The Big Seven-Oh

Yep. Today is the day I turn seventy. How the heck did that happen so fast?

They say age is just a number, but I find that particular number a little sobering: both parents and two of my alloted four grandparents passed away in their seventh decade. What's even more sobering is that they seemed so much older than I think I am now. Sometimes I wish I could view myself through a younger person's eyes, although that perspective could be as skewed as my own, only in the opposite direction. (I remember clearly how old thirty seemed when I was seventeen:  Over. The. Hill.)

I feel better than I did ten years ago. That's a good sign, don't you think? I'm thinner, more agile, and have more stamina than I did then. I'm eating healthier foods, seeing my doctors on a regular schedule, and taking medications as prescribed--fewer medications these days, in fact. And I have good intentions about exercising more.

Nevertheless, I recognize the signs of wear and tear on my body. Neither my eyesight nor my hearing is as keen as it was ten years ago. Come to think of it, my nose isn't as sensitive, either. Or my taste buds. As for my skin, at some point it apparently assessed its long-term career of holding my body together, then muttered "Whatever!" and turned loose. Yesterday my daughter was taking my picture and asked me to stop squinting. I wasn't squinting; my eyelids are droopy. My brows are going all Andy Rooney on me, too.  The individual hairs are springy (the only perky body parts left). They grow out in random directions, making it difficult to tweeze them into narrow, feminine arches. And, speaking of random directions, one of my teeth has kicked out slightly in front of the others, and a few of my fingers and toes no longer line up with the precision of the good soldiers they used to be.

It's also possible that my brain function may have declined a little bit. Words and names seem to slip away more frequently than they used to, though they still pop right back into my head shortly after I force myself to stop grasping for them. I don't honestly know whether that actually happens more often than it used to or if I'm just noticing those incidents more. I am paying closer attention. In fact I've become hyper-vigilant about signs of memory loss, as if I want to make sure I'm the first one to know if I start losing it.

Last night my uncle called from Minneapolis. In the course of wishing me a happy birthday, he said he's read that seventy is the new fifty. He's seven years older than I am, so he probably wants to believe that even more than I do. I told him my plan is to keep myself in good enough shape to at least outlive my two dogs, Levi and Gimpy. They're slightly over two now, so that could be doable.

We all know plans are subject to change, but I thought it wouldn't hurt to mention that timeline, just in case God is open to suggestions. I think I'll proceed under the assumption that He is. It'll make me happier about stepping over the threshold into my seventies.

Counting Our Blessings

Thanksgiving shifts our focus. For at least that one day of the year, unless someone is so deeply mired in desperation that he or she has hunkered down there for the duration, we accept the implied challenge of Thanksgiving and take a mental inventory of everything that's right in the world. We'd obviously be a happier lot if we'd consider those good things on a daily basis, but calling attention to them annually is better than nothing. Especially when you throw in a big serving of sweet-potato crunch.

Family and friends, of course, are always right at the top of my gratitude list, as are my beloved dogs. (In the interest of full disclosure, if I listed everyone by name instead of by category, the dogs might be a teensy bit higher on the list than most of my friends. The dogs, after all, are family.) Good health and a safe home are high on the list. In my working days, a good job and a living wage were on it; now I'm thankful for retirement and Social Security instead.

Maybe it's natural to become more reflective as one ages, but these days I find myself thinking about a lot of simple things that make me feel consciously happy. Sunny days and the percussive sound of thunder on the rainy ones. The way my bed feels when I crawl into it at night. Good books and good music. "Grey's Anatomy" and "The Amazing Race." The technology to fast-forward through commercials. "How-to" repair videos on YouTube. Diet soda in 12-packs. Rotisserie chickens and frozen vegetables in steamable bags. Being agile enough to close the damper in the chimney before the animal I heard in there fell into my den. Which reminds me: birds. And trees--every doggone one of 'em. The list goes on and on.

So much beauty. So much joy. So much to appreciate if we pay attention. So, yeah, Thanksgiving is a good idea.

I hope yours is wonderful.

_____________________________________________

The song is "What a Wonderful World" by Louis Armstrong.

Thanks to RoadVideo404 for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.

