The Adventures of Fred and Ethel

Sharing Our Stories

2011-09-11T03:27:00.000-07:00

When I was seven, my father left us to go to Vietnam. To do an extensive photo journalism project on the war. It would probably be an award winning story and would most likely be picked up by large publications, maybe even the New York Times or Life Magazine.

When I was ten, I found out it was all a lie.

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These are the opening lines of the novel I'm writing, my first foray into that world. I began last spring, worked diligently for several weeks, and didn't look at it again until a few weeks ago.

Slim to none are probably the chances of publication, but I'll never know until I try. And writing is only one tiny notch below chocolate in terms of comfort and therapy, which is why I have decided to devote all my writing time for a while to my book.

Yes, this means I'll be taking a break of indeterminate time from blogging. I'll most likely visit from time to time, when I go brain-dead from writing and research, or when I need a bit of inspiration from some of my favorite bloggers. I may even post something every once in a while if I need a break.

Don't give up on me - I'll be back. In the meantime, we all have a story to tell about that tragic day ten years ago. Please share yours...

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Where Were You?
(edited from a post of the same title two tears ago)

September 11, 2001. My generation's "Day That Will Live In Infamy." The day we Americans realized that we were vulnerable, that we could be attacked and killed with no warning; that a clear warm Tuesday morning could be turned into a bloody nightmare in the blink of an unsuspecting eye.

Some moments in history are forever frozen in our minds, and we remember exactly where we were, exactly what we were doing when we heard the news. Those moments for me include the shooting of President Kennedy, the death of Elvis, Princess Diana's car wreck, the explosion of the Challenger, and, of course the terrorist attacks of 9/11. I remember far too clearly the images of the planes hitting the towers, the towers crumbling, the Pentagon in smoke, the bravery of the passengers in Pennsylvania, the firefighters entering the burning buildings.

It was my day off. Mama and Daddy had asked me to ride with them in search of a special type of sausage which apparently could be found only in Dickson, Tennessee. The TV was on for company as I cleaned the house - TV Land - all my old favorite shows - Andy Griffith, I Love Lucy, Leave it to Beaver, Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, Gilligan's Island. No need to actually sit and watch them, for I know them all by heart. Oh, there were occasional moments when I would perch on the end of a bed or the arm of the couch, cleaning supplies in hand, realizing that a favorite scene was coming up. But for the most part, all my old fictional pals were playing to an empty audience.

Satisfied that the house would pass the white glove test, I was ready to relax before my parents arrived. Little House on the Prairie came on, and I positioned myself on the couch, tucking my legs comfortably underneath. But as soon as I saw the title, May We Make Them Proud, I knew I couldn't watch. This was the episode in which the blind school catches fire, and Alice Garvey and Mary's baby are trapped upstairs and burned to death. Unlike most episodes, I had seen this one only once. Because of that scene, the one showing the old school engulfed in flames, and Mrs. Garvey, the swaddled baby in her arms, screaming from an upstairs window. No, I couldn't watch this. After Lucy's and Gilligan's hilarious lighthearted shenanigans? When my house was all shiny and clean and smelling of Scrubbing Bubbles and Lemon Pledge? No way. I turned the tv off and waited for my parents on the front porch.

Blue skies, white fluffy clouds; September warm; it was a picture perfect day. The porch swing creaked as I savored the relaxing moments. As Daddy's car pulled into the driveway, I rose to go inside and get my purse and keys. But they surprised me by quickly stepping out of the car. "Have you got your tv on?" Mama cried across the yard. "No..." I began, but she cut me off. "Turn it on, turn your tv on CNN!"

What in the world... I obeyed, and had the tv tuned to CNN as they entered the front door. And that's when the world changed. The second tower had just been hit, and every American citizen knew we were under attack. We sat horrified for hours, as we watched the story play out on our 19 inch Emerson. I forgot my manners and offered my parents something to eat and drink only after they'd been there well over an hour.

The irony didn't hit me until later: I couldn't watch two fictional characters die in a fire, but I watched thousands of real people lose their lives the same way.

I imagine the remainder of my day and the days that followed were pretty much like yours: glued to the tv, images of the towers in flames, that choking cloud of dust and ash as the towers fell...over and over and over...

Even now, ten years later, we look at those pictures with a mixture of horror and fascination. And perhaps still a sense of wonder that it actually happened, right here, right here at our back door. I see those pictures of the buildings on fire, of people who chose to leap to their deaths, but I still can't watch that episode of Little House.

So share your stories, please: what were you doing on September 11, 2001?

Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant

2011-08-29T22:39:00.000-07:00

She'll never take a prize for her beauty, but that's okay with me - neither will I. We're both past our prime, but grateful we've gotten this far. Yes, we've acquired our fair share of dents and dings along the way, but we live with them and keep a'goin'.

She's a '96 Nissan Altima, and I love her. Plain and simple.

We met when she was only two years old and still looked brand spanking new. Oh, she was a pretty thing then, yes indeed, deep glossy black with a plush gray velour interior and polished walnut veneer on the dash. So roomy, front and back; plenty of leg space. Mirrors on the sun visors and entry to the trunk from the back seat. Even the dashboard clock worked. I knew from the moment I slid into that soft seat that we were meant to be.

How many times has she taken us to Florida? How many miles has she logged on weekend excursions; ferrying me to work and back? She's endured the hot sun, sleet, and snow, and been pelted with hail more than once. She delivered me safely home during a tornado, even though her roof was bumped by a trampoline as it flew across the road.

Yes, she's served me well, and it shows. Her coat has lost its luster, and there's a small rusty fissure on the passenger side. The large dent in the back still reminds me to make sure the garage door is up before I back out. Inside, the seats are worn, but perhaps even more comfortable than ever. The clock loses a minute or so every month, and my Tchaikovsky tape has been stuck inside the cassette player for going on five years now.

Every time she turns over another thousand miles, I give her an encouraging pat on the dash. She earns her praise. Every time she reaches another milestone, I snap a picture.

So she's no longer shiny and new. She doesn't have individual climate control, an in dash navigation system, or voice recognition anything. Shoot, she doesn't even have a cd player.

But she has my heart. And appreciation. For now and many miles yet to come.

August Seventeenth

2011-08-17T13:50:00.000-07:00

(This post was copied from last year's August 17 post. All photographs are mine, but some have been previously published.)

Happy August 17th.

We all have our little quirks, our little oddities that mark us as individuals and distinguish our personalities. I have perhaps a few more little quirks than the average bear. I never step on cracks. I will not pump gas from even numbered pumps, and I prefer to pump from number 7 or 3. I automatically play Scrabble with license plates - I get excited with a tag that reads, for instance, 111QXZ - "That's a 28-pointer!" I'll exclaim, whereupon Fred either ignores me or rolls his eyes.

I remember the oddest, most useless facts, like the name of the unseen and once-mentioned Mayberry resident who was said to have carved his name on the old cannon in the town square (Tracy Rupert) and obscure lines from Gilligan's Island and I Love Lucy, yet I have trouble remembering what I had for dinner last night. I hate talking on the phone and I eat sandwiches in a circle, clockwise. I also separate my potato chips, Cheetos, and popcorn by size and shape, and eat them from least perfect to most perfect, and I separate my M&Ms by color, Ms DOWN.

And I always celebrate August 17th.

Why August 17th, you ask? Is it my birthday, or anniversary? No. First kiss? No. First date? No. Birthdate of a long lost love? A beloved aunt? The day I got my first car? No, no, no.

No, August 17th is special to me simply because it sounds so beautiful. Now, I usually get some strange glances here, and if right about now you find that your eyebrows are raised a bit, that's alright. I'm used to such curious looks.

But say it. Go ahead, say it out loud. August 17th. See how pretty that sounds? August 17th. It's beautiful. It sounds like blue skies and fluffy white clouds, sailboats on crystalline lakes, fields of wildflowers waving with a gentle breeze, children romping happily in bare feet, and groups of pastel clad ladies in wide brimmed hats, sitting in the cooling shade of white columned front porches, sipping lemonade from chilled glasses.

Baskets of fresh peaches and roses in creamy white milk pitchers.

Butterflies with stained glass wings, fragile dandelions catching the breeze, lightning bugs in mason jars.

Today is a work day for me, but before I leave for the post office this afternoon, I'll sleep late, watch I Love Lucy, take the dogs out and laugh at their playful antics, snuggle with Spooky, water the flowers, and enjoy the cooler air that is promised this week. I may order Chinese and take it for dinner for Mamacilla and myself. Or bake some shortcakes and top them with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.

So it's a low-key celebration. No fireworks, no back yard barbecue, no gifts to open.

August 17th. It's all about simple pleasures.

Happy August 17th to you all, my friends.

Twelve Hours

2011-07-26T01:25:00.000-07:00

(Note: The part of Prince Eric will now be played by Wolverine. My son-in-law was unhappy with his allonym and asked that it be changed into something more suitable to his personality. After tossing out several of his suggestions, including KILLFACE, I reluctantly agreed to Wolverine.)

Thursday, July14

8:44 am.

Somewhere a cat is meowing...wait...that's not a cat...it's the ringtone of my cell phone, still in my jeans pocket in the closet. I try to focus my sleepy eyes on the clock beside the bed. The meowing stops, but almost simultaneously, the house phone rings. Suddenly wide awake with expectation, I glance at the caller ID...YES! It's Ariel! And the only reason Ariel would be calling this early would be...

The baby's coming!

Excitement spurs me into action. My first grandchild will be born today! Let's see...priorities...call Fred, bathe, dress, pack the laptop, the camera, an overnight bag just in case; put down plenty of food and water for Jude and Spooky; call the relatives; put out the alert on Facebook.

My first grandchild. My baby is having a baby. My baby...

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It's 1983, and I'm rolling out of bed late, almost 9:00. Today is my due date...and laundry day. Lacking our own washer and dryer, we must make a run to the laundromat. But wait...something's wrong, very wrong...or very, very right. It's just a little trickle, but I can't seem to control it. Fred takes a small load of necessities to the laundromat while I place a call to my midwife. She instructs me to come to the hospital...my water may be leaking, rather than breaking, but they'll need to check...

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11:58 am

Ariel looks as beautiful as ever, lying half asleep on her side, courtesy of some good drugs. Wolverine is calm, definitely not the stereotypical harried father-to-be of tv and movies. "Are your parents on their way?" I ask, and he assures me they'll be leaving Pennsylvania as soon as his father gets a little sleep. Wolverine (Lord, whatever possessed me to agree to that name?) refuses our offer to bring food or take a break; he rummages through his bag and messages Ariel's back with a funky little bug of a vibrator. She's dilated to 3, her water has broken, and the contractions are regular and occasionally strong. Watching the fetal monitor, I announce now and then, "Ooh, there's a good one! Good thing you can't feel it." Ariel opens her eyes to glare at me and tell me she CAN feel it.

Oops.

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1983, and I'm in my hospital gown, attached by various wires and tubes to alien devices. A doctor I don't know comes in to check me and confirms that my water is, indeed, leaking. I'm dilated to 4, but the contractions, though sometimes strong, are not yet regular. "You must have a high threshold for pain," he says, as a strong one washes over me, and I simply watch in amazement the little spikes on the fetal monitor. Doc decides he will start a Petocin drip. NOW I am in pain. The nurse tells me I can have "a little something" if I'd like. "No, I'm having natural childbirth," I begin, and she assures me it's just a little something to take the edge off; it will help me relax and won't affect the baby at all. "Alright," I reluctantly agree, and in a matter of minutes, I'm half asleep. I can hear Fred and Mama conversing, speaking excitedly when I have a strong contraction. "I'm so glad she can't feel it," I hear Mama say.

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2:19 pm

In a fair amount of pain, Ariel has asked for and received her epidural. She has dilated to five, but no longer feels pain, only pressure. Wolverine is at her side, helping her to turn from side to side every half hour. It's cold in the room, and I've had my jacket zipped up for hours. Wolverine is shivering. I suggest he run to Walmart and buy a hoodie, but no, he'll stay right where he is, thank you very much.

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1983, and the contractions are getting stronger and lasting longer. Fred helps me breathe through them. Natural childbirth - what the heck was I thinking?! This HURTS! Fred periodically nibbles on snacks from my bag. I am allowed only ice chips, and I shiver even as my dry mouth relishes them.

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4:59 pm

Ariel is still dilated to 5, so Fred suggests we go out for dinner. Incredibly organized, Ariel has compiled a list of all restaurants in the area and their proximity to the hospital. So many choices....

Fred: "Just tell me where Cracker Barrel is."

Before we leave, I take off my jacket and hand it to Wolverine. "It's not very manly, but at least it has long sleeves." The sleeves, far too long for my short stubby arms, are a much better fit on him.

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1983...I thought I was prepared for this. We did Lamaze classes, I read all the books, watched Gloria Stivic give birth on All In the Family. She was hilarious; how come nobody ever talked about just how much it HURTS? Exhausted, cold, and hungry, I try focusing on the baby...will it be a boy or a girl?...and feel renewed strength surge through my body. I can do this, I can do this...

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7:20 pm

Fred is upset because I didn't wait downstairs for him while he parked the car and smoked. "My daughter is in labor, and I'm not missing it," I tell him hotly. Cracker Barrel had a few long sleeved pullovers: bright orange UT, blue MTSU Raiders, and a bejeweled spectacle with birds and flowers and a biblical verse. We've bought the MTSU shirt and now present it to ~~Eric~~ Wolverine, who accepts it gratefully and returns my jacket.

Ariel is tired and hungry, but still feels no pain. This epidural thing is a miracle.

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1983...I can no longer sleep between contractions; they're too close together. One begins as quickly as another ends. This natural childbirth is a crock.

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8:21 pm

The doctor comes in to check Ariel and finds she's fully dilated and ready to push! I am once again amazed that Ariel has gotten to this point without the pain I experienced. Amazed but grateful. "Who's staying in the room?" the nurse asks, and Wolfy (there, that's better) speaks up immediately: "Just the two of us." I'm secretly relieved they had already discussed this. "The next time I see you, you'll be a mommy," I say, as my eyes blur with tears.

