We hadn't played backyard ball since before the Hurricane. The yard has stayed so wet and muddy from the storm's heavy rains that even a short trip outside with the dogs means I have to hose off their feet before they can come back in the house. Today, for probably the fiftieth time this week, Levi and Gimpy approached me with the tennis ball and a pair of hopeful faces. And today I gave in. Labor Day and backyard ball games just go together, don't you think?
All the dark spots on the ground in this photo are mudholes,
and there's plenty more of it underneath the grassy surface.
How'd you like to wash these paws eight or ten times a day?
Here's Levi, begging me to throw the ball one more time.
And here's Gimpy, awaiting his turn with the dreaded shower spray.
Three of us played ball this morning. Two of us--the hairy ones--had a wonderful time, right up until the bath at the very end. Who says, "There is no joy in Mudville"?
Hurricane Isaac came to Louisiana and stayed. And stayed and stayed. Its rains are still here, as a matter of fact, causing area waterways to continue rising well past the point where they've flooded hundreds of homes and made many roads impassable. But it could have been so much worse.
We are among the lucky ones. Some of my family members have been threatened by the rising waters, forced to pack up everything important to them in case parish-operated pumps failed and evacuation became necessary, but that didn't materialize. Another family member was greatly inconvenienced when plans for a move to a new home, scheduled for today, had to be canceled and all the components of such a move put back on the table to be organized all over. You won't hear anyone complaining, though.
As for me personally, a few shingles flew off my roof. The yard is littered with tree trash, but no big limbs fell. The power stayed on throughout the entire storm, then flickered off quite a few times yesterday, staying off just long enough to reset the clocks on my kitchen appliances and the router on my computer. Throughout the main thrust of the winds, though, we remained cool, well fed, and able to keep abreast of the latest hurricane news.
In my home the worst part of Hurricane Isaac was the anxiety it produced, mostly because of the mental tapes of Hurricane Gustav that kept replaying in my head. As comfortable as I was--and as grateful as I was for that comfort--I kept expecting life as I knew it to come crashing down at any moment. Preparedness is helpful in an event like this. But worry? Not so much.
Isaac was a storm of wind and water, but no thunder or lightning accompanied it in our area, so the dogs were not disturbed. Bored, yes, but not frightened.
Levi, Gimpy and Lucy
They balked at going outside in the horrible weather (which I think demonstrates their keen intelligence), and the humans in the house learned that the canines are capable of "holding it" for far longer than has ever been necessary up until now. When they did go out, they made a quick dash of it, then returned indoors to focus on what matters to them every other day: suppertime and tennis balls.
(As I write this, several utility trucks just passed by on the road in front of my house. They made some sort of announcement on a loudspeaker, but I didn't get the door opened in time to hear their message. Also as I write this, when I did get the door opened, I found a trail of fire ants on my doorstep, no doubt seeking higher ground. That's not good.)
As happy as I am to report to you that my loved ones and I are safe and well, I'm saddened by the devastation so many others have experienced as a result of this hurricane, and I pray that they find all the help they need to get quick relief from the heat, the water, and the destruction that has literally rained down on them. At times like this, being one of the lucky ones can leave a person feeling not only happy, but also undeserving. "There but for the grace of God..."
**********
Today is Saturday, after all, so I feel compelled by habit to post a music video. The subject of this week's Saturday Song Selection is an earlier Louisiana hurricane. The old photos used in the video are captivating.
It was a typical lazy Sunday until shortly after one p.m., when my daughter Kelli called and told me that Tropical Storm Isaac had changed its course and was headed straight for us. Within minutes after that phone call ended, I was stopped at a gas station, filling up my tank.
The next stop was Walmart, where I thought I'd get a head start on hurricane preparation. The store was packed with other people who had the same idea. Luckily, I arrived in time to get some bottled water. I also snagged some non-perishable food, but only because I'm willing to eat tuna for several days in a row rather than starve. Tuna was pretty much all the non-perishable meat they had left, so I bought five pouches of it. I also found a couple of cans of pork and beans, some peaches and pineapple chunks, peanut butter, sugar-free strawberry preserves, and the last loaf of whole-wheat bread.