Picture Me Smiling

After having a bad cold that seemed to hang on forever, I was glad to see the weather warm up enough that I could get outside and try out my new camera. One day last week I took it along when I drove to the post office. The main road along that route is under construction, so I knew there'd be plenty of opportunities to stop and snap photos out the car window.

I suspect that the first ten shots were magnificent. We'll never know, unfortunately, because I had failed to remove the lens cap. Instead, here are a few others from that short trip:

 (Click on the photos to enlarge them.)

As you can see, Louisiana is still mostly green.

I thought this one was pretty (after I cropped the construction

equipment out of it).

This is one of the gorgeous "Seven Oaks" near the entrance of 

the neighborhood that's named for them.

Another tree, this one draped with moss, outside the same neighborhood.

Apparently, the road work has kept the mowers away for awhile.

You know, of course, that I had to try out the camera as soon as I got it, even if I didn't feel like leaving the house. So, here are a few earlier shots I took while standing in my own backyard:

Levi and Gimpy have been very patient with my
following them around with the camera. They're good dogs.

This is my next-door neighbor's grapevine, hanging over my fence.

This tree rises high above the same neighbor's house.
(The grackles are back!)

I've saved the best shot for last, a clear example of why I wanted a more powerful zoom lens:

I happened to glance out the window just in time to watch a huge,
well-camouflaged bird land in this little tree in the same neighbor's yard.
It's a young red-tailed hawk (no rust-colored tail feathers yet).
If you want a better look at this beautiful creature, there's a
closeup on my photoblog today.

Now I need to take the camera someplace spectacularly scenic and see what it can do. Who wants to go with me?

Hold On Just a Doggone Minute!

According to the news, in the wake of President Obama's re-election, citizens of a number of states have signed petitions requesting that their states be permitted to secede from the United States. This evening's local news reported that Louisiana was the first state to gather enough signatures to meet the requirements for a review of their petition by the White House.

Now, I like a good protest as well as the next person, but what are those petition signers  thinking? We're talking about Louisiana, right? Louisiana, the state that's either at the bottom or second from the bottom (after Mississippi) of every damn list except the ones that rate college football teams, good food, or (now) secession petitions? Holy crap!

Imagine some high-ranking official using a checklist to determine whether or not to allow Louisiana to secede:  High crime? Check. Bad roads? Check. Eroding coastline? Check. Hurricane-prone? Ohhhh, yeah, that's a real budget buster.

I'm scared the U.S. government will consider Louisiana's petition as the opportunity of a lifetime and lop us off the map without a second thought. Then what are we gonna do?

I've lived in Louisiana 34 years now. Most of those years have been great ones. Now that I have children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren living nearby, you'd have to drag me kicking and screaming from this state. And there are plenty of wonderful people here. It's those other people--the kind of hotheaded, sore-loser, Fox-news-watching good ol' boys and their womenfolk who would go so far as to sign a secession petition--who make me shake my head and wonder how I ended up here in the middle of them.

Life sure plays tricks on people sometimes.

If You Say So

In reply to a comment on my last post, I mentioned that sometimes I "rein in" what I say or write about controversial topics. Those who know me well might be quick to point out that I haven't mastered the skill of self-censoring, but they're basing that opinion only on  what they've heard me say. They have no idea how much I've held back.

Anyway, it occurred to me as I wrote that reply that I've been struggling my whole life to decide when to speak out and when to hold my tongue. The last time I acknowledged that inner conflict may have been in a brief conversation with my grandmother when I was about ten years old:

Mammaw: "Linnie, why don't you sweep the porch?"

Me (remaining seated on the couch, comic book in hand): "If you want me to sweep the porch, just tell me to do it. You're the grown-up and I'm the kid, so I have to do what you say. But if you want to know why I don't sweep the porch, I can tell you."

After that, as I recall, I immediately jumped up and moved out the front door--out of range--where I swept the porch as if my life depended on it. Mammaw never asked my reasons for not wanting to sweep it, and I never again volunteered to explain them.

"It's a sad, sad situation, and it's getting more and more absurd"*

With the exception of responding to half a dozen comments on Facebook, I've deliberately avoided posting political opinions during the recent presidential election cycle. Too many people I know hold viewpoints different from my own, and I wanted neither to step on their toes nor push their buttons. Instead, I mostly bit my tongue.