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It's 1983. Yet another doctor has come to check my progress. This is one of the downfalls of having no health insurance: the midwife I've been seeing at the public health department these many months is not allowed to deliver my baby; no, my baby will be brought into this world by a doctor I've never even met. He seems friendly enough and informs me a young intern will be assisting. "You can come in, too, Grandma," the nurse tells Mama as she wheels my bed down the long hallway. "NO!" I want to scream. I love my mother, but I want this to be a private moment between myself and my husband. And the doctor. And the nurse. And the young intern.

But I'm too shy and polite to speak up, so Mama dons a gown and joins us in the delivery room.

The urge to push has become uncontrollable, yet takes such a long, long time. "There, now look right there," the doctor finally says to the young intern. "Do you think she needs an episiotomy?"

"I DO!" I yell, surprising myself.

"Well, the lady thinks so, so let's do it." The pressure is so great, I never even feel the cut.

"Okay, look up at the mirror...your baby is coming!" I want to see this...I've been waiting for this moment all my life, but the young intern is in the way, and once again, I am too shy and polite to ask him to move. I miss the moment.

"It's a girl!" At 9:04 pm, Ariel is placed gently in my arms. Oh my goodness! Never in my life have I felt such a surge of pure joy, such an overwhelming force of emotion. This 5 pound, 5 ounce strawberry blonde bundle holds such power as to overcome all memories of pain, all feelings of exhaustion and cold and hunger. I touch her ears, her nose, her smooth skin, and I lift her tiny hands and marvel at her fingers. She is quite perfect, my baby...

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8:44 pm

After twenty minutes of pushing, Zoey is born!

We've actually waited quite a while. It seems little Zoey swallowed quite a bit of amniotic fluid and had a bit of trouble breathing, so she was whisked immediately away to the nursery. Wolfy is there with her, the nurse informs us, and suggests that Fred go there while I see Ariel. "Looks like she's got your red hair, Grandma!" the nurse calls.

Ariel is tired, cold, and hungry, but all she wants is to hold her baby. "7 pounds, 10 ounces, and strawberry blonde hair," she says happily. "She has my eyes." I keep her company for a bit, then head for the nursery. A man who looks like Santa Claus is hurriedly motioning. "Better hurry if you want to see the baby!" he calls, and even though I have no idea who he is, I rush as quickly as my injured knee and feet will allow. Once there, he takes me around the corner, PAST Fred, and shows me his own newborn grandson.

That's one proud grandfather.

And Fred is another. He's hogging the good spot for picture taking through the nursery window. Using his cell phone. Hey! I've got the REAL camera, let me do it! But he needs pictures on his phone to send his sisters, his cousin, his friends.

Zoey is directly in front of us, the nurse moving her arms and legs and jotting notes on her clipboard. "She looks so cold," I say to Fred, noting her blue feet and hands, but they gradually warm to match the soft pink of her face and torso. Wolverine is hovering over her, love written plainly on his face, and Zoey is holding his finger.

It's almost 3 1/2 hours before Zoey is brought into Ariel's new room. I won't get to hold her tonight. It's late, and Fred has been awake 21 hours. Ariel has to investigate Zoey's ears, her nose, her tiny fingers and toes, and then have her first lesson in breastfeeding. I'll hold her Sunday.

Twelve hours. Twelve hours that forever changed my life. Twelve hours that changed my daughter's life. Twelve hours that I will never forget.

Welcome to the world, Zoey.

In Daddy's arms...3 days old.

Holding Mommy's finger.

Daddy loves his little girl.

Perfect profile.

And now....

...from Zoey's first professional photo shoot, by Sweet Sarah Photography. Sarah is WONDERFUL. See more of her work here:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Sweet-Sarah-Photography/211665298869196

The ~~End~~ Beginning.

The Tree Story

2011-07-18T17:17:00.000-07:00

Do y'all know Daryl, at on the m104? She's a fantastic photographer with an eye for the overlooked and unusual bits of our lives, turning ordinary objects into works of art. Check out her blog here: http://onthem104.blogspot.com/. You won't be disappointed.

Daryl has graciously allowed me the use of her photo of this oddly shaped tree in New York City's Riverside Park, which instantly inspired in me this little story...

Once upon a time there lived in a bit of greenery in a bustling city two young trees. But they were rooted firmly into the ground and could do nothing except admire each other across the expanse of lawn.

Several years passed, and the trees developed strong sturdy branches and many leaves. They were lovely trees, but quite lonely.

One day, the first tree, deeply in love with the second, decided to reach out. It began pulling itself out of the ground, exposing its roots, and bending its longest branch toward the other tree. But some of the roots began revolting, insisting the tree would die if it continued pulling. The roots argued and argued, and then the tree began arguing within itself, as the strong branch pulled with such a mighty force that the trunk began slowly dividing.

"Look what you are doing to us!" bemoaned one side of the tree to the other. "We are splitting, and our roots are almost completely out of the ground - if we continue pulling, we will surely uproot ourself!"

But the other side was making progress, and the second tree was beginning to reach out also...

The strong branch kept reaching out. "If you are afraid, stay here or pull the other way, but I must keep going." And so the trunk of the tree continued to divide as one branch pulled hard in one direction to survive and the other pulled hard in the other direction to reach its love.

After many years of struggle, the strong branches of the two trees finally touched. Nuzzling, they began wrapping themselves around each other, small branches of one becoming entwined with small branches of the other, the leaves of one indistinguishable from the other.

The branch of the first tree that had pulled to survive watched the love dance of the two branches and became so despondent, it bent toward the ground, resting heavily upon the earth. As it bent, it pulled away from the old trunk even more, creating a small hole in the heart of the tree, and waited for the time when it would die.

But the other branch, bent on love rather than survival, lived on happily for many, many years in a bit of greenery in a bustling city.

Broken, Part II

2011-07-10T10:24:00.000-07:00

"Mrs. Foster?"

"Yes?"

"You don't know me, but I do hope you'll speak with me. My name is Ethelmae Potter. I'm...Bode and Emma's mother."

Two months had passed since I had handed Bode and Emma over to a Yorkie rescue group, yet my grief could not be assuaged. I checked both the rescue website and Petfinder.com daily, tearing every time I saw the photos I had provided - Emma with a bit of grass stuck in her hair, Bode on the living room sofa, those big brown trusting eyes staring a hole through my heart.

My apprehension was not without warrant. During my week of conversation with the president of the group, a contract had never been mentioned.  I had been given no information regarding relinquishing all my rights and future interests in my babies, no mention that I would have no say in where they were placed. What I had been told was that the president herself would foster them until the perfect home could be found, that she would try to keep them together, and that she always tried to place them in their home states.

What actually happened was that after fostering them for five days, she decided to send them to another home in Indiana, and yes, she listed them together, but "priced" them separately.

$800. EACH.

It's called an adoption fee, (broken down into $775 for the fee plus $25 for microchipping) and it's there not only to offset costs, but to also ensure that the new parents are financially able to properly provide for them. I have no problem with an adoption fee; in fact, I think it's a great idea, but...$800? Who, I worried, would be willing to pay that much for ONE troubled mixed breed dog, much less TWO?

"Are they cute?" the president had inquired when I asked if she honestly thought they could be successfully placed.

"Yes, they're very cute," I replied, "but I don't want them adopted because they're cute; I want people to know that these dogs have problems."

I couldn't let go. I emailed the president several times in the days following the surrender, but she abruptly stopped communicating with me. So now I was worried that the new foster mother also wouldn't speak to me.

It hadn't taken much internet sleuthing to find Bode and Emma's new home. And what I found was very encouraging. Overall opinion was that Mrs. Foster was one of the best, and her efforts and successes at rehabilitating the dogs in her care was impressive. Obviously devoted to her volunteer job, she had fostered several dogs with debilitating injuries and, in fact, had just placed one of those with a lovely couple in Michigan; little Teagan will now be spending his winters in the Caribbean. He's already been fitted for his life jacket.

After reading the stories about some of these dogs, I was much less distraught, but still my mind reeled. Images from nightmares began filling my days: Bode and Emma lost in a fog, crying out for me - I knew where they were, but couldn't get to them; Emma being chased by something...a monster I couldn't see, but I could feel her terror; Bode attacked by a bear; Bode lying bleeding at the foot of a steep staircase, my bad knee slowing my progress to reach him in time. I considered going back into therapy. Should I chance a phone call?...

"Who?" Mrs. Foster asked.

"Bode and Emma's...I'm the person who surrendered Bode and Emma. I...I just need to know how they are. Please."

Perhaps it was the anguish in my voice, or perhaps she's simply a kind and sympathetic person.  Whatever the reason, after only a slight hesitation, Mrs. Foster responded.

"Oh, honey, they're fine," she began, and we talked for quite some time while I sat in a hot bath to soothe my nerves.

She talked about how the dogs loved her and jumped up to greet her as they had done me; how they loved the other dogs in her home and played well with them; how Bode had made vast improvements...he would now even sit in her husband's lap! But Emma, she said...

"I don't know what happened to make them so afraid of men," she began, and when I stated sadly that neither did I, she seemed surprised. Gradually I came to realize that Mrs. Foster had been under the impression that I had raised Bode and Emma since they had been puppies, and that Fred had instilled in them a fear of men. "Did you not know that Bode and Emma are puppy mill dogs?" I asked incredulously.

Her hesitation answered my question.

I gave her a brief account of their history, and every now and then, she would say, "Well that explains that," or, "Well, that makes sense." During our conversation, she suddenly admonished Emma, who had awoken with a start and snapped at Bode. "She has nightmares," I immediately supplied. "She just snaps at whoever or whatever is near...she even bit my hand once when this happened."

I don't know what else she hadn't been told about Bode and Emma, but I tried to fill her in as best I could in a short time. We bonded; I trusted her and I believe she trusted me. And then she told me that since Emma was still so very frightened of men, she may have to separate them.

She must have heard my sharp intake of breath, for she immediately said she hadn't definitively decided. But she felt Emma needed to be in a home with a middle-aged woman, one who wouldn't likely be bringing a male into the household, and Bode might not have the same needs. She told me Emma had gained more self-confidence, and she felt they no longer were completely dependent upon each other.

It was what I had most dreaded; it had been my greatest fear. Yet, I trusted this woman, and I knew she would do what she felt truly best for them.

Conversation and tears over, a strange sort of calm fell upon me.  I knew that Bode and Emma were in better hands. I knew that Mrs. Foster and her group had my babies' best interests at heart. I could now look at their listing with minimal tears, minimal grief, minimal regret. And today, when I saw that Bode's adoption fee has been reduced, and Emma has been adopted, I was able to get by with only a small gasp...before relief swamped me.

Dear Emma, I want for you only happiness and freedom from the fear that has gripped you for so long. I want for you to never again hide from founded or unfounded terrors. My hope is that you will love your new mommy as much as you loved me, and I'm sure she has already lost her heart to you, as I did so easily.

Dear Bode, you need so much love, but you give it back a thousand times over. I'm sorry, my darling, that ours wasn't the right family for you, but I'm confident your family is out there and they'll find you. I hope there'll be someone with a soft lap for you...because holding you asleep in my lap was one of the greatest comforts I've ever known. There's someone else out there in the world who needs that same comfort that only you can provide.

Though the journey has been long and painful, I have finally come to accept that Bode and Emma are no longer my babies. Oh, they are in my heart; they will forever be in my heart, and I'm quite sure there will be times when I still wonder... But they now belong to other families, and I'm reconciled to it.

To my online friends, I thank you for all your kind words and sincerity. You have no idea how much you've helped me to come to peace with this. To my coworkers and supervisor, I don't know how you've put up with me and my red eyes the past few months, but I thank you. And to Dante, put those binoculars and black skin suit away - we are NOT going to Indiana to get Bode and Emma back; as Willadean said, "Gettin' them babies back ain't gone solve anything. You just let it be. Ethel's gone be alright."

I am.

Broken, Part I

2011-06-27T22:41:00.000-07:00

Never in my life had I cried so hard. I couldn't think; I couldn't speak; I couldn't breathe. A crushing pain filled my chest, but I was beyond caring. I would never care again about anything. Not after this.

The woman at the car window was handing in papers to sign. Contract? I hadn't been told anything about a contract. Through a haze of tears, I barely made out big bold letters: IRREVOCABLE DECISION. "Irr...irrevocable?" I choked, and the woman nodded yes. Ignoring the screaming voice inside, I put pen to paper and with a hand that shook violently, scrawled something illegible across the page.

"Here, you can read this if you want to," she said, handing me another paper, and she chitchatted about...something. Her words sounded dim and far away. I tried to focus on the contract, but the words swam on the page; they blurred in and out. Useless, I laid it aside.

"I'll have to take them one at a time," she said, as she held out her arms expectantly. Emma sat obediently beside me, and I picked her up gently, holding her to my wet cheek for only a moment. "Bye, bye, baby," I whispered, and she was gone.

Bode was next, and he backed away, flattening himself against the passenger side door. I don't know if his eyes were fearful - all I could see through those tears was his ginger-colored shape against the door. Pulling him away, I tried to say goodbye, but words failed me; all I could manage was a choked gasp for air. My tears fell on his silky hair, and then he, too was gone.

I buried my face in my hands and that's when my heart broke.

_______________________________________________________

Oh God, what did I do? I had been sure that giving them up to a better home was the right thing, but now I felt it was the biggest mistake I'd ever made. How could I just hand over my babies to a perfect stranger, knowing they'd never see me again? Me...the person who had rescued them the year before from a suspected puppy mill, the one person in the world they trusted, the one who had slept with them, taught them, played with them, comforted them. Loved them.

The one who still loves them.

But they don't know that. They don't know how long I had agonized over this decision; they don't know why I had been crying for weeks, and why the tears had flowed more freely when they licked them from my cheeks. They don't know what they had done to make me abandon them. All they know is that they are frightened and bewildered, and they just want to come home.