I needed batteries, too, but they were out of the size I needed most. I eavesdropped as a clerk told another customer that there was a relief truck on its way and they would have more emergency supplies on Monday. That turned out to be true, so Kim picked up lantern batteries yesterday.
Monday morning I ran errands to check a few more things off my list:
* cash (ATMs and debit cards don't work if the power is out);
* ice (to store in the freezer and transfer to an ice chest when the power goes out);
* library books (in case there's no TV or computer for entertainment);
* a new car charger for my cell phone.
That last item turned out to be a tough one. I went to several places to try to find one, but it turns out they don't make them anymore for my model of cell phone. I gave up and went home without it, knowing that meant I could only depend on staying in touch with my family for a couple of days. I had bought a car charger the same day I bought the phone, but I had misplaced it months ago and have turned this house upside down trying to find it. Oddly, ten minutes after I got home from shopping for a replacement, I opened the drawer to my nightstand--a drawer I open at least once a week--and the charger was right there, sitting on top of a book. Thanks, Universe!
A little later in the day I used some ground meat that was in my refrigerator to make a dozen one-serving meat loaves. They're in the freezer now, and if/when the power goes out, they can thaw gradually in the ice chest. While those were in the oven, I put all my eggs on the stove to boil, then filled every nook and cranny in the refrigerator with bottled water and canned soft drinks. The tighter it's packed with cold things, the longer the perishables will stay cold.
Planning further ahead, I vacuumed all the floors. There'll be mud tracked in over the next few rainy days, but after the storm hits I may have to rely on a broom instead of the vacuum cleaner. Next, I changed into my oldest shorts and T-shirt and laundered everything else that needed it so I'd have enough clean clothes to wear for at least a week.
This morning (Tuesday), I dusted everything in the entire house, took a shower and shampooed my hair, and scheduled eight days' worth of photo blog posts. I was shooting for two weeks' worth of new photos, just to be on the safe side, but quit when I lost the internet connection.
When I'm finished here, I'll be as ready as I can get. Kim is here with me, having arrived a short while ago with salisbury steak for our supper and a few more grocery items. She, along with her Lucy and Oliver, will wait out the storm with Levi, Gimpy, and me.
The dogs have been behaving a little strangely for the last day or two. Gimpy spent a lot more time in his crate yesterday than he usually does, and Levi was rather subdued, too. During the night they woke me up twice, Gimpy by calling me--"Wwrraawwrraamaamaaaaaaaa"--and Levi, a couple hours later, by standing on his hind legs at my bedside and licking my face. I'm wondering if they sense the storm in the atmosphere. This morning their strange behavior turned to frolic when they stepped outside into cooler air and stiff breezes that I enjoyed as much as they did.
Isaac is now officially a hurricane. It doesn't seem to be much of one in terms of its strength, but if it sits on top of us as long as is predicted, it'll be capable of doing some damage. Until the last possible minute, we'll still be hoping that we've done all that preparation for nothing.
So...Writing this blog post was the last item on my pre-storm to-do list. Until next time, I wish you all a gentle rain if you need it or fair weather if you don't.
Watch It Grow
The narrow patch of woods across the road from my house looks lush and thick. This summer's heavy rains have produced more greenery there than I've seen in the entire 15 years I've lived here. Beautiful, but as rapidly as these vines and branches are growing, I'm halfway expecting them to reach out and snatch a car off the road any day now.
Have to Go
Of course, those same rains have made the weeds grow faster, including these that are crawling through every little crack in my fence:
Set It Free
This butterfly (or is it a moth?), shown here flattening itself against the inside of my glass storm door, realized its mistake as soon as the door closed behind it. It tried desperately to get back out into the fresh air, but the cruel side of me made it wait until I had taken its picture.
Let Her Be
The neighbor's dog, Jelly Bean, was a guest in our home while her person was on vacation. She decided on her own that Gimpy's bed was the one that was "just right," and Gimpy kindly let her stay there for a long nap.
