JUST IMAGINE

Imagine if we could see our world only in black and white.  

Color lets us in on a secret.

Our Creator intended for us to live in sweet splendor.

Imagine the intricate design of our Eyes.

Profound.

Interesting Thought

Happened upon these words.....

Did you ever look at a picture of yourself and see a stranger in the background?  

It makes you wonder how many strangers have pictures of you.

How many moments of other peoples lives have we been in?

Were we a part of someone's life when their dream came true?

Or, were we there when their dream died?

Did we keep trying to get in the picture?

As if we were somehow destined to be there?

Or, did the shot take us by surprise?

Just think, you could be a big part of someone else's life,

and not even know it.

Strangers Unaware

Aristotle: Reaching for The Mean

1. Aristotle believed that, in every situation, proper behavior lies at the midway point, or the mean. 
2. Example:  My doctor tells me to walk, walk, walk.  Forget about all other exercise, just walk.
3. How far?  Where?  I'm stuck, and I procrastinate. 
4. Guilt gets out its hammer and starts pounding on my brain, "You should be walking.   You should be walking.  You're not walking.  You're not walking."
5. Aristotle would tell me not to fret, but instead look for the mean.  It's midway between walking a mile and not walking at all.  Half-mile is the mean.  
6. If I go out my front door and walk ten steps today, eleven steps tomorrow, twelve the day after tomorrow, I'm working toward the mean.
7. In two weeks, walking will be a habit, and I'll be closer to the mean.  
8. A half mile a day adds up to 3-1/2 miles a week, and that's nothing to sneeze at. Not only that, but that Nasty Old Guilt will stop hammering away at me.
9. Thanks, Aristotle for teaching me about this cool approach.

Brace Ourselves!

Getting dental care these days is frightening.  Not because of the drone of the drill, but because of the cost.

Both of us are presently in the middle of major dental work.

Translucent Retainer
What do you suppose it cost
to make this?
What it will cost me:  $650.00

Yesterday was my first of several appointments for a tooth implant.  A front lower tooth.  Implants are done in steps, beginning with x-rays, consultation with oral surgeon, the surgical implant,  months of healing, and placement of crown onto the implant.  Unless I want to go without a front tooth while it heals, I'll wear a custom-made translucent retainer with one tooth.    

Hubby asked what the implant would cost.  When the consults, x-rays, the surgery, the gizmos and gadgets were tallied, the total was estimated between $5,000 and $6,000.

(That's one tooth and just me.  There's hubby's half to this dental story, with an estimated cost between $5,000 and $6,000, too.)

Later in the afternoon, after we regained consciousness, we stopped at one of those big stores that sells everything from lumber to kitchen faucets to candy.  We agreed to meet by the lawn tractors when we were ready to check out.  My tolerance of this kind of store is zero, so it didn't take long and I was back by the tractors.

My body was weary and begged for a place to rest.  I figured this was the kind of store a person could sit just about anywhere, so I parked my empty shopping cart and seated myself up on a big yellow zero-turning lawn mower.  For me, waiting is like drowning.  I fidgeted, looked down and staring at me on the steering wheel was a price tag.  For the heck of it, I wondered what such a piece of equipment cost.  I turned the tag over.  Price:  $2,658.   What?  You have got to be kidding me.  You mean we could buy two of these huge yard mowers for the same price as one measly front tooth, the size of a peanut?

If there was a way to shove a Chiclet Gum between my two front teeth and make it stay there, that's what I'd do and forget about the frickin' thing.

Strolling Through The Years

Rusted and tuckered

I'm over seventy now.

Little kids loved me.

I took them for rides

Tightly they held on to me.

Sidewalks, up and down.

Feeble and broken,

I can hear the giggles still.

It is going to rain.

by 

Nature Weaver

Memories of Meadow Clover

As a kid, my brother and I spent our idle time walking fields of purple meadow clover and energetic butterflies.  It was such a big deal to pick a clover blossom, pull out a purple tube, and suck its sweet nectar.

Louisa May Alcott (1832-1888) wrote the poem "Clover-Blossom."  It tells a story as sweet as I remember the clover-honey to be.......

"In a quiet, pleasant meadow,

Beneath a summer sky,

Where green old trees their branches waved,

And winds went singing by;

Where a little brook went rippling

So musically low,

And passing clouds cast shadows

On the waving grass below;

Where low, sweet notes of brooding birds

Stole out on the fragrant air,

And golden sunlight shone undimmed

On all most fresh and fair; --

There bloomed a lovely sisterhood

Of happy little flowers,

Together in this pleasant home,

Through quiet summer hours.

No rude hand came to gather them,

No chilling winds to blight;

Warm sunbeams smiled on them by day,

And soft dews fell at night.

So here, along the brook-side,

Beneath the green old trees,

The flowers dwelt among their friends,

The sunbeams and the breeze.

One morning, as the flowers awoke,

Fragrant, and fresh, and fair,

A little worm came creeping by,

And begged a shelter there.

'Ah! pity and love me,' sighed the worm,

'I am lonely, poor, and weak;

A little spot for  a resting-place,

Dear flowers, is all I seek.

I am not fair, and have dwelt unloved

By butterfly, bird and bee.

