctor Webb's hands, mouth wide open, screaming with anger over being taken from her warm, comfy hiding place. The hospital lighting glowed all about her like a halo, making her look angelic in spite of the screaming.

I would tell you I fell in love with her right then and there, but I was already in love with her from the moment I realized she was inside of me. This very day, fourty-three years ago, was the beginning of a lifetime of adventure for both of us; it was my first day of Motherhood.

Happy Birthday, my darling Kathleene. You are a treasure and a joy!

Mama

How to Ease Your Depression in Three Easy-to-Remember Steps...Or is it Two...

2012-06-25T18:27:00.000-07:00

At times in life, many of us struggle with depression. It's a cruel condition which arises, at least for me, in part from a lack of effective coping skills. *It can be difficult to overcome, but together, you and I should be able to do so with some practice.

I saw this great article Friday, about how to rid yourself of depression in three easy steps. It might have been four easy steps, but I only recall three...unless the last two were actually one which I separated into two, which in that case, means, here below are two of three, or three of four easy-to-remember steps.

Anyway, they have been so helpful the last few days; I thought I should pass these precious jewels on to my readers, family and friends:

Now. I shall assist you in ridding yourself of that pesky condition which we call Depression. Here goes:

1. Count your blessings. When you awake, think of at least a half a dozen things to be grateful for. There are so many things to be thankful for here in the US. Running water, fresh air, trees. Family, friends, transportation. I can honestly think right off the bat of 50 things, and more if I try harder. First, I'm thankful for all my family. Of course, there's my hubby. He's family, but I like to count him at least twice. I'm thankful for Geraniums, and even my poor roses with the black spot and the two unidentified viruses. I'm also thankful for my dogs who are an ever present source of delight, and for all sorts of foods, wine and cheese, starting with spaghetti, and Sauvinon Blanc and moving right into Aged New York Cheddar (and I'm thankful that I finally learned to spell Sauvinon Blanc, thanks to my friend on twitter, who I am also grateful for...or was it Sauvignon?) And Aspirin. And I must not forget nasal strips. I love them!
(Excellent start. I'm feeling better already.)

2. Live in this moment. No regrets from yesterday. Don't think about what you said at the funeral last week that made that lady choke on her cracker. She doesn't know you were his niece. Seriously, if you can't change something, it's not worth worrying about. In addition, No worries about tomorrow. Sun spot flares happen all the time, even during earlier years of the Mayan Calendar. And the chance of being hit by a crashing airplane is slimmer than being struck by lightning, even if you are on the airport landing flight path. Don't worry. Tomorrow will come; it always does. Trust me. So live this moment right where you are starting now - Go!...no, wait...wait...go now...!

3. Observe your surroundings. Relax. Look around. Now that you are living Today, take it all in. (...Are those bills paid? Didn't I call that guy?) NO, NO, NO! Hmm. Leave your computer and go outside. Breathe deeply. Listen to the sounds and smell the fresh air - hear the birds chattering, the people talking, the...is that a plane crashing? No it's just the dumpster guy. Sigh. Moving right along, smell the fresh cut grass. Feel it under your bare feet. Sit down over there on that bench and relax. Think about the bench, how it feels under...Ugh...the grass feels...um...what's that?...It's red clay. Good. Back to feeling the bench under yourself; relax and think about how it feels against your back...(my back/head/neck hurts now...I think I've got a splinter...)

Now you have completed your first attempt to rid yourself of depression. I'm sure you feel better already! I know I do...well; you'll get better at it. This method really works... (and if you saw the article I saw, please send me the link in the comment section, so I won't get sued. I'm getting worried again.)

*My best way of coping with things it to joke about them. But all joking aside, depression can be serious, and if these simple steps don't help and you feel you've lost your joy, talk to your doctor. Depression can be caused by many things, including some health issues, past experiences, loss of loved ones or other personal issues, and even some medications. There are many effective solutions; various therapies, as well as medications. No one deserves depression.

Wolves in Middle-Schooler's Clothing

2012-06-21T16:32:00.000-07:00

I'm sure most of you have seen this video of Karen Klein, the bus monitor who was verbally abused by middle school children. They were cruel, vulgar, crude and even used sexually explicit threats. Their behavior was abhorrent and inexcusable. These bullies should be soundly punished.

"Off With Their Heads", said the Queen!

Kick them off the bus, permanently. Give them in-school suspension as well as summer clean up on the grounds and in the school bathrooms. They deserve to lose a substantial amount of their summer freedom, as I believe that is the only thing that will speak to their savage little brains. Because you know, I have a feeling Karen Klein was not the only victim these mean little monsters have collectively abused. Surely she was just the oldest of their prey.

However, I have been reading many of the comments by readers and watchers of this video, and I was struck by how many people choose to go after the parents of the children in an attempt to find someone to cast the blame and the responsibility upon. This is the coming trend, and I am warning you parents. It could happen to you!

It reminded me of a lynchin'. "Kill them parents, and their devil offspring, too!"

What bothers me most about this, is this arrogant superiority with which the blame is cast upon these parents, though few of us know anything about them or saw how they reacted to viewing the video of their children attacking this poor woman.

Admittedly, I have mixed feelings about this. The first time I watched the video, I immediately thought that the parents must be terrible. I wanted to shake them and accuse them, just like everybody else that was writing in. Then I remembered how shocked I have been in the past when one of my own offspring has done something mean or rude that I taught them from birth never to do.

Having a large family, I have been spared the ignorant bliss of thinking that I, Wondermom of the Universe, am the reason my children are wonderful.

I have had compliant children and rebellious kids, too. I know that the way a kid turns out in the end is what really matters, and that along the way, there may be terrible times when nothing but the grace of God Himself can save them. Thanks to that grace, mine have all turned out to be relatively sane and responsible people, as well as good, loving parents in their own right. I did some things right, but the best thing I did was pray hard, love them through the rough times, and never give up.

These kids in the video are, like so many kids that age, thoughtless, selfish and lacking in self control or direction. Except, perhaps, when their parents are around. Be honest now. Middle school kids are some of the cruelest people on the face of the earth, and it's been that way forever. They are no better than a barnyard full of chickens, attacking the old and the weak. In the barnyard, it's called a "pecking order". On the school yard, it's bullying.

Blame their parents, if you wish.

Demand they be fined at a time when most of us are struggling to make ends meet. "That'll teach 'em!" Missing their mortgage payment will make them better parents. I am quite sure of it. Their kids will say, "Wowzers! I'm sorry Mummy and Daddy are having a hard time on my account." Of course, the parents will be really mad then. Maybe they will even beat those kids (like some of you wisely suggest) when they get them home. Parents who teach their children to publicly abuse old ladies would never beat their children too much. They would beat them just enough...

