Creepy crawlies

It's a jungle out there. Out there in my yard, that is. I'm spending more time outdoors this summer than I usually do and seeing more bugs because of it. Or maybe there actually are more bugs, what with most of the nearby birds now dining on store-bought sunflower seeds.

Here's a fuzzy caterpillar (about two and a half inches long) lurking on the mat outside my back door, just waiting for me to open it so he can dart into the house!

And take a look at this giant grasshopper-looking thingy:

That big guy was nearly four inches long, and look what happened when I moved in closer for an overhead shot:

Is all that red supposed to scare me?  Is it a warning?

I'll tell you what I saw on the patio that didn't scare me until I found out what it was:  a red velvet ant (which is not really an ant but a wingless wasp). She was beautiful, about the size of a bumblebee, and walking so fast that if I'd had my camera with me, any photo I'd have taken of her would have been blurred. Once I had identified her on the Internet, I went out to try to find her again and get rid of her, but she was deep under cover by then.

Fortunately, since the birds don't seem to be helping, there are other creatures one step up on the food chain who seem more than willing to assist in controlling the insect population. This tiny gecko bagged a cricket:

And this little toad appeared to be waiting for me to get the light out of his eyes so he could eat the black beetle he had captured:

Still another step higher up the food chain, this hairy beast was eyeing that very same toad:

Fortunately for the toad, he was protected inside the doggy fence I had put up to try to get the grass to grow over one of Levi's freshly-filled holes in the ground.

Like I said, it's a jungle out there.

Subconscious shower songs

It occurs to me that the habits we humans develop take many forms. We fold the laundry a certain way, we read the newspaper in a certain order, our path through the supermarket is tried, true, and predictable.

Habits become so ingrained that they become part of our subconscious. Have you ever arrived at work, for example, and realized as you pulled into the parking lot that you'd been daydreaming and had no recall of making the familiar turns along the route?

My subconscious apparently chooses songs for me to sing in the shower. I may start out, consciously, singing snippets of something I listened to earlier in the day, but as the water falls and the lather builds up, I become relaxed, my mind begins to wander, and the next thing I become aware of is that I'm singing one of my old-standby shower songs.

There are three of them, all songs I like, but none that I'd call a favorite. And they're old. I have no idea when, why, or how these songs became part of my shower repertoire, but I've been singing them for a long time. Ironically, after all that time, I still don't know all the words to any of them. I just sing what I know and hum for a while until it's time to sing that part again.

Here are the songs (with thanks to those who posted them on YouTube):

My third-most-sung shower song:
From 1955, "The Man in the Raincoat" by Marion Marlowe. So mysterious, with the whistling and all. (I can't do the whistling part.)

My second-most-sung shower song:
From 1961, "Joey" by Shelby Flint. I remember thinking this song was soooo romantic.

And (drum roll, please) my number-one-most-sung shower song:

This one is from 1968: "Les Bicyclettes de Belsize" by Engelbert Humperdinck. Why?? Couldn't tell you. (Sorry, but when you click to play this, you may get a "restricted" message and have to click on the "Watch on YouTube" link to hear it.)

 

Now, then, I hope you'll tell us if you have shower songs of your own. I'm willing to bet yours are way cooler than mine.

Friday Foto File: Black and White

Sometimes, when the light is right, pictures pop in black and white. I'm pretty sure you'll like these photos better if you'll click on each one to enlarge it.

Tree behind my back fence in early morning light.

Bird on utility pole.

Neighbor's garden shed.

Old barn in downtown Gonzales.

Beautiful Levi.

Ashes to ashes

Last year a 52-year-old attorney in this area died suddenly in an automobile collision. His obituary was so moving that I saved a screen-cap of it on my computer. I came across it again a few minutes ago and wanted to share a portion of it with you:

"Since the hour of death cannot be forecast, the family requests that in lieu of flowers, you spend time with your loved ones--go to a movie together, get ice cream, go out to dinner or to breakfast or have a picnic in the park and tell them that you love them every day."

Isn't that beautiful? What wonderful words those are to reflect the values of someone who loved life.

Anyway, reading that again set me to wondering: do you ever think about your own funeral?

You younger readers may find this topic morbid (I'm sure my daughters do), but I'll bet those of you nearer my own age have given it some thought. I thought about it quite a bit when I first retired, mostly because my diet back then (eat as much as you want of whatever you want) was making me sick. I did come to a few conclusions:

I want to be cremated. That's for sure. And I don't want the funeral home to make one more dime off of my dead body than is absolutely essential. One reason I don't want to be buried is that I hate making wardrobe decisions and don't want anyone to have to do that on my behalf. I don't know how it's been in your family, but for some reason the tradition in my family has been to bury the women in beautiful nightclothes, as if they're going to Heaven to sleep, and to bury the men in suits, as if they'll have business to tend to on the other side of the Pearly Gates. What's the deal with that? I certainly wouldn't want to be buried in my nightgown, but being buried in casual clothing doesn't seem appropriate, and I have no interest in getting all gussied up in the kind of fancy dress I rarely wear anymore. Nope, cremation it is.