___________________________________________________

After a year with us, Bode and Emma had made huge improvements in some areas - housebreaking was still an ongoing process, but their accidents were significantly less frequent than their first weeks at our house. They had learned how to go up and down stairs, how to sit, stand, shake, lie down, stay, leave it alone. They had learned trust, they had learned to play. Bode had stopped chewing and eating his sister's hair; Emma had become stronger, more independent.

But they had never gotten past their fear of certain people...including Fred.

We still don't know why they were so frightened of him. Initially, we felt they had previously been abused by a man. But they didn't mind our son or my father. And they were afraid of some women - Ariel, two of my sisters, and the instructor at obedience school.

Toward the end, Bode seemed to be losing some of his distrust of Fred, but Emma lived in sheer terror; even in my arms, she trembled in his presence. If I held her very tightly, he could pat her head and speak softly to her, but as soon as he let go, she scratched her way out of my arms and ran for cover.

Even Jude, the shih-tzu we adopted from a shelter last October, could do nothing to convince either dog that Fred was trustworthy. Jude loves Fred. But his presence in our home brought about even greater problems - Jude eventually tired of the incessant barking at Fred and became a bully toward Bode and Emma, fighting them, sometimes viciously, and literally coming between Bode and me. He would not allow Bode to jump into my lap, and would nip at his heels if I reached over him to lift Bode. Bode watched him warily and became thin again before I realized Jude was preventing him from eating.

_______________________________________________________

I had no idea there were rescue groups in existence, especially breed specific groups. But some months ago, in searching for a dog psychologist, I had come across a group headquartered very near my house. It was with the president of this group I began conversing, and after a week of emails and phone calls, I had come to the sad conclusion that Bode and Emma needed to be rehomed.

It wasn't a decision made lightly. In fact, if I had still been on day shift, I would never have considered giving them up. But Fred and I work completely opposite shifts; the only time we see each other is on our days off. And that meant that the dogs were alone at home with Fred half of every day, scurrying to the basement when he got home in the afternoon. While Jude frolicked happily upstairs with Fred, Bode and Emma ignored the invitation of the open basement door, emerging only when my key turned in the lock at 2AM.

I couldn't stand the thought of my precious babies living half their lives in a cold dark basement in fear, always waiting for the sound of my key in the front door. I wanted for them more than I could give. I wanted for them a home where they could feel safe and happy.

John Lennon was wrong...sometimes you need more than love.

Tornadoes and Other Nightmares

2011-06-22T12:48:00.000-07:00

Y'all please forgive me - things around here have been a nightmare lately, and I simply have not have time to post or visit. LOTS going on, which I'll report later. In the meantime, watch this incredible video of one day of tornadoes in the US midwest.

http://news.yahoo.com/video/us-15749625/fierce-tornadoes-caught-on-tape-in-midwest-25695965;_ylt=AjViU.Lv.A3uB7f8V8Ubqaiz174F;_ylu=X3oDMTE3cmg5azZjBHBvcwMyBHNlYwNtb3N0LXBvcHVsYXIEc2xrA2ZpZXJjZXRvcm5hZA--

And NO, we have not had a tornado at my house. I've just been snowed under with my sister's near-death illness and subsequent care issues; family drug abusers (again!); increasing foot pain and inability to find a doctor willing to take my case; increasing job drama; aging parent situation; and a heartbreaking decision that has kept me in emotional pain for two months now.

But I hope to be back with y'all in the next week!

Ethelmae

I'm Baaaa-aaack!

2011-06-02T12:28:00.000-07:00

....from my brief sojourn into Heaven. Got kicked out. I balked at the fourth harp concert in four days and asked if we might have a little something different, like flute or piano or maybe reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. That's when the bouncer angels escorted me back to St. Peter, who informed me it was all really a big mistake anyway in Reverend Camping's calculations, and the lot of us were sent back home. Except for Mr. and Mrs. Howell. I guess maybe it was actually their time.

Wow, even aside from that little foray, so much has happened since I last wrote anything here or visited any of y'all. But before I get into all that, I must post some pictures of Ariel's baby shower. Guys, you'll probably want to sit this one out, since it's all pink and girly. Tune in next week when I'll talk about...something else.

Notice how I keep the suspense factor alive while cleverly disguising the fact that I actually have no idea what I'll say.

Okay...Zoey. Ariel is doing well and ready to relax before the baby arrives in July. She finished teaching Friday and graduated with her master's degree a couple of weeks ago. And the very next day was THE BABY SHOWER.

This was a long anticipated event for me. Parties are my forte, especially baby showers, and this one was to be my magnum opus. Within budget limitations, of course.

I went over. WHAT a surprise.

More than a month in advance, I began planning, buying and crafting. My initial thoughts were something completely princess-y, fairytale-ish, with tiny fairies stringing strands of pearls and crystals from lamps and chandeliers, vases of roses and baby's breath and scattered petals on the tables, and heavy pink rose swags draping the balcony and staircase. But I soon realized Ariel, quite practical and down-to-earth, would HATE that. So I decided to go with her nursery theme and do owls.

Yes, owls. And pink polka-dots, just to add a little girlish pink whimsy.

It turns out owls are HOT right now, especially for babies. I was amazed at how many owl items Amazon has for sale. Before I realized what had happened, I had amassed over $500 of owl stuff in my Amazon shopping cart.

Whoops.

Delete, delete, delete. Except for the little stuffed owl rattle and the matching tooth fairy pillow, the sippy cup and spoon/fork set, the three-piece ball/rattle set, and the infant cap that matches the bedding set Ariel had already ordered. And these would not only be part of the decor for the party, but would also be gifts. Therefore justified purchases.

Right?

Images in my head were sketched out on notebook paper. I made notes and lists and more notes and lists and then made little changes and more notes and lists. I was prepared.

Plates, forks, cups, and punch cups. Check.
Curling ribbon, crepe paper, and pink balloons. Check.
Diapers and goodies for the diaper cake. Check.
Grossgrain and satin ribbons in various pinks. Check.
Wrapping paper and bows. Check.
Cardstock in pink and blue. Check.
Menu, recipes, and grocery list. Check.
Vacation form okayed for weekend off work. Check.

I ordered invitations from Zazzle, which ended up costing more than Ariel's wedding invitations.

My family apparently know nothing about RSVP. A few responded, but after inquiries, what we got were mostly, "We might come, but we ain't sure yet" (they did) "I ain't got no gas money," (they didn't) "I'll prob'ly be there," (no show) and "I have to work," (showed up anyway.)

Eric's mom and dad drove all the way from Pennsylvania to be at Ariel's graduation and shower the following day. It meant the world to us to have them there.

THEY RSVPed.

I was prepared for 60 people, and ended up with 25, I think.

I found the cutest treat bag labels...

...and a cute owl banner from Classy and Simple.

Miss Classy and Simple threw in a little extra owl, which was absolutely perfect for the tree branch I had prepared. Carefully selected from our most recent storm's fallen branches, I had primed it with flat white, oversprayed with gloss white, then clear glitter spray, and sealed with a spray polyurethane.

All that work really doesn't show in the picture. It was subtle.

I'm what you might call a perfectionist about certain things, and this party had to be perfect. Classy and Simple supplied, at my request, the names and numbers of the cardstock she used for the banner, and I searched high and low to exactly match it for the family tree. Eric's mother sent photos of Eric's ancestors, and I scoured my photo albums for pictures of our own.

Photos copied, I mounted them on pink cardstock for Ariel's family and blue for Eric's, Baby Zoey's ultrasound image at the bottom, and attached them with pink ribbon to the big ficus tree in the living room.

(Caroline: "Do you really think you want to go to all that trouble for something that may not even be noticed?" Oh, it was noticed. It was one of the HITS of the shower.)

And I used the leftover snippets of cardstock to back the display cabinet in the dining room, swapping the English cottage miniatures it usually houses for cute little baby items on white lace doilies.

My friend Shari made the diaper cake from items I supplied. "Just bring me whatever you want, and I'll put it together," she said. I had no idea what to expect when I handed over sheets, receiving blankets, pacifiers, onesies, rattles, Johnson's baby products, bottle brush, the owl cap, socks and washcloths, a ceramic owl bank, princess-in-training wooden sign, teensy tiara, the two stuffed owl toys, three little pink and green Easter eggs, 100 diapers, and another sparkly white branch and nest.

It was fabulous.

Of course, when I tried to move it to the dining room table a few days later, the whole thing began falling apart, the owl, eggs, and nest fell to the floor, and I broke the branch. Back outside, where, thanks to another recent storm, I was able to find another branch, albeit a bit taller, but which afforded me the opportunity to place Mama Owl in the nest and have Baby Owl dangling upside down from a lower branch. Try as I might, though, I just couldn't figure out how in the world Shari had managed to put the bottom layer together, so I ended up tying a wide satin ribbon around the whole layer, which actually looked very cute.

Shari is so creative. She made snails and roses from washcloths and rosebuds from the white lacy socks.

I made a clothesline and fastened some of Ariel's old preemie outfits with tiny pink clothespins.

Outside was just as decorative, but I went with bolder colors. Had to. My patio umbrella is BRIGHT.

I wrapped the umbrella pole in crepe paper streamers, then used leftover diapers from the big diaper cake to make this smaller one.

The smaller deck tables were set with the aforementioned owl rattle toys perched in nests upon vases filled with more Easter eggs, and surrounded by curling ribbon and some of my standard baby shower props.

And, indoors, the buffet tables looked great.

Whenever you invite men to a baby shower, you must insure you have plenty of food to appease them, because playing silly games and unwrapping bibs and bottles just doesn't hold their interest.

Men are a strange species.

I designed the simple cake, and Walmart made it, a cake to feed 64 people, for only $48! Publix would have done a similar cake...for...well, let's just say it was well into triple digits.

Walmart is my new best friend.

Determined to coordinate everything, I searched for and finally located pink polka-dotted napkins. $16. Shhhhhhhh...don't tell Fred.

Mama and I made 250 truffles the day before the shower. Yummmmm.

Of course, when everything is going according to plan, a fly is bound to land in the ointment. Two flies landed in mine. Fly number one was supposed to come help me out, but was sick, and thank goodness, Charming and Cindy came over and helped the night before, even running to Walmart to pick up the cake and last minute groceries.

The second fly was THE GAME. Two days before the shower, knowing I had a million last minute things to do, I remembered my cousin Jenny's post from last year about a game she had made for a baby shower. I searched through her archives, found it, and determined we MUST have that game.

It's based on the old Memory game of childhood, at which Ariel excelled. I bought foam board and more cardstock in various pink patterns, Scotch brand restickable tape squares, and candy bars. I worked on it all night long, until 5:45 the morning of the shower, but it was worth it.

There were twenty matching pairs of words or phrases, all relating to pregnancy and babies, scattered under those numbers. Players took turns guessing two numbers each, and Fred, acting as Vanna White, turned up each number to reveal the words underneath. Eventually, players began remembering where matching words were located, and that's when the fun began.

Prizes were candy bars, which I had purchased from Walmart, Cracker Barrel, and our local gas station/convenience store.

The person who found both "fat babies" received a Chunky Bar; 100 Grand went to the one who uncovered "hospital bill;" "Dad cuts the cord" got Pop Drops candy; and the youngest player there, my little great niece, Tinkerbell II, found both "conceptions" and got...SKOR.

She looked a little perplexed, so we moved on quickly.

Even the men enjoyed that game. At least, the ones who weren't downstairs playing pool and getting slammed by Eric's father at ping-pong.

Between this shower and the one a few days later, given by Ariel's teacher friends at school, Zoey now has everything a little princess could possibly need.

Especially owls. They're everywhere in the nursery. This is one child who won't grow up afraid of outdoor creatures.

The lamp was probably Ariel's favorite gift.

And just yesterday, Ariel and Supermom painted pictures of owls to decorate the walls.

So now, we're just waiting.

T minus 42 days and counting.

Hellooooo! Is There Anybody Out There?

2011-05-22T23:17:00.000-07:00

I guess it's the size of this place that makes it so hard to find my friends. I'm not even sure who's here with me - I've really seen very few people so far...not even Reverend Harold Camping, who I kinda thought would be leading the parade.

Of course, I've only been here a little over twenty four hours, and I don't really know my way around yet. It took a good hour for St. Peter to find my name in THE BOOK. I mean, seriously, wouldn't you think they'd have developed some sort of index file by now? The little angel who lead me to my cloud whispered that St. Peter has been lobbying for a computerized system for years, but rumor has it that the Council of Angels won't appropriate funds for the front gate until Pete stops letting in reprobates like me.

That certainly put me in my place.

I was chastised right away for bringing my own laptop. I don't know why it was such a big deal - there was this older couple ahead of me in line with two trunks, five rolling suitcases, and an overnighter, like Mr. and Mrs. Howell on Gilligan's Island. St. Peter just rang for a bellhop angel and let them pass.

Then there was the woman behind me who was so worried about her little poodle. She entrusted his care to a man who was a self-proclaimed atheist and therefore knew he would not be taking the highway to Heaven on May 21. This guy charged her over $100 to care for her little darling forever, but now she's worried he'll back out of the deal. "I didn't want to trust an atheist, but what other choice did I have?" she worried.

Ah well, I'm settled in now on Cloud # 6009956200CM. I have no idea what that all means, but that's my new address. It's nice - sparsely furnished, but soft and clean, and with a fantastic view. Last night my sector went to a harp concert, and tomorrow there's supposed to be a choir. I've been invited to tryouts.

The internet service up here SUCKS. Dial up. Can you imagine?

I must go now. My little angel dropped by to say I have a fitting for my first wings in 20 minutes, and I have no idea where the tailor shop is located. If I see Reverend Camping, I'll let y'all know he's safe and sound.

And hey, if any of y'all are up here, too, email me your new cloud address and we'll do lunch!

TaTa for now!

Ethelmae

Anticipating Zoey

2011-04-13T10:53:00.000-07:00

Note- this will be my last post for a few weeks. LIFE is intruding, and I must attend to several very neglected things (and one particular person.) I'll be back to posting and visiting ASAP.

_____________________________________________________

"What did you buy that cost $648?!"

Sigh. Like Lucy Ricardo, I've had a lot of 'splainin' to do lately.