They little knew that in this dark form

Lay the beauty they yet may see.

Then let me lie in the deep green moss,

And weave my little tomb,

And sleep my long, unbroken sleep

Till Spring's first flowers come.

Then will I come in a fairer dress,

And your gentle care repay

By the grateful love of the humble worm;

Kind flowers, O let me stay!'

But the wild rose showed her little thorns,

While her soft face glowed with pride;

The violet hid beneath the drooping ferns,

And the daisy turned aside.

Little Houstonia scornfully laughed,

As she danced on her slender stem;

While the cowslip bent to the rippling waves,

And whispered the tale to them.

A blue-eyed grass looked down on the worm,

As it silently turned away,

and cried, 'Thou wilt harm our delicate leaves,

And therefore thou canst not stay.'

Then a sweet, soft voice, called out from far,

'Come hither, poor worm, to me;

The sun lies warm in this quiet spot,

And I'll share my home with thee.'

The wondering flowers looked up to see

Who had offered the worm a home:

'T was a clover-blossom, whose fluttering leaves

Seemed beckoning him to come;

It dwelt in a sunny little nook,

Where cool winds rustled by,

And murmuring bees and butterflies came,

On the flower's breast to lie.

Down through the leaves the sunlight stole,

And seemed to linger there,

As if it loved to brighten the home

Of one so sweet and fair.

Its rosy face smiled kindly down,

As the friendless worm drew near;

And its low voice, softly whispering, said

'Poor thing, thou art welcome here;

Close at my side, in the soft green moss,

Thou wilt find a quiet bed,

Where thou canst softly sleep till Spring,

With my leaves above thee spread.

I pity and love thee, friendless worm,

Though thou art not graceful or fair;

For many a dark, unlovely form,

Hath a kind heart dwelling there;

No more o'er the green and pleasant earth,

Lonely and poor, shalt thou roam,

For a loving friend has thou found in me,

And rest in my little home.'

Then, deep in its quiet mossy bed,

Sheltered from sun and shower,

The grateful worm spun its winter tomb,

In the shadow of the flower.

And Clover guarded well its rest,

Till Autumn's leaves were sere,

till all her sister flowers were gone,

And her winter sleep drew near.

Then her withered leaves were softly spread

O'er the sleeping worm below,

Ere the faithful little flower lay

Beneath the winter snow.

Spring came again, and the flowers rose

From their quiet winter graves,

And gayly danced  on their slender stems,

And sang with the rippling waves.

Softly the warm winds kissed their cheeks;

Brightly the sunbeams fell,

As, one by one, they came again

In their summer homes to dwell.

And little Clover bloomed once more,

Rosy, and sweet, and  fair,

And patiently watched by the mossy bed,

For the worm still slumbered there.

Then her sister flowers scornfully cried,

As they waved in the summer air,

'The ugly worm was friendless and poor,

Little Clover, why shouldst thou care?

Then watch no more, nor dwell alone,

Away from thy sister flowers;

Come, dance and feast, and spend with us

These pleasant summer hours.

We pity thee, foolish little flower,

To trust what the false worm said;

He will not come in a fairer dress,

For he lies in the  green moss dead.'

But little Clover still watched on,

Alone in her sunny home;

She did not doubt the poor worm's truth,

And trusted he would come.

At last the small cell opened wide,

And a glittering butterfly,

From out of the moss, on golden wings,

Soared up to the sunny sky.

Then the wondering flowers cried aloud,

'Clover, thy watch was vain;

He only sought a shelter here,

And never will come again.'

And the unkind flowers danced for joy,

When they saw him thus depart;

Fort the love of a beautiful butterfly

Is dear to a flower's heart.

They feared he would stay in Clover's home,

And her tender care repay;

So they danced for joy, when at last he rose

And silently flew away.

Then little Clover bowed her head,

While her soft tears fell like dew;

For her gentle heart was grieved, to find

That her sisters' words were true,

And the insect she watched so long

When helpless, poor, and lone,

Thankless for all her faithful care,

On his golden wings had flown.

But as she drooped in silent grief,

She heard little Daisy cry,

'O sisters, look!  I see him now,

Afar in the sunny sky;

He is floating back from Cloud-Land now,

Borne by the fragrant air.

Spread wide your leaves, that he may choose

The flower he deems most fair.'

Then the wild rose glowed with a deeper blush,

As she proudly waved on her stem;

The Cowslip bent to the clear blue waves,

And made her mirror of them.

Little Houstonia merrily danced,

And spread her white leaves wide;

While Daisy whispered her joy and hope,

As she stood by her gay friends' side.

Violet peeped from the tall green ferns,

And lifted her soft blue eye

To watch the glittering form, that shone

Afar in the summer sky.

They thought no more of the ugly worm,

Who once had wakened their scorn;

But looked and longed for the butterfly now,

As the soft wind bore him on.

Nearer and nearer the bright form came,

And fairer the blossoms grew;

Each welcomed him, in her sweetest tones;

Each offered her honey and dew.

But in vain did they beckon, and smile, and call,

And wider their leaves unclose,

The glittering form still floated on,

By Violet, Daisy, and Rose.

Lightly it flew to the pleasant home

Of the flower most truly fair,

On Clover's breast he softly lit,

And folded his bright wings there.