Today, remembering that one of the reasons I write this blog is to leave a written trail that my descendants might one day follow, I realize it would be a historical error not to mention the present state of our union and our human condition.

As a nation, we are more deeply in debt than ever before. Money is tight, jobs are scarce, crime is high. Some of our elected leaders are working diligently to address these problems; others do only what is politically expedient, even if it means sitting spitefully on their hands and refusing to do the work that we, the taxpayers, pay them to do. Perhaps because some people find these conditions stressful, or perhaps because some  are mean-spirited by nature and now have the technology to dispense their negativity, our American society is not as polite as it used to be.

I've lived long enough to watch our country struggle through the Civil Rights era and, later, through the hostility surrounding the Viet Nam War, but I was on the periphery of those violent, hateful times, aware of them only through the evening news. Never before now, though, have I witnessed so many people--including some I know personally--publicly exhibiting the kind of Jerry-Springer-style behavior I've seen lately. Where does it come from, this anger, this need to call names, tell lies, spread fear? I see it on television--especially on Fox News--and I see it on blogs and on Facebook posts. How did we get to this ugly place?

Yesterday Barack Obama was re-elected (by a narrow popular-vote margin) to serve a second term as president. I'm glad about that, but I know many others are not. I also know the shoe could easily have been on the other foot. Regardless of who won or lost, we, the people, need to get a grip. We can begin to make our world a better place by picking up the remnants of the manners our mothers taught us and showing some civility.

----------

So . . . if you happen to be reading this many, many years from now, check the history books to read about the success or failure of the Obama administration. It'll all be clearer in retrospect. While you're at it, see if you can find what's been written about hatred, anger, and intolerance in U.S. society in the year 2012. I hope, by then, you'll find it hard to believe it was ever like this.

Stepping off my soapbox now.

* From the lyrics of "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word" by Elton John.

All I Needed Was a Sign

A couple weeks ago I was browsing blogs and came across one that had particularly sharp, clear photos on it. (I'd link to it but can't remember its name.) The writer posted about how pleased he was with his new camera and its amazing zoom capabilities.

Now, I love me some zoom. I love it on the camera, and I love using it as a telescope to figure out if that "brown thing" near the tree in my neighbor's yard is a squirrel or a hawk. If eyeglasses came with a zoom feature, my no-line progressives would have it. Naturally, once I discovered how much more magnification is available now than it was when I bought my current camera, I began to yearn for it.

Being a practical person, I didn't think about it too hard. Often, maybe, but not too seriously. Every time it crossed my mind, I stifled the thought. My camera has been good to me, and it didn't make sense to replace it when there wasn't a thing wrong with it.

Until today. Today the Gods of All Things Digital must have convened to discuss the needs of amateur photographers everywhere, after which they sent me a sign. My trusty camera broke this very day. If that had happened a month ago, I'd be sitting here feeling sorry for myself and writing some kind of what-am-I-going-to-do post. Instead, I almost hollered "Yee-haw!"

I've loved my old camera, and I could hardly believe what I was seeing when I tried to use it today. The zoom lens no longer moves consistently. Sometimes it zooms out and won't zoom back in. Sometimes it freezes halfway out and the shutter button won't click. The playback feature has ceased to operate, so I can no longer preview the photos I've taken. Stranger still, sometimes the camera fires off a few shots all by itself when my finger is nowhere near the button. Here are a few of the pictures the camera took on its own today:

Something is clearly very wrong. Isn't that wonderful?

That sign was all I needed. I spent the rest of the day online researching simple-to-use cameras with lots and lots of zoom, and in eight-to-twelve working days, the one I chose will be delivered to my door. Out of loyalty and gratitude to my now ailing old camera, I decided to go with the same brand. The new one will have seven fewer levels of magnification than the one that ignited my zoom envy, but twenty more levels than the one I have now.

Thank you for your faithful service, old camera. May you rest in peace.

Tonight I Get My Hour Back

When I was a member of the workforce, the end of Daylight Saving Time seemed like an annual blessing, an extra hour of sleep that helped to reset my circadian rhythm and straighten the off-kilter axis of my world. Now that I'm retired--meaning now that I can read late into the night and sleep as late as I want the next day--it doesn't seem nearly as important. At least to me.