Before I could prepare my defense, Fred had spotted another triple digit purchase on my credit card statement. And another. And another.

Caught red-handed, I offered my plea: Guilty, by reason of grandmotherhood!

Little things like this happen when your only daughter announces her pregnancy. You scream and hug and kiss and you-just-can't-believe-your-baby-is-having-a-baby and you hug and kiss some more and then the two grandmothers-to-be get together and begin furnishing the nursery.

It's a little different with men. Men rule with their heads instead of their hearts and say sensible things like, "They need to wait until their student loans are paid off," and "They haven't even been married two years yet, they have plenty of time for babies," and Fred's classic, "Now, I hope you know we can't afford to be buying a lot of baby stuff."

Fred, Fred, Fred. When will he learn that his words go in one ear and out the other?

It started with the crib. And the bassinet. Then I discovered today's bassinet is not the pretty little eyelet lace hooded and skirted cutesy cocoon I had always known. No, today's bassinets are part of the play yard, which is the new name for the old play pen, and they come with an attached changing table for newborns, storage galore, and electronic devices which play music and soothing sounds, glow with a night light, vibrate in varying intensities, and generally do everything except make spaghetti.

And the crib is now a crib/convertible toddler bed/full size bed, and must be purchased with the matching changing table/convertible night stand.

"How much is this stuff gonna cost?" Fred had asked. And I had assured him that the crib was less than $200. ($2 less.) And that we were sharing that cost with Eric's parents.

But a month later,..."So how come it says $648 on your credit card bill?!"

Oops. I guess I forgot to tell him we had decided on the more expensive crib. And changing table. And the dual layer hypo-allergenic mattress and mattress pad.

So he fussed and fumed and then fussed and fumed some more and said it was obvious that it didn't matter what HE wanted, that I wasn't gonna pay a bit of attention to anything HE said, and he did NOT want to know the sex of the baby and I'd better not tell him on Ultrasound Day.

Sure Fred. Whatever you say, Dear.

Now, ultrasounds have come a long way since Noah came over on the ark. When Ariel was on the way, I didn't find out the baby's sex, I didn't get a DVD of the ultrasound or a picture. I wasn't even allowed to watch the screen. When I asked if I could see my baby, the tech said, "Oh no, no," and turned it away from me. Like it was some top secret file that would go under lock and key in a steel vault at NORAD.

Since that time though, some twenty eight years ago, I've seen a handful or so of ultrasound photos. The earlier ones all looked like...well, frankly...blobs. "See right here?" the proud parent would say, "that's it - it's a boy!"

I always smiled and peered closely as if admiring a teensy little protrusion between Baby Boy's legs, but truth be told, I never saw anything except that blob.

And then one day I picked up a medical journal, and there on the cover was an ultrasound picture. Clear as day, I could see that baby. I could make out the head and torso and even a leg. It was amazing. I stared at the technological marvel in my hands and finally read the caption underneath:

ULTRASOUND OF DISEASED GALLBLADDER IN 70 YEAR OLD MALE.

So my faith in ultrasounds was shaken, and my expectations were less than high when Ultrasound Lady moved her scanner around Ariel's growing 'baby bump,' as the pregnant belly is now fashionably called.

Oh. My. Goodness. You have to watch this.

This is no gallbladder, this is a baby! There's the head, the tummy, the baby is moving! Look at that! That's the spine, and the leg is flexing! I can even see an ear, and...oh my goodness, the arm, look, look, look, how clear and even fingers, and...ohhhhhhhhh...is that the baby sucking the thumb? Oh. My. Goodness.

Ultrasound Lady, completely absorbed with her monitor, said nothing as she methodically moved the scanner here and there and clicked buttons on her machine. How could she not stare at the miracle unfolding before my eyes, I wondered. How could she just sit there, looking bored, never uttering more than, "And that's the heart, and that's the lungs..." Finally, she froze the picture and said, "Looks like we've got a girl."

A girl. It's a girl.

"It's Zoey," Ariel said softly. Her friend Supermom bounced across the small room, hugging Eric, hugging Ariel, hugging me. My eyes filled with happy, wondrous tears.

A girl.

I tried to keep it from Fred, honestly I did. But barely an hour after the ultrasound, the word had spread on facebook and the phone started ringing.

"I was hoping it'd be a boy," he said quietly. "I miss having a little boy to take to the ball games and the races."

Sometimes Fred can be a royal pain in the rear end, but when he says things like that, my heart melts. And so will his when he holds Baby Zoey for the first time.

Zoey. My granddaughter.

Let the shopping begin!

_____________________________________________

I went with Ariel, Eric, and Supermom to register at Target and Babies R Us. Ariel and Supermom kept several paces ahead of Eric and me, scanning everything pink and girly and essential for the newborn.

"Do I really need this?" Ariel asked, and when Supermom assured her it would be useful, Eric turned to me and said, "Benjamin Franklin managed to get along without one."

"Oooh, I like this butterfly nightlight," Ariel cooed.

"I like the frog," Eric said.

Supermom scanned the butterfly and kept moving.

"Oooh, isn't this penguin humidifier cute?" Ariel cried out.

"I like the frog," Eric said.

"Here, you can play with the scan gun," Ariel offered, and he was quite happy for the remainder of the shopping spree.

Although he did surreptitiously scan a couple of frog items.

_________________________________________________

It's not like I needed to shop for any little girl outfits, because I've been anticipating this grandchild for years and years and years. The closet and dresser in Ariel's old bedroom is crammed full of clothes for my grandchildren. I have boy and girl clothes in every size from preemie to 6X.

And of course I have Baby's First Christmas pj's.

And dressy clothes for all those formal events they'll attend.

I even have that quintessential accessory for any little girl's wardrobe - a pair of ruby slippers.

But just because I already had all these things, purchased at after-Christmas and after-Easter and after-season sales, (and at rock-bottom prices, I might remind Fred,) I still must go shopping for my grandchild.

Because it's not just some nameless, faceless grandchild any more. It's a girl. It's Zoey.

After shopping around for the bassinet/play yard, and regretfully passing on the cute Winnie the Pooh one, (because it didn't have the requisite vibrate-y thing,) we found one at a good price. "So that's it, right?" Fred asked. "That's all we're buying, right?"

Oh Fred. You poor thing.

I found the most adorable little onesies in pastel colors. Tiny puffed sleeves and little animals embroidered on the fronts. Blue, pink, yellow, green, lilac. Snails and rocking horses and teddy bears... I pondered the choices for about ten minutes, then just grabbed all of them. There was a little Mickey Mouse outfit, and those tiny lace-topped socks were on sale. I browsed the aisles, picking things up here and there, just little things.

The cashier took one look at my haul and said nonchalantly, "First granddaughter?"

Yep.

"Ummm...how many 0-3 month onesies did you put on your registry?" I asked Ariel. "You might wanta take them off."

And then there was the bedding for the crib, of course. Owls, Ariel said, she wanted owls. She found the most delightful owl pillows...

...and for her own birthday, asked for the crib mobile, sheet and matching rug.

And I found just a few more little things to match...just a few...as in less than $200.

$2 less.

But it's for my granddaughter. It's for Zoey.

I Have All the Answers

2011-04-04T17:03:00.000-07:00

To my previous post, Guessing Games, that is.

Some of y'all came pretty close in guessing all the true statements, but no one got every one.

I guess I'm a better liar than I thought.

THAT'S disturbing.

Well, let's just get on with the answers, okay?

1) I used to live just 7 miles away from Elvis Presley. I painted his portrait more than once and even have one of my originals hanging in my loft at home.

TRUE, but tricky. When I was in 8th grade, we lived a mere seven miles from Graceland, which is where Elvis was living at the time with Priscilla and toddler Lisa Marie. (Don't try to do the math - let's just say I'm no spring chicken anymore.) I can remember one morning when we passed the house and saw a man grappling with garbage cans; my younger sister excitedly shouted, "I see Elvis takin' out the garbage!" As for painting his portrait, yes, that's also true...only he never sat for me. I painted from photographs. I mean, come on, if I had painted Elvis from life, would I be laboring all night at the post office?

(This is the only painting I currently have in my possession, and it's not actually even a painting - it's a chalk pastel sketch. The photo doesn't show nearly as well as the original.)

2) I once chased a bear up a mountain to get a closer photo.

TRUE. It was about twenty years ago, maybe longer; Cade's Cove, Tennessee, in the Great Smoky Mountains. We were driving the scenic route slowly when I spotted a bear a few hundred feet away, meandering up the mountainside. "Stop the car!" I shouted to Fred and jumped out before he'd completely come to a halt. Camera in hand, I took off after Mr. Bear, climbing higher and higher until I finally realized the distance between us was widening and I couldn't run uphill any more without having a heart attack. So I snapped my picture, and then reality set in. Suddenly panicked, I said aloud, "Oh my God, I'm chasing a bear!"

(I realize the quality of this photo is HORRID - it wasn't the best shot in the first place, and scanning an old film photo is just not my cheapo scanner's forte.)

3) I have been invited to the Royal Wedding in London.

Well, I DO have an invitation.

I just can't decide what to wear - my morning coat has some bare spots beginning to show through the terry cloth and my lounge suit just doesn't look right without my fuzzy pink bunny slippers.

Okay, so that one's not true. As in, BIG FALSE. And NOBODY fell for that one.

I don't know whether to be grateful I have intelligent readers or insulted y'all think me unworthy of attending the Royal Wedding.

4) I have a photo hanging in my house of me with Gary Trudeau, of Doonesbury fame, taken after I had been commissioned to do some life-sized stand-ups of his characters.

TRUE. However, 'twas not Mr. Trudeau who commissioned me - I was hired by the bookstore which was hosting his book signing.

(Keep in mind that this photo, too, was scanned from an old film photo and was taken over twenty years ago, just after I came off a twelve hour night shift.)

5) Had Fred not put his foot down (which he does a lot,) I would probably be the mother of twelve children.

TRUE. Cheaper by the Dozen was one of my favorite movies growing up, and one of my favorite books was Who Gets the Drumstick?, the true story of a widow with eight children who married a widower with ten. I seemed to have a fascination with large families and their harmonious, fun-filled adventures, so I decided I wanted a dozen little darlins' of my own.

6) Shirley McClaine and I were sisters in a past life.

Are you kidding? FALSE. Although Ms. McClaine may think otherwise.

7)   I love my job.

What's not to love? Who wouldn't want to go in at 4:30PM and work until 1AM, walking on cracked concrete floors all night, lifting and carrying heavy packages across a former airplane hangar, from point A to point B?

FALSE. HUGE FALSE. The only good thing about my job is the people I work with, who are...absolute fruitcakes, but then, so am I.

Oh, and the money.

8) I once helped deliver a baby in the backseat of a car.

FALSE. (sigh.) But delivering a baby is on my bucket list. I so want to one day be the first person to hold a new life, to be the first human contact a newborn baby has in this world, to touch that which has never before been touched.   I sometimes wonder if doctors ever get to the point where they don't feel that thrill anymore. I hope not, for it has to be one of the greatest experiences on earth, second only to holding your own newborn.

9) My father was on the Selma march with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

TRUE. I am quite proud of my father and his commitment to causes for the betterment of the world and its peoples.

10) When I was a little girl, I wanted nothing more out of life than to go to the moon.

FALSE. All I wanted was a husband and those twelve children. What I got was Fred and two children. But I couldn't be happier with my two. And I can tolerate Fred.

11) I was once asked by a good friend to partner on her grand money-making idea, but I refused. She made a bit of money...as designer of the Cabbage Patch Kids.

FALSE. I thought it sounded plausible, but only Nezzy agreed with me.

12) As an artist long, long ago, I worked with a man who eventually became a Disney artist...and the producer of Mulan.

TRUE. Barry Cook and I were both teenage artists at Opryland, USA, a country music theme park in Nashville. While I went on to the aforementioned laboring-at-the-post-office job, Barry was hired by Hanna-Barbera, then went onto Disney as an effects animator, eventually moving up to producer.

13) Fred served for a brief time as a deputy sheriff and we met when he had to arrest me for...well, we won't go into that right now.

FALSE. Oh Lord, I shudder to think of Fred as a deputy anything. And, just for the record, I have never been arrested for anything.

And now the most important little tidbit...

14) In July, I will welcome my first grandchild into this world, and it's....a girl! Or is it a boy?

TRUE - IT'S A GIRL!!!!!!   ZOEY is due in July, and I couldn't be happier!

Thank you all for playing along, and be sure to check in next time for...

...ZOEY!

Guessing Games

2011-03-31T18:02:00.000-07:00

Guess what?

Remember how we used to drive our parents batty with that question? And then how our own children drove us batty with the same question?

"Guess what?"

"What?"

"Guess!"

"I don't know..."

"Just guess!"

And so on and so on and so on...

But guessing games can be quite fun at times, so that's what're doing today. Why? Guess.

Come on, take a stab at it. Just guess.

Give up?

Okay, I'll tell.

Mother Theresa, at The Rain in Spain has presented me with the Stylish Blogger award. Isn't it pretty? I like the way it sparkles. And since I've never, EVER, been referred to as stylish, I will gratefully accept this award. Thank you, Mother Theresa!

As with many awards, this one comes with requirements - that I tell you, my readers, seven fascinating bits of knowledge about myself, and that I pass it on to ten other stylish bloggers.

Stylish, y'all hear that? You gotta be stylish.

But, I'm having a little trouble coming up with seven fascinating bits y'all don't already know about me. I mean, come on, when you've told everybody what brand of feminine products you use, well, that just doesn't leave much to the imagination, now does it?

So, to disguise the fact that I have no further scintillating tidbits about myself, I've come up with my own version of this meme: Guess what. As in, guess what's true and what's not true. About moi.

Yeah, I'm a French Southern belle.

That one's not true. I'm giving y'all a freebie.

Oh, I almost forgot...I now get to pass this on to ten more Stylish Bloggers! And since I don't know much about some of my newest followers, (except, of course, that they're stylish,) I choose to present the award to some of them...

1)   Heather, at This is the Day.

2)   Kelly, at Cross Your T's.

