Give Me Time

One-a-Day Redux 
Day Thirty-One:  You, Again

So. Here we are at the end of this month-long writing challenge, and the topic, as it was on the first day, is me. Again. Me, me, me. I get so tired of myself sometimes.

I was in a dark place at the beginning of the month. The storm cloud that hovered over my head then has lifted, lifted and drifted off far enough to let some sunshine in, but not so far away that a good, stiff wind couldn't blow it right back where it was. No longer nervous and edgy, I remain watchful, keeping an eye on that dark cloud, wishing the danger away.

I do feel hopeful again; never discount the medicinal value of hopefulness. Cheerfulness and optimism? Those are the rewards at the top of this little hill I'm climbing. I'm not there yet, but I'm well on my way. It just takes time.

"She broke down the other day...

Some things in life may change

But some things, they stay the same

Like time, 

There's always time on my mind,

So pass me by, I'll be fine,

Just give me time." * 

* The song is "Older Chests" by Damien Rice.

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

Karma and the Common Cold: What Goes Around Comes Around

One-a-Day Redux
Day Thirty:  Nature

Many times in these pages I've waxed poetic about Mother Nature, her trees and forests, her rivers and streams, and on and on and on. I have a vast appreciation of nature; therefore, it is only natural that I should write about it in glowing terms. Not this time. I'm currently experiencing the effects of a close encounter with one of nature's oldest, most pervasive predators: the common cold virus.

I know from whom I got this cold. I knew before she came that she had it, and she and I both were careful not to get too close to one another. We avoided the hugs and cheek kisses that are part of our normal greeting and parting rituals, and, after I touched the doorknob she had also touched, I washed my hands thoroughly. I'm not blaming her; I could have as easily picked up those germs at the grocery store or the post office. It just happens that I hadn't been anywhere else for five days before she came or three days between her visit and the onset of symptoms, so, this time, I know where I got it.

If I subscribed to the theory that everything happens for a reason--which I don't, by the way--I would be convinced that this cold is a punishment. You see, on the same day I was exposed to it, I'd made a last-minute decision to skip out on a birthday party. It was hot that day. I'd been to the hostess's house once before and remembered I'd have to parallel park against the curb halfway down the block. I would know only a few people there. Mostly, I knew that the two-year-old guest of honor wouldn't know or care whether I was there. So I didn't go.

Now I have a cold.

And this coming weekend there's a party I really, really look forward to. It's an (almost) annual outdoor cooking competition at my granddaughter's house, and I know the majority of the folks who will be there. I want to be there, to visit with family and friends while I sit in the shade in a canvas lawn chair purchased specifically for this event and sample the wares of some serious barbecuers. In good conscience, I can't go.

Still on the subject of nature, but switching now to human nature, even knowing that more than a handful of the people who will be there love me and will forgive me for many things, I can't believe that any of them would be delighted with my sniffy, snotty, coughing presence near their small children or their culinary creations. Even if my symptoms have abated by then, according to this article and several others I checked, I'll still be contagious.

So, I skipped one party and felt mildly guilty about it. Now I'll skip another and feel very, very, very sorry for myself.

That, I suppose, is the nature of karma. Bitch that she is.

Chemicals

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty-Nine:  In Your Fridge

There isn't one single thing in my fridge today that's interesting. Unless you think this is:

CARBONATED WATER, CITRIC ACID, SODIUM CITRATE, SODIUM BENZOATE (PRESERVATIVE), ASPARTAME, MALIC ACID, MODIFIED FOOD STARCH, NATURAL FLAVORS, CAFFEINE, ESTER GUM, ACESULFAME POTASSIUM, YELLOW 6, RED 40. PHENYLKETONURICS: CONTAINS PHENYLALANINE

That's the ingredient list on a can of my favorite diet orange soda. I don't find that list interesting; I find it scary! Every time I drink one, I savor that last sip, then take a look at the can in my hand and say silently to it what Jack said to Ennis in Brokeback Mountain: "I wish I knew how to quit you!"

