"Shear" necessity

When I mentioned in a post the other day that I'm "attempting a new skill," I was referring specifically to the skill of dog grooming. Before Levi I'd had only short-haired dogs, and grooming was simple: brush 'em, bathe 'em, clip their nails, and they're good to go. But, oh, the shedding those short-haired dogs do.

One of the things that first appealed to me about Levi was the fact that he has hair, not fur, and doesn't shed. It never occurred to me that his curly hair would just keep growing  longer and longer without frequent haircuts. Even if I'd thought of that, I wouldn't have dreamed that the cost of having him groomed would be such a budget buster.

What to do, what to do? I could handle bathing Levi, but his tendency to roll on every fallen leaf or dead bug in the yard was causing his curls to tangle into mats no brush could penetrate.

Coincidentally, my daughter Kim, who has two small dogs of the hair-not-fur persuasion, was also pondering the grooming issue. She'd taken Lucy and Oliver to the pet salon often, but the last time she'd been called to pick them up early because they were so stressed out that the groomers were worried about them.

When Kim mentioned to me that she was thinking about investing in some professional grooming equipment and trying to do it herself, I immediately wanted in. We would share the investment and recoup our expenses in only three or four groomings. Together and separately, we watched online grooming videos, and Kim researched grooming sites to find out what kind of equipment was favored by the pros. With lists made and bank cards on the ready, we marched off to PetSmart and Petco. We bought clippers, extra blades, shears, thinning scissors, detangler tools, shampoos, conditioners, and doggy "freshener" sprays.

Ollie, the Shih Tzu, was our first victim. He was well behaved as we hovered over him on the bathroom counter and did not seem stressed at all. Granted, he seemed a little leery of us for a couple of days afterward, but we all survived the experience. And he looked pretty good for a first effort.

Levi, whose hair was in his eyes, would be next.

I kept the bag of equipment at my house and strategized about the process. Levi is big. There would be no standing him on the counter. Where else could I put him so that the clipper cord would reach all the way around him? I pondered the situation for three or four weeks a while, then decided I'd begin by sneaking up on him with the round-tipped shears.

Snip, snip, snip! I'd clip a few curls and Levi would leap away and look at me as if I'd just removed one of his limbs. I kept the scissors close at hand and we repeated this scenario many times, in many different parts of the house. I learned quickly that the back end of a dog is much easier to trim than the end that has teeth on it. I also learned I could get a lot more done by catching Levi napping. I ended up skipping the clippers and giving him an all-over scissors cut. After multiple sessions over a five-day period, I could not call him "finished," but I called the job "done."

You can see by the long curls sticking out on his cheeks that I missed a few spots. Never mind. He can see again, his tangles are all gone, and enough is enough. He's a little ragged, but it's a learning process, right?  The next time should be easier.

This week I'm following Butch around with the Furminator®.

"Keep smiling and keep dancing."

For the third time in little more than three weeks, I am posting about death. I'm hoping not to do that again anytime soon.

This time it was my Aunt Nina, who passed away yesterday. She was my father's sister, the first of nine children, and she had recently turned 92 years old. Of those nine siblings,  Nina was the one I knew least. The others were still around Springfield, Missouri, when I was growing up there, but Nina had moved away. I'd met her, of course, at family gatherings on holidays, but hadn't spent any time with her before we moved away ourselves.

Then, about five years ago, we began talking, first by phone and then by email. I was charmed by her intelligence, her wit, and the stories she told so well. She gave me pieces of the puzzle that, up until then, had been my father's side of the family.

Thinking about Aunt Nina today, I thought about the details in all those emails she sent. I thought about how fragile life is, how quickly things can change, how people and things we take for granted can be lost to us in an instant. Time is fleeting, my friends. People die, computers crash, and first thing you know, there's no one to answer those questions you've been thinking about asking.

And so I began scrambling. Aunt Nina's emails were stored on an old PC, one that I'd retired a couple years ago when viruses slowed it to a crawl. Fortunately, I still have that old PC. Today I fired it up, poked around until I found those emails, and printed every one of them. For good measure I printed all the ones from my Uncle Glenn, my Aunt Shirley, and my cousins, Karen and Sandra, because they, too, had written to me about my father's family. It took a couple of hours and nearly a whole ream of paper, but when the last page came out of the printer, I felt like I could relax again.