Can't Be Trusted
This ugly gecko had made its way inside a window screen, and I was concerned that it would somehow get around the edge of the window and into the house.
Oops! I'm Busted
I needn't have worried. As soon as it noticed me watching it, it scurried out the same way it had come in.
Take Care of It
This squat toad, about the size of a large egg, has taken up residence underneath the dogs' outdoor water dish. Since it probably dines on bugs that are traveling across my patio, I decided to let it stay. The dish is a big plastic square with a moulded round center that sits close to the ground, so the only spaces left for the toad are the four corners. This means that every time I pick up the bowl to fill it or to toss the water out of it at night (mosquito prevention), I have to be extremely careful not to set down any part of the bowl on top of the toad. I hope the toad appreciates my caution.
Gotta Love It
This is Kim's dog, Oliver, who has an open invitation to my house. The only problem? His favorite seat in the house is also my favorite seat. Fortunately, he's small; it isn't too difficult to scoot him over, even if he does grumble about it.
We all know that book covers sometimes change from one edition to the other. I'm showing you the cover on the book I read, but the embedded link takes you to a site that shows a different cover. Don't let that deter you. I thought it was a really good book. Something different.
The Mermaid Chair by Sue Monk Kidd
Reader reviews on this one averaged only two and a half stars, which I personally think sells it a little bit short. The main complaint seems to be that it doesn't meet the expectations raised by The Secret Life of Bees, also by this author. I agree with that observation, but I think this one might have received better reviews if it had been written first. I personally enjoyed it.
For a description or reviews of any of these books,
I would not bother to deny
How much I love to kill a fly,
To swat it soundly on its head
And watch its body lie there dead.
I only wish, when I kill flies,
That x's would replace their eyes.
Today I want to tell you a story about a woman I once knew and a girl I never met. The woman and the girl were the same person. The story is pieced together from memories and from a string of documents gathered over the years on a genealogy website. This week a page from the 1940 census inspired me to dig deeper, to find out more, and made me long to travel back in time and wrap my adult arms around that girl and tell her--even if it would turn out to be a lie--that everything would be all right.
The girl was born in 1923 in the same East Texas town where she would die, too young, in 1972. Her father was artistic and made his living as a sign painter. I found his World War I draft registration online, and I imagine (don't know for sure) that he met and married the girl's mother, who was born in Wales, when the war took him to Europe.
I've learned from an old city directory that in 1929 the girl's family, including her paternal grandmother, lived together in the Texas town where she was born. The girl had an older brother. Their younger brother had passed away in 1924 at the tender age of six months. In 1929, probably about the time that city directory was distributed, a fourth child, their baby sister, was delivered stillborn.
Months later, at the time of the 1930 census, the family--minus the children's father--lived in a different house. I've never been able to determine where the father was or why he was absent. The girl's mother had bravely returned to work after the loss of her two babies, working as a saleslady at a variety store, but by the time Thanksgiving of 1930 rolled around, she herself had died. She was only 31 years old.
A 1931 city directory shows that the girl's father and his mother were living together again. I assume the children lived with them. Then, in April of 1932, the grandmother died. How much loss can one child bear? The girl would have been almost eight at the time, her brother only eleven. Ever since I discovered those documents I've wondered what happened to the children. Oh, I know they survived, because the girl grew up and married my uncle, and I know from published records that her brother survived to the age of 73. But what about those interim years? Was their father able to care for them? I've learned that he lived long after his children were old enough to be on their own, so maybe he did. At the time of his death in 1949, he was unmarried, residing in Louisiana, and still painting signs.
By the time I met the grown-up little girl in the late 1940s, she was already my uncle's wife. Both of them had joined the military in World War II, and they met and married in England. In the early 1950s they and their three young sons lived just three doors up the street from us in Missouri.
I probably saw my aunt at least once a day in those years, but it never occurred to me that her life had been anything other than ordinary. The only tragic thing I ever knew about her childhood was that she had been attacked by a dog when she was very young. It was a German Shepherd, she told me when I asked out of childish curiosity about the scar that began above one eye, crossed at an angle over the bridge of her nose, and continued across the opposite cheek. I never thought to ask another question, and if she ever told any other stories of her early life, I don't remember them.