Lightweight Poetry

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty-Eight:  Light

In January's photo challenge I interpreted "light" as the opposite of dark. For today's exercise, let's go with a different definition. This time "light" means the opposite of heavy.

A List of Light Things

Clouds above a mountain stream,
high-peaked dollops of whipped cream,
postage stamps for letters written,
baby chicks, a newborn kitten,
puppy's paw held in my hand,

a butterfly, a rubber band,

autumn leaves adrift in air,

fancy, lacy underwear,

marshmallows afloat in cocoa,

my great-grandma's faded photo,
blue-gray feather on the ground,
Peeps when Easter rolls around,
the silky scarf I never wear,
a ribbon for a baby's hair,
Q-tips stored on bathroom shelves
near cotton balls, so light themselves,
ping-pong ball that bounces high,
red balloon in bright blue sky,
dandelions turned to seed,

a single page I've yet to read,

daisy petals plucked to see

does he, does he not love me?

Chew, Swallow, Rinse, Repeat

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty-Seven:  Lunch

When I used this one-a-day list of prompts as a photo challenge in January, I posted a picture of my typical lunch. It hasn't changed since then. In fact, it hasn't changed much in nearly three years. I have a lifelong pattern of eating the same thing for lunch every day. It isn't an obsession--I don't get upset about eating something different (sometimes I'm delighted to)--but more of a comfortable routine. As much as I enjoy food, I don't like having to think about it too much.

Fortunately, I don't get bored easily, but the day will come when I decide I'm done with the cheese-and-crackers menu, and I'll switch to something else. Then I'll eat whatever that is for months on end.

I think this all goes back to my childhood, when I was an extremely picky eater. At the beginning of first grade I was sent to school with lunch money and tried the hot meal prepared by the cafeteria ladies. I gagged on it the first day, refused to try it the second day, and from then on carried a brown-bag lunch packed by my grandmother. She did try to introduce some variety into my diet, but gave up eventually and settled for packing only things she knew I'd eat.

One year it was baloney sandwiches (on white bread with mustard and dill pickle slices), Fritos, and a thermos of Kool-Aid (because I hated milk). Another year it was potted ham sandwiches (on white bread with mayonnaise), Fritos, and Kool-Aid. There were usually a few cookies in those brown bags, too. I never knew for sure what kind of cookies I'd get, so there was a little menu variety after all. Mammaw knew I'd never met a cookie I didn't like (except for the Fig Newtons that were my grandfather's favorite).

In junior high I thought it was uncool to show up with a brown bag from home, so I started buying lunch at school again. I skipped the hot-food line in the cafeteria and spent my lunch money on a vanilla ice cream cup and a bag of salted peanuts, which I stirred into the ice cream. Every day I ate that peanutty ice cream, and every night I washed my face and wondered why it was breaking out.

Most of my high school lunches were eaten off-campus. A few of us would pool our resources to come up with 25 cents to buy a gallon of gas for whoever had a car, then that person would drive us to the Dairy Queen, where I always had a chili dog and a root beer.

In the first paragraph of this post, I stated that I don't like thinking about food too much. Now, after several paragraphs of writing about it, I'm so hungry I can hardly stand it. That's exactly why I don't like to think about it too much. It's getting close to lunchtime,  so I'll stop writing and eat now. I know exactly what I'm having.

True Colors

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty-Six:  Color

One of the first things discussed in the painting class I took earlier this year is what a drastic difference there is between the color of a shady patch of grass and that same grass with the sun shining on it. One would think that would have been obvious, but I'd never given it a conscious thought. I wish it had been pointed out to me before I picked out paint colors for my house.

When I bought this house, most of its walls were covered with wood paneling. Replacing the paneling with drywall was beyond my budget, so painting the paneling seemed to be the next best option to brighten up the place. I knew from the outset that I wanted the walls to be the neutral gray-green color of Spanish moss, so I went from store to store collecting paint samples in that color range. All of them were close, but I couldn't decide which one was exactly right.