And while you're at it, humble those terrible parents, too, like they did in the old days. Where are stocks when we need them? Now that's a practice that should be revived for foolish parents of cruel brats and middle schoolers. Their children will be ashamed of themselves when they see their parents publicly humbled for their sakes.

I have no doubt that most of those parents were mortified when they saw that tape. Surely they didn't teach their kids to behave that way. Any experienced parent of a large family will tell you that some kids are naturally sweet, but most have to be taught to care about others. When even the best behaved children are in with a group of peers, they may succumb to the pack mentality, and like a pack of wolves, pick out the weak and tear them apart, and hate themselves for the rest of their lives for it.

So blame these kids for their own bad behavior. Punish them soundly.

But also blame our society, for fear that overrides common sense, which puts kids in schools all day which can neither punish nor comfort the children. And blame society for its disrespect for people who are less than perfect - like Karen Klein, the overweight are a big target right now...no pun intended... and the mentally ill, the poor, the sick, the other race- whichever it is. And the unborn, especially if they are going to be disabled. Don't forget to toake note of what is tolerated in movies and on the internet. Murder, sarcasm, sexual irresponsibility and all sorts of immorality.

It's all part of the attitude that created these cruel children.

Divided We Fall

2012-03-28T16:19:00.000-07:00

Everything is not black and white. I've always believed that the reality of almost any situation will have shades of gray mixed in among the darks and the lights.

I grew up in a small town where the blacks and the whites were kept separate, like laundry on wash day.

The world I grew up in was a safe little world. We left the keys in the car. We did not lock our doors at night.

The first time I became aware of race, I was four years small, and was in the doctor's waiting room with my mom. I liked the colorful children's chairs they had in there, and I was pulling one over to sit near Mama, when I saw an old black man in the room next to me. He smiled and beckoned me to come to him so he could give me a little piece of candy wrapped in paper. He had a sweet smile that old people do when they love children. So I politely rose from my seat, but was immediately stopped by my mother. I couldn't talk to him or take his candy, she told me firmly. He was colored, and little white girls didn't talk to colored men.

The old man's smile turned into sadness, and mine did as well. I'll never forget how that cold rejection from my normally kind mother had hurt that poor man's feelings.

Until that moment, I hadn't noticed that black people were so different from white people. After all, we always had them popping by to do various jobs around our house. My sister and I loved Robert, who worked on the yard with my dad. They had been friends for years. And we had a housekeeper who kind of looked like the mammy from Gone With the Wind. She came several times a week to help Mama. Her name was Ruby, and she cleaned, washed, and changed my baby sister's diaper and rocked her to sleep. Unlike the movie mammy, Ruby was genteel and rather sophisticated. Mom treated Ruby like she treated other friends. They laughed and chatted, sometimes even about politics.

Forward to 1960's.

The '60's were not the peaceful years that the '50's had been. While Martin Luther King attempted to do peaceful demonstrations, the KKK and the Black Panthers were shouting, rioting, burning crosses and churches, and threatening to kill each other and anyone else who got in their way. You couldn't turn on the television without hearing about it. I did not feel safe any more. We started locking the doors at night.

In the late '60's, our high school became fully integrated. The first year they enrolled a black brother and sister, the "cream of the crop", I suppose. But the following year, busing started, and we became an actual integrated school.

Being a completely non-political and self-absorbed teenage girl, I had other things to think about, like boys, friends, clubs, boys and passing Biology. I admit, I wasn't the least concerned about the integration thing. There was one nice black guy in my English class who told a friend that if I was black he would ask me out. I knew I'd have accepted. If I was black.

I do remember one particularly rainy day. I had on moccasins with leather soles which got soggy when wet. I was walking along one of the outdoor walkways, watching for puddles, when I came upon an obstruction in front of me. I looked up, and before me stood a large black girl. Menacingly, she glowered down at me, accusingly. Her rigid arms were held down at her sides, hands curled into tight fists.

I was a skinny little white girl with straight blond hair who didn't want to get her feet wet. I knew that this stranger had deliberately stepped in front of me, in defiance of...well...of my severe and undeniable whiteness, I believe. A condition I was born with and had no power to change, any more than she could change the color of her skin.

What did she want from me? Did she want me to protest? To insult her? To fight? To run in terror down the hall screaming?

I had no beef with that girl. In fact, I didn't even know her. I simply was there and I was white. I said nothing, but moved around her, and went on to class. That was the end of that. My one 1960's confrontational moment.

2012 - Shouldn't it feel different? Better?

Things have come a long way since those days. No longer are we a segregated society here in the US. We now have black congressmen and senators, black doctors, movie stars, talk show hosts, and everything else. We have a black president, for goodness sake! This is a radical change, which those of us who grew up in the '50's could never have imagined would happen so quickly.

So why do I feel unsafe, again? Why do I feel like we are once again becoming a nation of lights and darks, sitting in two separate laundry baskets, waiting to be hung out to dry? In spite of the progress, the '60's have returned to haunt us. Like the young white girl who didn't want to get her shoes wet, I don't understand why people who don't know me stand before me, accusingly, simply because of the color of my fair skin.

If you are a conservative, you're racist.

Politically correct speech has become so dominant that most of us have no idea what is allowed any more. We are afraid to communicate honestly with anyone. Especially if they lean to the left, because we fear inadvertently saying something that will offend. Because no doubt we will, and it will. And we don't want to offend. Mostly, we don't want to be called racist.

This week, everyone is in an uproar about the killing of a 17 year old, unarmed black man by a 28 year old Hispanic man. At first, I was appalled by this seemingly cowardly, unjustifiable act. But the more I learn, I realize that big pieces of this story are missing, and must wait until after the Grand Jury is held. I have a feeling it is far more complex than we have been led to believe.

Until then, I want tell you some things I've observed.

When I first saw this story on the Internet, I noticed that the headline read that a black kid had been killed by a "white Hispanic" man. I thought, what's a "white Hispanic?" I looked at the man's photo and couldn't help but notice that he looks Hispanic, or of mixed race, but not "white". As it turns out, he is of mixed race, but was adopted by his white step father and given his name. Because of his name, they assumed his blood father was white.

I must add that the photo they showed of the black man was from when he was 12 years old. His innocent little baby face peered back at me. I thought a child had been killed.

I don't want to go too deeply into the details, as I think it's been done better by many whose research far exceeds my own. This is what bothers me. The public is being manipulated by this story. Manipulated by a powerful, politically motivated news media, and some especially viral political talkies, Al Sharpton and Spike Lee, among them. The president and his wife have even put in their two cents on the issue.