We still lived in Missouri when my aunt and uncle and their boys decided to move away to the East Texas town where she'd grown up. A few years later we took a road trip to visit them there. It was on that vacation that my mother met the man who'd soon become my stepfather and changed the geographical course of my own life.
Time passed, and on a late-spring day in the mid-1960s, when I was a young mother with two babies of my own, one of my aunt's sons called me on the phone. "I just wanted to tell you we have a new brother," he said. He went on to explain that a young man and his wife had surprised my aunt with a visit a few days earlier--on Mother's Day. That young man, in his 20s then, turned out to be my aunt's first child. My cousin stated matter-of-factly that his mother had gotten pregnant when she was young, that her baby had been adopted at birth, that my uncle had known the whole story since before they married, and that their whole family was thrilled to welcome the young man into their midst. My cousin also said--I remember this clearly: "She says they forced her to give up her baby for adoption." That part of this story did not have a happy ending. My aunt's firstborn son, lost to her for so many years, died of leukemia about a year after their reunion.
My first marriage ended not long after I was told about my aunt's long-lost son. Later, during my second marriage, my husband's work kept our family moving around the country. During those traveling years I rarely saw the Texas portion of my family, and I never saw my aunt again. She died at the age of 48 from a brain hemorrhage, I believe it was. The exact nature of her illness didn't stick in my mind as soundly as the fact that it had gone largely untreated. A few years earlier my aunt and uncle had become involved in a religious movement that forbade medical treatment. My uncle would follow her down a similar path six years later.
And so we leave the story of the grown-up aunt, knowing what ultimately happened to her, and we return to the story about the girl. I found that girl this past week in the 1940 census. That year she was 16 years old and living in a convent in Houston, Texas, with eight nuns and 103 other girls and women listed in the census as "charges." Through further research I've learned that the nuns who ran the convent were from an order known for its work with "wayward girls and fallen women." Given the circumstances of my aunt's early life, I find it difficult to think of her as wayward. Or fallen. Broken maybe. Lonely, for sure.
I will probably never know, nor is it any of my business, the circumstances surrounding the conception of the child born to the girl. That act may have been tragic, too, but until I learn otherwise I will refuse to think of it that way. I want to believe that the girl met a boy, her first love, someone who would finally hold her close and make her believe that good times lay ahead of them. Maybe that's wishful thinking. If not my aunt, though, then certainly there were others among the "charges" in that convent whose stories began with love and ended in loss and shame because of the mores of the time. So many young women. So many different stories.
Life can be cruel sometimes.
*******
And what of the boy, the father of that baby? When a certain old song shuffled up on my iTunes playlist this morning, I thought for the first time about his role in this story. Except for the fact that my aunt's name was not Joanne, the song made me imagine that boy as he might have been in later years, grown well into manhood and maturity, remembering the young girl and wishing he knew what had happened to her.
______________________________________________
The song is "Joanne" by Michael Nesmith.
Thanks to Margaret Chaplynski for posting this video on YouTube.
Click here to read the lyrics.
Have you ever experienced an intense longing to visit some particular place? Maybe somewhere you've lived before, somewhere you've visited, or even somewhere you've never been except in your imagination?
I've had occasional longings to return to the Missouri hometown of my childhood and have made that trip a couple of times. Last spring the Smoky Mountains were tugging at my heartstrings, so much so that I went on a binge of reading books set in those mountains. Call it coincidence or call it fate, but right in the middle of that book binge, my sister Judy called and invited me to go on vacation with her--to the Smokies. It's been almost a year since we fulfilled that wonderful dream.
Also, for as long as I can remember, I've imagined myself being in Ireland. Knowing I'll probably never get there, I attempt to satisfy that urge by listening to Irish music and watching step-dancing videos when I get the chance. It hasn't escaped my attention that the roots of bluegrass, the music of the Smoky Mountains, extend partly to Ireland. Who knows? Maybe those longings are in my blood, a connection to an Irish ancestor who settled in the Smokies. Or maybe (woo woo) it's even some kind of a past-life thing.