My daughter solved the problem for me when I was talking about paint colors while we were riding in the car. She abruptly pulled into someone's driveway, got out and yanked a big handful of moss from a nearby low-hanging branch. Now I had something real to compare the swatches to.

That afternoon I sat in my den, moss in one hand, swatches in the other, and chose the nearest color. The next day I took it to the home-improvement store and asked them to mix paint in that shade. Several gallons of it. That night we painted primer over the paneling, and the next day we applied the custom-color paint. Once the fresh paint dried, the room was still quite dark. Not as dark as the paneling had made it, but certainly not as light and airy as I'd expected.

The problem, I now understand, is that I'd sat indoors--in the shade--with the moss and the color swatches. I picked the color of shady moss. Compare the wall color to the shady parts of the moss in this composite photo, and you'll see what I'm talking about:

If I'd made the selection outside in the sunshine, I would have come much closer to the lighter color I'd expected. Lesson learned.

When it comes time to repaint, maybe I'll try again for the moss-in-sunshine color. In the meantime, I've learned to love and live with the darker shade. It still gives the house the outdoorsy feel I like; it just happens to be outdoors in the woods.

While I've been writing this, it's occurred to me that this light-and-shadows rule can apply to people as well as to paint colors. I think most of us put our bright, sunny sides out there so others see those first. Only people who know us well or observe us very closely ever get a glimpse of our darker, shadowy natures. Lord knows that would explain a few situations in which I've made worse decisions than wall paint color.

Not My Area of Expertise

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty-Five:  Something You Made

If you're like I am, when you plan to put a lot of time and effort into something, you visualize the final product in its perfect form. As you get further along in the project you become more realistic, lower your expectations, and decide that as long as it's good enough to fulfill its function, it'll be fine. Sometimes, unfortunately, you have to step back, give it a hard look, and accept that it isn't at all what you had hoped it would be. You question whether you have the inclination to pour more time and effort into trying to salvage things, and you suspect you may not even have the necessary skills to do so.

I made a promise--twice--to love someone "till death do us part." Both times I meant it. Both times I worked at it. In the end, neither marriage was functioning even close to the way it should have been. Nor was I. I made promises and, ultimately, I broke them with the same finality as when an artist rips up an unsatisfactory sketch or takes a hammer to a poorly made clay sculpture.

Failures are learning experiences. What I learned from trying and trying again is to be extremely careful about making promises.

Once Is Never Enough

One-a-Day Redux 
Day Twenty-Four:  Guilty Pleasure

It's a coincidence that today's "guilty pleasure" prompt falls on a Saturday, but I can't think of anything better to represent the theme than one particular song I love, so I've chosen that one as this week's Saturday Song Selection. The song is so pleasurable that I can never listen to it only once; I always replay it at least two or three times when it comes up on my iTunes shuffle. The singer's voice is so soft and soothing that it makes even an old woman like me long for a man to talk to me in that same gentle tone, and it reminds me of a time when one did. And the music, ah, the music--some of the richest, sweetest notes I've ever heard.

But (here comes the guilty part) the lyrics, mostly a nonsensical jumble of old movie titles, include a word that is not only politically incorrect but also as offensive as the word that got Paula Deen in so much trouble. And the singer, who also wrote the song, may have had an exceptional musical talent, but he was evidently a sick, twisted individual, one whose true-life story gives me a good case of the creeps.

What makes the guilt worse is that I can't claim to have loved this song since it first came out in 1970, so that I could rationalize that my fondness for it has roots in nostalgia. I never heard it in my life until about a year ago. By then I'd already learned that that one word was offensive to a large group of people who don't deserve to be disrespected, and I'd already heard on Oprah that the singer, John Phillips, had engaged in an incestuous relationship with his daughter. Ick.

It makes me feel kind of dirty, but I listen. Over and over, I still listen. And it's so good.

The song is "April Anne" by John Phillips.
Thanks to Camiel Delclef for posting this video on YouTube.
Click here to read the lyrics.