I'm glad I got to know Aunt Nina. I'll remember her especially for the enthusiasm and  sense of humor with which she told me her stories. I'll also try to remember the little piece of advice with which she concluded most of her emails: "Keep smiling and keep dancing."

Down, boy!

Levi has bursitis, we think. He had a slight limp for nearly a week before I took him to the vet. He showed no other sign of being in pain, and the limp came and went. Every time he got up after resting for a while, he limped the first half a dozen steps and then stopped. I thought he'd get better day by day, but he didn't.

I'd checked his feet carefully, of course, and mashed and squeezed up and down his legs without any indication from him that anything was sore. Actually, it didn't surprise me to think he might have injured himself. He spends most of his awake time gamboling around the house, jumping from the floor to the sofa and down again, racing from room to room, flinging his tennis ball, then sliding across the floor in pursuit of it. He frequently crashes into furniture, and one would think that might be kind of painful.

The vet's office is only about five minutes away, but after that short ride, Levi gagged and threw up three times between the car and the vet's front door. Carsickness, she said. I'd suspected as much because he always looks unhappy when I take him for a ride.

While the vet examined Levi, I told her about his rowdiness in much the same way I just explained it to you. She laughed and said, "Boys will be boys," then leaned closer to Levi's big head just in time for him to let out a huge belch. Yes, indeed, boys will be boys.

The vet and her technician walked Levi outside, but he didn't limp for them. She's guessing bursitis is the problem because she felt him resist slightly when she tried to move his left shoulder joint. We're treating him for that first, and if he hasn't improved somewhat over the course of this second week, we'll do x-rays just to be on the safe side.

My job, in addition to giving him his daily meds, is to keep him from "getting completely crazy" (the vet's words) when he gets in rip-roaring gymnastics mode. Would you care to guess how that's going? Would it give you a clue if I told you this puppy now weighs 83 pounds?

As the microphone once picked up Nancy Reagan whispering into her husband's ear mid-speech, and as he immediately repeated to the gathered crowd, "We're doing the best we can."

Family Tries

She arrived on Thursday, bringing with her a single travel bag, a lovely gift for me, and a plethora of memories that supported my own conclusions: our family was dysfunctional before we ever knew there was such a word, but we had some good times, too.

**********

She and I are related not by blood but by the bonds of holy matrimony between her father and my mother. She was 11, my sister was 10, and I was 14 that first summer. She was a buffer between my sister and me, a cool spot in the heat of our sibling rivalry. Before her arrival in our midst, we had battled one on one; afterwards, we each tried to draw her to our side of the argument to gain strength through numbers. On rare occasions, such as the time we thought Daddy was giving her special phone privileges, my sister and I declared a truce long enough to align against her. Sometimes, if you can believe it, we all three got along beautifully.

In the small house where we first lived together as a family, we three girls shared a bedroom. I remember talking to her late into the night, lying there in the darkness, about dreams, plans, observations, and vaguely formed philosophies. We could discuss those kinds of things because I had no beef with her. It was my sister, not she, who, by virtue of birth, had stolen a huge portion of our mother's limited supply of affection. I was mean to my sister and she had learned to be mean right back, so deep conversations had never been part of our daily interaction.

Near the end of their first year of marriage, our parents strengthened the bonds of our blended family by producing a beautiful baby boy, a fine brother who was related equally to all of us girls. We moved to a larger house, I had a room of my own, and those late-night discussions came to an end.

Over the next few years our parents became increasingly quarrelsome, engaging frequently in loud bouts of put-downs and one-upmanship. I don't know how my siblings felt then, but I felt insecure in a big way. I didn't think the structure of our family was strong enough to hold up under that kind of assault, and I didn't know what would happen to us if the family fell apart. My private thoughts shifted more and more to my own personal future: When would I be able to leave this family and how would I go about doing it?

The daily shouting matches became the norm, but the marriage held together (for 39 years, until the death of my stepfather). I married at 18 and moved away, feeling guilty about leaving my siblings behind on the battleground. My stepsister married four years later, my sister a year after that. In discussing our early marriages with my stepsister this past Thursday, she asked if I had felt as she did upon leaving home, that the unspoken message of our parents was, "Don't let the door hit you in the behind." Yes. Yes, I did feel that way.