Donna, my stepsister, fell in love with Charleston, South Carolina when she visited there, and she speaks often of wanting to go back. Her love affair with Charleston is one of the reasons she wanted me to read the books mentioned in my last post. Having now read some of them, I understand the attraction that the low country holds for her.
I'm pretty sure most of us experience those geographical longings at some point in our lifetimes. In fact, songwriters and musicians have been inspired to write about places they've been or wanted to be so many times that a Google search for "songs about places" turned up "about 370,000,000 results." So what do you think it is about a certain place that reaches out and grabs you and won't let go?
The reason this whole subject is on my mind is that lately I've been replaying one particular song over and over because I love the feelings it inspires. The places mentioned in the song don't hold any special meaning for me, but the sentiment of it touches me deeply. Listen and see what you think; it's this week's Saturday Song Selection:
My stepsister, Donna, brought me a bagful of books on her recent visit, and I've been working my way through them, starting with several that were written by Dorothea Benton Frank. I haven't checked yet to see if all of Ms. Franks' books are set in or near Charleston, South Carolina, but the ones I've been reading have all taken place in that area. One thing I am particularly enjoying about these books is that, although the stories are all different, characters from one book sometimes make a brief appearance in a later one. That lends credence to the stories, since it might be expected that people living in the same area would bump into one another occasionally.
I dug into the bag of books at the first opportunity, reading a few pages at bedtime while Donna and her hubby were still here. Here's what I've read so far:
Plantation
Return to Sullivans Island
Isle of Palms
Shem Creek
For a description and reviews of any of these books,
click on its image above.
If you like books that leave you with warm, fuzzy, family feelings, you'll like these.
By the way, Donna brought the books in a big, brown paper bag, but she also brought me a large, reversible book bag that she'd sewn herself:
There's a French word that's used frequently in this part of Louisiana: lagniappe (LAN-yap). It means "a little something extra." Actually, it's more than a word. It's an attitude.
On the first night of my recent houseguests' visit, we went for dinner at a popular seafood restaurant. It was early in the evening, so our wait for a table was no longer than ten minutes. As it turned out, that first available table was not the best one. Not that any of us noticed that in the beginning.
I sat across from my stepsister, Donna. Her husband, C.O., sat between us. Service was good, and in a matter of moments our attention was focused on good conversation and the excellent food in front of us. We paid so little attention to other diners and to usual restaurant noises that we might as well have had the room all to ourselves.
A sudden crash caused all three of us to jump, shattering the illusion of dining in a bubble. We were instantly aware that the kitchen door was only a few feet away from C.O.'s back and that a busboy with his tray of dirty dishes had accidentally bumped the edge of that door, causing the load of dishes and leftovers to crash to the floor.
Restaurant staff surrounded the spill immediately, cleaning up the mess with as little disruption as possible, and we returned to enjoying our dinner. We were now aware of people coming and going through the kitchen door, but they were so unobtrusive about it that we paid them little attention.
Several minutes later, after we were no longer thinking about that interruption, a member of the restaurant staff stepped quietly up to C.O.'s shoulder. She was dressed in uniform, dark pants and white shirt, and she held a small towel in her hand. With a friendly smile she leaned in and quietly informed C.O. that there was a splash of tartar sauce on his shirt and, with his permission, she would wipe it off. He readily agreed, and we all laughed as she leaned in and rubbed the spot off his shirt. She seemed relieved that we had responded with humor, and, her black eyes dancing as she finished with C.O.'s shirt, she motioned to his rear end. "And that ain't all," she said, flashing an even bigger smile.
By then we were nearly rolling with laughter. I saw another staff member leaning in the kitchen doorway, smiling and shaking her head at the nerve of her co-worker, who was bent over, busily scrubbing the seat of C.O.'s pants.