Portrait of Grace and Elegance

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty-Three:  Something Old

The portrait sits on the hearth, propped against the wall in a narrow space between the fireplace and a bookshelf. I have no place to hang a portrait as large as this one, but it's too lovely to pack away. The antique wooden frame is oval shaped, embellished with beading and other elaborate flourishes, painted a copper color that has a nice sheen to it in spite of its age. The hand-tinted portrait itself was molded into a subtle dome shape, a process which eventually may have contributed to the crack across its surface.

It's a picture of a beautiful baby girl, her dark hair carefully, lovingly parted in the middle, her blue eyes open wide, the third and fourth fingers of her tiny right hand lifted delicately as they might be one day when she grows up to hold a cup of tea in the company of other elegant ladies. That baby was Hazel Belle Willis, who grew up to marry my great-uncle, Loren Elliott. She was born in September of 1906, dating this portrait at about 1907, one hundred six years ago.

Late in her life Hazel told my mother, who was admiring the portrait, that the dress she wore in it had been borrowed, that her family was too poor to buy a dress as fine as this one with its ruffles and lace, its petticoat peeking out from under the skirt. That may have been true at the time, but Hazel's lot in life improved after her parents divorced and her mother remarried a man who was a better provider. Hazel was an only child, and her mother, Sadie, doted on her all the days of her life. So did Uncle Loren, when he came along.

Hazel could have easily been spoiled, but she wasn't. Instead, she paid all that love and devotion forward, making every person she encountered feel special. She was as charming and comfortable in the company of the janitor of the apartment building where she and Loren lived in the early days of their marriage as she would later be in the presence of the dignified "ladies who lunched" in Washington, D. C., when Loren's job took them there.

Here's the beautiful old portrait, the earliest picture I have of Aunt Hazel:

And here's the last one, taken when she was almost ninety years old:

She was my favorite aunt, and she was beautiful, inside and out, from beginning to end.

Substantial Bits of Nothing

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty-Two:  Your Shoes

I hate shopping for clothes, so when I find an item I like that's a good fit and sells for a good price, I tend to buy two or more of the same thing in different colors. That explains why there's a new pair of black shoes in my closet exactly like the old pair of black shoes presently on my feet. There's a new brown pair in the closet as well.

I love these shoes. They feel like going barefoot felt when I was young, before age wore down the natural fat pads on the soles of my feet. They feel better than going barefoot does now. They're lightweight but supportive, nothing but straps and cushiony soles.

I bought the first pair online in 2011 just before my sister and I went on our Smoky Mountain vacation. This is my third summer to live in that pair, which I've also worn in the house for two winters. The tread on the soles is beginning to wear down, so this summer I bought the second pair of black ones to keep on standby, along with the brown ones for variety.

If this post reads like a commercial, that wasn't my intention. I could have written about other shoes in my closet, prettier, more fashionable shoes that I might have described with phrases such as "brushed suede" or "buttery soft leather" or "heavily beaded straps" to make the post more interesting. But, even though I own those other shoes, I hardly ever wear them. As for my go-to shoes, the ones I wear constantly, I'd probably describe them as "substantial bits of nothing."

Hm. It seems that my favorite shoes and most of my blog posts have that in common.

Don't Hold Your Breath

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty-One:  Reflection

I stand behind the wire fence and see a large white pelican that stands at the edge of the bank on the far side of the lake. I watch the pelican and also watch its inverted image in the water as the big bird spreads its wings, stretches, stretches again, wider and higher, then slowly folds them back against its sides. Every part of the pelican, every bush and tree behind it is repeated on the green-black surface of the water in a hazy, rippled version of the real world on the bank.

Some days I can't get enough of the world we live in, its vivid colors, its stark contrasts and clearly-defined edges. Other times, when I've watched the news and the world itself seems to have been flipped upside down, I'd prefer to ignore the reality and live in the soft serenity of a watery reflection until everything has been righted again.

Unfortunately, I can't hold my breath that long. Can't. Won't.