Levi and Gimpy, who always eat supper around five-thirty, are going to listen to their body clocks and wonder--about four-thirty tomorrow--why I'm so slow about fixing their meals. And what about dairy cows? Will they have to wait an extra hour to be milked, or do farmers have to set their alarm clocks (and roosters) one hour earlier to keep the cows comfortable? And what about kids who have to walk home from school? Will any of them have to walk home in the dark now that the sun sets earlier?

So, I'm searching my mind and counting as I go. Is that it? Are there really only three groups of beings negatively affected by the end of daylight savings time? Or can you add to this list?
1) Pets and other captive animals used to being fed at a certain time;
2) Heavy-uddered dairy cows, for whom being fed on time is only a secondary concern;
3) Children (possibly mythical) who are still allowed to walk home after school. By themselves. In this day and age.

********

This week's Saturday Song Selection is nothing if not timely, and it's one most of you will remember. Unless you're sleep deprived, but that'll be resolved by tomorrow.

______________________________________________

The song is "Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce.

Thanks to KEN NIEVES for posting this song and its lyrics on YouTube.

Friday Night Rites

Five years after I moved into this house a new high school was built to serve students who live in this area. The school is about a mile from my home by car or half a mile as the crow flies. I rarely think about the school unless I'm going there to vote (it's my polling place) or I happen to pass it at a time of day when the school-zone speed limit is in effect.

In autumn, though, Friday nights often make me aware of the school's proximity. Even with the windows closed I can hear the band playing. Not the whole band, really, just the drums. The heartbeat of the band. If I step outside, I can sometimes hear the football crowd, its roar reduced to a whisper by the time it reaches my ears. Levi and Gimpy, with their far superior hearing, cock their heads in the direction of the distant sounds, then begin to bark at them.

Those sounds excite me in their familiarity. I never cared much about football games, but I liked our high-school boys in their padded uniforms and helmets, and I loved the energy of the crowds that cheered for them. Sitting high up in the bleachers with my friends, the cool fall air kissing our cheeks with promises of relief from East Texas's scorching late summer days, I felt like I belonged there. Almost.

When the sounds of 2012's home games waft through the Friday-night air, vivid memories come flooding back. I still remember the words to some of the cheers we chanted. I remember how much I loved the trumpet solo when the band played "Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White." Good memories, all of those, with good feelings accompanying them.

Then another memory surfaces and I think about the fact that once in a while, even as I clapped my hands and stomped my feet in rhythm with the rest of the fans in that stadium, I wondered how it was possible to feel so alone in the middle of all those people. Funny. Even that darker memory feels no worse than bittersweet after such a long time.

It's odd how a cluster of barely audible sounds have the power to transport a person from a current Friday night to other ones more than fifty years earlier. I smile when I think about the kids in that nearby stadium tonight. They have no idea how long these fall football games will stick with them.

When Any Day Could Be Halloween

Subtitle:  This one's for you, Judy.

See these two neatly dressed girls standing on the front porch of their home? See their pretty hair, the result of bobby-pinned curls made by the patient hands of their mother? See the innocent smiles on their faces?

Now picture the two girls in an upstairs bedroom of the same house. They sit cross-legged on the wooden floor, their shoulders hunched, heads close together. They aren't smiling now.

Between them on the floor is a small brown suitcase with a wide beige stripe on top of it. The older girl opens the suitcase and exposes the record player inside. She places a 78-rpm record on the turntable, lifts the mechanical arm, and carefully sets the needle down on the outer edge the record. Both girls lean back slightly and wait, their eyes bright with anticipation.

"Who's that coming down the street?

Are they shovels or are they feet?

It's the new schoolmaster.

What's his name?

Ichabod, Ichabod Crane." 

The girls were my sister and I, and that record I loved so much was the soundtrack of a 1949 Disney animated film based on Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," narrated and sung by Bing Crosby. It was the story of Ichabod Crane, a skinny, timid but charming schoolteacher, the beautiful Katrina Van Tassel whom Ichabod loved, and the big, brutish Brom Bones, Ichabod's rival for Katrina's affections. At the heart of the story was a frightening Halloween legend. My favorite part of the record--the part that never failed to send a delicious chill down my spine--was Ichabod's fateful encounter with that legend's dreaded Headless Horseman.