And the public, like a bunch of fish in a net, are being pulled right into this chaos, threatening, screaming, and spewing their fury without even having access to the complete story.

In this neighborhood a few months ago, a white man was shot in his upper middle class neighborhood, in broad daylight, by a young black man who wanted to rob him. The white man was just walking home from a coffee shop. The black guy was visiting his sister near there, and wanted money for drugs. So he wandered into the neighborhood, armed and looking for someone with cash. He shot the man in cold blood and left him to bleed to death alone in the street.

Our police chief, who happens to be black, made excuses to the press for the young black killer. "He wasn't intending to shoot the guy. It was accidental. He just wanted to rob the man."

What?

We are living in a topsy-turvy world, where saying the "N" word (unless you're black) is worse than calling a conservative political candidate's 17 year old daughter a whore. The killing of a suspicious looking black teen (visiting his aunt in a neighborhood that had had a rash of burglaries), the middle of the night by an assumed "white" man is worse than the killing of a white man walking in his own neighborhood in broad daylight by a black drug addict. It's okay to put a bounty on the head of one shooter, and excuse the other.

We are becoming more divided than ever. Why? Because it is expedient for people in certain political circles to divide the people of America. If they can create riots and diversions along racial lines, then they can divert the public from debating the real issues at hand. The issues that may actually save this nation and bring our beautiful blend of citizens together again.

This is what we must remember in this time of trumped up turmoil and fear:

Every life is valuable, whether black or white, red or yellow, young or old, rich or poor.

Every person must be given respect, whether you deem them worthy or not. What you say about them and to them matters.

Implying things that don't exist matters, too. Misrepresenting things is no different than lying. By lying, you lose credibility.

Believing lies and reacting according to things you've heard before they have been substantiated makes you hysterical, hypocritical, fearful, aggressive and a fool. Instead of reacting to someone else's implications and half stories, learn the truth. If you have to wait for it, then hold off stating your opinion.

This is America. A person is innocent until proven guilty. Don't become part of a lynch mob.

Don't allow anyone to distract you from the real issues at hand. Huge matters are at stake here. Don't allow false charges and implications of race to replace the truth or to influence your priorities, clear thinking and logic.

Don't let anyone drag you down to their level, to where you become just another name-caller, cross-burner or rock-thrower.

Remember. We are not a black and white nation. We are a nation of many colors. We must be one nation, United, if we are to survive these times.

Saying Goodbye to Mamma

2012-01-04T09:46:00.000-08:00

Have I ever told you about when my mamma died? I tweeted it last night, and I feel like I need to write it down to share with others.

I'm going to tweek it just a bit, because tweets are never edited. They're raw.
And short. :)

Mamma died on September 16th, 2001. On September 11, I was waiting on my sister Jeanie. We were going to ride together, home, to be at her side. I was packed and ready to go when I turned on TV and saw the first tower on fire.

Wasn't she gorgeous? This is Mamma when she was in Nurse's Training during WWII.

When Jeanie arrived, she had been listening to the radio, and we were both in tears. It was tragic and frightening. All those people! We decided Jeanie needed to go back to her house for the night to be with her husband. School had been dismissed, and my children were home and needed me, too.

So we delayed the trip for a day, but knew we didn't have long to be with Mamma, so we left the next day. When we arrived, my other two sisters had been there at least a week. They were exhausted from keeping a bedside vigil with Mamma. They talked about what a stinker Mamma was being. She was in pain and the bed was so uncomfortable. My sisters had not managed to sleep in office-style chairs, and had cricks in every bone of their bodies.

I have to tell you again, Mamma was such a stinker sometimes. She was the little girl in that children's poem, "...with a curl in the middle of her forehead". When she was good she was very very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid. Anyway, Mamma had been a "pill" and so the first night after we arrived, Jeanie stayed with her. All of my dear sisters are a bit protective of me. I'm so frickin' fragile.

All the next day, sister Nancy stood guard beside a comfortable bed with a circulating air mattress that had finally become available. She was determined to aquire it for Mamma, and after practically wrestling it from an orderly, she did. Once settled into the new bed, Mamma was instantly more comfortable. That was the night I stayed with her. Thank God for that bed. Mamma was so much more pleasant to be with.

That night, she was...well, she was Mamma. She was so beautiful, and yet, full of herself at the same time. I had prayed that if God wanted me to talk to her about anything in particular, that it would happen naturally and I would know what to say. So as the night went on, we talked about a lot of things that people need to talk about when they are dying. We talked about the uncle she couldn't forgive. We talked about something so secret she had never told anyone. I'd rather not know, myself. But it doesn't matter. I told her that no matter what, God loves her. All she had to do is ask and he would forgive. I vaguely remember praying, but I'm not sure if we did. Probably.

God is so good.

That night, the nurses asked if I needed a bed-chair, and of course I said yes. So once all the talking was done we both slept soundly, some time after midnight.

The next day Daddy and we kids talked with Mamma's doctors and decided it was time to move her to hospice. Two young, cute orderlies moved her in and out of the ambulance, and she flirted with them shamelessly. She loved men. Especially cute ones.

It was Saturday. Mamma was in so much pain; at the hospital the nurses had been giving her something for pain. Now they couldn't get ahold of her doctor to get the prescription transferred to the hospice until afternoon. After that she relaxed and was able to enjoy all the attention she was getting from her four daughters, one son and especially, her beloved husband of 55 years.

She was so precious that day. I can't tell you.

She kept smiling at the ceiling at the foot of the bed. One of my sisters said, "I think she is confused. She's seeing those huge oxygen tanks and thinks they're angels." But she had such a sweet smile. Like a little child. She'd been asking about the beautiful people for two or three days now, and there were no oxygen tanks in her hospital room.

I was sitting close to her, when she said again, "Who are these beautiful people." Her face was bright and her smile innocent, like she must have looked when she was three years old, and her daddy came home after a hard day's work.

I said, "Mamma, there are oxygen tanks down there. Do you think you might be seeing them?"

Mamma turned her head in my direction and looked at me with a disapproving frown that was o-so-familiar.

"No!" she said firmly. "Those are beautiful people, Deborah. Not oxygen tanks!"

I straightened up immediately. I said, "Well, Mamma, do you think you are seeing angels?" She gave a single nod and her gaze returned to the angels who were patiently waiting for her at the foot of the bed.
I thought, there are angels in this room, and I can't feel their presence at all. It was an amazing realization to me.

Then it occurred to me that among those present at the foot of the bed could be one of my grandparents, or Uncle Carl who had died of an accident when he was just 28 years old. She loved Uncle Carl so.