'Dear flower,' the butterfly whispered low,

'Long hast thou waited for me;

Now I am come, and my grateful love

Shall brighten they home for thee;

Thou has loved and cared for me, when alone,

Hast watched o'er me long and well;

And now will I strive to show the thanks

The poor worm could not tell.

Sunbeam and breeze shall come to thee,

And the coolest dews that fall;

Whate'er a flower can wish is thine,

For thou art worthy all.

And the home thou shared with the friendless worm

The butterfly's home shall be;

And thou shalt find, dear, faithful flower,

A loving friend in me.'

Then, through the long, bright summer hours

Through sunshine and through shower,

Together in their happy home

Dwelt butterfly and flower."

Dusty Gravel Roads

A vermilion-red vine clings and prowls its way up the branches of a tree, creating a roadside rarity.....a tree all dressed up with no place to go.

An errand took us out on dusty gravel roads last evening.  Ugh, to the clouds of dust kicked up by the muscle pickups that gunned their way around us.  

We were watchful for deer poised in the ditches, ready to jump out in front of us.  Somewhere along the line our car stopped so a chipmunk could make it the rest of the way across the road.  It's in the early evening hours before dusk that the animals magically appear.

The rivers are low, very low.  One of the old iron bridges we crossed marks the 1941 flood line.  We tried to envision the river banks full of that much water and flowing over onto the farm fields and farm yards.  Old iron bridges remember well the high waters of the past.  One day soon this bridge, too, will be replaced with a modern structure, and its high-water memories will be lost forever.

Catch and Release

The problem with any past situation or relationship is how we decide to remember it.  Either we aggrandize and embellish, we overlook, or just plain forget chunks of how it really was.  The human tendency is to take a fresh mental sheet of paper and carefully sketch the past to be how we wish it had been.  At that point, it no longer is our past, but rather a cleverly constructed self-deception.

Imagine the commercial fisherman who lowers his nets in the waters, returns the next day to pull in his catch. He throws some fish back, some he keeps.  That's what our minds do.  Sort, keep, and throw back.  The ones we decide to keep become our new recollection, and that's what we hold onto.

Windmill Farm Art

Nature is masterful at recycling and reusing remnants of the past.  This windmill is old and worn out.  No longer is it needed to produce energy.  Yet, it's perfectly suited to be a trellis for plant life to lean on.  I'm pretty sure there's a moral tucked in there somewhere.

Windmills afford landowners the ideal tool for decorating their yards.  At first we didn't realize the middle tree isn't a tree at all.  It's the base to the circular blades up against the old pump house.  Simple, yet majestic.

Wait, there's more.......

Mississippi River and A Camera

From the main channel to the secluded backwaters, the Mississippi River is a photographer's playground.  For instance, these ribbons of wild celery stretched out in the late afternoon sun.  Water, weeds, rocks, and reflections....what a photo op!

These backwater beauties are truly diamonds in the rough, growing where few eyes will see.  No matter to them.  They are resolved to stand tall and be the best they can be.  

Sunflowers and Vincent van Gogh

The Smile in Our Back Yard

The tootsies were surprised to step on dew this morning.  I wanted to get a close-up of this happy face growing beside our screened-in porch.

by Vincent van Gogh

Sunflowers have been the inspiration for artist and writer over the centuries.  Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890) created two series of paintings of sunflowers in various stages of life from full bloom to shriveled.  He preferred the yellows, and some of his paintings were done entirely in shades of yellow.

by Vincent van Gogh

The French appropriately call the sunflower tournesol, which means 'turn with the sun.'

It's so easy sometimes to put our anchors down in the waters of sadness.  Maybe the sunflower is trying to tell us something.  It's not easy to be down in the dumps on a sunny day.  If we follow the sun, our spirits will lift so we see only the good in our lives.  Another example of the outdoors being a storehouse of answers.  When one thinks about it, life is pretty much a scavenger hunt, isn't it?

I hope your heart is smiling today.