I haven't figured out where I'd like my ashes to be scattered. Really, anyplace with a lot of trees would be fine. I know am pretty sure that the spirit of the deceased isn't locked into the human remains and that my own spirit will stay near my daughters to watch over them like a guardian angel if that's at all possible. I think it is possible because my grandmother visited me after she died and my late mother rides along with me almost everywhere I go. What I'm trying to say is that it doesn't matter too much to me where my ashes end up, because I don't expect to be there with them. But, if my daughters decide they need a particular patch of earth where they can visit me, they can bury the ashes if they want to.

The idea of burial--even of ashes--raises the issue of money again. Burial plots are expensive. Accordingly, I have an idea for a compromise. There's a beautiful new cemetery a few miles down the road from where I live. Its offices are in a lovely antebellum home that used to be owned by a doctor, and its neatly trimmed grounds are shaded with live oak trees. It wouldn't be a bad place to be buried, but I'd be surprised if it isn't some of the most costly real estate around here. I've jokingly suggested to my daughters that, if they feel they need a grave to visit, they visit that cemetery, look around, pick out an existing grave that seems nice to them, and remember the name on the tombstone. Later, they can make a second visit to that gravestone--it would probably be a nice touch to take some flowers--and surreptitiously sprinkle my ashes in the grass right there. They could visit whenever they wanted and save a lot of money in the bargain.

I don't especially want a traditional funeral, either, but a small memorial service would be nice. I realize that the presence of friends and family at some sort of ceremony provides comfort--and a small measure of closure--to those left behind. During that period of ill health I referred to above, I even picked out some songs that I'd like to be played at my memorial service. I chose the songs for different reasons: a) I love them; or b) there's a message in there somewhere; and c) they're beautiful enough that my family will probably enjoy them and remember them, but it's not likely anyone will hear these songs on the radio at random times and unexpectedly feel sad again. (I had intended to make a CD of those songs, but then I started feeling a whole lot better and haven't had time to get around to it. Putting that on my to-do list now.)

I know everybody has different ideas about this subject, but people rarely talk about it, and I'm curious. So, if you've thought about things like this, are you willing to share those thoughts? If so, you can do it in a comment here, or, if you want to turn it into a blog post of your own, how about leaving a comment to let us know where to look for it?

Curmudgeon

I used to tell you stories regularly about Butch's courage, his loving nature, and his antics. Butch has changed a lot in the past couple of years; anything I'd write about him now wouldn't be as funny as some of those earlier stories. He's 13-1/2 years old now, and the years haven't treated him too kindly. He still shows moments of incredible sweetness or great heart, but his senior years have brought out new aspects of his personality. He is stubborn. Bull-headed. Demanding. Those in my family would probably know what I mean if I said that Butch now reminds me of Daddy.

My stepdaddy, in the latter years of his life, could be charming when he wanted to be, but he didn't often see the need to turn on the charm. Butch is the same way. Daddy complained a lot, and Butch has adopted a shrill whine as his means of communicating when he wants a treat or when he wants me to let him outside or inside. If Daddy thought Mother's cooking was a little too salty, he was sure to tell her about it. If the treat I give Butch isn't the kind he had in mind when he begged for it, he spits it out, whines some more, and waits for me to try again. Now, don't misunderstand me: I loved Daddy, and I love Butch dearly, but both of them fit clearly into the category of "grumpy, old men."

Like Daddy, Butch sleeps a lot now that he's older. If I were to guess that he sleeps 20 hours a day, I wouldn't be far off. He gets up for mealtimes (his and mine) and when he needs to go outside. He usually gets up when we have company, and when that happens, he acts like his sweet, old self for a little while. It's rare that he stays awake much more than an hour at a time.

The whining began near the end of last year, back when Kadi was so sick. For every trip Kadi took to the vet, Butch took another one. I thought then that the whining meant something was hurting him. We checked out his ears, because ear infections have plagued him since he was a pup. We checked out his arthritic hind legs and began medicating him in case they were the problem. We checked his behind, where his anal-gland surgery had left him with some residual problems. Even though no new health issues were discovered, everything that could be medicated was medicated, just in case. Still he whined.

As Kadi became sicker and sicker, I began to read everything I could find about how to know when it was time to euthanize a dog. Almost every one of those articles stated that the dog's quality of life should be the determining factor. That threw me for a loop. Kadi was obviously sicker than Butch, but she was also happier than he was. Until her very last days, she was pleasant and engaged. Butch, on the other hand, had begun to isolate  himself in the bedroom and to whine through many of his waking hours. What kind of life is that? I didn't know which dog I would lose first, and the thought of having to put down both of them at or near the same time was horrifying to me.