So I had to ask, "Mamma, do you recognize anyone?" and she nodded once. Still smiling like a little child, she slowly lifted up her frail hand and pointed a finger at the host whom I could not see, but knew were there. "Well," she said. "There's God."

Well, that was quite a surprise to me. Not only a heavenly host, but God himself, was in the room, and we couldn't feel them at all. How do you act when you know God is in the room and Heaven has opened its doors for someone to enter?

For me, I thought this would be a good time to find out what God looks like. I knew I shouldn't ask, but I couldn't help myself. "What does God look like, Mamma?"

Once again, she looked at me with that frown I'd seen so many times growing up. "Well, I can't see his face!" Sort of like, "isn't that obvious to you?".

I had to laugh. I said, "Mamma, that makes sense. The Bible says you can't see the face of God until you die."

Mamma looked back at God, smiling. Satisfied with herself. And with God.

The next morning was Sunday. We got a call from hospice. Mamma was in the final stage, and didn't have long. All five of us were at her side, along with Daddy. We sang hymns and prayed.

Mamma was no longer conscious. Looking at Daddy, I could see that he was so scared. They'd been married for so long. He didn't know what he should do.

After a little while, Mamma stopped breathing. Daddy panicked, and reached over and tried to wake her. She started breathing again. This happened twice more. Poor, sweet Daddy.

When she quit breathing again, I realized that Daddy just didn't know if it was okay to let her go. I said, "It's okay, Daddy. It's okay to let her go."

He looked at me and said, "It's okay?"

"Yes, Daddy. It's okay."

He sat down, bewildered and relieved, and Mamma went on to be with the angels. And with God.

Daddy lived for several more years, and joined Mamma in heaven with the angels. And with God.

You know, God is good. Life is hard, and it always ends in dying. But you know , with God, life doesn't really end at all. It is just another beginning.

Good Ol' Betty Friedan

2011-12-31T11:19:00.000-08:00

I'm in deep and serious thought today. I've been web surfing, and it has brought me to the subject of Betty Friedan, the famous "feminist", and her influence on the world we now live in.

I realize that many women are happy to be in what our parents called " A Man's World", working full time and coming home to their families at night. Some are doctors and lawyers, business women, actresses, journalists, teachers, social workers and cops. I'm glad they're there, and appreciate the services they provide for us.

Being a homemaker: I thought it was
the Cherry on the Cake of Life

Of course, many of them get personal reward from working outside the home, and can pay others to do at home child care and housekeeping. But most women don't get paid enough to provide such luxuries. Yet, they still must pay for childcare, and they have to clean, cook and get up in the middle of the night with sick kids after a hard day working at a "real job". They don't all like their jobs. They may not even "choose to work". Yet they have to, because that is the lot they have inherited from Friedan and Friends.

Few families can afford for the woman to stay home, caring for her family and household. I think it is most unfortunate; even sad.

Below is a comment I wrote today in response to a post on WorldNetDaily about Betty Friedan. I'd like to share it with you.

As a woman who was witness to Friedan's writings and ravings while in my early adult years, I agree that Betty has done much to destroy the American family and womanhood. Having always looked forward to being a homemaker and mother as my career, I felt threatened by Friedan and her ilk. I didn't understand how "feminists" could call themselves by that name while striving to be like men. That was freedom? It seemed illogical that a woman would want to give up the true freedom of the homemaker and the privelege of raising her own children for just another 9-to-5 job.
Unfortunately, Betty's campaign was quite successful. Now, few women who wish to stay home and raise their own children either can afford to or are encouraged and supported to do so by their husbands. After working in my home for over 30 years and having only worked outside the home for 7 3/4 years previous to my marriage, I can no longer share ownership in my own home and can't receive social security. Funny, if it wasn't so sad. I could have paid someone to raise my kids and clean my house and cook my dinners, and decorate my home and see my children's first steps, but since I didn't demand a paycheck from my good husband for the hard work I did, I am not considered having ever worked. Thanks for nothing, Betty.

As you can see, I have always thought it odd that people nowadays don't consider stay-at-home moms to be workers. Homemakers do what those folks pay strangers to do for them, but we do so without a paycheck. So it isn't working...? We clean house, cook meals, and wipe little noses all day long. We take the dog to the vet, pick up the kids from school, referee sibling rivalry and sometimes do the gardening, architectural designs and decorating of our houses. (Which, again, we lowly housewives can only own our own homes if our husbands die first and leave them to us in a will.) People who are hired to do any or all of those things get paid. They "work".

But not us. We're merely housewives.

It hasn't always been easy. I haven't always done a good job. Sometimes being a homemaker has been lonely; even miserable. But it was right for me, and I am grateful for having been given the opportunity by a generous husband who worked hard to provide this lifestyle for me and for our children. Being able to be a stay-at-home mom has been a privelege and a blessing, indeed.

As for good ol' Betty Friedan: Once again, thanks for nothing.

But to my supportive husband, I say, "Thanks, honey. I owe you big time."

You might find the column by Ellis Washington on WorldNetDaily interesting, too. I think this will get you there: http://www.wnd.com/?pageId=366917&fb_comment_id=fbc_10150373686222992_21343705_10150467477637992#f1a6d3d9a7a9489

Blessing: A Gift of Love

2011-12-22T14:02:00.000-08:00

I love this film. It's actually very cute, so I decided to share it with you.

Hallelujah! It is time to celebrate life, love and family by gathering together with great food, lots of laughter, and a few well thought out gifts.

Last year I wrote a post on gift ideas that you can make for someone you love. But this year I have an idea that you can give to everyone you love. It can be very simple or as complicated as you want it to be. But no matter how you decide to do it, it will bless that person. And you know what? It can be a great last-minute gift, too! It is so simple, yet so perfect, that I think some fanfare is in order:

Tooot ta-ta-toot!

Presenting...the...Blessing!

A blessing can be long or short. It can be big or small. It can be something they can hang over their bed, wear around their neck , tuck into their Bible, or keep in their pocket or purse.

I am going to make a blessing for every person in my family. So if you know how large my family is and how last minute this is, you know I'm going to have to prepare some very speedy blessings. Here are some of the ways I may choose to bless my sweeties:

Jewelry: I make jewelry, and I have metal stamps that I can use to put a favorite blessing on. But if you don't make jewelry, you still may have time to go to a store that does engraving, and have a necklace, charm, glass or other object engraved with a blessing. You may want to just have verse (like the scripture Jeremiah 29:11) engraved on the object.

Paper: Of course the quickest and least expensive thing you can do is write a blessing out on paper. You can make something to hang on the wall; you can frame it or make a poster. A bookmark is a good choice. Using a sturdy piece of card stock, write or collage the verse onto the paper, embellish it with ribbon, buttons, and pretty papers, and Voila.