I get so tickled when I think of the conversation they must have had in that kitchen beforehand, trying to decide what was the right thing to do and who would be brave enough to do it. The meal was good enough that we'd probably remember it anyway, but the decision those restaurant workers made ensured we won't forget the night C.O. got a little something extra with his seafood platter.
My Goldendoodle boys share a birthday today, and I can't think of a single thing that's terrible about these two-year-olds. Nobody would call them perfect, but they're definitely wonderful.
Levi (left) and Gimpy
We brought Levi home in December of 2010. Gimpy, his litter mate and best bud, didn't join our family until April of this current year. Getting these two back together is possibly one of the best things I've ever done. They have so much fun.
Levi (left) and Gimpy
On Gimpy's first day here, we found out Levi didn't actually know how to play ball. He'd never really had to learn, because he had had no competition. I'd throw the ball and he'd mosey around until he found it, then bring it back to me. Gimpy, however, had grown up sharing space with his father. He had learned to stand back a few yards so he'd be closer to the ball once it was thrown, and he'd learned never to take his eye off the ball. The first couple of weeks Gimpy was here, despite his nerve-damaged leg, he beat Levi to the ball every single time. Levi learned from Gimpy and they're a good match now, which makes the game more fun for all of us.
Gimpy
I thought in those early days that Gimpy was the alpha dog, because Levi followed him around, let him have first choice of toys, and submitted to his every whim. Now I think Levi just had a huge case of hero worship. Levi is the bossier of the two, but I suspect he's the boss because Gimpy lets him be. Winning seems to be important to Levi. Gimpy enjoys their various games enough to offer Levi a challenge, but he isn't nearly as intense about it as Levi is. I thought Levi might be using his size (five inches taller, 30 pounds heavier) to gain an advantage over Gimpy, but I've discarded that notion because Kim's little Shih-Tzu and, more recently, my stepsister's tiny Yorkie-Jack Russell mix can make both of my big dogs avert their eyes and stand at attention. Nope, I think Gimpy just doesn't care as much about being the boss as Levi does.
Levi
They "fight" daily, usually several times, but I've never seen them fight in anger. The mock fight is one of their favorite games. Like most of their other activities, it involves a tennis ball. The dog who has possession of the ball tries to keep it, the other one tries to take it away. It involves rolling, tumbling, much snorting, wide-open mouths with bared teeth, body slamming, choke holding, and limb grabbing. It can be played indoors or outdoors, and it is repeated over and over until both dogs are exhausted. I am included in this game. I am home base. For example, in an indoor game, the winner usually leaps onto the sofa and stands next to me--or, if Gimpy is the winner, stands on my legs--with the ball in his mouth.
Levi on top, Gimpy on the ground
I love these boys and can't resist hugging them or kissing their foreheads every chance I get. Levi has always taken sort of a drive-by approach to affection. He goes about his business, playing, eating, or sleeping, and occasionally, as if the idea just occurred to him, he drops by and plants a sloppy wet kiss on me. Once in a while he'll crawl up on the sofa beside me and stick around for some petting. Gimpy, though, is a lover, a cuddler, a snuggler. He plants his whole body on my lap several times throughout the day, licking my cheeks and chin, and if I'm not sitting where he can do that, he walks up beside me and pushes his head up under the palm of my hand so I'll pet him. That part of his personality makes him seem younger than Levi, even though they're exactly the same age. Levi is my big boy, and Gimpy is my baby.
Gimpy
As luck would have it, the cuddlier dog is the one that sheds. I explained in an earlier post that Gimpy takes after their father, a Golden Retriever, and Levi got more of their mother's Poodle genes. As much as they look alike, their hair is very different. Gimpy has never had a haircut except for an occasional trim between his eyes. His beautiful curls are apparently as long as they're ever going to get. That's good in terms of less grooming being required, but I'm sweeping up dog hair once again. Levi sheds no more hair than a human does, but his coat grows thick and long and fast. Without regular haircuts, he gets matted and tangled easily.