In Kadi's final week it became clear that her illness had reduced her quality of life to an unacceptable level, and seeing her that way helped me to see a clear distinction between her health and Butch's. I knew then what I had to do.

In the days after Kadi's death, I concentrated on Butch and started Googling "why does my dog whine?" I expected to find information about hidden medical conditions that might be troublesome to an animal. What I found instead were training techniques. It hadn't occurred to me until then that Butch's whining might be a behavioral issue. I realized then that I had been rewarding his bad behavior by fussing over him when he whined.

So, I made some changes in my own behavior. Butch's whining hasn't stopped, but it has decreased to a point that no longer drives me insane. I also changed my expectations once I connected the dots between Butch's whining and Daddy's complaining. That helped me to understand better where Butch's attitude is coming from. He's old and he's tired. He's achy sometimes.

It's been six years since Butch lost his eyesight, and in the past year or two he's gone almost completely deaf. He can hear the phone ring, and if I speak loudly, right in his ear, he seems to hear that. He gets disoriented more frequently, but he thinks he knows more than he does, and he thinks he knows more than I do. He thinks he knows exactly where he is and what he needs to do to get from Point A to Point B, but he's often wrong about that. If he's about to walk smack into a wall and I grab onto his collar to steer him in the right direction, he digs his heels in and refuses to budge until I let go. Then he walks into the wall, corrects his course, and sets out again, often in a different wrong direction.  Sometimes he bumps into every piece of furniture between the bedroom and the back door rather than let me guide him.  He usually bumps them gently, though, as if he expects them to be there and "test bumps" to be sure. The only way he will let me lead him is if I put him on the leash, but even then, if he doesn't want to go (outside, for instance), he digs in his heels and stands his ground.

Riding in the car, something Butch has always hated, has become almost impossible to get him to do. I needed to take him to the vet last week for another ear check, and he wrestled me so long that I had to stop trying at one point and call the vet's office to let them know we'd be late. He's heavy enough that it's difficult for me to pick him up, but even after I managed to do that and get him on the backseat, he jumped out before I could extract my arm and shut the door. Do you know how dangerous it is for a blind dog to jump out of a car onto a concrete driveway? I finally lured him into the car by sprinkling the seat with his favorite treats. He refused to eat them, but they distracted him long enough for me to get the door closed.

Fortunately, Butch's sense of smell is still strong. He can sniff me out anywhere in the house and is quick to do so when he wants something. Then, when he finds me, he whines. If I'm at the computer, he uses his nose to bump my hand off the mouse. Usually when he seeks me out it's because he wants a treat. He still tries to con me by asking to go out and back in several times in a matter of minutes. He gets a treat the first time he comes in, and I'm willing to let him go out the second time just in case he forgot to do part of his business while he was out there the first time. He gets a little treat the second time he comes in, too. But that's all. I've learned to be firm when he asks the third time, to stand between him and the door and make him back away so he knows the jig is up.

Butch used to spend whole evenings on the sofa beside me with his head in my lap. Now he's too stiff-legged to get on the sofa by himself and too hard-headed to let anyone help him. If I try to pick him up, he panics and fights me. My own bad knees make it difficult for me to get on the floor to give him the doggy massages he used to love, but I try to give him as much stroking and petting as I can when he's awake and erect. Sometimes he'll lie down in front of my chair, where I can rub his belly with my feet and enjoy the kind of sweet moments we used to take for granted. Last night he ate his supper, then stood right next to me for half an hour, not whining, while I ate mine. I suspect it was the scent of the  chicken on my plate that kept him there, but I enjoyed his company regardless. Still later, instead of retreating to his bed, Butch followed me to the computer and napped on the floor beside me. I feel so honored when the interaction between us is his idea instead of mine.

As Butch's personality has changed, so has his physical appearance. Both of his ears used to fold over, but for the last few years the right one has always stood up straight. There's a little bump in the middle of his forehead that we think might be a cyst formed around a bone chip, possibly from one of his harder head bumps. It's never seemed to bother him, and the vet doesn't think it's anything to worry about. His left eye socket bulges with fluid that stretches the skin tight, fluid from a gland that has apparently reactivated itself in the years since his surgery. The vet who did the eye surgery told us ahead of time that that could happen someday, and the vet who treats Butch now agrees with me that draining the fluid for aesthetic reasons could unnecessarily open the door for infections.  The swollen area is ugly, but it doesn't cause Butch any pain. He doesn't mind at all when it's touched or rubbed.

Butch has several new skin tags, including the big, black, mole-like one on top of his head. Last year one of his top front teeth began to turn grey and receded behind the other teeth. Last week I noticed that the tooth was no longer there. It, too, may have been a casualty of one too many bumps.

Butch is heavier than he's ever been, though I can still feel his ribs, so I'm not worried about him. It seems to me that his pleasures are few at this time of his life, and while I'm willing to cut back on his food and treats a little bit for health reasons, I'm not inclined to cut back so much that he notices.