Book: Tiny books are easier to make than you might think. You just figure out how large you want the book to be and how many pages you'll need. Then cut the paper twice that size, so it can be folded in half. Next, with a heavy needle and some sturdy thread, make a row of stitches down the seam. Then, with a pen or pencil, write the blessing out in your own hand. Decorate any blank pages, or leave them blank so your friend can write thoughts or answered prayers on them.

Below is a demonstration on how to make an Origami book:

Clay: I know I was talking about quick and easy, but if you work in clay, you can make a tile and write or stamp letters in it, and put a slit on the back for it to be hung on a wall.

Sew: A pillow would be a great thing to write a blessing on. Just write it on using fabric paints.

Embroidery: I embroidered the Aaronic Blessing on a piece of cloth and framed it for my husband long ago. You don't need a fancy pattern. Just write it on the cloth and stitch over it with embroidery floss.

Wood: Any piece of board or wood can make a sign or a plaque. First, just paint your board with a base color. You may be able to find an old painted piece of wood that already has a character of its own. If so, then leave it as is. Then write out the words lightly in pencil. Paint them on. Then add a couple of screw eyes or nails to the top edte of the board, add wire or a sturdy twine, and it's ready for hanging.

Now for a few of those Bible blessings:

Jeremiah 29:11 For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. Plans to prosper and not to harm you. Plans for a future and a hope.

Aaronic Blessing: Numbers 6: 22-27
May the Lord bless you and keep you;
May He make His face to shine on you
and be gracious to you;
May he lift up his countenance upon you
and give you his peace..

Jude 24-25
Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy, to the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and for ever, Amen.

Romans 16: 24
May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you. Amen

Psalm 91:
This whole Psalm is actually a blessing, but some of my favorite verses are below.
Because you have made the Lord your resting place,
No evil shall befall you, neither shall any plague come near your dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways. They shall bear you up in their hands, lest you dash your foot against a stone.
Because he has set his love upon me (says the Lord), therefore I will deliver him: I will set him on high, because he has known my name. He shall call upon me and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him and honour him. With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.

And for children, here is one I'm sure you've heard before:
I see the moon and the moon sees me.
The moon sees somebody I want to see.
God bless the moon and God bless me,
And God bless the somebody I want to see.

For a few more special blessings, check this out: http://www.wilsonmar.com/benedic.htm

Of course, you may make up your own. I always blessed my children as I tucked them into bed. I made a cross on their foreheads and said, "God bless you in the name of Jesus." Then I sealed it with a kiss. Then I let them bless me back. It was a sweet way to end the day.

I must go; I've got lots of blessings to make, and I better get started right away. I would like to write more on blessings next week. If not, then next year!

In the meantime, I think I'd like to leave you with this blessing:

May God make his angels to watch over you and your loved ones. May he bless the work of your hands and the words of your mouth. May he show favor to you and your loved ones, and give you peace, strength and joy. Amen.

Happy, Happy holidays, my friend.

Father and Mother Know Best

2011-12-12T16:32:00.000-08:00

When I was 11, my mother sat me down for the talk. It was time to prepare her young daughter for the woman budding inside that awkward, undeveloped child body. She told me how I was growing up, and she explained about periods, what I should expect, and that they were one of the things that made me different from men. Some day, she said, thanks to that change in my body, I would be able to become a mother, myself. When I finally started my period, I was very excited. I ran to tell my mom, and she hugged me tight. It was sweet, as it should be.

Mama was good! I mean, how many people could take something many women refer to as “the curse” and make it into a blessing? It sounded romantic. It was part of life, and life was beautiful. I never saw it as anything less.

My mother was a beauty, wasn't she? And wise.

Nowadays, the job of educating our children about sexuality is being taken from parents and given to others. I am concerned. Sexuality is an intimate and beautiful thing. But for years, people have been making it into something else. No longer special, sex has become a casual act, often vulgar and crude.

It seems that more important than physical health, honesty and normalcy these days is Political Correctness: Not Offending Anyone, Ever. (Well, that doesn’t include everyone, like people with traditional lifestyles or values.) Homosexuality is at the top of the list of the Politically Protected. Homosexuality, along with other non-traditional ideas, is being introduced to children as young as kindergarten, through books and other materials.

And according to a recent report, this new sexual education format is confusing to many young children. Some kids are concluding that since their best friends are the same sex as them, it must mean that they are all gay.

Regardless of how you view homosexuality, you will surely agree that if your child is not homosexual at age 4 or 6, you will not want him or her to adopt homosexuality simply because of confusion from a poorly taught class on family and sexuality. I see several problems with this agenda:

1. These concepts are being taught to increasingly younger children, who may not be mature enough or emotionally ready to understand diverse sexual concepts, such as homosexuality or promiscuity.

2. They teach sex education in the classroom setting, with both sexes of children. (This is to help children to “not be embarrassed” in front of the opposite sex, but my kids tell me that this just discouraged them from asking questions at all.)

3. Classrooms are not like home. There are no private times when it would be appropriate to answer individual questions of a personal nature. Even if a private moment for questions were available, teachers are not always “safe”. They aren’t the people responsible for the child’s welfare. That job belongs to the parents.

4. Nope, teachers are not the family. They do not know their students as well as most parents know their children. They do not love the children as the parents do. (Unfortunately, not all parents are good parents, but schools and teachers aren’t able to replace inadequacies in the home.)

I’m not saying every school does a bad job or every parent does a good job. But it is and should be the parent’s job to teach his or her children about sexuality.

Now a couple of questions to parents who are relieved to have the schools take over this difficult task: Would you leave sexual education of your child up to the stranger down the street? Then why would you leave it up to a school teacher that you hardly know? Do you want your children to have your personal values about sex and family? Why do you think the schools know more about what’s good for your children than you do?

A few quick tips on talking to your children:

1. Get a right attitude. Who is better able to talk to your own kid about sex? Admit it. You know something about sex...probably quite a bit. You want your child to understand from your personal point of view. You can talk to your kid about it.

2. Let your children know that they can talk to you about anything. No matter what your kid's age, you need to let them know that if they ever have a question, any question, they can come to you. You will not judge them. You won't laugh at them (in a ridiculing way). You will not be afraid of any question, because life is complicated and full of crazy questions. Sometimes those questions may make you blush. That's okay. Blushing is permitted.

3. Consider the individual personalities of each child. Some kids are open and communicative, like one of my sons who had a gift for intimate questions. Others are private and struggle with communication. Accept that, and realize that they may choose not to share their secrets with you. That's okay. But let them know that your door is always open.