Levi
Gimpy is the naughtier of the two. He's nowhere near as destructive as Levi was during his first few months here, but Gimpy is a bit of a kleptomaniac. He especially likes to steal paper and cloth. If I lay down a dust cloth and turn my back, it'll be gone before I reach for it again. A towel dropped on the bathroom floor gets filched and carried to the futon or into Gimpy's crate. He pulls packets of paper off the office-supply shelves near my computer desk. He always seems genuinely contrite when I confront him about it, so I think the "debbil" must be making him do it.
Gimpy
Levi barks the most. His keen hearing alerts him if a neighbor opens or closes a door or if someone pulls into a nearby driveway, and he barks loudly--and sometimes emits a low warning growl--to let them know they're not going to get past him. I guess that makes him a good watchdog. It also makes him a little bit annoying. Sometimes, when Levi barks protectively, Gimpy makes a couple of little "grrfffs" himself, but more often he just comes to wherever I am and stares up into my face to see if I've noticed that Levi is barking. Gimpy is my back-up alarm.
Levi
Levi is the more confident of the two. Despite the previously mentioned barking, he seems to assume that new people he meets are friendly. I haven't found much that scares Levi other than little dogs with take-charge attitudes and the dreaded plastic Walmart bags.
Levi
Both dogs warm up to people quickly, but Gimpy is more cautious, holding back until he's had an opportunity to learn a little more about someone new. It's Gimpy who has snapped twice at veterinary technicians, and it was Gimpy who suddenly snarled and growled at a neighbor who bent down and put her face right next to his on the other side of the fence. In his defense, he's normally so sweet natured that all three of those people placed the blame on themselves. The vet technicians each claimed that it isn't unusual for a dog to get snippy when someone "messes with" his hind end, and the neighbor said she knew better than to make direct eye contact with a dog that doesn't know her well. Gimpy is still somewhat timid around anything or anybody new and even a few things or situations that are by now familiar to him. I'm hoping that enough time, love, and reassurance will build his confidence and make him less fearful.
Gimpy
Unless you count the fact that I shared my tuna salad with the boys at lunchtime, we haven't done much in the way of celebration today. I thought about getting each of them a new toy, but they'd each want the toy that the other one had, and both toys would be de-squeaked and shredded in less than ten minutes. They'll have a good play session tonight, I'm sure, but I can't imagine it will be any more or less exciting than the one they had last night or the night before. I can't speak for Gimpy and Levi, but I can tell you honestly that every day I spend with them is a celebration as far as I'm concerned. They hold my heart in their shaggy paws.
It rained again this afternoon. Summer rains are certainly not unusual around here, but normally they show up in the form of a light shower, just enough to keep the grass green and growing. Under those conditions, the backyard dries out soon after the rain and makes a lovely green carpet on which my dogs can run as hard and fast as they wish.
Even when the grass is dry, if Levi and Gimpy have a good romp immediately after the lawn is mowed, the freshly released chlorophyll tints their blond paws green.
Fortunately, the green soon fades.
Unfortunately, the ground beneath that beautiful grass carpet is only slightly more solid than Louisiana swamp land. When we have days and days and days of rain, the rainwater exceeds what the earth is able to absorb and stands in the backyard, concealed by the rapidly growing grass. It's like living on a sponge. The ground appears to be firm, but one step off the sidewalk is often enough to sink my foot nearly to the ankle.
There's mud under all that water, and when I let Gimpy and Levi outside to take care of their business, I cross my fingers that they don't get too frisky. It only takes a few seconds of full-out running to cover their undersides with mud:
Gimpy (left) and Levi
As I mentioned in a recent post, we've had heavy rains for days now. The dogs are bored, bless their hearts. They want to play outdoors. Getting muddy doesn't bother them, but I'm really, really tired of hosing them off several times a day, and they don't much like that part of it, either. (Don't worry; the hose is on the shower setting, so it doesn't hurt them.)
The man who cuts my grass called last night and said he'd be here this morning, if the sun was shining, to mow the lawn before the rain started again. He came. He mowed. I was busy and didn't look outside until after he was gone. At least I think he's gone. He and his tractor may still be in there somewhere.