These days, when I think about the quality of Butch's life, I know it isn't an easy one, but I think he's okay for now. He's had more than one dog's share of troubles and has faced his struggles with a lot of courage and character. His life isn't as interesting as it used to be, nor is his body as strong and resilient as it once was. I think he has reason to complain about his current state of affairs. And, remembering how long Daddy lived as a grumpy, old man, I believe Butch will be okay for a while longer. He's making an effort to live with the hand that's been dealt him. If he's a little disgrunted about it sometimes, maybe he has a right to be.

Trinkets and Treasures - No. 4

This bone-handled carving knife has been in my family since before I was born. It was a wedding gift to my maternal grandparents, who married in 1919. My grandmother and mother used it in preparation of most of the meals I ate until my mother remarried in 1957 and we left my grandmother's house to move to Texas.

After Mammaw died in 1988, Mother used the knife in her own kitchen on a daily basis. It came into my hands when Mother passed in 1999, at which time I retired it from regular use. No doubt it would still work beautifully to make perfect slices of tomato or roast beef, but its blade is almost paper thin, and I don't want it to break on my watch.

The knife is a thing of beauty, chipped and battered as it is. I'd like to mount it in a shadowbox and hang it in my kitchen. So far I haven't found the right-sized shadowbox, but I'm still looking. I think the knife has shown its durability and will wait for me.

Whaddaya think?

Today I came across a new widget that Blogger calls "Reactions" and added it to this blog. It gives you, the readers, an opportunity to grade my blogging efforts simply by checking a box labeled "good," "so-so," or "a waste of time."

Now, comments (a/k/a "pearls of wisdom") light up my life, and I certainly hope this new feature won't replace any comments you might feel like writing. Still, I know there are some people who read this blog regularly and never comment. I thought the new buttons (located at the bottom of each post)  might encourage those folks to express themselves with an easy, non-committal mouse-click.

You lurkers may not realize it, but I appreciate your visits and would like to know what you think.

Time travel

The other day I wrote about being homesick. Often, when I feel that way, I jump on the magic time machine called the Internet and go visit places where I've lived.

Recently I traveled through Google Maps to visit the home I grew up in. The house is no longer there, having been demolished in the early '60s to allow for expansion of the Southwest Missouri State Teachers College campus, the southeast corner of which used to be diagonally across the street from our home. Through Google Maps' street view I was able to stand on what would have been the very end of our driveway and look down the brick street I had crossed so many times in my youth. The multi-story building on the left-hand side of the street didn't exist back then, and instead of the modern buildings pictured on the right, there were stately, two-story houses with pretty lawns held back by retaining walls.

We used to sit at the top of the driveway in our red Radio Flyer wagon, its handle turned backward to use as a steering device, then push off and roll downhill, turning at the last minute onto the sidewalk. If we'd ever missed a turn, we would have wound up rolling into the street near the bottom right of this picture.

In the photo below you can see the driveway and the wagon. I'm the curly-permed blonde in the middle, holding my baby cousin Gary, and that's my sister, Judy, sitting on the ground in front. The other girls were neighborhood playmates.

After leaving Google Maps, I went to the MSU website and took a virtual tour of the campus. There are so many new buildings there now, but some of the ones I remember are still standing. I paused the tour video long enough to take a screen-cap of one of those older buildings:

There was a playground in front of this building in the early-1940s for use by children who attended the college-sponsored elementary school, Greenwood. Mother used to take us to play there sometimes when school wasn't in session. The photo below shows Mother with me at the top of the seesaw (which we called a teeter-totter in those days).

I love how today's technology allows us to travel across miles and years to walk down Memory Lane.

Incidentally (and apropos of nothing), I don't know who the little boy was in that last photo, but apparently I liked him:

She ties knee-highs and cracks wise

As a follow-up to cleaning out my closet, I dived head-first into the dresser, determined to root out every unnecessary item in the drawers. There were two small drawers stuffed to the max with different shades of pantyhose and knee-high stockings.

My bad knees kept me wearing flat-heeled shoes in the last few years that I worked, so I switched from wearing dresses to wearing slacks and switched from pantyhose to knee-highs. Each time I bought knee-highs I'd buy several pairs in the same shade, so if one of them got a run or a snag, the stocking on the other foot wouldn't be useless. This seemed like an economical idea and, to a degree, it was. The problem was that each week I'd put all the stockings I'd worn in a mesh laundry bag and wash them, but it was easier to pull out a new pair than to sort and match the stockings in the bag.

The other day I pulled them all out of the drawers and put them in a laundry basket, then sat on the sofa and sorted them while I watched TV. I believe I have enough pantyhose and knee-highs to last for the rest of my life, especially since I rarely wear them anymore. Additionally, there were enough mismatches and unwearable knee-highs to fill a plastic grocery bag, which I did. I should have thrown those out immediately, but it seemed like they might be useful for stuffing something if I could only figure out what to stuff.