After we were married and scattered, we got in the habit of communicating through Mother instead of with each other. Long-distance phone calls were expensive, and with one call to Mother we could find out what was happening in the lives of all the others. We saved a few dollars but paid a higher price in that we got the news but not the feelings behind the news. We didn't learn to know each other well as adults.

My sister and I have managed to bridge that gap and have become best friends. We're similar in so many ways that I deeply regret the loss of her friendship during those early years when I focused only on our differences. My stepsister has just stepped back into my life after decades of very little contact, and I'm very happy that she initiated that reunion.  One thing the three of us have in common is that we all want to be closer to our brother. If those family bonds are to be strengthened, it's up to us now to do it.

Left to right in 1960: 

My stepsister, my sister, me, our brother

Left to right in 1982:

My brother, his wife, my sister, me, my stepsister

**********

She came on Thursday afternoon, and by late that night we had filled in nearly fifty years' worth of the blanks in both of our life stories. We had pulled out all the old baggage, dusted it off, searched it thoroughly, then put it away. Once more out of sight, out of mind.

On Friday morning we talked mostly about the present and the future. We've survived difficult pasts, and we're both in good places now. We have moved on. We still have dreams, we still have goals, and some of them are things we might work on together. We still live miles apart, but we won't lose touch again. Family is family, blood or no blood.

Rest in Peace, Carmon Deyo

I learned hours ago that a dear online friend passed away on Friday. If you've met Carmon through her blog, Life at Star's Rest, then you know what a wonderful human being she was, and you're as sad as I am that her life has been cut short. And, if you're not familiar with her, then I urge you to go read her blog and get to know her now. It's not too late for her to touch you with her words.

Though Carmon wrote compellingly about her two years of battling melanoma, there was so much more to her than a brave cancer patient. Save those last two years of posts to read later. First, go back in her archives to her earlier posts and learn about her interesting life and her love for her husband and for the rescued animals that gave her their trust and kept her company as she lived, often alone, on a mountain in New Mexico.

Carmon was an amazing and inspirational woman. I've never met her in person, but I'll remember her always.

Sunday stillness

It's mid-morning when I step out the backdoor in my bathrobe to check the temperature, then come back inside to get dressed. This morning I choose to wear summer clothes, shorts and a tank top, knowing that the privacy fence on my patio will shield my neighbors' view of this unbecoming outfit. I'm too old to wear clothes like this, but I'm craving sunshine on my skin.

Outside minutes later, accompanied by the dogs, a new book, my camera (just in case), an ice cold soft drink, and cheese and crackers wrapped in a napkin, I lean back in one chair and prop my feet on another. I'm simultaneously warmed by the sun and cooled by a stiff breeze. Both feel wonderful. I make a mental note of the fact that I'm clearly not ready for cold weather.

It's quiet this morning except for the cawing of crows, the pinging of falling acorns, and the scraping of dried leaves against concrete. The latter sound is courtesy of the breeze that swirls those leaves in tight, playful circles.

A neighbor has bed linens hanging on a clothesline I never knew was there. The sight of her white sheets blowing in the wind fills my head with the fresh scent of sun-dried bedding I remember from childhood. I wonder if she'd mind if I walked over and sniffed her sheets.

Lucy and Oliver are here with my daughter Kim. Kim's in the shop making glass beads, Oliver and Levi are playing together, and Lucy is sticking close to Butch, the only male dog who isn't too boisterous for her tastes. The easy camaraderie between the animals gives me a sense of peace.

The past few days have been busy ones. There hasn't been much time for writing or reading, for watching TV, or for doing the daily crossword puzzle, which I've missed  every day but one. The usual chores of cleaning house, grocery shopping, paying bills, etc., have occupied half my time, and the rest of it has gone to unusual events that are worthy of individual blog posts:

• Welcoming a special houseguest;
• Trying to keep a limping dog from jumping off the sofa;
• Attempting a new skill; 
• Remaining calm in a stalled check-out line; and
• Practicing a new creative outlet.

I'll write about all those things in the coming days. In the meantime, I'm happy to have a quiet, low-key day today, pleased to have time to spend with you here at Velvet Sacks, and glad to have squeezed in a few minutes throughout the week to take a few photographs:

Tiny flowers dwarfed by blades of grass.

Lucy: "Don't point that thing at me!" 

Trees with their heads in the clouds.