4. Earn their trust. If you are a critical, judgmental parent, your child will not feel safe talking to you about things that you may disapprove of. Correct, but don't criticize. (I'm not saying its easy!) Never call them lazy or bad. Teach them that mistakes are learning experiences. They are part of being human. Life still exists after mistakes.

5. Be unashamed. Kings and Queens have sex. Movie stars get constipated. Doctors go to the doctor. Preachers have bad thoughts that they have to reign in. Kids are curious. If we don't know the answer, we know how to look it up.

6. Believe in yourself. You are the parent. You are the one who is emotionally, financially and legally responsible for your child's care for 18 to 26 years of age, depending to the schooling arangement. You have the right to teach them your values. As a matter of fact, you not only have the right, but it’s your responsibility. Your honor.

7. Start today. Sit down with your children as soon as possible, and tell them you love them enough to be able to answer their questions, whatever they are. You will love them forever, no matter what. They are good, even if they have thoughts that aren’t good. Then brace yourself...it's coming!

8. Pray with them. Pray for them. Bless them.

Pirate Dance

2011-08-14T08:02:00.000-07:00

My grandson and I were baking Scottish Shortbread Cookies (find the recipe here: http://recklesslydancingwhilesupperburns.blogspot.com/2011/06/scottish-shortbread-cookies-with.html).

He kept tasting the dough, because it is absolutely yummy. He'd say, "Mmm. This cookie dough is so delicious," as soon as I had whipped the sugar into the butter. But once the flour was mixed in, he couldn't keep his little hands out of the stuff. Being just three ingredients (and no eggs), he was able to safely eat all the dough his little fingers could sneak.

Finally, he said, "Nonnie, this cookie dough is so good, it makes me want to do the Pirate Dance." And with that, he leaped off the little step stool and began to dance. He took this very seriously, by the way. I had to make him freeze for a minute while I ran and got my camera, and then I was able to film this to share with the rest of the family and our friends. I'm glad I did, because he has refused to do the Pirate Dance ever since...although he did teach Sydney to do it just the other day. Now that was hilarious! Boy, where was my camera for that one?

The Pirate Dance:

Fourteen: A 21 Tweet Story

2011-06-29T15:10:00.000-07:00

Famous people I've seen: I saw Hoss Cartwright at Six Gun Territory when I was a kid.
In high school, I partied with the red-headed kid from the Flipper television show. Again, at Six Gun Territory.

Ross Allen, the famous reptile guy, used to come to my school every year to do a personal show for our class.

Newt Perry, Johnny Weissmuller's trainer and a famous Tarzan director, was my science teacher and my friend's dad.

I saw Alec Baldwin and his x at a restaurant in Wilmington a few days before I learned they'd just gotten married.

He was cute then. That was before we all knew what a creep he is.

I was at the airport once when I heard a call "Your limo is ready" for the guy that sang "Don't Worry, Be Happy". Didn't see him. Dang.

I know it was Stevie Wonder I saw on the plane that day a couple of years ago. I love Stevie. Unfortunately, he didn't see me.

Okay. Now you know everyone famous I've ever met or seen or been in the airport with.

Wait. There's one more, who was Incognito at the time, in an ugly purple jogging suit. I think...who is that guy...dark hair...

He came into a coffee shop where my daughter was. We sat down and talked for a while. She was enamored. He was, too.

She looked much older than her 14 years. He was asking her a bunch of questions when her age came up.

I knew she'd have liked to say, "I'm 16", which still would have been way too young for him, but she said, "I'm 14."

He did a major double-take. He said, "F-f...did you say fourteen? You're f-f-fourteen?"

"Yes," she answered softly.

So the subject suddenly changed, and we started talking about other things. Safer things.

After a few minutes he forgot about the previous conversation, and started to ask me another question about my daughter...

He was like, "so...your daughter..." Then the light bulb came back on in his head. "Oh, yeah...are you...she's fourteen?"

Later he came by my gallery and met all my girls. After he left, they agreed it had to be that actor, whose name's on the tip of my tongue.

The youngest one said, "I saw him first. He's mine."

After that, she would sometimes just say his name, like it was honey on her tongue.

Then she would say, "I should have told him I was fifteen. Fourteen is just so young!"

Making your own Bonsai....in pictures...it's not so hard if you don't expect perfection...

2011-06-12T10:14:00.000-07:00

I'll try anything once...if its not illegal, immoral or stupid.

One of the things that I keep trying and trying is the fascinating art of Bonsai. I have books on Bonsai; several of them. I am obsessed with the process of turning an ordinary potted plant (in this case, a Buxus Sempervirens - Dwarf English Boxwood) into a tree in miniature. Instead of writing a lot of words on the subject tonight, I'm going to illustrate it for you in photographs. I know you can get this stuff on other websites, by Bonsai pro's, and I'm not a pro. But it is sometimes encouraging to learn something from a friend, and not a professional. Professional perfectionism can be intimidating. You won't be intimidated by my Bonsai skills.

This is what I was shooting for when I bought an English Boxwood yesterday.
This comes from the book "The Living Art of Bonsai'
by Professor Amy Liang
An excellent book with lots of examples and information
about growing and maintaining Bonsai.

I told my husband today that I had a hankerin' for makin' a Bonsai,

a miniature tree. Again.

I get on a Bonsai Binge about once every year or two.

Though I have made them before, but the real trick is as much in

maintaining them through a hot summer as it is making them.

So although I've done this again and again, I must keep trying.

We went to Home Depot and found this potted, untamed beauty for $4.45.

A bargain indeed! With a thick trunk, it should make a great Bonsai.

(And if you want to make it into a Bonsai,

and you aren't a professional, it better be a bargain.)

I chose this English Boxwood for three reasons.
1. English Boxwoods make great Bonsai trees.
2. It was cheap, probably because it had been in the ground for a while before they sent it to Home Depot.
3. It had this great trunk, thick leaf growth, and exposed, developed roots.

After you've decided what you are shooting for,

(I wanted a tree with an interesting trunk...something...interesting.)

I hold down the branches and decide "does this look good? Does this look stupid")
If it doesn't break while I'm holding it down,
then I save it for wiring.

The first cut is the hardest. Do a little planning before you begin:
Look beneath the leaves, and figure out what you have under all that foliage.
Then you can decide what to keep and what to discard. Be gentle as you do these things.
This boxwood was brittle, and in the process of making it into a Bonsai,
I did loose a couple of desirable limbs. But, hey. It's just for fun. Right?

It was really difficult to decide how low to trim the boxwood.
I decided to go easy on her, and trimmed less than I think may look best.
Take it slow. You can always cut off more, but you can't put it back.