3)   Cindy, at Another Step Forward.

4)   Wanda, at Tennessee Perennial Images.

5)   Colleen, at Edge of the Woods Studio.

6)   Barbara, at Confessions of a Photography Addict - Long Hollow Photography.

7)   Birdie, at 40 and Loving It.

8)   In the Gutter.

9)   Rain, at My Farm on the Hill.

10) CherylK, at Lake Mary Musings.

Okay, so here we go. Since I need to list seven true things, I'm balancing it out with seven things that aren't true. Watch out, now - some are a cinch, but some are tricky. Play along, and I'll post the answers Monday, April 4. If you're just dying to know before that, though, e-mail me and I'll clue you in.

1)   I used to live just 7 miles away from Elvis Presley. I painted his portrait more than once and even have one of my originals hanging in my loft at home.

2)   I once chased a bear up a mountain to get a closer photo.

3)   I have been invited to the Royal Wedding in London.

4)   I have a photo hanging in my house of me with Gary Trudeau, of Doonesbury fame, taken after I had been commissioned to do some life-sized stand-ups of his characters.

5) Had Fred not put his foot down (which he does a lot,) I would probably be the mother of twelve children.

6) Shirley McClaine and I were sisters in a past life.

7)   I love my job.

8) I once helped deliver a baby in the backseat of a car.

9) My father was on the Selma march with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

10) When I was a little girl, I wanted nothing more out of life than to go to the moon.

11) I was once asked by a good friend to partner on her grand money-making idea, but I refused. She made a bit of money...as designer of the Cabbage Patch Kids.

12) As an artist long, long ago, I worked with the man who eventually became a Disney artist...and the producer of Mulan.

13) Fred served for a brief time as a deputy sheriff and we met when he had to arrest me for...well, we won't go into that right now.

And now the most important little tidbit...

14) In July, I will welcome my first grandchild into this world, and it's....a girl! Or is it a boy?

Guess what?

NO BOYS ALLOWED!

2011-03-15T23:38:00.000-07:00

Seriously, y'all, this is a story of experimentation best left to the imagination for any male readers out there. Sorry, guys, but y'all just don't have the stomach for this subject.

What am I talking about? Feminine products, that's what.

Are all the boys gone now? Good, we can get on with our story.

PRELUDE

Y'all might remember that from roughly mid December till February I was sick off and on with severe kidney infections, flu, and bronchitis. And flu and bronchitis always leave that annoying deep hacking cough which just lingers on and on and on... Add kidney infections to that, factor in age 50+, and you've just concocted yourself a recipe for the dreaded...urinary incontinence.

I'm not talking about a little leak here and there; I'm talking about some major gushing. No puny little panty liner was gonna handle this, and I absolutely refused to buy a box of extra large Depends.

So I went with the obvious solution: maxi pads.

Now, y'all, I went through an early menopause, but I was sure I still had some of those pads...somewhere. Digging far back into the recesses of every bathroom cabinet and drawer, I found Tums, expiration date March 2003; a half-filled bottle of DayQuil, expiration date January 2008; a bag of cotton balls that exploded when I tugged at it; a McBride and the Ride bandana; a yellow Hot Wheels car, what I think was part of a Transformer, and a green roof slat from a set of Lincoln Logs; enough black and white buttons to make a good-sized mosaic cow; three unopened packs of Bic shavers and two of Q-Tips; my missing Carpenters' Christmas cassette tape; one Charlie Brown Christmas toe sock; dozens of Disney shampoos and hotel-sized soaps; and the instruction manual for a VCR that had died a slow, painful death about five years ago.

But no maxi pads. So off to Dollar General Store I went in my coat thrown over my pajamas.

I have no shame.

It seems things have changed a bit in the feminine products section since I last made a purchase. Of course, everything is a lot more expensive, but I was totally unprepared for the wide variety of feminine products available. Did y'all know they make a pad for thongs now?

It staggers the imagination.

Knowing I needed something industrial strength, I chose Always Extra Heavy Overnight with Flex Wings. I had no idea what Flex Wings were, and truthfully, still don't, but let me tell y'all: these things work.

In spite of the width and unbelievable 15 inch length of these things, they don't have that pillow-between-your-legs feeling like the old maxi pads. Those Flex Wings are wide and stay securely in place. I can testify that they're super-absorbent, because I coughed myself silly through many nights and never once had a leak. They shoulda used these things to soak up that Gulf Oil Spill. And the adhesive backing?

IT STICKS.

THE EXPERIMENT

I was in the bathroom, having already peeled the plastic backing off one of these super-sized things, when I decided to go ahead and get my bath. Since I had just reused the new wrapper, I had nowhere to restick the new pad while I bathed. NOWHERE. What to do?

I stuck it to the wall.

Honestly, I intended to leave it there only as long as it would take me to get ready for the tub, but since it was still firmly affixed to the wall at that point, I thought, dang, that's some good adhesive, and just left it there. A long, relaxing, bubbly jacuzzi bath was just what the doctor had ordered for my various maladies, and when I emerged and had dried off, that thing was still stuck up there on the wall.

I mean, that's some really good adhesive.

Purely out of curiosity, I assure you, I resolved to test the adhesion of this thing by leaving it on the wall until it chose to fall off on its own.

I actually forgot all about it, but was reminded several hours later when Fred arrived home from work. He removed his coat, set down his lunchbox in the kitchen, and disappeared into the bathroom. Approximately 30 seconds later, I heard him call.

"Ethel!"

"What?" I called wearily, having just lain down on the couch.

"Come 'ere!" he hollered.

Remote in hand and three dogs already settled into place atop me, I had no intention of just hopping up and doing Fred's bidding. "Whadayou want?" I hollered back.

"Come HERE!" he insisted.

I reluctantly heaved myself off the couch, displacing three dogs who were none too happy about having been deposed so quickly, and shuffled in my fuzzy houseshoes to the bathroom door.

He was seated on the throne, carefully averting his eyes from my new work of art. "What is THAT?" he asked.

Suppressing a smile at his discomfiture, I said innocently, "What?"

"THAT," he said, pointing, but still avoiding direct eye contact.

"It's an Always Extra Heavy Overnight Maxi Pad with Flex Wings."

"I KNOW what it is, what's it doing there?"

"It's an experiment..." But he cut me off.

"Get it down."

"But I haven't finished the experiment..."

"Get it down."

"But it's just an innocent little..."

"Get it down."

I guess I couldn't blame him. After all, he's just a man.

But the Always Extra Heavy Overnight Maxi Pad with Flex Wings experiment goes on: I took another pad a few weeks later and stuck it to the back side of the closet door, away from Fred's line of sight.

It's been there nine days.

Dang, that's some really good adhesive.

Love Birds

2011-03-02T00:02:00.000-08:00

Good morning! My name is Alexander Hawthorn Nathaniel Beeker XVI. Just call me Alex.

I am here today to tell a love story - the story of Molly and Ben.

That's Ben over there. And that's his house. It was everything a bird could want...yet Ben was unhappy. He was alone.

He was also camera shy.

One snowy day he caught the eye of the lovely Molly, and he instantly fell in love.

Ben asked her to move into his house, but Molly was a lady of fine breeding, and told him that she would never consider living with him without the benefit of marriage.

"M...m...m...marriage!?" he faltered. "But...but, I'm not ready for that kind of commitment! Look, I'll refurnish the house just for you!"

But still she refused. "I'd rather freeze out here in the snow!" she sniffed, and she turned her back on him.

"I have berries..." he enticed her. "Chocolate covered berries..."

Ben mistook the fire in her eyes as passion for him, and proposed on the spot.

He swelled with pride at his prowess. "Who's the man? Who's the man?" he shouted into the darkening skies.

They were married immediately and Molly moved into the big house. They were very happy.

One day, with Ben out shopping for groceries and Molly visiting her mother, a cute little chick named Bonnie spied the big house and came calling. After knocking several times and finding no occupants, she laid claim to the house and moved in.

When Ben returned and dropped the groceries inside, he found Bonnie sprawled across his nest.

"Who are you?" he demanded, rather hysterically. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm Bonnie, and I'm just tweeting a few friends, inviting them over for a housewarming party," she said innocently.

I would have asked where she'd gotten the iPhone.

"Get out! Get out before my wife comes back!" Ben told her in panic.

"Get out?" Bonnie said. "But it's snowing again! And who made you ruler of the roost, anyway, huh? We women have rights now, you know!" And with that, she budged him aside and settled herself once again atop the soft nest inside. Try as he might, Ben could not convince Bonnie to leave.

When Molly returned and saw Ben in a house full of partying ladies, she flew into a jealous rage.

"I'll have the divorce papers drawn up tomorrow," she screeched, "and don't EVEN think you're getting this house!"

Despondent, Ben flew to his old nest in a cold crabapple tree.

But Molly was heartbroken and found that she couldn't sleep in an empty nest. Distraught, she donned her winter coat and slept outside on the snowy ledge.

Enter the villain, Snape.

(His parents named him before they'd finished reading the last Harry Potter book. They didn't know old Snape was decent in the end.)

This is my imitation of him. Pretty cool, huh?

Snape had been watching our little Molly during the night and had concocted a plan to take advantage of her newly broken heart and make her his own.

Oh, the angst! I simply could not stand by and allow this rogue to take Ben's grieving wife! But what could I do?

Quickly, I devised a plan to entrap Snape. As I lacked the necessary...attributes...to entice him, I enlisted the aid of a comely young lass named Sophia. "Can we talk?" I asked of her, and I outlined my scheme.

"I don't know," she fretted. "It sounds kind of...devious."

"I'll have to think it over..."

"Ummmm...what's in it for me?"

"I'M IN!" she said, eyes wide and beak gaping.

That was easy.

With Sophia on board, we laid our trap and waited for Snape to make his move.

"Good...good," I whispered silently from the sidelines. "Now! Give him that 'come hither' look!"

"Closer...closer..." I found myself whispering.

"Work it...work it..."

I waited until just the right moment, then gave the word: "Fly! Fly under the table now!

"Oh, I feel so cheap," Sophia rued.

(She got over it when Big Red swept her off her feet.)

But Snape took the bait! His beak was caught, and...well, Snape was...out of the picture, so to say.

And what happened then? Well, the rest, as they say, is history.

Bonnie took a shine to a tall, handsome stranger...

...and flew the coop to be with him.

Molly moved back into their home, and Ben came begging forgiveness. She tearfully relented....

...and they lived happily ever after.

THE END

Take Me Home, Country Roads

2011-02-23T10:33:00.000-08:00

Tennessee is widely known for many factors. We're the Home of Country Music and the Great Smoky Mountains; the Tennessee Titans and Elvis Presley's Graceland. Three US presidents have called Tennessee home, along with notables Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone, Casey Jones and Alex Haley, and the great Cherokee Sequoyah. We have the only full-scale replica of the Parthenon on Earth as well as the world's largest artificial skiing area. Our Reelfoot Lake was created by the largest earthquake in American history, and within the walls of the State Capital Building in Nashville lies the body of its architect, William Strickland.

Really. I wouldn't make up something like that.

Yes, we're a famous state. So many celebrities, past and present have been born here: Aretha Franklin, Betty Page, Dolly Parton, Miley Cyrus, Dixie Carter, Dinah Shore, Greg Allman, Tina Turner, Kathy Bates, Morgan Freeman, Justin Timberlake, George Hamilton...the list goes on and on.

We're also the third highest state in obesity rank, but we're not gonna go there.

One thing we're NOT known for, though, is snow. And yet, for two consecutive winters, we have been inundated with the white stuff.

Hazardous? Yes. Inconvenient? Check. Beautiful? You betcha.

Illness kept me indoors during most of the snows: flu, bronchitis, and severe kidney infections. During those days of confinement we had deep snows and bright sunny days. I stepped out the back door and got this shot...

...and the front door to get this one...

But the days I actually felt like getting out and about were dark and dismal.

Still, though, there's something enchanting about some of the photos. Maybe it's the near black and white aspect, some with just a hint of color. Or maybe it's just the subject matter - how can you go wrong when your world is wrapped in a fluffy blanket of snow?

I drove through the countryside, sometimes getting shots directly through my filthy car windows, as I did in this one. I had no idea where the road would take me, but I was mesmerized by the tangled white tunnel overhead and followed it deeper...

...past old barns...

...and modest farmhouses, optimistic with wicker chairs on the porch.

I passed ramshackle old sheds...

...and new barns on prosperous ranches.

These ducks were hilarious. Every time the gray duck took a step forward, the duck on the ramp would stick her neck out and squawk. I think she didn't want wet webbed footprints on her freshly waxed floor.

Mother and child were in no mood for company, so I moved on.

I drove slowly, savoring each frosted tree, every frozen vine.

Old barns fascinate me, and I loved the interplay of solid roof and open beams on this one.

Ah, the simple life.

These horses dined outdoors in the cold...

...while this one enjoyed the finest accommodations of the day.

The road looked promising, but a bit too treacherous for me, so I reluctantly headed home.

Yes, it was beautiful, but like this little bluebird, I'm just waiting for the last bit to melt.

Winter be gone, I will have no more of thee!

Game? What Game?

2011-02-07T00:19:00.000-08:00

Y'all might have gotten the impression by now that I'm just not much of a sports fan. The Winter Olympics I watch, because I love the grace and elegance of the figure skaters, and because...well, you just watch the Olympics when your step-nephew is skiing and the camera pans the crowds and oh-my-goodness!-there's-your-sister-on-international-tv! So, yeah, I watch those games, but as for playing? No.

Oh, I've hit a baseball or two in my time, I've taken a few whacks at a badminton birdie, and I knocked down all the little pins the first time I ever tried bowling. The only reason I even tried it was because we had a six week period in PE class in which small groups of us tried a different "sport" each week; bowling was but one. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was shocked at the heft of that ball and let it just kinda slide out of my hand. It rolled straight down the alley and knocked over every single pin. Ms. Coach was astounded, as I had never shown the slightest indication of any physical skill. Eyes wide, she immediately jogged over and gave me pointers, no doubt feeling that she had at last tapped into some unknown area of my being, that maybe she had a tenpin savant right here on her highly polished gym floor. She excitedly instructed me on the proper way to hold the ball, the stance, the timing and distance. Little by little, the echoes of balls bouncing off walls and floor came to a halt as lithe agile girls came over to watch the spectacle of their coach's obvious new favorite. The class closed in around me and Ms. Coach fed me so many instructions, my brain went to mush. Suddenly, I couldn't remember what I was holding or where I was supposed to throw it. And why were all these girls wearing identical ugly navy blue one-piece short-alls?