Unanswered Questions

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twenty (posted a day late):  Someone You Love

This is what I know about him: He's almost sixteen years younger than I am. He was born big and grew up to be several inches over six feet tall. His hair is brown, though he may have some gray in it by now. His eyes are not brown, and it makes me sad that I can't remember exactly what color they are. Blue, I'm pretty sure, but not a pale, clear blue like his father's. Or maybe they're hazel, like his mother's. I've looked at his photos just now, and still I can't tell. I do remember that his eyes have needed corrective lenses since his elementary school days. His mouth is definitely his father's, his smile extra-wide, and he has one of the best laughs I've ever heard. When he laughs out loud, everyone around him laughs, too.

He has a brilliant mind, a quick wit, and a great sense of humor. He's skilled in the field of technology. He's an avid cyclist, and he likes dogs. He's a strict but devoted father and, as far as I know, a loving, loyal husband, married over thirty years now. I believe he's quite religious (which I am not), though I don't know that for sure. Because I believe he's religious, I also think he's politically conservative (which I most definitely am not). Again, I don't know for sure. What I do know is that he's someone I love. I wonder if he knows that for sure.

Every week I spend at least a couple of hours doing genealogy research, trying to learn all I can about people who have long since died. When were they born? Where did they live? What kind of work did they do? What was happening in the world during their lifetimes, and how did it affect them? While I'm digging out those details, it's always in the back of my mind that everything I know about my "baby" brother, the youngest in an assortment of full, half- and step-siblings, can be condensed into a few short paragraphs.

It's been almost six years since I've seen him. He lives only five hours away, but his days are laid out in a busy schedule, and mine are arranged in a carefully protected routine. I can't seem to manage a trip in his direction, nor he to find time to travel in mine. Our phone calls are delightful but infrequent, too brief to ask him all the things I really want to know.

I know I love him. I'd love to know him. Why am I letting so much time slip away?

Walking the Sweet Streets

One-a-Day Redux
Day Nineteen:  Sweet

When I was a child, I lived for candy. Well, for comic books and candy, but mostly it was candy that came to mind first when I found myself in possession of a nickel. There was a drugstore on the corner a block away from our house that had a good selection of candy bars, but for serious candy shopping, I had to walk farther: a block west of our house on Madison Street, then two blocks south on Dollison.

M. L. Hunter's 5¢ to $1 Store, on the corner of Dollison and Lombard in Springfield, Missouri, had candy bars, of course, but they also had a huge, U-shaped counter of glass-encased bins that held loose candy, the kind sold by weight. I'd like to know how many total hours of my childhood I spent walking the perimeter of that candy counter, trying to make a decision. Once I'd made my selection, I'd point to it and ask the clerk for "a nickel's worth," and she (it was always a she) would dip her shiny scoop into the candy, pour it into a small white bag, weigh the bag on the big scale on top of the counter, then pour a few pieces out or put a couple more pieces in and weigh it again until she got it right.

Most of the time, the candy didn't make it all the way home.

As sweet as that candy was, the memories of those walks are sweeter. Last night, mentally retracing my steps to the dime store, I had a clear picture in my mind of everything I passed along the way, but I could no longer remember the name of that particular store. It bugged me enough that I logged on to ancestry.com and took another walk, this time through the pages of a 1950s-era Springfield city directory, where I found Hunter's store fairly quickly. I remembered that there was another five-and-ten directly across the street from Hunter's, a store called Brown-something, and there, in the city directory, was Brownfield's (which was a nice store but did not have a good candy selection).

My grandmother usually bought groceries at the Monroe Street Market, on the block behind our house, but I remembered that she occasionally shopped at another small grocery store near Hunter's, about half a block farther south on Dollison. I looked at addresses in that block in the city directory and found Julian's Market. That's the store Mammaw was in when she discovered that my little sister had eaten all the grapes out of the grocery cart. Mammaw put the empty stems on the counter, apologized, and offered to let them weigh Judy.

Back at the corner of Lombard and Dollison, I turned east in the city directory and walked half a block to the Classic Shoe Shop, where I used to sit in my stocking feet at least once a year while my school shoes were being reheeled. If Mother thought the heels had worn down too quickly, beyond normal wear and tear, I'd show up at the shoe shop with instructions to have taps put on the new heels. I liked taps.