The Speakeasy

• Even though the 18th Amendment went into effect, people still wanted to drink.
• To circumvent the new law, saloon owners came up with the idea of charging customers to see an attraction (like an animal) and then serving them a complimentary alcoholic beverage.  An example would be charging 25 cents to see a pig and throwing in a free gin cocktail. These places were low-class dives, known as Blind Pigs and Blind Tigers and served only beer and liquor. 
• The Speakeasies, on the other hand, were the high-class establishments that sold alcohol illegally, but they offered their fashionable customers not only liquor, but food and entertainment as well.  Some speakeasies required men wear coats and ties and women evening dresses.
• Bartenders told their customers to be quiet, or speak easy, when they ordered an illegal alcoholic drink so they wouldn't raise suspicion.  
• The saloon had been off limits to women before this, but now they went in droves to the speakeasies to enjoy a cocktail.  The speakeasy quickly became the "cat's pajamas" and the "bees knees!" 
• When one saloon shut down, a half-dozen underground speakeasies opened up.  They operated in basements, top floors, or abandoned buildings with back entrances.  The majority of big-city speakeasies were established and controlled by organized crime.  
• To strengthen their security, a lot of speakeasies required a password be given to the guy guarding the door.  Some required membership cards or secret phrases, like "Frankie sent me."  
• Daily raids became the norm, but the club owners cleverly incorporated sophisticated warning systems to intercept them.  When a raid went off as planned, the owner would do jail time, the speakeasy would be smashed to pieces, and the alcohol  dumped down the sewer or in the river.  
• Some speakeasies served liquor in teacups with saucers, so if there was a raid, it would look like the patrons were abiding by the no-alcohol law.
• Speakeasies were a major reason for the development of jazz music.  By offering music, a bar could draw more business.  
• As the years of Prohibition advanced, so did the number of speakeasies.  With the increase of speakeasies, there also came a rise in police corruption.  Especially in NYC.  Bar owners granted bribes to enforcement teams to avoid raids or just to give them a heads up if a raid was on its way.
• Gin and vodka replaced rum and whiskey as cocktail ingredients at speakeasies, because they didn't require as much aging and were easier to make illegally.
• The 21 Club, one of New York's most notorious speakeasies, outsmarted law enforcement with a series of bells and whistles to alert their management that a raid was about to take place.  The biggest secret of the 21 Club was the wine cellar.  A two-ton brick wall built on hinges was used to hide smuggled goods from the police.  The only instrument that would open the secret door was a meat skewer.
•  Speakeasies are historical landmarks that bring the legends of the Roaring Twenties back to life.   

"For every prohibition you create,

 you also create an underground."

  ~Jello Biafra

Prohibition - A Sobering Time in History

• Prohibition of alcohol was known simply as Prohibition and referred to the banning of the manufacture, transportation, import, export, and sale of alcohol and alcoholic beverages.  
• The supporters of Prohibition were known as Dries.
• During the 1800s and the early 1900s, Prohibition became a big issue, and everybody had their own opinion of it.  Before elections, politicians were asked where they stood on Prohibition.  Those who admitted to Wet tendencies, knew they would lose thousands of votes.
• The Women's Christian Temperance Union and the Anti-Saloon League were fundamental supporters of Prohibition. They published cartoons, posters and leaflets and spread them all over the country.
• The Temperance Movement was the first serious anti-alcohol movement in the U.S.  In the early 1800s, the average American male drank 7 gallons of alcohol a year.  This movement took root in America's Protestant churches.  At first they campaigned for moderation, but then pushed toward no drinking at all.
• The 18th Amendment abolished the sale or consumption of alcohol in the U.S. Congress voted its approval in October 1919, and enacted it into law as the National Prohibition Act of 1920. 
• Maryland did not enforce Prohibition.  Maryland felt Prohibition was an infringement of its state right to control alcohol within its borders.  Not everyone was in favor of Prohibition, and from the beginning even the other states kept up the flow of alcohol with the help of gangsters and the speakeasy.
• Bootlegging was the term used for illegally transporting liquor to either sell or use.  It became a booming business and made it easy for small-time crooks to become big-time crooks. In the 1880s, bootlegging referred to hiding flasks of illegal liquor inside boots.
• Prohibition was enforced by poorly paid agents and commissioners.  There was one agent for every 200,000 square miles.  The agents were easily bribed and corrupted by gangsters, who would do anything to keep their profitable alcohol rackets alive.  Despite this, there were successful agents, like Isadore Einstein and Moe Smith, who, between the two, made over 4,000 arrests.
• In 1921, the agents seized 414,000 gallons of alcohol.  Eight years later, in 1929, they seized 11,860,000 gallons.  This shows how much corruption was going on and how Prohibition had failed.  
• Gangsters like Al Capone (Public Enemy No. 1) and Bugsy Moran used Prohibition to their advantage.  With large mob gangs, they smuggled in alcohol across every border and ocean.  Their profits were massive, estimated about $2 billion a year. 
• After the Wall Street Crash, people across America became penniless and desperate.  The unpopularity of Prohibition grew like wild fire.  People felt that Prohibition was having detrimental effects on their lives, and they wanted to end the gang culture that had grown to dangerous heights.  
• Eventually, Prohibition was repealed.  Alcohol became legal again in December of 1933.
• The 21st Amendment to the Constitution is the only Amendment that repeals a previous Amendment.  It repealed the 18th Amendment which prohibited the sale and consumption of alcohol. 

Tomorrow the speakeasy will be in the spotlight.

Lured to the Mississippi

The sun was in the east, casting shadows before hubby and his buddy starting casting their lines in the waters of the Mighty M.

That was yesterday.  Today we eat the bounties of their casts.  Nothing compares to fresh fish, filleted, seasoned with salt and pepper, dredged in flour, and fried to sizzling crisps.  Frying fish is an ancestral ceremony at our house.

The fish has been a symbol in Christianity since its origin.  The fish symbol is based on the Greek word, ichthys, meaning  fish, and is an acronym in Greek which translates into English as  "Jesus Christ, God's Son, Savior."  According to tradition, "when a Christian met a stranger in the road, the Christian sometimes drew one arc of the simple fish outline in the dirt.  If the stranger drew the other arc, both believers knew they were in good company."  (Christianity Today)

"Going fishing" with a buddy is a non-denominational communion.  Fishermen are quick to admit to the old saying, "The fishing was good; it was the catching that was bad."  For those of us who enjoy the sport, fishing is spiritual, with biblical roots.