This morning I found a YouTube video clip from that Disney film. The legend is explained in the first three and a half minutes of the clip, but if you want to go right to the scary part, start listening at the 3:40 mark.

I use the word "listening" deliberately. You can watch the clip if you choose--the animation is colorful and entertaining--but I would challenge you to close your eyes and just listen. Travel to the 1950s and huddle in that bedroom with my little sister and me. Do as we did: listen and let your imagination create the images as Ichabod tries to flee the Headless Horseman. To a child's mind it's the best kind of scary.

Happy Halloween, boys and ghouls!

____________________________________

Thanks to Sherry Cherry for posting this video on YouTube.

In my next life . . .

. . . I hope to be born as my granddaughter's child. She has a way of making every day an adventure for her son, and he thrives because of it. I'm sure he has no idea that every child isn't lucky enough to be born into a world so rich in imagination and opportunity.

Yesterday my granddaughter and her husband hosted a family-style Halloween party, and I was blown away by the festive atmosphere: the Halloween-themed food, the decorations, the activities she had planned for the children. Of course, the kiddies themselves were the best part of the event. They threw their little costumed selves into the spirit of Halloween without reservation. Running a close second to the kids were the costumed adults. It's wonderful to be part of a family in which responsible, hard-working, level-headed grown-ups are occasionally willing to throw seriousness aside and get in touch with their sillier sides.

Here we have Betty, Bam-Bam and Barney Rubble.

(Their best friends, who have a baby girl, came

dressed as Fred, Wilma and Pebbles Flintstone.)

Zombie Cop and Lady Pirate
(Zombie Cop explained that the "C.O.P."
on the party-store badge stood for
"corpse on patrol.")

"NO! I'm NOT Bam-Bam! I'm OWEN!"

Baby Monkey, Monkey's grandfather, Banana Tree, and Top Banana

After I dressed in my homemade costume, I was a little concerned that it might be too scary for the smaller children, but I needn't have worried. My granddaughter took one look at me and said, "Look, Owen! Grammy is dressed as the Itsy-Bitsy Spider."

On a side note, the only person at the party who was older than I am said, when she recognized me, "You look just like an old lady!" Ahem. I am an old lady. But I was wearing a disguise. I was supposed to look like an old black-widow spider.

This is Thai, dressed as a skeleton. Or else it's a skeleton, dressed as a pug.

I'm really not sure.

Owen's decorated playhouse was a big attraction before,

during, and after the organized games. (Using the term

"organized" loosely here; kids will be kids.)

All lined up and ready for a sack race.

The sack races were winding down as we said our goodbyes. We rounded the corner beside the workshop and met a small group of sack racers coming toward us. Owen was at the end of the pack. He was no longer wearing a sack, but he hopped anyway, lagging behind and smiling widely in the joy of the experience.

As I wrote above, it would be great to be my granddaughter's kid.

What I've Been Reading

Home Safe

by Elizabeth Berg

A pleasant enough way to spend a few hours.

True to Form

by Elizabeth Berg

I loved this book! Its many cultural references to the days of my own youth helped me identify to its protagonist, Katie, and Katie's story reminded me that, even in simpler times, life could get complicated.

Red Bones

by Ann Cleeves

My one-word opinion:  tedious.

The Bodies Left Behind

by Jeffery Deaver

Jeffery Deaver is one of my favorite story-tellers, and in this book I enjoyed the thrill of attempting to escape from killers. On foot. Through dark and scary woods.

The Litigators

by John Grisham

This book is a fun read and would probably be even more fun as a movie. I hope it becomes one.

To read a description or reviews of any of these books,

click on its image above.

At number one this week is . . .

By the time Saturday rolls around I've usually thought of a story to tell you and scouted out a music video that somehow ties in with the story. This morning, however, I came up empty-handed. Or empty-headed.

I decided to look through my iTunes playlists to see if maybe a song title would remind me of a story I hadn't shared with you, but it's early still, and my brain tends to stay in sleep mode until my body has been up and around for a couple hours. With no song popping out at me, it occurred to me to re-sort the list and see which tune I've played the most.