The first red leaves in our neighborhood.

Peeping lizard.

Full beaver moon, a/k/a frosty moon

Sunlit and splendid.

Town cryer, town crower.

What I'm Reading Today: Off Season

(Click on the image

for more information about this book.)

Warmth

I've been busier than usual the past few days, but I did take time out on Sunday to visit my younger daughter. This little guy was also visiting with her that morning:

That's my great-grandson, Owen, who's 19 months old. (That dark stain on his T-shirt had been ice cubes minutes earlier.)

I don't know which was more fun, watching Owen's antics or watching the grown adults, including myself, literally dancing to his tune. He requested  "mu-sick," which to him means only one song: "I Gotta Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas. Owen danced, and we danced with him and for him. And we laughed. And we danced some more, until he tired of dancing and wanted to do other things. He's a very busy boy.

The weather was warm and beautiful that day. It's remained warm enough that I've had to turn the air conditioner on again, although it's supposed to cool off at least back to sweater weather tomorrow.

We still have only a smattering of autumn yellows and golds. I guess  that's better than having no signs of autumn at all. Since I had my camera with me on Sunday, I stood in my daughter and son-in-law's backyard and snapped photos of trees on the edge of their property, then snapped a few more on the way home.

See? Still mostly green:

A patch of pink peeked through these sunlit leaves:

This live oak tree was graceful and lovely, even in its humble, behind-someone's-garden-shed surroundings:

And this dead oak tree was beautiful in a different sort of way:

(Sigh.) Family gatherings and photo ops both give me warm, fuzzy feelings.

Legislative impasse

I love today's song. The first time I heard it, I thought the lyrics expressed a man's frustration with a woman, but after listening to it in regular rotation on my iTunes list, I began to hear it in a different way. Viewed in that new light (heard through a different ear?), the lyrics seemed to apply to a number of different situations, including the frustration legislators on one side of the aisle must feel when those on the other side refuse to budge.

For the record, I don't intend to turn this into a political blog, so please don't write me off forever just because your opinions differ from mine. It's just that today seems like a good time to feature this song since I already ventured into political territory earlier in the week.   What's more, the song is neutral, even if my opinion is not.

The title of the song is "Blue to a Blind Man." Here are the lyrics:

Blue to a Blind Man

by Ken Block

You think we're broken,
What if we're just a little cracked?
I know we're choking on the little things
That seem to come with time.

One word and watch our armies brawl.
No one will bend until one falls.
We used to fight, you for me and me for you,
Tied up without the words that might cut through.

It's like trying to teach blue to a blind man,
Rude to a kind man, or walking on the sun.
You try, and I do all that I can,
But teaching blue to a blind man can't be done.

We used our soldiers,
And it was us against the world.
The toll was taken, now we're buried under life
That comes with time.

One word and watch our eagles (egos?) brawl, 
No one will bend until one falls.
We used to fight, but you for me and me for you.

It's like trying to teach blue to a blind man,
Truth to a lie, and walking on the sun.
I try and I do all that I can,
But teaching blue to a blind man can't be done.

We can go home, 
You can sleep,
And I can think for a while.
We can't go on and on,
On empty, or endless oceans dry.

It's like trying to teach blue to a blind man,
Rude to a kind man, and screaming at the sun.
You try, and I, I do all that I can,
But teaching blue to a blind man can't be done.

It can't be done.
I'm teaching blue to a blind man.

And here's the music video:

_______________________________________________________________

(Thanks to scottymo2009 for posting this video on YouTube.)

What I'm Reading Today: The White Queen

I enjoy reading about the kings and queens of the Plantagenet era. Some of them were direct ancestors of my family, so it's fun to get the scoop on them, even if that scoop is largely fictional. 

(Click on the image

for more information about this book.)

Also, I'm happy to report that the Plantagenets' family-feuding gene has been watered down substantially over the last eight or nine centuries.

Occupying Velvet Sacks

It doesn't bother me one whit that there are people in this country who have a lot more money than I do. Let 'em have it. "Live and let live" and all that.

At a time when so many people are struggling financially, it does bother me a tiny bit when I see such overtly ostentatious houses, automobiles, or yachts that there seems to be no reason for their existence other than to stroke someone's outsized ego. It troubles me even more to learn that some individuals have obtained their fortunes through cheating, stealing, or accepting ridiculously large bonuses while workers at lower levels are being laid off. And when exceedingly rich people and corporations use their boatloads of money to buy political influence? That doesn't just bother me, my friends. That pisses me off!