Wiring a Bonsai is an art in itself. You may want to look up how to
wire a Bonsai before you start.
I'm not very good at it, but I stumble through it.
I used copper wire in different sizes.
You wrap the branches around and around,
so you can arrange them to grow in an attractive way,
and keep them in that position until the wood hardens up and stays that way.

When I was done with my creation, I cut the pot off the root ball.
I didn't want to damage the work I'd done.

This is a picture of my Bonsai, first night. I have potted it in a temporary pot, and I will keep it here until it has survived the winter. In March, I will take it out of here, and move it into a medium sized Bonsai pot (a little wider than the branching width.) I will trim only the roots necessary to keep the plant alive. *see note below.
I have to admit, even I have done better,
but working with such a mature plant was much
more difficult for me than working with smaller, fresher plants.

You know, my Bonsai is at the "awkward teenager" stage. Actually, it turned out to look a lot like some of my artwork, like "Old Queen Elizabeth", above. I am not finished with this bonsai, yet. I have potted it in a larger pot than I want, and I'm going to give it a rest and save trimming the roots for another time, after I've had time to think about the type of pot I want to use. For now, I'm ready to tackle the Azalea I just bought. This one should be interesting, too.

You might want to try your own hand at making a bonsai. You can do it. My advice is start with an inexpensive plant, go easy on it, and just have fun. Don't expect perfection...nature isn't perfect, either.

Update - One Year Later:

I thought you'd want to see the above Bonsai after one year. I have done more trimming as I saw fit, and have kept new growth to a minimum. It is slowly becoming more of the vision I had in mind when it was begun.

Just as I said I should, I did leave this tree for planting into a Bonsai pot until March. At that time, I removed it from the blue pot. I trimmed the roots as much as I could, *leaving enough large roots to anchor the plant and enough of the small, fine roots which are for water gathering. I like the look of a tree growing on a little hill, which also accommodated all the roots, so I allowed it to mound above the pot, as much for effect as for the health of the tree.

The front of this Bonsai is pictured at left, and the back is pictured at right. I chose the one on the left to be called the front because I like the roots showing. Unfortunately, I have once again lost a couple of branches when potting this year, due to brittleness. I am hoping some new branches will start next spring. If so, I will find one worth keeping, and train it to grow to replace the lost branch. Around the base, I added local moss which I found around my apartment, and some micro-thyme, as a ground cover. It's healthy and doing well. We keep it well watered, and fertilize occasionally with fish emulsion, at half strength.

Bonsai is not an art for the impatient soul...unless you buy one ready made by someone else who has the patience of Job. But Bonsai is well worth waiting for. I just like being able to say, I did this one, myself.

...So what if everyone else is thinking..."Yes...I believe you..." :)

Videoville - Just for Fun

2011-06-08T07:13:00.000-07:00

You know, if you dress up a little ratty, people want to pet them. It's that simple. Just ask this lady who makes beautiful costumes for pretty little rats.

Easy Scottish Shortbread Cookies With Healthy Variations

2011-06-07T09:17:00.000-07:00

Very easy to make: Scottish Shortbread Cookies

The other day, I wanted to bake cookies, but realized that at the apartment, I didn't have many ingredients I usually use when baking cookies. No baking soda or baking powder, and just a bit of sugar. I looked in an old cookbook, and to my surprise, did find one recipe with only three ingredients: flour, butter and white sugar. They were so easy, and were gone in a jiffy.

Because the ingredients are so natural and simple, this is a great recipe to make with small children.

Here's the basic recipe:

Scottish Shortbread Cookies

1 cup butter, room temperature - beat until fluffy
1 cup sugar - add to butter
2 1/2 cups flour - gradually add to butter/sugar mixture, 1/2 cup at a time, until just blended, and it forms into a single ball (much like a pie crust texture)

When it gets to this consistancy, you don't need to mix anymore.
It will make a ball, pulling away from the sides of the bowl.

Place on a floured board. Roll out into a 1/8" to 1/4" sheet. Place the whole thing on a cookie sheet. Pierce with a fork, and cut into squares.

Bake at 300 degrees until brown (depending on how thick you rolled it, it may cook from 20 to 30 minutes.

Take from the oven and separate while still warm.

Easy as pie...

Rolled out and ready for the oven

Here are some variations which you may add individually or in combinations:

For higher protein and lower carbs, replace 1 cup of flour with almond meal (which I found at Trader Joe's).

Replace some or all of the white sugar with brown sugar.

You can cut with cookie cutters, or roll out in a circle and cut into wedges like a pizza.

Crushed lavender flowers (no more than a half a teaspoon, unless you really like the floral taste of lavender). Mmmm...

Crushed rosemary (very finely crushed, and only 1/4 teaspoon).

Vanilla extract (I use homemade: to make it, slice several vanilla beans lengthwise, chop into 1/2" pieces, and drop into a bottle of bourbon, coniac or brandy, and allow to sit for at least six weeks before use. Then shake well.)

Or you can just scrape the seeds out of a vanilla bean and use them instead of extract.

Lemon or orange zest (finely grated peel)

1/3 cup currants

Crushed walnuts or pecans

1 Tablespoon Cinnamon

A dash of fresh ground Nutmeg

Sprinkle with sugar or sprinkles before baking

Recommendation: If you do a lot of baking, you might want to consider purchasing a sturdy mixer, like the Kitchen Aid stand mixer. They come in a variety of sizes, are heavy duty, and last a lifetime. They also come in lots of pretty colors. You can buy attachments for them, like a pasta maker or meat grinder. I bought a new 5 quart one at Dillards last week, and am getting a free glass bowl with the purchase.

http://www.shopkitchenaid.com/countertop-appliances-1/stand-mixers-3/102020011/?WT.srch=1

Enjoy!

Friday Flash: Butter Frosting

2011-05-27T16:25:00.000-07:00

Butter Frosting

It’s four-O-three in the morning and I am awake. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock…

Now it’s four-O-five and a half. I am alone in my wakened state in a large, empty house. It has been an hour since the last time I looked at the clock. Or so it seems.

I notice I am starving.

The Cake

It’s that damned homemade cake with butter frosting.

That confection has been on my mind ever since it came out of the oven, unfrosted. Now that it is decorated in butter and powdered sugar, it's calling me by name.
I shall ignore, I say to myself.

But it cries out even as the clock has halted its ticking. “It’s lonely down here in the kitchen under this stupid glass,” I hear a grumpy little voice rising from downstairs. “I’m afraid of thunder, don’t you know? Nobody loves me.” Is it whining, now?