The top of the list surprised me. If you'd asked me to quickly name my favorite songs, I wouldn't have thought of this one. It's usually a song's lyrics that make it special to me, and this particular tune is an instrumental. If you'd asked specifically about instrumentals, though, I would have named this one for sure.

This song first blipped on my radar screen when the two talented brothers who wrote it performed it on a TV talent show, and I waited what seems like forever for it to be recorded and available for download. Under the circumstances by which it was chosen for today's post, the name of the song couldn't possibly be more appropriate.

May I present, for your listening pleasure: "Winner."

  ____________________________________________________________

The song is "Winner" by Nuttin' But Stringz.
Thanks to DjSpardaRS for posting this video on YouTube.

Why the Tennis Ball Is in Time-Out

As far as Levi and Gimpy were concerned, I might as well have been watching "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo" as last night's vice-presidential debate. Apparently, my dogs are only interested in their future once a day, between four p.m. and whatever  minute near five o'clock I set their supper dishes in front of them. The rest of their waking hours are spent playing some kind of game with the tennis ball.

No TV viewing in this house is unaccompanied by some form of a ball game, so I have been forced to learn to multi-task. These days it's rare if I miss a plot point when I have to grab the broom and use its handle to whack a ball out from under a piece of furniture. If I happen to notice that both dogs are sitting at attention, watching me expectantly, then I know that a sloppy-wet tennis ball has been dropped into my lap or onto the sofa beside me, and I can find it and toss or bounce it into neutral territory without missing any important dialogue. I do admit to using the "pause" button when the ball-retrieval process involves the actual moving of a sofa or other large piece of furniture.

Anyway, I was able to become absorbed in the nuances of last night's debate because Levi and Gimpy were playing a variation of their usual game. In this particular version, Gimpy stuffs the ball so deeply between the sofa cushions that he can't get it out. Most of the time when that happens, Levi jumps up, pushes his snout (a fraction longer than Gimpy's) into the depths of the cushion-cave, and gets the ball. Last night, however, Levi couldn't get it either, and my concentration on the debate was suddenly interrupted by the sounds of frantic digging and the sight of curly, blond hind-ends waving in the air.

I shouted, "Stop it!" and both dogs leaped off the sofa as I got up to get their ball. I swear there was gratitude on their faces until my own expression turned to one of shock and horror and swear words exploded out of my mouth. Right next to where the ball was buried was a hole in my leather sofa. I couldn't believe it had finally happened.

The hole is a little one, a rip no larger than the circumference of a misplaced canine tooth. It's small enough that I'm hopeful it can be repaired, but large enough it'll leave an obvious scar.

Until it's fixed, though, I have to keep the dogs away from it, so there'll be no ball-playing in the living room for now. I know from experience that what I may see as a little hole looks like a source of endless possibilities to a curious dog.

What I've Been Reading

The first book in this batch is one I've passed over at least a dozen times. Then, when my stepsister, Donna, included it in a big bag of books she gave me a couple months ago, I read all but one of the others before finally picking up this one. And don't I feel stupid for that now. I had judged the book by even less than its cover--the title turned me off--and it's a wonderful story. 

Sometimes the truth of a cliché just smacks you in the face.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

Midnight on Julia Street
by Ciji Ware

Sorrow Wood
by Raymond I. Atkins

The Art of Mending
by Elizabeth Berg

For a description or reviews of any of these books,

click on its image above.

The Aftereffects of Schoolyard Fights on Adolescent Brains

A character in the book I was reading earlier today spoke about a time in her youth when she had stood by, watching, as one girl beat up another one. She regretted that she hadn't had the courage to step in and break up the fight, and then she wondered why no one else had had the courage either. A large group of young people had formed a ring around the two girls to watch the fight. Nobody tried to stop it.

Now, that's horrible, and I would feel noble, perhaps, if I could write a knowledgeable post about group psychology. I could end it with some inspirational thoughts that might stick with a reader and one day inspire him or her to "do the right thing" when confronted with a situation similar to the one described in the book. That would be great.

But that isn't the way my mind works.