All those places are gone now, encompassed by the expanding university campus in the early 1960s. Madison Street still exists, but it isn't nearly as beautiful as it was back then. What used to be Dollison has been widened and renamed; it's the John Q. Hammons Parkway now. I think there's still a piece of Lombard Street in Springfield, but not the part of it that was in our neighborhood.

It's all changed so much, except in my mind and my heart. I feel so lucky that I can still see it the way it used to be. It kind of feels like a superpower.

A Little Pick-Me-Up

One-a-Day Redux
Day Eighteen:  Something You Bought

One day in the Christmas shopping season a couple of years ago, I walked into Walmart to buy groceries and passed a big cardboard display box filled with these:

Until that moment I'd never even seen one of these in person and certainly hadn't known I needed one, but there they were, on sale for $9.97, and in that moment I knew I had to have one. Now I don't know how I ever got along without it.

It's a reacher, a grabber, a "pick-up gripper." A foldable, rotating one. Squeeze the trigger and the pincers on the end contract. It gets tennis balls out from behind bookshelves, from under beds and other heavy, hard-to-move furniture, and from the neighbor's yard when a dog has pushed one under the fence. When the garbage truck's mechanical lifting apparatus accidentally dumped the contents of a bag of trash--the bag containing about a hundred separate three-inch-square flash cards--onto the front lawn, this little jewel saved me a lot of bending and stooping. Coincidentally, it does a remarkable job of gently pinching dog butts, much to the delight of my granddog, Oliver, who kept backing up to me for more.

The one I bought is sort of a lightweight. I'm not sure I'd trust it to lift a soup can off a high shelf, and it's come apart a number of times. In fact, it's broken right now because I crammed it too hard under a piece of furniture last night, trying to find a ball I couldn't see, and one of the suction cups broke off. I can fix it (I've done it before) as soon as I find the screw that popped out of it. I've used the magnetic sweeper that was this year's must-have gadget to search for the screw, so far with no luck.

When the grabber thing isn't broken, it looks like this. I see that the price has dropped and the reviews aren't very good, but if I don't find that screw, I may have to invest in a new one.

Wet

One-a-Day Redux
Day Seventeen:  Water

I am wet. My shorts are wet, my shirt's wet, even my bra is damp. Until I dried them off so I could come back in the house, my legs were dripping water and my feet were sloshing in my shoes. Levi and Gimpy are wet, too, but air drying as I write this. They've just had a bath, which explains how I got so wet.

It's so much easier to bathe them in the summer, when I can do it outside. Bathing them in the house involves luring or tricking them into the bathroom, then lifting them bodily into the tub while they stiffen and stretch their legs to foil my efforts. Indoor bathing also involves a lot of mopping that doesn't have to be done when they're bathed outdoors.

Today was a perfect day for this chore. At first the water coming straight out of the garden hose felt almost too hot, but after it ran awhile, it cooled off to a lukewarm, comfortable temperature for my dirty boys.

Our outside dog-wash setup consists of two wrought-iron chairs, one facing the other near the edge of the patio, with just enough space in between them to park a large dog. I sit in the chair closest to the house, the hose on the ground near my right hand. The chair across from me holds towels, no-tears baby shampoo and unscented, hypo-allergenic coat conditioner. Whichever dog is standing at my knees wears a leash, the other end of which is wrapped securely around the arm of the heavy chair in case he has a sudden, overwhelming urge to bolt.

They were good today, uneasy as always with the face-washing part, but patient overall. Levi wore a chagrined expression from the time I turned the water on until the towel-drying part at the end, then he was happy again. Gimpy licked my chin occasionally, showing that he still loved me in spite of my betrayal, then chose to sit through much of his bath. That made it more difficult to suds his rump, so I leaned across his body--which is how I got so wet--and eventually managed to get the job done.

If I can keep them from rolling in dried grass clippings or dead anythings for one day, I'll be happy. That's all I ask: just one day.