The next day Kim came over. We were sitting on the sofa talking when I mentioned to her that I'd sorted all those stockings and that every now and then Levi would come running from my bedroom with a folded pair of knee-highs in his mouth. I couldn't figure out where he was getting them (still don't know). I told her about the plastic bag of reject-stockings and that it was not in a place where Levi could get to it.

Since Levi obviously liked playing with them, we got the idea of knotting the stockings together to make dog toys, so as we visited we began to do just that. When Kim noticed how enthusiastically we were both working, she started to laugh about us and our "redneck crafts." We both got the giggles and continued to make jokes at our own expense while we worked.

I was just knotting my pile of stockings together, but Kim, who is more artistic than I, was knotting hers, then braiding them. I finished first and tossed my toy to Levi, who promptly began to rip it to shreds. Kim glanced up at him, shook her head in mock sadness, and quipped, "Dammit! We can't have nice things."

Unfortunately, even Kim's tightly braided toy was no match for Levi's sharp teeth. He promptly tore off enough small pieces to create choking hazards, so all of our fine handiwork ended up in the garbage in a matter of minutes. Our efforts might not have provided much entertainment for him, but the two of us really had a good time.

...and then it broke...

I never would have imagined that music would become so important to me in my retirement years, but I listen to music almost every day. Once I begin, it's hard to find a stopping place. Most of the songs in my iTunes collection hold special meaning for me, reminding me of a special place, person, or event. Others I love because of the wonderful stories they tell (I've been a sucker for a good story my whole life). Still others lift my spirits with the sheer beauty of their melodies.

I first heard this particular version of today's featured song on a CD purchased on a whim while waiting for a table at the local Cracker Barrel Restaurant (back when carbohydrates were my best friends). The CD stayed in my car stereo for weeks, and I quickly grew to love this song. One verse of the lyrics has always reminded me of my second marriage.

I was broken in spirit when I met the man I'd soon marry, and he made me feel safe and secure for years after that. As time passed, though, I gradually became afraid to lean on him. Sometimes I wonder if I had already leaned too hard for too long.

Here are those lyrics:

I leaned my back against an oak,

Thinking it was the strongest tree,

But first it bent and then it broke,

And that's the way love's treated me.

The album is Celtic Wonder, the song is "The Water is Wide," and the singer is Niahm Parsons. And here (with thanks to the person who added the beautiful photos and posted it on YouTube) is the music video:

Friday Foto File

Every photo I take (and I take lots of them) has the potential to show up on this blog, but sometimes I end up with pictures that don't fit in with any particular post. In the interest of sharing them with you, not to mention maintaining more of a presence online, I've decided to post a random photo at least once a week. Some of these will be new, some will have sat on my computer for a long time. I'll do my best not to repeat anything I've already posted, but if it happens, I apologize. I'm old; what can I say?

Here's one I know I haven't posted yet:

This beauty grows right on the other side of my back fence. I poked the camera lens through the fence to snap its unobstructed picture.

Bitten by the "way-back" bug

For more than a month now I've been operating under the influence of the heaviest bout of nostalgia that's ever settled on my shoulders. It began right after tornadoes hit Joplin, Missouri on May 22nd, and I'm pretty sure it was triggered by televised interviews with tornado victims.

Joplin is only about 70 miles from Springfield, where I lived until I was almost 15, and the speech patterns of those Missouri people just felt "right" to me in some deep part of my soul. People in that part of the country don't have an accent. In fact, I'd say that what stands out about their speech is the lack of an accent: the pure, distinct pronunciation that newscasters across the country strive for.

My sister and I have traveled back there a couple of times in the last 15 years, enough for me to know that it isn't Missouri as it is now that I miss so much.  I miss it as it was in the 1950s. I miss the neat houses on our street, each one different from the one next door, all with windows and doors wide open in summer. I miss the slamming of the screen door, the thump of the newspaper hitting the sidewalk, the creak of the porch swing, and Harry Caray's voice on the radio. I miss the smell of fresh corn and ripe tomatoes in my grandpa's garden and of starched laundry hung on the clothesline to dry in the sun. I miss picking up a chalky rock right in the front yard, one just right for drawing a pinkish-orange hopscotch grid on the driveway. There are so many little things, little moments, I wish I could experience one more time.

I remember telling people when I was in my mid-forties that my childhood wasn't an especially happy one, and I know I believed that when I said it. The funny thing is that now, in my late-sixties, I can't remember why I felt that way. Almost every childhood memory I've retained -- and there are many, many, many -- is a good one, good enough for me to feel wistful when I think about it now.

It's a pretty cool thing the way time strains one's life through a happy filter.

"Those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer..."

With apologies to the late Nat King Cole, I'm gonna forget about the "hazy, crazy" part of his song lyrics and focus on the "lazy."  It's been exactly one month since my last post, and laziness is the only thing I can blame for the lapse.