Satisfied that she had helped mold a prodigy of the bowling world, Ms Coach took a step back, urged the crowd back farther, and whispered those little words of encouragement: "Well, what are you waiting for?!"

I remember stumbling at least half way to the pins, releasing the ball, and hearing it clunk on the floor like a cement block. It rolled promptly far to the right, completely off the makeshift alley, and toward the bleachers, laughter rolling in tidal waves from a sea of ugly navy blue.

By the next week, I had gratefully once again retired into anonymity and my foray into the world of sports was officially over.

Never did I regret my inability to play any game involving throwing, catching, running, or hitting. My forte lay in games of a less primal nature, such as Monopoly and Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit.

I can play a mean game of Trivial Pursuit.

But contact sports have never enthralled me. Which is why, when asked earlier in the week who I would be rooting for in the Super Bowl, I answered, "Is that football or baseball?"

I found that I did enjoy little bits of the game, though: the "Little Darth Vader" commercial was just the most adorable thing ever. I have no idea what the ad was for, but the whole thing was just adorable. And I got to see all the celebrities: Harrison Ford without makeup looked totally different, Michael Douglas looked great, Jennifer Aniston looked exactly the same as she has for the past twenty years. I recognized George W and Laura before Fred did, and I showed off my brilliant knowledge of sports celebrities when I spotted Terry Bradshaw and said, "Oh, I know that guy! He's the one who played the father in Failure To Launch!"

(I saw his bare backside in that movie - it was a sight to behold.)

But I really excelled by playing Pizza Ball.

Here's the play by play:

In regard to Fred's query about dinner, I get on the phone and order pizza and wings. After all, isn't that what Super Bowl Sunday is really about, anyway? The junk food?

The good news: with our coupons from the Clarksville Clipper, we can get two medium pizzas with unlimited toppings, ten wings and ranch dipping sauce, and a 2-liter Diet Coke for $20 even. The bad news: delivery in one hour.

After a quick huddle with myself, I decide my next play: get in the car and pick the pizza up in fifteen minutes.

The pizza place is only seven minutes down the road. I go to the bathroom, scrounge for my wallet, grab my coat, then spend at least five minutes convincing the dogs that they are to STAY upstairs with Daddy while Mommy goes and gets in the car and GOES FOR A RIDE. GO FOR A RIDE is a very popular activity and the dogs are determined to be a part of it tonight. Daddy is sitting on the couch encouraging his team and has no interest at all in helping Mommy out with the dogs. The dogs huddle; Emma goes straight toward me, Bode goes left, and Jude tries to distract me with a shrill bark. Emma's left ear narrowly escapes the closing basement door, and I all but fall to the bottom, as I navigate the first three steps backwards.

The pizza is just coming out of the oven as I arrive. The counter before me is tall, and with some difficulty, I manage to wrangle two steaming hot pizza boxes, a styrofoam wings box, two tubs of dipping sauce, and a 2-liter Diet Coke into my arms. Slowly, I back toward the door, chin bracing my various boxes, wallet under my left arm, Diet Coke in one hand and dipping sauces in the other. There are five men in this place! Doesn't it seem like at least one of them would have the common decency to offer a little old lady a hand with her pizzas?

But their eyes are glued to the tv in the corner. I guess it's some big important play.

It's Christina Aguilera singing the National Anthem.

Little old lady with pizza difficulty vs Christina Aguilera.

No contest.

A jeep is just pulling to the curb as I hesitantly make my way across the walk and to my car. I can see a young man inside take his cell phone from his ear and grab something from the passenger seat. At my car now, I'm placing the Diet Coke on the road so I can reach for my car keys. Man-in-jeep jumps out and in four long strides is inside the pizza parlor. "Hey!" I want to shout. "I'm having a little trouble here!" He never even glances my way.

I insert my key into the lock, twist, and the styrofoam tray under my chin begins sliding. I overcompensate and now the pizza boxes are separating and one is dangerously close to falling to the road. My wallet slips from under my arm and falls just underneath the car. In my klutzy attempt to catch everything, I've now dropped the dipping sauces; one is right at my feet and the other has rolled...somewhere...I don't know. I'm not going to stand here in the cold dark night with Christina Aguilera belting out the National Anthem while I search for a missing ranch dip. Into the passenger seat go the pizza boxes and the wings box. I stoop and grab the Diet Coke and that one dipping sauce. My wallet? Thank goodness, it's just under the edge of the car and I can...just...barely...reach it. But not without dragging my good green scarf through a small muddy puddle at my feet.

I give the pizza parlor, the men inside, and Christina Aguilera an evil glare as I back out toward the parking lot. Whaaaa...? The headlights hit something small, white, and round. It's my other ranch sauce. I ponder for only a moment, then continue backing. That ranch dip can sit there and rot for all I care.

Back in the safety of the garage, I grab an empty Walmart plastic sack from underneath the front seat; into it go my wallet, the wings box, dipping sauce, and Diet Coke. Two boxes and one bag. Now, THIS I can do. The dogs are barking at the top of the stars in anticipation of Mommy coming back home. They're jumping up on me, Jude almost frantic to get at the pizza boxes, but now I'm in control and I've got those boxes raised high in the air like a waiter at a fancy French restaurant. Into the kitchen, and with one sweep of my arm, I clear a space on the island for the pizzas.

Touchdown! The Pizza Bowl is over and I have won!

And Fred?

"Hey, when's that pizza guy gonna be here?"

Rethinking Snow

2011-01-26T01:08:00.000-08:00

"Please, please, please, please, PLEASE let it snow tonight, please, please, please..."

While most children knelt at their bedsides and requested the Almighty's blessings upon their family members and pets, I recited the snow prayer every winter night during my school years. But as the Snow Gods rarely bestowed their favors upon Alabama, my pleas most often fell on deaf ears.

Once we moved to Tennessee, though, I could usually count on a snow day or two in January or maybe February. Mr. Optimistic, our snow happy weatherman, predicted the white stuff at least two days every week, mid-November through March. Even though I knew his track record was highly suspicious, I tuned in to Channel 2 every night, just to hear those mystical words: "probability of snow."

There was magic in those words, magic in the form of roads that might be covered with just enough slick stuff that the schools would close, and I would enjoy a day of freedom. But week after week, I was highly disappointed and found myself sitting at my school desk, diagramming sentences and memorizing useless dates in history.

There was one night, though, when all the meteorologists in Nashville shared in Mr. Optimistic's confidence. "It's coming," they agreed. "100% chance, possibly four to five inches accumulation." They promised, and school kids in the entire Middle Tennessee area stayed up late, forgot about their homework, and wrestled the lids off garbage cans for sledding the next morning.

It snowed alright, the promised four to five inches...

...but not in Nashville. That system hit virtually every county in Tennessee and left Nashville sitting like the hole in a doughnut.

Dadgum rotten weathermen.

Funny how ~~forty~~ a few years changes one's perception of things. Inevitably, childhood ended and reality set in - snow meant driving to work on slippery roads. Snow meant traffic snarls and sitting on the highway for hours and being late for work - highly frowned upon by the Postal Gods.

I think they're in cahoots with the Snow Gods.

But, as I said, I do live in the South, and snow just isn't much of a problem down here. On average, we get a good snowy winter every seven years. And last year was our good snowy winter.

So why are we in the midst of our umpteenth freakin' snow storm of the season???!!!!

This is not supposed to happen in Tennessee! It's supposed to be every seven years!!! Didn't the Tennessee Snow Gods read the rule book? EVERY. SEVEN. YEARS! PERIOD!

And the woolly worms! I have NEVER been let down by the woolly worms. Last year I saw scads of them, and they were such a dark brown as to be almost black. Dark = bad winter. Very dark = very bad winter.

This fall, I saw ONE woolly worm. ONE. And it was a delightful light brown. Delightful light brown = delightful light winter.

Dadgum lying woolly worm.

Even as I write this, the snow is falling heavily, and I expect the phone to ring at any moment: Fred will have to go into work early to begin salting the roads. He'll most likely work a 24-hour shift. Again.

Snow and ice, snow and ice. And it's not even February.

My feelings exactly.

Frame of Mind

2011-01-18T16:44:00.000-08:00

Surrounded by boxes and bags and suitcases, I sat in the rear of the station wagon, caressing Poocat, tossing fitfully in my lap. Having just recovered from the distemper that should have killed him, Poocat was an uneasy rider, and this was to be a long journey.

I had chosen to squeeze in among the jumbled contents in the back because there would be room for only the two of us. The happy chatter from my parents, brother, and sisters, all excited about this move, only served to increase my anguish. Another house, another city, another state. Another school, another group of strangers who would be part of my world.

Why? Why did we have to move again? I had thought this time that Daddy had found his dream job - director of the Huntsville Community Action Committee. He was helping people who needed help most - the elderly, the impoverished, the disabled. But he had become disenchanted when politics played into the picture, and had found that his office was not allocated funds for some of the most critical needs. So, when an opportunity to help on a larger scale presented itself, he took it, and now we were off to Memphis.

Every year of my life we had moved, sometimes twice in a year. I was always the new girl, a painfully heavy burden for such an introvert as I. Making new friends was a herculean effort. But this past year had been different. Somehow, everything just clicked. Huntsville felt like...home.

I was thirteen and had my first experience with puppy love. I had true friends; had lost twenty pounds and actually had a bikini that I looked good in. My class was to have been the first the following year at the brand new Ed White Junior High School. I had played an active part in determining the name of its football team. For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to the new school year, to being in the first class in the new school named for an astronaut lost in a tragic accident, to belonging, having a place among my friends, being, if not popular, at least visible.

We were leaving a great house and moving into a much smaller one, where all four of us girls would have to share one bedroom. Packing up my room this time had brought many tears. My Davy Jones poster tore when I pulled it off the wall. The rip in Davy's face was irreparable. Bobby Sherman survived with only torn corners, but he would never be the same. Mama decreed that my top dresser drawer full of all the TV Guides we'd ever owned be emptied and tossed. We would need the space for clothes once we got into the smaller house. Those TV Guides were my memories; I had read each one cover to cover and cherished them all. Only eating could alleviate my despair, and I gained five pounds within a couple of weeks. My bikini went into a box never again to see the light of day.

Will was at the house on moving day, and he hung around, silent, head down, following me awkwardly as I did the necessary chores of leaving a house. At the last minute, the two of us alone in an echoing room, he wrapped his arms clumsily around me, gave me my first kiss, and ran out the door. I should have been elated. I should have shouted for joy and wrapped my arms around my body, eyes closed, smiling widely. I should have done the Liesl-in-the-gazebo "wheeeeeeeee!" from the Sound of Music.

But I could do nothing except cry. I knew I'd never see him again.

The long side window of the station wagon framed the landscape that flew by in a haze of tears. Farms, cotton fields, billboards, tiny towns, barns proudly urging us to SEE ROCK CITY. Welcome to Tennessee, a large sign at the roadside announced, and I cried harder, my tears falling onto Poocat's thick orange fur.

Some time passed and the chatter from the front of the car died down. My younger siblings were probably sleeping, and Free Spirit most likely had her nose buried in a book. Fields of hay, tobacco, and corn had replaced the beloved cotton fields of Alabama, the sky had clouded, and suddenly...

I saw the tree.

It was standing in a huge field, quite alone, branches morosely almost dragging the ground around it. Nothing else for acres and acres...only this large oak tree, sad and lonely. Its branches didn't sway with the wind; it simply stood, literally rooted to its place on earth, too despondent to manage even a wave of a leaf. Like a drab unfinished painting, it stood waiting for the artist to add a bit of sunlight filtering through the clouds, to touch its branches and trunk with gold. But there was no artist. The tree was alone, and I felt keenly for it, even in my own despair.

I watched until it was no longer within sight, until the window framed another blurred landscape, and then I cried not only for myself, but also for that sad, lonely tree.

Memphis was a wretched experience, as were the next move and the next. At last, when I was in tenth grade, we stayed in one house, in one city, long enough for me to make a handful of friends and finish my last years in the same school. And shortly after graduation, I met Fred.

We dated for several years before marrying, and two years later, pregnant with Ariel, I found myself traveling that same road that had taken me from Huntsville to Memphis. "The tree," I'd told Fred many times, "you have to see this poor tree." I watched out my window frame for almost two hours, and when I was almost ready to give up, there it was.

But...this couldn't be the same tree. The tree I remembered was dark, gloomy, sad, totally alone in those many acres of hay. This tree...this tree just couldn't be the same...

But it was. The image had been burned into my mind for all those years, and I remembered the size and shape, the placement in the field, the silo far off in the distance.

Rounded on top, branches heavy with bright green leaves, the huge old oak stood proud and tall and commanded the fields below and around; it was majestic, magnificent, a thing of undeniable beauty. It was incomparable; never before had I seen anything quite so grand. A resplendent painting in the window frame of a Chevy Vega.

I watched until it was no longer in sight, closed my eyes, felt for Fred's hand, and laid the other gently across the baby moving inside me.

Hey Jude, Part II

2011-01-14T15:51:00.000-08:00

In case you don't remember Part I (it HAS been a while back!) click here and catch up.

Yes, that's poor little Emma, all wrapped up like a tiny blue mummy. This is what happens when the wife goes to work and a certain husband who shall remain nameless lets two five pound yappers out in their new play yard UNSUPERVISED.

We'll probably never know exactly how it happened - either Emma climbed under the fence or something jumped over and grabbed her. Judging from the jaw marks that wrapped completely around her body, the veterinarian said she was clearly attacked by a large dog. "That's one tough little lady," he said when I picked her up after surgery the following day. "We had to basically take her apart and put her back together again. For her to have survived a punctured lung cavity, numerous intestinal punctures, an intestinal hernia, and three broken ribs, yep, that's one tough little lady."