When the guys get home from a day of fishing, I always get a kick out of listening to them tell where they put in the boat, what area they fished, what they used for bait, what fish bit on what bait, what kinds of fish were biting, and, of course, the size of the "one that got away."

Fish stories are a lore of their own.  If a fish story is told enough times, it's acceptable for the fish to keep growing.  It's simply more proof that the fun of fishing doesn't end when the boat comes back out of the water.  One day of fishing can last a lifetime.

Before

Yesterday's catch included these crappie, bluegill, perch and bass.  The guys released the bass back into the river because they didn't meet the legal length of 14 inches.

After

"If people concentrated on the really important things in life, there'd be a shortage of fishing
 poles."  ~Doug Larson

Haiku Poem - Beside the Stream

Mother Earth wears green,

Edged with yellow polka dots. 

What color is calm?

Ripples from a trout

Swimming in sweet cool silence.

What color is peace?

Her dress is relaxed.

As she wants her guests to be.

What color is prayer?

by

Nature Weaver

Thoreau and Me

Gosh, it must be 30 years or more when I browsed a local book store and came upon two beautifully-bound volumes of Henry David Thoreau's Journals.  The volumes were substantial and pricey.  My budget screamed when I bought the one volume and cried when I left behind the second. 

Thoreau's heart-string connection to Nature, his intense thoughts about the natural, his wisdom about the ordinary, and his simple life at Walden, all managed to sweep me off my feet in a literary love affair.  

Thoreau's writings were responsible for my annual solo stays in our 1850s log cabin in the woods.  I'd pack minimum gear and withdraw for one week each winter to our 1850s log cabin that hubby restored for us.  His vision, his determination, hard work and endurance brought our humble log-cabin dreams to reality, and I cannot ever thank him enough.  Our log cabin in the woods was a most sacred gift hubby gave to our marriage.  

My winter week in the woods, usually between Christmas and New Years, was a communion with Nature that few have a chance to experience.  When the early evening darkness set in, I cuddled close to the light of an antique kerosene lamp and the warmth of the wood-burning stove, and my brain and blood feasted on Thoreau's every awe-inspired word.  Our cabin was my Walden, and my solo stays in the woods were among the richest times of my whole life. I hiked through the woods, and one fallen log beside the river came to be my outdoor easy chair.  It was there that I was able to rinse myself clean of stuff that bothered me.  More than anything, I would manage to put things in perspective.  Like Thoreau, I wrote in my journal.   

I genuflect before a sampling of Thoreau's writings...........

However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names.  It is not so bad as you are.  It looks poorest when you are richest.  The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise.  Love your life, poor as it is.  You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poorhouse.  The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the almshouse as brightly as from the rich man's abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring.  I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace.

************ 

If a man walk in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer; but if he spends his whole day as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making earth bald before her time, he is esteemed an industrious and enterprising citizen.  As if a town had no interest in its forests but to cut them down!

************* 

 The greatest compliment that was ever paid me was when one asked me what I thought, and attended to my answer.  I am surprised, as well as delighted, when this happens, it is such a rare use he would make of me, as if he were acquainted with the tool.

************* 

Nature is full of genius, full of the divinity; so that not a snowflake escapes its fashioning hand.

(January 5, 1856) 

************ 

Have no mean hours, but be grateful for every hour, and accept what it brings.  The reality will make any sincere record respectable.  No day will have been wholly misspent, if one sincere, thoughtful page has been written.  Let the daily tide leave some deposit on these pages, as it leaves sand and shells on the shore.  So much increase of terra firma.  This may be a calendar of the ebbs and flows of the soul; and on these sheets as a beach, the waves may cast up pearls and seaweed.

************* 

The fate of the country does not depend on how you vote at the polls.  The worst man is as strong as the best at that game.  It does not depend on what kind of paper you drop into the ballot-box once a year, but on what kind of man you drop from your chamber into the street every morning.

Trout Fishing

The area within 100 miles of where we live is blessed with fertile trout streams, and hubby is drawn to the challenge of trout fishing. Yesterday the trout were playing hard to catch, but that only cranked up the challenge.  We parked close to the stream, so hubby could walk back to the vehicle and try different jigs and spinners.  He caught his limit of five, each with a different bait.

We were on our way home from a visit to a Cabela's Store, where we each bought a new hooded sweatshirt for autumn's upcoming cool nights.  Most of our sweatshirts are well-worn to the point of having frayed cuffs.  Old sweatshirts are like old shoes....the older they are, the better they feel.

While hubby fished for trout, I reclined the passenger seat, put a pillow over my eyes, and fell asleep.  Through the open windows, an afternoon stream-side breeze fanned me with cool air, which was a welcome reprieve from the past weeks of stifling heat.

The wild daisies are so pretty now.  Small patches of them here, there, and everywhere the birds have been.  The sweet solace of a new season is peeking at us, and we can't wait for autumn, when the fall fairies dance on daisies and whisper to us in the cool breezes.    

Shopping

Shopping with a girlfriend is not something I do often.  Actually, I'm a non-shopper, but yesterday's trolley was far from the ordinary for a gal my age.