Three of my last four library books were good--not great, but definitely worth the time spent reading them. The fourth book (pictured at the bottom of this group) failed to capture my interest. I picked it up a dozen times over a three-day period, each time reading a couple more pages, and finally gave up on it. That doesn't happen often, and it always makes me wonder if something on the very next page might have grabbed me. Guess I'll never know.
Lone Wolf by Jodi Picoult:
In the Dark by Brian Freeman:
The Deepest Waters by Dan Walsh:
Lost River by David Fulmer:
For a description and reviews of any of these books,
Sometimes, in the midst of quiet complacency, life swoops in on a gust of fresh air, cleans the cobwebs off our daily routines, and sets us in motion. That would explain the creative energy that has consumed so much of my time over the past few weeks. It would also describe the house guests who visited earlier this week. Their animated personalities and generous spirits filled my home with light and joy.
But other times, also in the midst of quiet complacency, insanity rains down on the least likely of places, terrorizes innocent people, and snuffs out life for no rational reason at all. Meanwhile, across the country, a friend's beloved mother sheds her tired old body, no doubt as nature intended it, and goes peacefully to meet her Maker. Those things happened this week, too.
Here in South Louisiana, our daily rain showers were interrupted by three days of sunshine while my guests were here. Soon after they left for home, the rains returned: hard rains, accompanied by spectacular displays of thunder and lightning. The storms have continued since then with few breaks.
It was thunder that woke me this morning and it's thunder that rattles the house now, keeping one of my dogs (Gimpy) close beside me. The storms and the news coverage have temporarily damped my good mood, but I'm not worried about it. I know it will return, and I will appreciate the joy even more, having been reminded of life's fragility.
Pray for peace for those who have lost loved ones and pray in gratitude for every day that those you love stay safe. Or, if you don't believe in prayer, then wish fervently for those same things and, while you're at it, wish for something or someone powerful and good to believe in.
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Today's Saturday Song Selection is an instrumental piece that fits both the mood and the weather:
If you've visited here in the past few days, you might think all I've been doing is reading, but you'd be wrong. I've been up to my eyeballs in projects:
Let there be light--but not quite so much of it:
Because of my unique housing situation, and because of the furniture arrangement in my living room, I frequently found myself simultaneously watching television and struggling not to look straight across the carport into my neighbor's house. My solution was to keep the blinds closed almost all the time, but that made the room depressingly dark.
Before
This week I put up privacy-frosted window film around the perimeter of my front windows and all across the two bottom rows of panes, leaving a two- by four-pane section near the top clear. Now I can see out when I'm standing, but I can sit on the sofa with my feet propped up and not worry about flashing anybody.
While I had all the supplies out for that project, I decided to put the same film on the doors of the bathroom cabinet. They were already lightly frosted, but the additional layer made my extra rolls of toilet tissue a little less conspicuous.
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Another window project:
A long time ago (we're talking years) I bought two halves of an old window at my next-door neighbor's garage sale. I knew I wanted to use them to frame pictures, but I never could decide what pictures I wanted to display. This week I did. I love the concept of bringing the outside in, so I printed twelve different photos of trees:
I dug the old windows out of the garden shed, hosed them down, then brought them inside for a thorough scrubbing.
It'll take a while longer to mat the photos and hang the heavy windows, but at least I have a plan in progress. I'll show you the finished project as soon as it's on the wall.
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Saving files in style:
After finishing several family history searches recently and printing out tons of paper records, it occurred to me that there is a better way to store all the documents and images. Thanks to the ever-helpful Internet, I learned how to save genealogy reports as PDF files that can be opened, searched, and printed on a wide variety of computer types, then I saved each person's family history files on a CD. Wanting to end up with a nice-looking product for a couple of special people, I made covers for the CD jewel cases. Those turned out well, so I bought a packet of Avery® CD labels and downloaded a free template from their website. This was fun, and it sure beats my previous method of titling CDs with a Sharpie® marker.
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I don't know how long this creative spurt will last, but I'm enjoying it for now. The heat is keeping me indoors, and I'm glad to have something to do. Anything but housework.