The Storm

It started raining at precisely at midnight, tonight. I could hear dripping on the sill outside my window as I turned out the light. I was waiting to drift off into an artificially induced sleep as the sound of angry thunder came rumbling down the hill beyond the garden gate. It sloshed through the meadow and stumbled o’er the trees to rest upon the metal rooftop above my bed, where it pattered like a dozen barefoot schoolboys.

Strange thoughts had settled into my head as I lay there in the dark.

Luckily, that’s when slumber came. It swooshed up unexpectedly from out of my brain on the left hand side, slightly above the ear. Here. It slithered down across my shoulders and curled itself back up my neck, at last climbing into my eyes, holding them closed from the inside out, even momentarily against my will.

The dripping got louder for a moment, and then…nothing…

But the artificial sleep inducing pill doesn’t last long when the recipient only takes a quarter and not even a half a pill because of concerns with the possible side effects posted in a patchwork quilt of warnings on the bottle. This time it’s magic had lasted until just after three fifteen a.m., when I finally got up to go to the bathroom.

It was barely raining now, but the leftover drippings from the leaking gutters were much louder than they had been at midnight. They crashed into the tiny river that had now formed on the ground below, sounding more like clanging wind chimes than watery little plops.

The Labels

I got up again and flipped on the naked bathroom light, reaching into the cabinet for an hour's worth more sleep, when a label on the side of the label right beside the prescription label suddenly caught my eye. “Do not take the other half of that half at this time of night, or you'll be hopelessly out of your mind tomorrow. Get up, instead. Do not watch television or read anything disquieting. Don't eat. Do something relaxing until you are drowsy again. What? How would we know what relaxes you; surely something…”

That isn’t word for word what the label on the label said, but that was the jest of it. Yes, jest as in “You’ve got to be kidding”. For why would a bottle of sleep tell you to find something to do instead of taking one of its members?

The Cake Again

Back to the cake that troubles me still, with its winsome face and never ending chatter.

Why did I bake it when I could have bought a single one; a little cupcake from a fancy shop, enveloped in pretty paper, wrapped up in a bakery box with cellophane on top. That would have been so wise.

So chic.

So “2011”.

The Thief

I find myself rising from bed once again. I am painfully weary of listening to that naughty cake’s complaints. I descend the stair and enter the kitchen. Strange. The glass cover sits beside the cake, and the knife is out on the counter. A large slice has been removed. Whoever did it didn’t know how to slice a cake properly. They chopped off a hunk from the side…getting more than their share of frosting, I might add.

Breathing heavily, I consider this. My cake has been disfigured. I feel quite uneasy, for as I told you, I am alone in this house tonight. I hurriedly pull the curtains closed, and check the window locks and the kitchen door. All are secure, as usual. This makes no sense. Unless...

So, I think to myself:

This means someone must have entered through the door, perhaps with a key, and cut a piece of cake, (wrongly sliced and overly large) and left with it in their bare hand. As I brush a bit of hair out of my eyes, my fingers get caught on a sticky knot in my tresses. Then I notice a hint of buttery frosting under my fingernails. There are even cake crumbles upon my cheek.

Strange…and even more interesting…

…the intruder must have climbed the stair, hands full of cake, and sat upon my bed to eat his overly large and improperly sliced piece of cake as his watched me sleeping soundly during the storm. (It had to be a man, for no woman would ever take such a large piece or cut it from the side, even if they love butter frosting more than anything.) I hope I was sleeping with my mouth closed while he sat and ate…I’m glad I was wearing my lacy floral gown…I have a secret admirer…who loves cake every bit as much as I do!

Me and the Cake

I take down my finest dessert plate, pull out my favorite silver plated fork, and proceed to cut a chunk of cake from off the other side. “You know,” the cake says to me, “you should get a bigger slice of me than the one the ‘thief’ took. After all, it’s your house, and I am your beloved cake.” I sit down in the living room, and hear the little voice once more; this time coming from the plate in my sticky little hands. “You do love me,” the cake coos. “Don’t gobble, my love. But savor every delicious bite."
Goodnight.

Cadbury Eyebrows

2011-05-24T11:08:00.000-07:00

Cadbury Eyebrows (official version)

I just wanted to share this with you. The best part is when she breaks out the pink balloon. My daughter Joie put this on her facebook page. The little girl reminds me of her.

I have never wanted to have fancy eyebrows before this. My tongue is sort of fancy, though.

Saving the Horse; a Kid's Story

2011-04-27T11:51:00.000-07:00

I always wanted to be a writer. I had no time to read, mind you. I was much too busy playing outside, making up my own stories through what I now like to call "creative play". (Ordinary childhood imagination.)

Nevertheless, by fifth grade, I had a well developed novel in my head. (The "well developed" part may be slightly exaggerated.) I remember talking to one of my friends about it as we kicked dust about on the playground.

I was writing this story about a horse whose evil owner wouldn't allow it to have carrots. Why? I have no idea. But as a result, the horse began to go blind. (You understand the correlation between carrots and eyesight...my mom taught me that, I think.) The horse stumbled often, and became very depressed. That is, until a little neighbor girl (Moi, mayhaps?) began secretly sneaking carrots to the horse. Within a very short time, the horse began to see; first vague outlines, and then images. Suddenly one day the horse got a good look at the little girl and gave her a horsy kiss right on the cheek.

One night the evil owner caught the girl feeding carrots to his horse. He probably had a shotgun or maybe he just called the sheriff. Anyway, he was enraged and had her banned from...sneaking into the barn and bringing carrots. Again, the poor horse began going blind, and the little girl franticly continued to attempt to sneak carrots to her long tailed friend. Alas, to no avail. An occasional carrot could not save the horse's eyesight.

Luckily, one day the bad guy dies. I never got to the detail of how he died. I was much too innocent to have imagined that the little girl hero kid would kill him, so it must have been an accident or brief illness. A lady who inherited the estate didn't like the horse. He was blind. She gave him to the little girl. "Take him! He's blind. I don't want a blind horse." The little girl told the lady about carrots, but the lady didn't care. "Just get him out of my sight!" So the girl happily took him home and kept the horse in...her bedroom or something? I don't know. It didn't matter. She started giving him carrots again, and voila! You know the end. Happily sighted ever after.

So I always wanted to be a writer. Never mind that I hated reading novels. I loved reading illustrated children's books aloud.

So the moral of this story: feed horses carrots. There's no real point to this story...just "hello".

Visit http://deberklein.com to see my art and check out one of my blogs, Little Pink Spaceship Gazette. You also might enjoy http://recklesslydancingwhilesupperburns.blogspot.com and http://cottageonthenew.com, and http://tarpapersubmarine.blogspot.com .

I can't help it. I am a blogging junkie.