**********

For this week's Saturday Song Selection, I've chosen one I remember from 1959. I'll bet your mouth starts drying out by the end of the first chorus.

The song is "Cool Water," performed by Marty Robbins.

Thanks to fatjud1 for posting the video on YouTube.

Click here to read the lyrics.

Road Trip

One-a-Day Redux
Day Sixteen:  Morning

I'm not usually a big fan of mornings, only because they come too early in the day, but I have to acknowledge that the mornings I've spent on road trips have been some of the finest hours of my life. There's something enchanting about getting up while it's still dark, piling the kids into the car, and watching the sun rise in your rearview mirror. There's little or no traffic at that hour, so the road ahead of you lies open as you travel toward new sights to see, new adventures to unfold.

The kids, naturally, fall back asleep as soon as the car begins moving. It'll be a while before you'll need to mediate disputes about who's touching whom, who's intentionally putting one foot over the unmarked halfway line of the seat, or who won't stop looking at whom. For the time being, the silence is broken only by the sound of the tires singing on the pavement.

A couple of hours later the sun is above the tree line, and the workers of the world are arriving at their jobs. It's a good time to stop for breakfast; the kids are awake now and they're hungry. If you're passing through a town, you begin to salivate at the thought of a pecan waffle at the local Waffle House. If you're on the outskirts, you look for a truck stop, where you're pretty sure you'll find thick, fluffy biscuits served with peppery white gravy on the menu. Whatever you choose, there'll be bacon on the side and cold, fresh orange juice. You pull into the parking lot, brush the kids' hair, open the paper bag at your feet and pull out the Baggie containing the wet washcloth to wipe the sleep from their eyes, then you walk single file across the parking lot, following the smell of food.

Back in the car forty-five minutes later, on the road again, everyone is full, happy, and ready to ride. You'll all be tired and snippy by the end of the day's travels, but you don't think about that now. Now, in the full glory of morning, all your thoughts are on the bright, blue sky, the changing scenery you pass, the next curve in the road, and the miles and miles of possibilities that stretch out in front of you.

Mornings like that? Those, I like.

Just for Licks and Giggles

One-a-Day Redux
Day Fifteen:  Happiness

Happiness? That's an easy one. How could I find anything better to represent what makes me happy than what I chose in January, when I did this exercise as a photo challenge? Nope. At the risk of being repetitious, I'll stick with that.

Not to go all Gary Busey on you, but here's my answer:


Having
A
Pair of
Pooches
I adore
Nearby
Every
Single
Second.

What I've Been Reading

One-a-Day Redux
Day Fourteen:  Something You're Reading

I'm overdue for a "What I've Been Reading" post, so today's prompt is a timely one. I'll save some of the books I've read recently for the next book post and focus today on what I've been reading over the last week: "The Bregdan Chronicles Historical Fiction Romance Series." I'm presently in the middle of the fourth of five books Ginny Dye has written (so far) in this Civil War-era series, and I'm wholly invested in them. I would estimate that these books are about ten percent romance and ninety percent history, but it's palatable history, presented in a way that makes it integral to the story. In fact, it's made me more interested in that time period than I've ever been, so I've alternated between reading the books and searching the Internet to flesh out the details. The combination has made for an especially enriching reading experience.

For example, when Rose, the slave/best friend of Carrie, the plantation owner's daughter (and main character) slipped out into the night and conducted a reading class for other slaves, I was interested in learning more about the education of slaves, so I visited this site, among other places.

When Rose learned that a "conductor" for the Underground Railroad was planning to visit the area, I read more about it here.

When Carrie moved with her father to Richmond and volunteered to assist at the Chimborazo Hospital, I wanted to know if such a place had really existed. Yes. It did.

I don't recall ever having heard about contraband camps before Rose and Moses, her husband, sought refuge there after they left the plantation. Dye's vivid descriptions of the camps are fascinating, and Internet sites taught me even more about them.

Carrie's beau, Robert, was seriously wounded at the Battle of Antietam. Now, I've heard of that battle, of course, but I never was as interested in it as I've been since reading about it in these books.