I left the office with antibiotics, anti-inflammatory meds, pain killers, and instructions that since the bandage was basically holding her together, Emma was "to do nothing except sit and watch tv for the next two weeks."

Day 1: Emma lay dutifully in her little bed. From an old baby blanket, I fashioned a sling and carried her to her pee pads. I brought food and water to her and hid her pills in Vienna sausage. She did not watch tv.

Day 2: Emma was wide awake and trying to jump off the couch, so I gently placed her bed on the floor. "Stay," I told her, and she did...until I went into the kitchen. I turned around and there she was at my feet. Back in the sling she went, while I carried her around the house papoose style. I put Animal Planet on. She never even gave it a glance.

Day 3: Emma was up and about as if nothing had ever happened. "You HAVE to take it easy," I admonished her. When I let Bode outside to take care of his business, she followed us and before I realized it, was haltingly making her way down the deck stairs. "Oh good grief," I cried in disbelief and alarm, as I rushed to carry her the remainder of the way. Homeward Bound went in the VCR. It might just as well have been Larry King.

Day 4: Why fight it? I asked myself. Every time Bode went out, I carried Emma down the stairs. The skin under all that bandage was itchy and she tried with all her might to roll around in the grass, but her tightly wrapped mid section wouldn't cooperate. She did, however, manage to maneuver the bandage down her body to a point that it wasn't holding anything together.

Day 5: Back to the vet, where he reinforced the bandage with tape, like a harness on a horse. "Just don't let her overdo it," Dr. Gleaves said, and shaking his head, he walked out of the room murmuring, "one tough little lady."

Now y'all know Fred. In any other circumstance, he would have had plenty to say about all these bills that we were incurring. Now we had bills incurred by a trip to the emergency night clinic, our regular veterinarian, x rays, surgery, meds, follow-ups - it was costly, to say the least. But Fred, contrite for his part in Emma's tragedy, didn't even blink. "Whatever it takes," he said. That very next day, he reinforced the area under the fence with more dirt. "That other dirt was mostly mulch," he realized. He tamped the earth down hard, filling in all gaps, and sowed grass seed. "She won't get out again," he promised. But in spite of his concern and sympathy, Emma's feelings toward Fred did not change - she and Bode both still would have nothing to do with him, and, in fact, showed complete hostility any time he entered or left a room.

I decided on one last desperate plan: anti-anxiety drugs.

I know, I know. I couldn't believe it myself.

Dr. Gleaves knew the dogs' history and listened intently as I outlined all the problems and my concerns. "Well," he finally offered, his expression serious and grim, "we can go with the drugs, or we can try one more thing first."

"What? I'll do anything!"

"We can get rid of your husband."

He grinned and said he just couldn't resist, but I assured him it was not the first time that suggestion had been made.

"These should last six weeks," Dr. Gleaves said, handing over the bottle of tiny pills, "and if they're not working by then, they're not going to work." They did have some effect - Bode became lethargic and wanted to do nothing but creep around the house and sleep. Emma became even more terrified and hostile and was hyper beyond belief.

We're not doing the pills anymore.

Now where does Jude come into this story, you're asking. Well, it was about this time that I lost complete control of my faculties and suggested we find a third dog, a dog who would obviously bond with Fred, thereby showing Bode and Emma that there was nothing to fear. "It has to be another small dog," I said, "one that Bode and Emma won't feel is a threat to them. It has be a puppy. It has to be housebroken. I don't want another one that has to be groomed every five minutes. It absolutely HAS to get along with you and the other dogs and Spooky right from the start." I had a long list of requirements...that flew right out the window when we saw Jude.

"We just found him wandering the streets," the lady at the shelter told us. For two weeks they had searched for an owner, had finally given up, and one of the ladies had even taken him to her own home for a week. "We named him Gizmo," she said. Gizmo allowed Fred to hold him. He wagged his tail. And when he licked Fred's smiling face, we forked over $150 and Gizmo was ours.

Gizmo, Gizmo. We had to do something about that name. "Sam," Fred said.

"Sam? He doesn't like anything at all like a Sam. He looks like a Humphrey." We tossed about names for two days. Fred: Max, Luke, Chance, Sting, Elvis, Buddy; me: Atticus, Winston, Cedric, Lord Byron, Malcolm Merriwether, Hagrid, Figaro, Cogsworth, Leonardo.

I have a thing for literary and historical names.

Fred doesn't share my appreciation of history and the arts. "Elton John," he suggested.

"Are you gonna holler out the back door, 'Come on, Elton John'?" I asked, exasperated.

He countered with, "Are you gonna holler, 'Come on, Lord Byron'?"

He did have a point.

And then I had it . "Vladmir!" I shouted excitedly.

"Vladmir? Vladmir? Does he look Russian to you?"

"He looks like a raccoon. Hey, how 'bout Rocky Raccoon?" I said excitedly, referencing the Beatles song of the same name. "No! No, I've got it - JUDE!"

Fred nodded. "Jude. I like it. Hey, Jude," he said as he reached out and patted his head.

And Jude it came to be.

Initially, having a third dog was a trial. Jude and Bode fought for alpha, and Jude emerged the clear winner. He was a bit of a bully, so he had to be put in his place...and still does occasionally. But he's a lovable little scamp. As Fred puts it, "he's all dog." Where Bode and Emma would sit in my lap all day long if it were possible, Jude likes to play. Where Bode and Emma are timid, but hostile toward strangers (and Fred), Jude knows no enemies and happily approaches everyone with tongue out and tail wagging. Bode and Emma would fight to the death were a burglar to enter our house, but Jude would lead them straight to my jewelry box...where all they'd find is a small strand of pearls, a few pieces of costume jewelry, several stray buttons, and my Charlie-in-the-Box pin.

But most importantly, Jude loves Fred as much as he loves me.

He does have his bad habits, though. He marks his territory and taught Bode to follow suit. He marks everything - trees, every fence post, the mailbox, Spooky's abandoned house on the deck, the table skirt in Ariel's bedroom, each corner of the couch and every chair in the house.

He even marked my Christmas Santas and snowmen and the white sheets around the five Christmas trees in the house.

I swear, that dog's got a bladder bigger than Kanye West's ego. And he can hike that leg higher than any dog I've ever seen. Bode, having never known other male dogs, still used the girl position for his business, but now he followed his leader and hiked, too.

Emma tried it and fell right over on her side.

Jude is jealous and fights for my attention. He takes toys outside and buries them in holes he's dug. He chews: my remote control basket on the coffee table; my Cindy Crawford throw pillow in the living room; ANY paper he can reach; my Crocs. Even my dress Crocs.

Don't ask.

I'm not sure what Crocs are made of, but they sure can take a licking. My dress Crocs survived with only a few minor puncture wounds.

Jude and Emma love to play fetch. Bode initially joined in, but the other two were faster, so now poor little Bode just watches. Since Jude is larger, (nine pounds as opposed to the others' five,) he wrestles the fetched object away from Emma, but like Dr. Gleaves said, she is one tough little lady. It took only a couple of times before she was pulling the women's lib card and fighting for her rights. She grabbed that toy, ran into her little bed in the corner, and Jude grabbed the other end. Try as Jude might, she would not let go, and Jude pulled so hard, the bed began sliding across the floor like a boat. Bode, jumping to his sister's defense, began pulling the bed in the opposite direction. It was a tug of war that could have gone viral on YouTube.

(I just learned that phrase yesterday.)

Wrought iron was no deterent for Jude. He forced Fred to reinforce the fence again, with a cross section between each baluster. When he continued to jump out, Fred made more cross sections and positioned them higher. So far, so good.

Though we love him and are happy we can provide a good home, Jude's presence for the past three months hasn't made the slightest difference in Bode's and Emma's attitudes toward Fred. And he terrorizes Spooky, so she stays in her room behind the baby gate unless I bring her out.

But Spooky is actively working on a plan. I don't know exactly what it entails, but she's been practicing with the stuffed beagle on her bed.

♫Na na na na na na na, na na na na, hey Jude. ♫

Just a Little Note from Spooky

2010-11-29T14:15:00.000-08:00

For all of you who enjoy regular visits and semi-regular posts from Ethel, she asks your forgiveness at the moment. She and Fred are vacationing in Orlando and will return next week. I have been ABANDONED here at home with the three terrorists PLUS Charming and Cindy's two terrorists and their cat! It IS nice, though, to have Charming and Cindy here - I have missed them so since they moved into their own house, and they shower me with attention and love, which after all, is exactly what I deserve...

In the meantime, I may be doing a bit of posting in her behalf over at her sister blog, Fred and Ethel Go To Disneyworld, which you may access HERE. And if you missed Part I of the story of how the newest terrorist came to be with us, you may read that HERE.

Thank you,
Spooky

Hey Jude, Part I

2010-11-26T20:42:00.000-08:00

All I wanted was one sweet little puppy. Just one tail-wagging happy little thing that would keep Fred company while I worked afternoons and nights.

But when I found Emma, I couldn't bear to leave her brother behind, so Bode joined our family, too.

And six months later when we saw a small sad face with big dark eyes peering from the depths of a cage outside the pet store, our hearts melted.

Enter Jude.

Wait a minute, I hear y'all saying. Aren't you a cat person? Doesn't Spooky rule the roost at your house? Why in the world would you take in yet another dog?

Well, settle back and get ready...it's been quite an adventure. And Spooky is none too happy about any of it.

You may recall that Bode and Emma were raised in a suspected puppy mill and immediately fell in love with me when I rescued them. But Fred? Unh-uh. No way. And after six months, they STILL don't cotton to him.  Everyone has offered suggestions, and we've tried them all: Fred's been their sole food provider, he's gotten down on the floor to their level, we've slept with them, he's walked them on their leashes, etc.

Well, he tried walking them.  They just weren't having any of it.

Willadean's helpful suggestion was that I find a red dye to match my hair and give Fred a red-headed makeover.

Huh???

We didn't try it.

I realized that the dogs were completely unsocialized, so we tried taking them for family visits. They seemed to like Mama and Daddy; Emma even jumped up into Mama's lap and let Daddy tote her around the house like a baby. They were a little wary of my great nephews, the Three Tornadoes, but they didn't growl or snap at them. And they just plain didn't know what to think of Cousin Pearl.

"Awwwww, ain't they cuuuuute? Ain't they? They're so cuuuute. Don'tchall thank they're just so cuuute? What's this 'un's name?" she requested as I handed over a thoroughly bewildered Emma. "Emma? Awww, she looks like Emmylou Harris, don't she? Don't she?  With all that silver hair, don't she? Is that why y'all named her Emma, coz o' Emmylou Harris? She looks just LIKE Emmylou Harris, don't she? Don't she? Awwww, you're so sweeeet, little Emmylou..."

Emma shot me a look that plainly said get me away from this crazy lady NOW.

"What's that 'un's name?" she asked, nodding toward Bode in my arms. "Awwwwww, I bet y'all named him that coz o' that skier, what's his name? Yeah, Bode Miller, that's your cousin, ain't it, Ethel?"

"Nephew," I supplied.

"Step-nephew," Fred corrected me. He's right. My professed kinship to Bode directly correlates with his success at the time: when he's skiing exceeding well, as in the 2010 Olympics, I've even been known to say, "That's my boy!"

Of course, after the 2006 Winter Olympics debacle, I said, "Bode who?"

Back to the dogs. Professional help was next. I bought a book about rescued problem dogs. Lots of good solid information.  Like this little tidbit on page 29: Never comfort your fearful dog. Comforting a fearful dog convinces him that something must be terribly wrong, or perhaps he perceives it as praise for his behavior. And then on page 47: It is a complete fallacy that comforting a fearful dog will reinforce his fears. ALWAYS reassure your fearful dog.

Haven't these people ever heard of proofreading?

Next stop on the road to taming the dogs: I consulted the websites of The Dog Whisperer and Victoria Stillwell, from It's Me or the Dog, watching hours upon hours of videos.

For several days, my deep Southern accent was infused with Victoria's own lovely proper English. "Would y'all bring it over here, please?" I directed a couple of coworkers with a huge heavy package. "I dunno," one of them was overheard saying as they walked away, "something about Yul Brenner's ovaries."

Somehow I never found The Dog Whisperer's accent appealing, and after a few days of muddled dialect, my Southern roots resurfaced, and Yul Brenner's ovaries or lack thereof were completely forgotten.

Fred finally reconciled that if the dogs would just stop barking every time he made the slightest move, he could tolerate that.  Next stop: obedience school.

Bode and Emma were A+ students, graduating at the top of their class, and even learning to socialize a bit with two of the other smaller dogs, especially Dexter and Riley.

They learned to WATCH ME, SIT, STAND, LIE DOWN, STAY, COME, and LEAVE IT. They both learned to walk calmly on leashes and to stay when I went out of their range of vision. But they failed completely on QUIET. They interacted a teensy bit with some of the other mommies and daddies, but if Fred so much as cleared his throat, they went ballistic. And Emma was as fearful of the instructor as she was of Fred.

Now, y'all, I swear I just couldn't believe it myself when I suggested the next step: a doggie psychologist. Yes I'm serious, a doggie psychologist. The obedience school instructor poo-pooed me when I mentioned it in their first class. "They'll be fine," she assured me. But at graduation, the day in which she finally got close enough to Emma to pick her up, poor little Emma peed and pooped in submission. The instructor cried. I cried. Dexter's mommy cried. And then the instructor handed me a card with the name and number of a doggie shrink.

Unfortunately, that doggie shrink had moved to Florida, and after an exhaustive search, I finally realized there simply weren't any certified doggie psychologists in Tennessee.

See, that's the problem: Tennessee. Now, if I lived in New York or LA, I probably coulda just whistled and a dozen Dog Freuds woulda come running.

A proper play area might help, I told Fred. The dogs needed to be able to run free without leashes and without my worrying about them running after bicyclists and joggers and the Jehovah's Witnesses. But when Fred grudgingly agreed to put up a fence, I found that our concepts of a proper play area were a far cry apart.