When I read that passage, the file retriever in my head raced down the aisle, yanked open a drawer, flipped quickly through a few manila folders, and practically skipped back to me, saying, "Remember this?" I did remember, though I hadn't thought of it in years, and I knew immediately that I wanted to write about it before I forget it again.

It happened about 1959, when I was in high school. Girls wearing full skirts and bobby socks and boys dressed in plaid shirts and jeans mingled in small groups on the lawn in front of the school, laughing, talking, enjoying the East Texas sunshine, waiting for the bell to ring and signal that the lunch break was over.

Suddenly there were shouts: "Fight! Fight!" Just like in the book, a ring of students began to form about three-deep around the two boys who were fighting. The ring actually expanded in diameter a couple of times as the crowd drew back to avoid getting in the way of a flying fist. I was not part of that ring. As chicken then as I am now, I stood back and watched from a safe distance.

Over the ruckus surrounding the fight, I heard a murmur begin, softly at first, then louder as the voices became more urgent: "Forston. FORston. FORSTON!" Mr. Forston was the vice-principal. Unlike the principal, who was usually willing to negotiate, Mr. Forston took no prisoners. I watched as he emerged from the front door and strode purposefully toward the fight.

"Uh-oh," I thought. "Those boys are going to get it."

I saw some of the watchers look over their shoulders as Mr. Forston approached. They knew he was coming, but they didn't move out of the circle, nor did they stop shouting exhortations of "Get him!" or "Hit him again!" Mr. Forston had to force his way into that ring. Only after physically pulling people apart by their shoulders was he able to get between them, and I knew from the determination on his face that there would be hell to pay.

At last he broke through. I could see the top of his head as he entered the center of that ring, then stopped and did a slow, 360-degree turn. It must have been a shock to him to discover that he was in that space all by himself.

You see, those two boys who had been fighting were both more afraid of Mr. Forston than they were angry at each other. As soon as they knew he was getting near, they  simply stopped fighting, stepped back in opposite directions, and disappeared into the ring of students that had encircled them. If this event had had an umpire, that's the moment when he would have yelled, "Safe!"

I suppose I should feel a little embarrassed that reading about an issue serious enough to cause a character to feel regret and emotional distress years after it happened prompted me to tell this particular story. But, hey, humor and quick wits are also important aspects  of the human condition, don't you think?

What to Do on a Saturday

The choices might seem endless, but it's rather easy to narrow them down. Right off the bat I can rule out any kind of fun activity away from home, because I'm pretty sure that all of the people I might choose to accompany me on any kind of Saturday morning adventure have already immersed themselves in weekend chores and errands or in spending quality time with their significant others.

As for solo activities, there's no place I really need or want to go by myself today. I ran all my errands earlier in the week, so I can cross those off my list. I could go shopping, I suppose, but the only places I enjoy shopping just for the fun of it are bookstores, office supply stores, and craft and hobby shops, all of which feed my addictive hobbies and take a bite out of my budget.

That brings me to the hobbies themselves. I've already spent time browsing the Internet this morning, so, even though I'll probably do it again later, it's an uninteresting prospect at the moment. I always enjoy photo-editing, genealogy research, reading, and working jigsaw puzzles or logic puzzles, but I do those things all the time. They're low-energy activities, and I'm feeling a little peppy today.

I could do housework, of course; the need for that never ends. Running the vacuum cleaner would be an excellent use of my time, but the weather is supposed to cool off late tonight, which means I might open my windows tomorrow. If so, then more dust could blow in, so what's the sense in vacuuming now?

Levi desperately needs a haircut. This would be a good day to do that, but it usually takes me three to four hours, and I have to keep Gimpy in his crate the entire time. Otherwise, he pops up every five minutes and tempts Levi with a tennis ball. I actually kind of enjoy the haircutting experience, but I hate to ruin Levi's day. And Gimpy's.

My own hair could use a trim, too. Maybe I'll get out my barber scissors and cut off an inch of split ends. After that I'll need to shower away all the prickly hair stubs that have fallen on my shoulders. Once I've showered and dressed in clean clothes, I'll be ready to go out and do something fun--that is, if something fun should come to mind between now and then. Being all fresh and clean, I wouldn't want to do anything that would make me break a sweat.