Our laws should ensure that the ultra-wealthy are entitled to exactly the same amount of political influence you and I have: one vote apiece. When our elected officials fail to do the business of our government because the offices they hold have been bought and paid for by the one percent of the population with the deepest pockets, we need to recognize that something has gone terribly wrong. The fact that this kind of paid political persuasion is possible does not make it acceptable.

Today I'm standing up in my little corner of the Internet to join forces with people all across the country who are stepping up to occupy their communities in the interest of letting our officials know that we love America, we love what it stands for, and we're desperate to put a stop to the short-sighted, greedy, grab-what-you-can-get-and-to-hell-with-everyone-else attitude that has permeated Wall Street and Washington.

I've been reading the websites and Facebook pages of some of the Occupy groups. For the most part (there are always exceptions), I like what they're trying to do and the peaceful way in which they're attempting to go about it. The Occupy movement reminds me in so many ways of the push for change that grew in the 1960s until changes did occur. The process was long, frequently painful, but almost always exhilarating, as though the very air we breathed contained a low-voltage electrical charge.

I't's difficult to explain the Sixties to people who didn't experience it for themselves. If you're one who missed it, pay attention to what's happening across the country now. We  might be on the verge of something similar.

I haven't yet found the courage to join the bold souls who have recently begun to "occupy" nearby Baton Rouge. Maybe I will, someday, but when I see the hatred being spewed online at some of these groups and the misinformation being dispensed by certain segments of the media, my thoughts turn abruptly away from what's right for our country and focus on my own safety and security.

How selfish I am. I stay hidden, like a rabbit in tall grass, trying not to draw attention to my small presence in this field of dissent. The Occupy protestors march through that same grass, waving signs, singing anthems, shouting slogans, shining a spotlight on the masses of Americans whose financial--and, therefore, physical--security is being threatened. To me, these protestors are soldiers battling bravely in a different kind of war.

I proudly salute them, even as I slink back into posting about dogs, books, autumn leaves, and old family furniture.

Trinkets and Treasures - No. 9

I'm happy with most of the furniture in my house, but only a couple of pieces are really special to me. You've seen a picture of one of those pieces at least once before, and today I want to tell you why I love it so much.

This piece stood in the dining room of my grandmother's house (the home of my childhood) from the earliest days I can remember. I don't know if it was hers to begin with or if it had first belonged to her mother, Dora, who was also part of our multi-generational household.

After my grandmother passed away, my sister kept this piece and cared for it lovingly in her own home. It came to me eleven years later, after our mother died, and I hope it will always have a place with someone in our family.

You can't tell by looking at it, but it's actually made in two parts: the hutch sits on top of the secretary. When the hutch is lifted off, there's a span of wood on the secretary that isn't covered by the veneer that was so carefully applied to the rest of the piece. That patch of rough-hewn lumber demonstrates the age of this built-by-hand piece, as do the dovetail joints of the drawers and the slight rippling of the glass. The hinged half-top of the secretary folds out into a worn leather desktop.

When my sister passed this family heirloom on to me, she asked, "Did you ever know there's a hidden compartment in this?" I had not known it. I, who as a child had gone surreptitiously through every inch of that house with the thoroughness of a government agent, had somehow missed this.

The top of the hutch lifts up to reveal a secret space large enough to hold a good portion of a family's valuables. (I can show you this because I have no valuables to store in that space.)

I looked down on the top of this piece every time I went down the stairs from my bedroom for more than fourteen years and never suspected it was keeping a secret. My grandmother kept doilies on most of the flat wooden surfaces in our home, and there was always a crochet-edged scarf covering the tiny hinges on top of this.

I wonder what other interesting things I might have missed in my covert spy missions.

Sparks in the dark

In 1987 I worked as a human resources manager, but for one day, exactly 24 years ago today, I left my professional persona at home and went to work in the clothing and attitude of a punk rocker. I believe that was the one and only costumed celebration of Halloween we ever had when I worked at that office. Most of us enjoyed it, but a few serious souls objected on religious grounds.