She treated me to a drive in her convertible.  We kicked back, cranked up the radio to the beat of rock-and-roll, let our hair fly, and cruised to a city 75 miles away.  My heart had so much fun, mainly because I felt carefree.  We made a pact before we left.....no hurry, no worry.

The weather was absolutely convertible perfect.  Sunny, high 70s, with puffy white marshmallow clouds above us.  I leaned my head back on the head rest and looked up into the sky.  We were wrapped in pretty day.

Where to eat lunch was the biggest decision of our joyride.  We parked the convertible under a shade tree in the Red Lobster parking lot and went inside for a taste of the sea.

We had certain things to shop for, and the two of us rambled the racks looking for what we needed.  After applying our store coupons and taking advantage of the so-called sales, we felt we had flaunted our frugal financial wisdom.  Our last stop was the liquor store.

On these special days, I usually buy something to remember them by.  When I spotted this beaded bracelet and put it around my wrist, I knew right off the bat it was about to become my convertible-ride memory.

Our 1-day outing was more invigorating than if we'd gone away for a week.  Knowing time was limited, we crammed all the fun we could inside the hours.  The snazzy convertible returned us safely to our starting point, and now it's the business of remembering.  Spits and spurts of silliness, deciding which entrees to order at Red Lobster, and our little-girl giggles as we tried on shoes......won't be forgotten.  I was back home with hubby and the fuzzy one by 7 o'clock.  After setting my two shopping bags on the couch and changing into my jammies, I realized how I cherish my old friends.  She and I go back to the early 1970s when we worked together.  To think.....some 40 years later we're out there letting our hair blow in the wind and singing to the oldies.  Wowza, what a day!

Guest Blog

Dis  Iz  da fizzy 1.

Myne Muthr wEnted shopPinG 2day  an  LEfted  mE  an  myne Dady hoMe.  She seD I kud rited hr  bloge.

Ya no  WhaT?

Myne  DadY taks  mE  4 woKs.   Hee  kaLz  mE  hiz  liddl  MuTT.   Da  2  uv  uS  R  guNNo  havz  loTTSa  fuN  2dae.

BYe.

Minnesota's Charming Characteristics

PHOTO OF THE DAY
Cathedral Aisle

Did you know?

•  The small extension on the northern tip of Minnesota makes Minnesota the northernmost point of all 48 contiguous states, including Maine.  This area is known as the "Northwest Angle" and is only accessible by land through Canada.
• The northernmost town in the contiguous 48 states is Angle Inlet, Minnesota.
• Minnesota has 90,000 miles of shoreline, more than California, Florida and Hawaii combined.
• Minnesota's waters flow outward in three directions:  North to Hudson Bay in Canada, East to the Atlantic Ocean, and South to the Gulf of Mexico.
• Minnesota has 11,842 lakes over 10 acres in size.
• Minnesota has 6,564 natural rivers and streams that together flow for 69,000 miles.

Tree Homes

Squirrels, porcupines, raccoon, and owls make their homes in tree hollows, or den trees, like this one.

I can't help but look at a tree like this and remember visiting a wildlife exhibit with a camera inside a tree hollow showing a squirrel family cuddled and snuggled together inside it.  Talk about sweet.

Hollow logs also give shelter for other animals that live in the woods.  With the present-day uprooting of timbers and wood lots, just imagine the baby animals we are leaving homeless.  This makes me so sad, and I can't help but wonder when the affects of our thoughtless destruction will be realized.  

"We must protect the forests

for our children, grandchildren,

and children yet to be born.

We must protect the forests

for those who can't speak for themselves

such as the birds, animals, fish and trees."

~Qwatsinas, Nuxalk Nation

Friday's Fascinations

Whew!  Am I ever relieved that my terrifying nightmares were only that.  This morning my coffee tastes better, and the world looks more beautiful knowing the last six hours were a hoax.

The tornado siren went off in our town yesterday afternoon.  Fuzzy One knew something was awry, and her daddy wasn't home to protect her.  So, I proceeded to take over the position of great protector.  Poor little girl didn't want to go in the basement with me, so I picked her up and carried her down there.  I sat down on the bottom step and looked down at those two black eyes that were asking, "Where's my daddy."

I gotta share yesterday's silly senior moment.  We had trolleyed for groceries, to a town 13 miles from home.  Our village has a wonderful convenience mart, but naturally doesn't carry everything.  On our way home, we were talking about our upcoming vacation, stopped at a stop sign.  Kept talking.  Stayed sitting there.......waiting for the light to turn green.

Dah.....stop signs don't turn green.  Neither of us realized  we spazzed out, so we couldn't spar like we usually do when one of us does something silly.  Like we say when we have senior moments......who really cares!

The U.S. is leading in Olympic medal wins, with 90 as of this morning, according to Yahoo News.  The Games are truly inspirational, aren't they.  They also show us up close the proverbial agony of defeat.

Today we're getting ready for a patio picnic with friends.  The temperature is forecast to be in the high 70s, so that will be so much more comfortable than the 100s the last weeks.  Both of us here are ready for the temperatures to get down to where we need sweatshirts and turtlenecks.  The only bad part of winter for me is having to wear shoes outside.