It's not that I've been completely idle, but I've been really, really slow. It was probably a month ago that I started cleaning out my closet. There were clothes in there that fit me last year, when I was 60 pounds heavier, and clothes that might fit now except they were last fashionable in the early 1990s. (Um...I actually kept a couple of items from the latter category.) I thought I'd just pull all those out and take them to Goodwill. The pulling out part has taken place.

The taking them to Goodwill has not. For some bizarre reason I had to try everything on one last time, even if I knew it wouldn't fit, which made the process take longer than it should have. Some things needed mending, too, just a button here or there or a hem coming loose. It didn't seem right to donate them until they were wearable, so I fixed them. Between one delay and another, seven trash bags full of clothes, including the ones pictured above, have piled up on my bedroom floor.

My original idea was to clean out all the cupboards and closets and deliver everything I don't need in one big haul, but I'm beginning to rethink that. I've felt weighted down for the past month or so, and it might lighten my mental load (or at least my mood) to get this stuff out from underfoot.  

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In my last post I mentioned reading "good books," and several commenters wanted specifics. Although I've read some not-so-good ones, too, I'll list the good ones here. In fact, because I'm too lazy to tell you why I liked them, I'll make links so you can read other peoples' reviews:

Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

Years by Lavyrle Spencer

Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea, and Anne of the Island by Lucy Maud Montgomery

Tender Graces by Kathryn Magendie

Heaven-High and Hell-Deep by Peggy Poe Stern

The Winter Sea by Susanna Kearsley

The Day of Small Things by Vicki Lane

Some of these titles have been around for a while, but the only one I'd read before was Years. With the exception of that one, which I'd wanted to reread for some time, I selected these particular books by going to Amazon.com, armed with a Mother's Day gift certificate, and searching the Kindle Store's "literary fiction" category for books with four or more stars. 

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The heat is at least partially responsible for my laziness this summer. With a heat index upwards of 100 degrees F. almost every day since the beginning of June,  there hasn't been a lot of motivation to get outside and do anything. Today, though, the sky opened up and dumped rain on us for hours. It was a welcome change (although a little less thunder and lightning would be nice next time, okay, God?).

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The good news is that I've had plenty of time during this slack period to remember things I'd like to write about, so if anybody out there is still with me and reading this, please check back again in a couple of days. I'm determined to post more often, even if it's only photos some of the time.

Birdbrained

A couple of ongoing projects (and some really good books) have consumed my blogging time lately, but in between working (and reading), I've become a bird watcher. 

When the new sidewalk was poured in my backyard this past December, I made sure that a tiny patch of earth for the bird feeder was left near the corner of the patio. This turned out to be a good decision in some ways and not so good in others.

It's good that I can refill the feeders in even the worst kind of weather without getting my feet muddy. It's good that the feeders draw the birds near my house, where I can hear them chatter while they feed and see them if I'm fast enough. I suppose Butch thinks it's good that fallen seeds have sprouted at the bottom of the feeder and turned into a "salad" that he enjoys daily.

The down side is that my plan to sit on the patio and take photographs of the beautiful birds gathered there isn't working out at all. The birds don't seem to like to eat when humans are so close to the feeder. They approach in large numbers, but if I'm out there,  they don't stay.

My patio is enclosed by the house on two sides and a privacy fence on a third, with the fourth side (where the bird feeder is) opening out to the backyard. It's interesting to see the numbers and varieties of birds that fly directly toward the feeder, then spot a human or a dog and make a last-minute, mid-air U-turn. Watching birds from the patio feels sort of like watching an air show, except that these "planes" don't land. The fly-bys, though, with their swoops and sharp turns, are spectacular.

So, I've had to devise other methods of photographing birds, and even though my bird photos aren't as good as I'd hoped they'd be, I'll show you some of the feathered beauties that brighten my days. First up is one of several varieties of sparrows. Not so pretty, I know, but there are too many of them to ignore.

Sparrow on neighbor's tin roof (shot with zoom lens).

There are Cardinals, too, so many beautiful redbirds and all of them extremely cautious.

Cardinal on ground beneath feeder (shot through glass door).

The bravest birds have been some of the smallest, like this red-headed House Finch...

House Finch at feeder (shot through 3-inch opening in door).

...and this charming Chickadee:

Carolina Chickadee (also shot through narrow door opening).

The most frequent feeders are the doves -- lots and lots of doves.

Five plump doves on utility wire (shot with zoom lens).

This was the slowest one of seven that were feeding together:

Mourning Dove (shot through glass door).

And this one flew away -- but not far enough to deter me.

Mourning Dove (shot through lattice of privacy fence).

I've apparently reached a stage of life in which a visit by a new species of bird can be a high point of my day. Yesterday a small flock of Tufted Titmice visited my feeder several times. One of them actually stayed put for 15 or 20 seconds while I was seated on the patio, but I didn't have my camera with me and didn't want to risk moving to go get it. I tried several times later to take a picture through the glass door, but they saw me before I could focus, and they flew away.