My plan had a cute cottagey fenced and gated area running from the end of the house out about 35 feet, then turning and running about 32 feet to the retaining wall that separates the back yard from the driveway, and back up again to meet the house, with the area under the deck accessible for shade. We would plant shrubs and little rock gardens on the outside and a fast growing shade tree just inside at one corner. Maybe even dig a shallow little brook and install a water pump, letting tinkling water flow over stones and a couple of tiny waterfalls.

Fred's plan was to find the cheapest metal fencing material that Lowes sells and knock up a 10 x 12 foot yard ending at the deck, with no shade, no rock gardens, and as for the babbling brook...

We'll just say he said no and leave it at that.

As in many battles, we compromised, but my side suffered a defeating loss. What we ended up with is a 21 x 19 foot area, including the tiny bit under the deck stairs, but not the deck itself for shade.

We installed the fence together, and when it was all said and done and the dogs were inside their new play yard, I said, "Here comes the test," and we began walking away.

It took Emma about 30 seconds to climb underneath and Bode perhaps 10 seconds longer.

Reinforcement #1: take the truck and buy a load of dirt. Area underneath fence now completely filled. "I don't know," I said skeptically, and the very next day I was tragically proven right...

Stay tuned for Part II.

And the Winning Number Is...Number 44!

2010-11-11T14:24:00.000-08:00

One of my all time favorite episodes of The Andy Griffith Show is The Jinx, in which one Henry Bennett becomes convinces he is a jinx and must leave town. His true friends set out to convince him otherwise by rigging the drawing for The Big Prize at the town social - everyone will take a number from the hat, but all the numbers will be the same - number 44. BUT...no one will say anything, leaving Henry to believe he is the sole holder of the winning number. It seems, though, that Henry has jinxed himself - when finally forced to show his number, he's the only one who DOESN'T have number 44...

Andy: "What number did you draw out of the hat, Henry, number 44?"
Henry: "No, six and seven eighths."
Barney, taking the number from Henry: "Oh, Andy, he pulled out the hat size!"

So when I put all the names for The Giveaway in my hat, I made sure the hat size was firmly affixed to the hat.

First I had to find the hat, though. Hard choice. It had to be juuuuust right.

I immediately discarded Fred's hat, for obvious reasons.

The pirate hat kept folding up on me, I was pretty sure I'd never dig out all the names from my Mickey Santa hat, and the fireman's hat had some kind of dried greenish/brownish yucky stuff inside.

Woody's hat was too small...

...and Gilligan's...just wouldn't come off his head.

So I narrowed it down to Ariel's old comfy brown slouch hat and my favorite Mickey cap.

Mickey won. I closed my eyes, felt around, and finally drew out one folded bit of paper...

...Hilary, at the Smitten Image! Yeah, yeah, I know - that's the kind of shorthand I use when I'm doing laundry, grilling chicken, taking pictures, watching Bewitched, and trying to keep the dogs from barking at...falling leaves.

So, congratulations, Hilary! Second runner-up was Midlife Jobhunter and third was Wander to the Wayside.

Unfortunately, I have no second and third place prizes, but I just wanted y'all to know that your names fell open when I dropped all the others out of the hat.

I would have loved to have given this prize to all who entered; but, as a consolation, I offer the Autumn Story from the book.

Thank to all my dear friends and followers who entered!

AUTUMN

We should have taken the long way 'round, but the woods beckoned with brilliant oranges and reds, fragments of gold wafting down, some catching the wind and drifting up again, others pirouetting to a graceful landing on the dense carpet at our feet.

We should have taken the long way 'round, heeding our mothers' admonitions that we follow the main road to the schoolhouse, but had we taken that road, we would never have discovered the horse.

He was a grand gray stallion, solid and majestic. Upon our first encounter, we stood in reverence, marvelling at his magnificence, patting the head offered us, bent and slightly turned. Riding was definitely possible, it was determined, the older among us helping the younger. We brought a rope and fashioned a crude harness; we procured a well worn blanket from Mama's cedar chest and laid it across his back. His name was determined by secret ballot: Trigger won out over Mr. Ed by a margin of one in our exclusive seven member junior equestrian club. True to his namesake, Trigger was a heroic gentle giant who allowed us to clamber aboard his lowered hindquarters, sometimes two or even three together, and urge him down the path, hands holding tight to the reins, little legs valiantly attempting to wrap around the beast. "Faster, faster!" "Higher, higher!" "Whoa, Trigger!"

Unless rain had made the path through the woods impassable, we visited the horse every school day, most mornings for little more than a quick pat to his head, but almost always for an afternoon ride. As the days grew shorter and cold weather set in, our rides were sometimes curtailed, but we knew he would be there when warm days returned. He would always be there.

We moved at the end of that school year. None of us went into the woods to tell him goodbye.

Many years later I returned as an adult. The place we had known as the woods was long gone; the road had been extended and was lined by six split level houses. I wondered about the horse; I wondered if, before he was bulldozed into oblivion, any other children had happened upon him, named him, and galloped as happily as we had done. Probably so, for the imaginations of children know no bounds, and a fallen tree in the midst of an overgrown acre can become anything at all - even a majestic gray stallion named Trigger.

Giveaway, Contest, Free, or Sex?

2010-11-04T12:42:00.000-07:00

As is often the case in many genres of the arts, the title can be as difficult, or even more so, to compose as the art itself.

(Yes, I realize categorizing blogging as an art form may be stretching the definition a bit, but, dadgum it, if video gaming can be considered one of the arts, so can blogging.)

So I tossed about several titles for my first giveaway in an attempt to entice as many of my readers as possible. My First Giveaway. Contest for Followers. To Say Thanks! A Thankful Giveaway. Win This Fabulous Prize!

Bor - ing.

Free. Free is always a good temptation. Hmmmm... Free For All. Free Giveaway. Free Prize!

Ho Hum.

"What other word can I use to lure people in?" I asked aloud. And Fred, just putting down the newspaper, stood and said, "How 'bout sex?"

Now, should any of my readers have delicate ears, you just might want to skip over the next two paragraphs.

"Puh-lease, how tasteless! But, hmmm...maybe...yeah...sex...yeah! I'll throw that in the title! Thanks, Fred!" And I set back to typing.

Whereupon Fred sighed heavily, went into the bedroom, and shut the door. Loudly. I think his suggestion may not have been intended for my title.

Whatever.

But yes, it's true - I'm having a giveaway! Why? Because a little celebration is in order - I now have over 100 followers! I know that may not be a big deal to many of you; some of y'all's followers number in the thousands; but to me, it's a very big deal.

As I was nearing my hundredth, I pondered the idea of giving that hundredth follower The Big Prize. Then I realized that that hundredth follower didn't get to one hundred without all the followers who came before. So everyone should get The Big Prize.

Problem - there's only one Big Prize.

So we'll draw numbers, or in this case, names. If you are a follower of my blog (new or old) and leave a comment on this post between today and Thursday, November 11, noon CST, you will automatically be entered in the drawing. I'll put all the names in a hat and draw out one winner. The winner will be notified by e-mail if possible, and I'll post the name publicly late Thursday.

And if you'd like an additional entry, tell me what you like best and/or dislike about my blog. Seriously; I'd like to know what keeps my readers coming back, or why some leave after a few posts. Do you like the photographs or the stories? Do you love or hate Spooky's stories? Willadean or Cousin Pearl? Funny or poignant? Just a little feedback would be helpful and will get your name dropped in the hat twice.

And now for the prize. The Big Prize.

Sorry. It's not a new Toyota Camry.

Or a fabulous trip to sunny Hawaii.

Or Las Vegas.

Or even Orlinda, Tennessee.

And no, you can't have Fred. I'm not done with him yet.

So what IS it, then?

It's a book. MY book. Oh, not the novel-I-started-and-haven't-touched-since-May book. No, this is a professionally made book of my photographs and stories from my childhood.

Not that I make any pretenses of being a professional photographer, because I most definitely am NOT. But I do get lucky every now and get some decent shots, and this book is full of some of the best of those.

Tales of the Seasons includes photos that you've undoubtedly seen in the pages of this blog, as well as several previously unpublished shots. And at the last minute, I decided to write four short stories for inclusion, stories that I have never published.

They were kinda written on the spur of the moment, so I hope I got all the bloopers out.

Not only that, but the stories and the book itself use MY REAL NAME as well as the real names of my family and friends.

I had to think long and hard about that one, but finally decided to just go with it. What the heck.

So, that's it. But if you're not interested in the book, I'm sure I can dig up something else. I have four copies of To Kill a Mockingbird, one of which has never been dropped in the bathtub, but unfortunately, is missing the last two pages. I also have two DVD copies of Disney's Mulan. Or I could send a big box of dog food - all opened, but little used from each bag, as my dogs REFUSE to eat dry food.

That's about it. Enter if you're interested, and thank you all so much!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

PS That last line, all the little plus signs, was penned by Emma. In the field of The Arts, Dog Blogging is a sub-genre of Blogging.

Hawaii and Las Vegas photos courtesy of http://www.pachd.com/

Summer in Random Photos

2010-10-21T17:46:00.000-07:00

Now that summer is officially over, the leaves are beginning to fall from the trees, and I've dug out my good black sweater and ragged old hoodie, I'm beginning to rethink that wish I made a couple of weeks ago when it was still 100 degrees outside. Yeah, I'm the one who wished that summer would be OVER, I'm the one who said, "enough already!" I'm the one who wanted to be able to take the dogs out for more than ten minutes at a time.

WHAT WAS I THINKING?

It's COLD out there! Never mind that the highs this week are in the mid to high 70's; the lows are in the 50's and even 40's! And considering that I get home at 2 am, and that's when the dogs get to go out and play...well, it's just too danged cold for Ethelmae Potter to stay outside more than a couple of minutes, even wearing her double layered fleece bathrobe and fuzzy Mickey Mouse gloves.

So, here it is, barely into fall, and I'm already wistful for summer. What better excuse to reminisce with a few random summer photos?

____________________________________________

Nothing is more welcoming after a hard night at work than a warm inviting front porch.

Actually, this is a sight I seldom saw this summer. Fred remembered to leave the light on for me exactly twice. Twice. "It's dark at 2am," I complained. "Take a flashlight with you," he suggested. "Or, hey, use your cell phone for a light!"

He's not just thoughtful, he's also a genius.

__________________________________________________

Take a guess. Go ahead...what is it?

It's a bat! Yes, he must have somehow lost his way, for he slept the day peacefully away hanging upside down on our front porch ceiling fan.

And this one?

Give up? It's a tiny bird, head tucked in his little wings. He nested atop one of our porch columns several days in July. I never saw him awake; the porch lights and barking dogs did not disturb his sleep. One night I looked up and he just wasn't there. I like to think he found his family and rejoined them in their nest.

_______________________________________________________

Impatiens on my porch.

Leaves, tightly furled, open to reveal tiny buds that grow pink in a few hours and by nightfall have become delicate works of art.

________________________________________________________

Emma

No, I didn't add special effects to this photo. I caught little Emma hiding behind the porch swing and focused on her face, the angular space between the swing back and arm blurring in the foreground to give her an angelic halo.

_______________________________________________________________

For weeks on end, I sat in the porch swing, camera focused on the hummingbird feeder. I saw the ruby-throated hummingbird sitting in the branches of the Yoshino Cherry tree, but could never get close enough for a clear shot. But I thought this one, adorned in more sedate jewel tones, still quite lovely.

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Simple, but one of my favorite summer shots. Tightly bound, the patio umbrella seems anxious to unleash its rainbow delights.

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Fungi fascinate me. This was growing along the side of an old decaying tree trunk.

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The sycamore tree on the right has stood scarred in our back yard for almost a decade, the result of a direct hit by lightening.

This year it surprised us: on some of its remaining branches, new life emerged in the form of tiny green leaves. I've renamed it the Phoenix Tree.
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Looking up at the train trestle at Shelby Park, just a block from our old house in Nashville.

Though it possesses an undeniable rustic beauty, the trestle holds tragic memories: our young neighbor lost his legs and one arm while trying to hop a train just the other side of it, and our old stray dog, Sammy, was forever crippled when she tried in vain to save one of her five week old puppies in the path of a train.
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Spiderwebs are as varied as their occupants.

This one was probably fabricated by a young garden spider, though I never saw the weaver.
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One morning while routinely watering my flowers, I glanced down into the shrub directly beside me and spied this snake out for a sunbath.

Even though it was obviously a baby, at only about about 14 inches long, I gave it a wide berth.
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We heard the raucous call of locusts all summer, but I saw very few. This one was calmly rocking back and forth on my porch swing.

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Impatiens play host to many species of insects during the summer in Pleasant View. I can always expect to house at least two Granddaddy Long-Legs, several grasshoppers, ants, and wasps, and a Praying Mantis or two. Their resemblance to some of Hollywood's greatest aliens is uncanny.

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The moon in the afternoon sky. I've been told that when we see the moon in daylight, we're not actually seeing the moon, but merely a reflection of it.

And then I wonder, what's it reflecting onto? Is there a giant mirror up there in the atmosphere?

So I Googled it. The simplest explanation seemed to come from Earthsky.org. I THINK it says it's the real thing; I'm just not sure what they mean about a waning gibbous phase. I don't know...maybe that's what a giant mirror in the atmosphere is called.

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While driving through the countryside of Pleasant View, I spied this tiny house, the eave of its front porch hung heavily with gourds of all sizes and shapes. Though I got a photo of the place showing off the gourds, I much prefer this one, taken when I shifted my position ever so slightly so that the house was in almost total silhouette.

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Well, like I said...random. And why? It gives me an opportunity to relax, post something mindless, while I concentrate on a few other important matters right now. Matters that I will be posting about in the near future. Like some of the crazy characters at my new workplace. Like the continuing adventures of Emma and Bode. And something I've tiptoed around and have finally decided to tell: the current abhorrent practice that the Post Office has initiated to try and rid itself of thousands of employees...and I am one of those employees in the line of fire.

All in good time. I'm still getting my ducks in a row.