I'm reading a book by Robert Wilder, "The Sea and the Stars."  The blue hard cover was forgotten in the side pouch of one of my suitcases.  Must have taken it with me somewhere and then forgot about it.  Copyrighted in 1967, the coarseness of the paper and uneven edges echo a decade I remember well.  Beside me here lies Wilder's book and right next to it lies our Kindle Fire.  Both offer their individual avenue of mental stimulation. It's fascinating as I put my left hand on the past...and my right hand on the present.

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PHOTO OF THE DAY
Why Is Everybody Staring at Us?

Dots and Dances

If I push my life's rewind button, the polka dance appears in spurts and spikes.  I literally grew up watching my parents dance the polka, the waltz, the fox trot.  Dancing was the soul of their married life, and it was I who benefited from their love of dancing.

Memories make me cry, when I envision daddy whirling me around the ballroom floor.  Not bragging, but one time the other dancers on the pavilion dance floor stepped back to let the two of us 'strut our stuff.'  Daddy was wearing a suit and tie, and when he smiled, gold twinkled in his mouth.  It really twinkled when we danced.

My kissing cousin was a fabulous polka dancer, too.  He and I kicked up our heals to the polka like we were plugged into a light socket.  Both of us put our whole heart and soul into our 'cousin dances.'  The more he hopped, the higher I'd hop, and the more we'd sweat.  Our steps were in perfect sync, and if I faltered, he'd lift me up and I'd land right back in step.  He was the love of my life, because he made me feel like a princess in his arms.  It was such a shame that my dad and his mother were brother and sister.

So, where did the Polka Dot come from?

In early times it was nearly impossible to put evenly spaced patterns of dots on clothing material without them bleeding into uneven blotches.  With the birth of the industrial age came the ability to create dotted fabrics.  During the 1850s, dotted fabrics were popular and so was the Polka dance.  The theory is that dotted clothing (especially dresses) was worn to the polka dances, and that's how the two became connected.

Don't all of us baby boomers remember Brian Hyland's "Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini!"

August 9 is National Polka Festival Day.  A day to salute and take our hats off to this exhilarating dance.  The polka has a rich heritage that originated mid-19th century in Bohemia.  The name of the dance, Pulka, meaning 'half step,' describes its quick shift from one foot to the other.  It's an especially happy dance, with hops and skips, twirls and spins.  For me, the polka dance holds another cherished dimension.....that gold twinkle.

"The man who dances

has his choice of romances."

~Author Unknown  

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PHOTO OF THE DAY
Sunflowers Dance Around Our Garden

Do We Expect Too Much From Others?

One of the morning habits in our house is hubby reading to me the Pickles comic strip in the morning paper.  You see, hubby reads newspapers from beginning to end.  He keeps current, he keeps informed.  I, on the other hand, read headlines.  Interesting ones get read, others do not.  You now know which of us is "up on things" and which one is not.

Pickles is a comic strip about a retired couple in their 70's.  Earl and Opal Pickles are retired and show life as it really is.  Brian Crane fashioned the comic strip after his in-laws.  Earl is bald, wears glasses and has a white mustache.  Opal is the pleasingly plump wife, who oftentimes wears polka-dotted dresses and sneakers.

This was yesterday's strip.....

"Opal:  Earl, did you pick up my dry cleaning like I asked?
Earl:  Oops, sorry, it slipped my mind.  Are you mad at me?
Opal:  No, I'm just disappointed that you didn't do what you said you'd do.
Earl:  (putting his arm around Opal) I think the key to having fewer disappointments in life is to lower your expectations."

Bells ring on that one, don't they?  All we ever seem to do is harp on one another, blame, scold for either doing something, or not doing something.  Our minds fashion "the way a person oughta be," and then if that person doesn't match up to our expectations, we get all crazy and start throwing spears.  We are all guilty of this at one time or other, and we need to be realistic and remember no two of us are alike.  Our Creator designed every single one of us to have annoying quirks and jerks, each unique to the Self.  Doesn't it stand to reason that when we criticize someone, we're criticizing Our Creator as well?

The Pickles comic is a good reminder for us to be more patient and accepting.  Just because we think something should be one way, that doesn't make it the right way.  Maybe if we do lower our expectations of others, we'll be happier and less twisted and tangled in self-induced stress.  Just like Earl, sometimes I forget to do things.  Just like Opal, I'm quick to be disappointed.  But, turn the situation around, and, man, am I ever grateful when I get understanding and kindness in return.  Every detail of life is a 2-way street.  What we give, we get.  What we don't give, we don't get.  It's that simple.

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PHOTO OF THE DAY

Pearl Collar that Belonged to My Aunt 

A Contemplative Day

Yesterday was one of my contemplative days.  They come for no reason, with no warning.  The hours seem longer, but I get through them however I can and wait for the next sunrise.

My contemplative days are days that my brain flashes forward.  It is clear and keen and can create every possible scenario waiting in the weeds to jump out and terrify me.  I picture myself left alone, something happening to the fuzzy one, losing my friends, me growing old and less able to care for myself, and that list went into infinity.

The crazy thing is that I know better than to let my mind scare me like that.  What happens, happens.  We can't change or alter what destiny has on its roster.  We're simply expected to feel our way through the darkness. Right up to the end.