I studied the photo above for several minutes before posting it, trying to remember  anything interesting I could tell you about that day. The only thing that came to mind was that that was the day I learned that if you chew Wint-O-Green Life Savers in the dark, you can see sparks.

No doubt the subject came up because I always kept a stash of Wint-O-Green Life Savers handy in my desk drawer, so it took less than a minute for my punk-rock self and the bearer of the candy-fire news to shut ourselves in the ladies' room, turn off the lights, and watch the mirror as we chewed mints in the dark. People, it's true: they do make little flashes of light.

I spent a large part of that afternoon passing out mints and conducting guided tours of the dark restroom. No one in the office got much work done that day. Now that I think about it, perhaps it was the loss of productivity, rather than the religious objections, that put an end to our Halloween celebrations.

I guess the repressed pagan parts of our personalities run a little wild when they get turned loose.

Happy Halloween, y'all!

Fluff 'n' stuff

When my Facebook account was "unavailable" for a couple of days this past week, I realized how much I've come to rely on that particular social network to keep up with what my friends and family members are doing. Big events usually rate a phone call, of course, but it's fun to know the little, moment-to-moment things, too.

Facebook and Blogger are both owned by Google, so my Google account password and login ID work for both FB and Blogger. Google was working properly, Blogger was working as it usually does, but Facebook was down. Late on the evening of the second frustrating day, I happened to check my third-party stat-counter for this blog. Whoa! There had been 730 hits that day, many multiples of the usual amount, and when I took a closer look, I discovered that all those visits were supposedly from me.

The stat-counter is set up so that it doesn't count visits from my IP address. The website showed that that feature was operating properly, and yet, there I was, 730 times. It's conceivable that I might have viewed Velvet Sacks a dozen times that day, and, out of frustration, I'm sure I may have visited Facebook twice an hour to see if it was working yet. I'm equally sure I've never visited any site 730 times in a day ever.

Seems fishy to me, but everything seems to be working right again.

********

It's turned cooler here in the last few days, cold enough to wear a jacket outside and cold enough to force me to give up my breakfasts outside. Fortunately, there's a patch of sunshine just my size on the patio at lunchtime. I'll miss those fresh-air meals when winter sets in.

********

My daughter called yesterday to see if I wanted to ride with her to Barnes & Noble, and I did, although I didn't intend to buy anything. Kim didn't find everything she was looking for at B&N, so we also went to Books-a-Million and Hobby Lobby before she decided she'd have to order what she needed online. I, on the other hand, bought a couple of things   at each of those places. You might think that indicates a lack of impulse control on my part, but you should have seen some of the wonderful things I admired and didn't buy.

********

As I write this, acorns are falling on the tin roof of my neighbor's garden shed. Each one   that hits sounds like a gunshot. Butch can't hear them, and Levi has heard them so many times he's no longer interested. Because I know the source of the sound, I actually kind of like it. It's an autumn kind of sound.

Wishing I was Mary

In the late summer of 1967 I was 24 years old, newly divorced, and the mother of two small daughters. I wasn't sorry that the marriage had ended, but I'd been sad for a long time that my dream of what a marriage could be had not materialized. I don't think I'd felt truly loved for a single day of the six years I was married.

That same summer Al Martino recorded "Mary in the Morning," a song that touched me deeply. I wanted to be loved the way the Mary of the song was loved, with tenderness and passion in equal proportions. Read these lyrics and see what I mean:

********

Mary in the Morning

(Written by Michael Rashkow and singer Johnny Cymbal)

Nothing's quite as pretty as Mary in the morning
When through a sleepy haze I see her lying there,
Soft as the rain that falls on summer flowers,
Warm as the sunlight shining on her golden hair, um-hum.

When I awake
And see her there so close beside me,
I want to take
Her in my arms,
The ache is there
So deep inside me.

Nothing's quite as pretty as Mary in the morning,
Chasing the rainbow in her dreams so far away,
And when she turns to touch me, I kiss her face so softly,
And then my Mary wakes to love another day, um-hum.

And Mary's there
In summer days or stormy weather.
She doesn't care
`Cause right or wrong the love we share,
We share together.

Nothing's quite as pretty as Mary in the evening,
Kissed by the shades of night and starlight in her hair,
And as we walk, I hold her close beside me,
All our tomorrows for a lifetime we will share, um-hum.