History has always seemed boring to me, a litany of names, dates and places, but each of Dye's historical references is woven so tightly into the story that it becomes real. She has given each event a human connection, showing readers how it affected the characters in the book and, by inference, real people who actually lived through those times. It was not only the characters, but also my ancestors (Yankee and Confederate both) who were on my mind when I wanted to learn more about the explosion in the Confederate States Munitions Laboratory, the draft riots in York City in 1863 that resulted in the burning of a colored orphan asylum, the poverty and food shortages suffered by so many on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Though each of these books stands alone, I highly recommend reading them in order. Here they are, in proper sequence:

Storm Clouds Rolling In
by Ginny Dye

On to Richmond
by Ginny Dye

Spring Will Come
by Ginny Dye

Dark Chaos
by Ginny Dye

The Last Long Night

by Ginny Dye

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

click on its image above.

Excess Baggage

One-a-Day Redux
Day Thirteen:  In Your Bag

It's a small, black, spiral-bound book, a fraction of an inch wider and shorter than a 3x5-inch index card, with letters of the alphabet printed on the tabbed edges of its pages. Stuck between its pages are sticky notes, scraps of paper, corners of envelopes--oh, here's a videotape label--and business cards, all bearing addresses or phone numbers, not all placed in their proper alphabetical sections.

I don't remember when I bought this little book, but it's been in my purse for years and years. Hm. My mother's address is in here, but it's the address of her new house, not the one she lived in for 38 years. She moved into the new house at the end of '97 or the beginning of '98, I'm not sure, and lived there until she passed away at the end of '99. Looks like I got the book sometime in that period.

A lot of people's addresses have been scratched out and replaced by newer ones. A lot of other people in here have moved, too, but I haven't bothered to change their addresses. Their current ones are on my handy-dandy, computerized address list. Also, I see that more people in the book have died than I realized: aunts, uncles, a couple of Mother's cousins. Sad.

Here's the business card of the woman to whom I promised to give all my business-related books; glad I found it. I've been hauling two boxes of those books around in my trunk for over two years now, thinking I'd drop them off on my way to or from someplace. For some reason, when I think of dropping off the books, I always decide to wait and do it another day. I need to call her and see if she still wants them.

Ha! Here's an entry for "Linda Carr." That's a fake name. The address (on "Key Street"--also fake) is the code number to get a replacement key for my Toyota Camry. I never needed to replace that key, but I did eventually need to replace the car. That was in 2005, a week before Hurricane Katrina.

Here's an old shopping list:  speaker wire with male/female connections, blank videotapes, and bags for both the heavy-duty vacuum cleaner and the little, quick-job one. This list must have slipped between the pages by accident. I wonder if that happened before or after I needed the list.

I think it's time to retire this little book, to make sure I've transferred every still-relevant scrap of information to the list on my computer, then print that list, fold it so it fits neatly in my wallet, and leave the little book at home. In a drawer. It won't take up much space, and I'm too sentimental to throw away the reminders of all those people and places.

Hands

One-a-Day Redux
Day Twelve:  Close-Up

Her age shows up in her hands more than anywhere. The bones on the backs of her hands stand out like narrow tree trunks sculpted in a rainforest frieze, with ropy, blue veins tangled over them like heavy jungle vines. And the creases! So many narrow creases time has laid at the base of her wrists like bands of loose-fitting bangle bracelets. There are age spots, too, but not many, and the abundance of wrinkles makes them hard to see unless her hand is fisted.

Her fingers tell individual stories, some still straight and lean, others beginning to twist out of alignment. Some of her knuckles are enlarged, swollen with arthritis, and two small Heberden's nodes sit atop the first knuckle of her left forefinger. When she stretches her hands out, palms downward, there's a hint of a tremor there.

These are hands that have always been busy, not with hard work like planting fields or scrubbing laundry with lye soap on a washboard, but steadily busy with schoolwork, then childcare, cooking, sewing, office work, arts and crafts, stroking her beloved dogs, and, most recently, writing about her life on the Internet.

Her hands, my hands, are the ones that typed this post.