Life has already taught me that there is a Strength or Power that comes when we need it.  Where it comes from, no one knows.  It cannot be explained, nor can it be identified.  My family, like all families, has walked through ferocious storms, the likes of which one can't even imagine living through.  Yet, as I look back, every kindness offered me felt like the Great Spirit Himself had His hand on my shoulder, assuring me I'd be okay.  It took intense effort on my part to work through the years, but Divine Inspiration came to me and eventually my heart stopped bleeding.

The older I get, the more I wonder about what the next dimension will be like.  And, I've got to be honest and say that on my contemplative days, I even wonder if there is another dimension.  No one knows for absolute positive 100%.  But, there's always that Hand that I feel on my shoulder, and the voice that whispers, "Sure there is.  Just don't worry about everything so much. You're not the one in charge.  I am."

So, here I am blessed with a brand spankin' new day, and all my ponderings are tucked back where they belong.  The blue sky and sunshine are here to help us do whatever it is we must do.  Maybe we're given those contemplative days to set things straight with ourselves.  I'm the first to say that I feel a whole lot better for having juggled and breathed new perspective into my uncertainties.

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PHOTO OF THE DAY
The River on a Windy Day

Welcome to Our Home

Gracious sakes, I've been chatting here for over two years now, and I've not invited you into my home.

C'mon in.  This is our living room, and this photo faces east.  Our home is a no frills small Cape Cod.  Most of the decor is handmade by hubby or me, or else by our artisan friends.

The wooden plates on the mantle are three of hubby's blue-ribbon chip-carvings, as is the wooden rectangular piece above the plates.  It reads, "A Place Where Water Tastes Like Wine."  We converted our fireplace to electricity a few years back, for convenience.  There was a day when it snapped and cracked with a wood fire.  Ahh, the memories of us spending our weekends with the squirrels cutting down trees, hubby chopping them into liftable chunks, and I throwing them in the back of our pickup.  Heaven knows where we found the energy to do all that, because neither one of us has it now.

The striped burgundy rug hanging on the wall to the left of the fireplace was hand-woven by yours truly on a wooden frame loom.  It's one of the examples of my making new things out of old things.

The tree in the corner stays up year round and moves from room to room.  It's decorated by season, and right now is splattered with birthday cards.  Over the 4th of July, it was filled with U.S. flags and red, white, and blue flowers.  Now we'll have to come up with an August-September theme.

The coffee table in the center of the room is second-hand, found in an antique store.  It was one of those "love at first sight" purchases.  Our wood floor is original to the home built in 1945, but the tile is something we added a couple of years ago.

There's a small pillow on the couch that reads "Old Friends are the Best Friends." It was a gift and pretty much says it all.

The white mop you see on the floor is our fuzzy one, keeping an eye on her digs.  She's a woman of substance, she's sassy and she's brassy.  She thanks you for coming to visit us.

Timely Thoughts

Our area was blessed with a half-inch of holy water yesterday.  It was a slow rain with thunder.  This morning the earth looks refreshed and a titch greener.

Sunday mornings bring us the Sunday Paper, which is more substantial than the daily, and its crossword puzzle is larger and more difficult.  Usually I cheat and look up the answers to some of the clues, especially those that pertain to movies and actors.  We seniors are scared to death of losing our cookies, so we puzzle.  We stimulate and energize our brains best we can, doing the things we enjoy doing.

Rules relax on Sunday.  Idleness is permitted.  In our house, snack foods are another Sunday permission and also the perfect definition of the double-edged sword.

Imagine life if days were not mapped out as Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.  Take that a step farther and imagine if there was no such thing as a clock.  Imagine the chaos without calendars and clocks.

Time is all we have.  It has complete control of us.

"The whole life of man is but a point of time.

Let us enjoy it."

~Plutarch (46 AD - 120 AD)

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PHOTO OF THE DAY
From the Trout Stream to Hubby's Smoke House

Two Little Girls Need Our Help

My nights and days are tormented by the thought of these two little girls being abducted recently.  I keep racking my brain wondering what I can possibly do to help them from a distance.  A few minutes ago the thought flashed like fireworks through my head that I should post their pictures on my blog.  There is a $50,000 reward offered to anyone who can lead authorities to the girls.

We all have little girls in our families and in our neighborhoods.  We watch them innocently ride their bikes up and down the sidewalks and streets.  Nothing warms the heart more than a little girl's smile, and nothing pains the heart more than the thought of a little girl being taken away from her parents, being tortured, or worse.

These two little girls belong to all of us, because they are part of the American family.  Please keep your eyes on the lookout for them.  They could be anywhere, and they need our help.  We must pray, keep hope, and we must keep searching for them.

Dickey's Printing in Waterloo, Iowa, is selling T-shirts with the girls' faces and the tip-line number on the front.  The money raised will go toward the families and the search for Lyric and Elizabeth.  The shirts cost $15 for youth and adult sizes, $20 for adult sizes XXL-4X.  To order, call 319-234-1777, or email order@dickeysprinting.com.

"Childhood is the most beautiful of all life's seasons," and Elizabeth and Lyric have been wrongfully robbed of theirs.  Please, let us all keep searching for these sweet faces.  Thank you.