********

Before another year had passed I found that kind of love. Okay, so it lasted twelve years instead of a lifetime, but by the time it ended, I was no longer desperate for it. I'd experienced it for a time, I'd remember it always, and, most important, I'd learned that I was worth loving. Maybe that was what I'd really needed all along.

The song has remained a favorite, although I've grown to prefer Elvis Presley's version, which is the one I'm bringing to you today. (This one's for you, 4th Sister; I know how much you love Elvis.)

_______________________________________________________________

(Thanks to utmom2008 for posting this video on YouTube.)

No butts about it

Ronni Bennett's post about fashion this morning reminded me of a story I'd almost forgotten to tell you. It happened on the first day of my recent vacation.

The plan was for my sister to call me when she left her home in Texas, which she did. I knew I'd have three hours from then to load all my ready-for-packing clothing into luggage, bathe, put on makeup, and get dressed. I wanted to dress at the last minute so my traveling clothes would be fresh.

The problem was that my sister made really good time and arrived half an hour early. I still wasn't dressed. My daughters were here to see us off, so they visited with their aunt while I hurried around in my bathrobe to finish up. I threw on my clothes as fast as I could, then we were ready to hit the road.

I had chosen to travel in a chocolate brown T-shirt, brown sandals, and a pair of light-khaki pants. I'd picked that outfit specifically because of the pants. They were lightweight, didn't wrinkle much, had an elastic waist, and were about one size too large for me--not so large that they were ugly-baggy, but plenty roomy.

As the day progressed, I was comfortable and pleased with my choice. We stopped a few times that first day, for gasoline, restrooms, and cold drinks. At one of those stops I attempted to put change in my pocket, only to realize there were no pockets. "Hm," I thought to myself, "I could have sworn these pants had pockets." No big deal, right? I didn't give it another thought.

We traveled through three states that first day: Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. Just after dark we stopped for the night at a hotel in Montgomery, Alabama. It was late and we were hungry, so we dropped off our luggage in our hotel room, took turns in the bathroom, then picked up our purses to head out for dinner.

My hand was on the doorknob when my sister yelled, "Stop!" I turned around to see what was the matter and saw her laughing and pointing at me. "Your pants," she giggled. "The fly is in the back." Indeed it was. So were the pockets. I had displayed myself across three states with my pants on backwards.

I would have been embarrassed, but I knew I'd never see any of those people again in my lifetime, so I just turned the pants around and went about my business. In fact, the more I thought about it, the funnier it got. But then I thought about it some more and the humor began to wear off a little.

I wore my pants backwards--through three states--and couldn't tell the difference. What does that say about the shape of my recently slimmed-down butt?

Drive-by Autumn

Yes, Virginia, there is an autumn, but in Louisiana you have to look harder for it. You'll find one tree on this road, another on that one, and maybe, if you drive a few miles farther north, you'll even spot a whole cluster of trees with red-orange leaves.

I drive around this area in search of autumn leaves every year about this time, and the pickings are almost always  slim. After taking some disappointing shots yesterday, today I resorted to looking through old photo files for patches of boldly colored nature. By zooming in  on previous years' largely green photos, then cropping the hell out of them, I've put together a small collection entitled "Seeing Autumn in Your Shorts and Sandals." Enjoy!

Too much TV?

I remember only fragments of my dreams last night, but I'd like to be able to repeat one of the things I do remember:

As I drifted off into a dream state, a screen popped up in my head, looking very much like the list of DVR recordings on my TV screen. It was a list of dream topics. I selected one (telepathically, I suppose, for I had no remote control), my choice was highlighted for a brief moment, and then I began dreaming about that very pleasant subject.

Do you suppose the head honcho in charge of the human psyche has hired a tech support team? And if this was just a trial offer, do you know where I can sign up for the upgrade?

What I'm Reading Today: The Walk West

I enjoyed Peter Jenkins' first book enough that I was eager to follow him along the rest of his journey. Here's the sequel:

(Click the image above

for more information about this book.)

Trinkets and Treasures - No. 8

We're definitely in trinket territory today, but there's something about this particular napkin-holder that appeals to me every time I see it. I bought it at least thirty years ago, in Georgia, I think. Though it's no longer in use (my "napkins" come on a roll now), it's always on display somewhere in my kitchen.

Who would have thought that a handful of colorful grains, encapsulated in Lucite, would have the power to make me happy for so many years?