I'll stalk them again today.

Breakfast for supper

In the past few months several members of my family have embraced a low-carb lifestyle. My daughter Kim and I, both single, have teamed up to try new recipes for dinner twice a week. We take turns with the cooking, and, with a couple of notable exceptions, we've been pleased to learn that we can eat quite well without the sugars and starches we'd always craved.

Eating this way does require a little more effort. Cooking flavorful recipes is more difficult and time consuming than driving half a mile to pick up a burger and fries, and eating more fresh foods means shopping more frequently. So far it's been worth the extra effort.

Sometimes, though, I just don't want to give that much thought to what I'm going to eat. That happened one night recently when Kim and I had a dinner/TV night planned and I wasn't in the mood to cook.  "Would you be okay with something simple tonight, like bacon and eggs or an omelet?" I asked.

"Sure," Kim said, "but if you want breakfast, I do really good breakfasts. Would you let me cook breakfast for you?"

That night I learned to raise my expectations. Kim's breakfast was so spectacular I had to take a picture of it:

Crab cakes on a bed of fresh, steamed spinach,

topped with poached eggs and hollandaise sauce, with a side of fresh fruit.

This meal was delicious. It also clearly demonstrated why Kim's creativity has taken her to higher levels than I've ever attained: I think in bacon and eggs; she thinks in crab cakes.

Blogger is free!

Keep reminding me:  Blogger is free.

I'd complain about the fact that yesterday's post disappeared until a short while ago, but I can't, because Blogger is free.

I'd gripe about the fact that the comments I left on other people's posts yesterday have vanished, but Blogger is free, so I can't ask for my money back.

The old adage, "You get what you pay for," doesn't apply in this case; Blogger doesn't cost me a dime. I've used it for over five years now, and this was only the second big glitch I've encountered. Yes, there's been the occasional time when one Blogger feature or another has acted "peculiar" for a day or two, but for the most part, it's been dependable, reliable, right there when I've needed it.

That's more than I can say about myself when it comes to blogging. Who fritters away her computer time playing Mah Jongg or Bejeweled? Who gives up trying to write because her dog has just rolled his tennis ball under her desk for the seventh time in ten minutes? Who has days when she "just isn't into it"? That would be me.

Blogger is "into it" way more than 99 percent of the time. And did I mention that Blogger is free?

So I won't complain. Although I did have a few unkind thoughts for a while there.

Celebrations

The days between this post and the last one have flown by on the wings of everyday errands and mundane activities, but those days also contained a couple of special events:

Revisiting the past:
In the '80s and '90s I worked for 17 years for a company founded by the father of Alison, whose blog, Inspired Work of Self-Indulgence, was the first one I ever read. In fact, I found her blog in a Google search for her father's name in 2005, after a couple of former co-workers had called to let me know of his death. It was Alison's open, honest writing that inspired me to begin writing a blog of my own, although it took me nearly a year to gather the courage to try it.

Alison's father was an inspirational leader, loved and respected by all who knew him. The Louisiana branch of the company he founded is still very active, and once a year, near the founder's birthday, he is honored posthumously by a celebration in memory of the exceptional human being that he was.

This year Alison invited me to go with her. I was hesitant at first, reluctant to crash the party of people I hadn't seen in nearly 14 years, but Alison assured me I'd be welcome.

And, when the hour arrived, I felt welcome. There were still people there who had worked there when I did, and it felt like a homecoming to be in their midst again. There were big smiles, hugs, and plenty of old stories retold to new laughter.

I enjoyed spending time with Alison (who didn't stress out about the dog hair Butch got on her pants), and appreciate her invitation and encouragement to accompany her to this event. It was a special occasion I'll remember for a long time.


Mother's Day:
In what has become a family tradition over the past few years, we celebrated Mother's Day at my daughter Kelli's house, feasting on boiled crawfish and basking in a whole lot of love. I don't know if Kim and Kelli realize that just having them in my life makes me feel special every day and that Mother's Day, for me, is more meaningful only because it makes me stop and reflect on how rich they have made my life.

When our family gathers, when I'm able to sit back and watch the interactions of my children, grandchildren, their assorted spouses, and that one small great-grandson, my heart feels so full that I think it might burst. They're kind to each other. They crack jokes, but not mean ones, and they have each other's backs. They're good people, and I'm so, so proud of them.

The genealogist in me can't resist pointing out that there were four generations of family members at our Mother's Day gathering this year, including three generations of mothers. More than I love delving into the history of our ancestors, and I do love that, I love watching our family expand, watching people I loved in their infancy grow up, create full lives for themselves as adults, and, in some cases, have babies of their own. The sense of continuity thrills me.

One young family member is currently pregnant with her first child. She and her husband have decided they don't want to know the sex of the baby until it's born, and the announcement of that decision prompted me to send her a link to a beautiful song that fits their situation. You can hear it on YouTube here:
Marc Cohn - The Things We've Handed Down.