It used to be simple to decide how to spend a Saturday. I loved that first free day after the work week, loved the idea that my time was my own and I was free to do with it whatever I wanted. I'm certainly not complaining, but now that I'm retired, Saturday doesn't seem special anymore. I kind of miss that.

*******

After briefly browsing my iTunes collection for a Saturday Song Selection that fits today's post, I quickly gave up (because that's just the kind of mood I'm in) and went directly to YouTube, where I searched for songs about, well, Saturday. There are quite a few of them. I've never heard this particular one before, but I thought its melody was prettier than any of the other Saturday-themed songs I found. Also, its lyrics are simple and a bit confusing, much like my own thought processes today. A perfect choice.

_______________________________________________________________ 

The song is "Saturday" by Sparklehorse.

Thanks to 893TheCurrent for posting this video on YouTube.

Click here for the lyrics.

Trinkets and Treasures - No. 11

Almost exactly a year ago I wrote about my sister's gift to me of
our great-grandmother's bible. I couldn't have been more thrilled than I was to have that precious book, more than a century old, in my home. It didn't take long, though, to realize I was ill-equipped to care for it properly.

When the bible was left out where it could be seen and appreciated, I worried that household dust would harm it. But the bible is large and heavy, so I knew that if I wrapped it up and put it a closet or a drawer, I wouldn't be inclined to take it out and look at it often.

Then I got lucky.

My stepsister's husband is a talented woodworker. Earlier this year he offered to build something for me, and I asked if he could build a box to hold Grandma's bible. He could, he did, and it's more beautiful than I could have imagined.

The bible now rests safely inside its custom-made box on the end of my dresser. I love to run my fingers across the smooth surface of the quilted-cherry box top, and I lift that lid frequently, both to look at the bible and to get a good whiff of the sawdust scent that lingers there.

The newer treasure, like the antique one it holds, is an ever-present reminder of the ties that bind our family across miles and generations. That's pretty special, if you ask me.

Celebrating in Living Color

Today marks the first anniversary of my photo blog, "A One-Pic Pony." By posting a different photo every day for an entire year, I've proved to myself that I'm better than that girl I used to be, the one who started projects but often failed to complete them. Oh, that girl still lives, I'm afraid, but this time the old woman who inhabits the rest of my body has prevailed.

My interest in photography came late in life, when I was already 64 years old, and I never would have imagined that it would turn into such a passion. My love of taking pictures was born with the purchase of my first digital camera (the one I still use), which gave me the freedom to screw up as many shots as necessary in order to get one good one. That was six years ago, and I still take pictures almost every day.

How I envy today's young moms who have digital cameras and cell-phone cameras at the ready to capture photos of their children. Sometimes we owned a camera when my girls were young, and sometimes we didn't. Even when we had one, we used it sparingly, because the cost of photo-processing wasn't always in our budget. I cherish the snapshots I do have of my children, but there were so many other priceless images of them that linger only in my head.

I can still see a tiny girl bathing in the kitchen sink as sunlight flows through the window behind her and frames her silhouette in golden light. I see the profile of another small girl, her short blonde hair falling in soft curls around her face. Dressed in bright, primary colors, she squats close to the ground and gently extends one chubby hand to touch a puppy's nose. I wish I'd had a digital camera to capture those images.

I do know I'm not nearly ready to give up on the photo blog, even if there are days when no one sees it but me. The process of selecting, editing, and posting a daily photo is a joyful experience, and I've become addicted to that little rush of pleasure. I shoot up--and down and all around--in living color, and it's a habit I can live with.

What I've Been Reading

Clearly, I've been doing more reading than writing lately. Here's the most recent batch of books that ate up all my spare time: 

Joppa: A Story of Love by Peggy Poe Stern

Served Cold: Mountain Justice by Peggy Poe Stern

The Crazy Old Lady in the Attic by Kathleen Valentine

The Way Back Home by Barbara Freethy

Ask Mariah by Barbara Freethy

Some Kind of Wonderful by Barbara Freethy

For a description and reviews of any of these books,

click on its image above.

The books in this particular group are what I like to call "brain candy." They're light, and  they won't stick to your ribs, but they're tasty enough to make you want to sit there and snack on them until they're all gone. (If you've ever had an unexplained craving for marshmallow Peeps, you know exactly what I mean.)