Or, if you'd rather read the words than listen to them, here are the lyrics:

The Things We've Handed Down
by Marc Cohn

Don't know much about you 
Don't know who you are 
We've been doing fine without you 
But we could only go so far 
Don't know why you chose us 
Were you watching from above 
Is there someone there that knows us 
Said we'd give you all our love 

Will you laugh just like your mother 
Will you sigh like your old man 
Will some things skip a generation 
Like I've heard they often can 
Are you a poet or a dancer 
A devil or a clown 
Or a strange new combination of 
The things we've handed down 

I wonder who you'll look like 
Will your hair fall down and curl 
Will you be a mama's boy 
Or daddy's little girl 
Will you be a sad reminder 
Of what's been lost along the way 
Maybe you can help me find her 
In the things you do and say 

And these things that we have given you 
They are not so easily found 
But you can thank us later 
For the things we've handed down 

You may not always be so grateful 
For the way that you were made 
Some feature of your father's 
That you'd gladly sell or trade 
And one day you may look at us 
And say that you were cursed 
But over time that line has been 
Extremely well rehearsed 
By our fathers and their fathers 
In some old and distant town 
From places no one here remembers 
Come the things we've handed down 
 

Recap and regroup

The last half of April has been a whirlwind of activity. The international news has been all about the royal wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton, followed closely by reports of protests and counter-protests in the Middle East. The top news stories related to America have been divided almost equally between the massive destruction caused by tornadoes in Alabama and Mississippi and the fact that Donald Trump bullied President Obama and the State of Hawaii into producing the long form of the president's birth certificate.

Things have been pretty busy in this small patch of Louisiana, too, and in order to regroup, move on, and restore a semi-regular flow of blog posts, I first need to catch up by recapping a few recent blog-worthy events:

The Graduate:
On April 16th Levi completed a six-week course in obedience training. He was a quick learner. He demonstrated a superior ability to understand and follow commands. The last class session was devoted to testing all the commands he had been taught, and he aced the test. The boy was a whiz kid while class was in session.

At home he understands the commands without difficulty, but each time he hears one, he gets a look in his eye as if he's trying to decide whether or not he really has to comply. Let's just say he follows the  commands when he's in the mood. Or unless there's something more interesting going on, such as a squirrel in the neighbor's yard. Or a leaf moving in the driveway. To reach perfection he needs a little more work.  I, on the other hand, need a lot more.

Visitors:
Two weeks ago today I had the pleasure of spending an afternoon with two friends -- an old one and a new one -- from Texas. The "old" friend (who is considerably younger than I am) is Annette, who recently began blogging at Writing My Novel. It's been nearly 14 years since we've seen each other, and it was a joy to be in her warm presence again.

The new friend is Leah, whom I found delightful and hope to see again soon. Leah and Annette were in Baton Rouge to find Leah a place to live. She's accepted a new job at LSU and will be moving here soon.

We had a wonderful visit despite its being dominated by unruly dogs. The ladies had come bearing a non-stuffed fake squirrel that did a fairly good job of distracting Levi, though even a distracted Levi disperses a lot of energy into a room. And Butch, he who regularly sleeps 20 hours a day, appointed himself host of the event. He stayed awake and present in a big way for most of the visit. He seemed to believe Annette and Leah had come specifically to spend time with him, and I'd never in a million years tell him otherwise.

Celebrating Easter:
All my grandchildren are adults now, and two of them are married. Because they've grown up in a "blended" family, they're used to splitting holidays between two sets of parents, and now in-laws have been thrown into the mix. That's why our family Easter celebration was held on Saturday this year.

Kelli and Troy (my younger daughter and her husband) hosted the bunch of us at a poolside barbecue. The weather was perfect: warm enough to swim, cool enough to be comfortable outside in the shade of a large umbrella.

Kelli and Troy are both good cooks, and I, being a non-swimmer but a good eater, parked myself under the above umbrella and over the sausage that was the first thing to come off the grill.

Everything I ate was delicious. I stuffed myself on sausage, brisket, and a little bit of chicken, cheated on my low-carb diet to have some baked beans, and told myself that that little cheat wasn't too bad in light of the fact that I resisted the potato salad and the scrumptious-looking dessert.

I took 294 photos that day -- most of which I won't show you out of respect for all the adults in bathing suits in those photos. My great-grandson, Owen, however, is only 13 months old. Since he doesn't yet understand that he has a right to object, I'll share a few pictures of him. He was the unanimously proclaimed star of the day anyway, so it only seems fitting to focus on him.

Don't worry; that's a swim diaper.

Safe and happy in his daddy's arms.

Angelic...and very, very curious.

In summary:

I realize there's not much in this post that's new to those of you who are Facebook friends,  but it's important to me to record events like these on the blog. It will be here, not Facebook, that I'll come to relive these days when they've long since passed. Facebook feels to me like a quick, public shout-out. This blog feels like home.