School Days Again

Earlier this year I enrolled in two courses: a third series of the Life Writing classes I've enjoyed so much and Drawing 101, taught by the talented instructor of the Acrylics Exploration class I took last year. Those two, two-hour courses started last week, and they, along with their homework assignments, are eating into my blogging time in a big way. But I love them. God, I love school. Always have.

The first two Life Writing lessons have focused on research skills, which we certainly need to know, but I hope we'll soon get back to writing exercises. I'm always fascinated by the diversity of stories generated by different individuals' interpretations of an assigned topic. If my life had been more interesting, perhaps I'd consider writing a book about it, in which case the research skills would come in handy. Unfortunately, my life is best described in a series of anecdotes that skip over all the boring parts.

I decided to take the Drawing 101 class to gain a better understanding of how to use light and shadow, perspective, and other techniques that will help with painting. I haven't painted a single time since the end of last year's classes, but I intend to take it up again soon. (I even ordered an easel yesterday, mostly to make my order large enough to get free shipping, but I do think an easel will help me keep my sleeves out of the paint.) Anyway, we've only had one drawing lesson, and I've already decided I like painting better, mostly because paint covers the surface a lot quicker than pencil marks do. I do have to give our instructor credit and say I'm impressed by how much she taught us in just one class. About half an hour into it, she handed out realistic plastic oranges and asked us to sketch them. Here's my rough attempt:

I realize this is too long for an orange, but that's what it is:

an orange with lights shining on it from several directions.

For the next half hour she talked to us about lights and shadows, how to give a drawn object dimension, and what kind of pencils and other tools to use for different drawing tasks. Then we tried drawing the oranges again:

Still not a great-looking orange, but

definitely better than the first try.

After further explanations and demonstrations, she assigned us homework: "Go home and get a fruit or a vegetable--something your brain is already familiar with--and draw it." Here's the vegetable drawing I did this morning:

I'm kind of pleased with this bell pepper. It's a long way,

from perfect, but I think it shows a lot of improvement,

especially after only two hours of classroom instruction. 

Do you see why I like school? Learning something new is so much fun, no matter how old you are.

Promises of Spring

I cannot adequately express how happy I am to type the following short sentence: It's warm today.

In fact, it's in the mid-70s. Earlier this afternoon I sat out on the patio, leaned back in a chair, closed my eyes and let the sun beat down on my face for several long minutes. What bliss! Then I opened my eyes, took a good look at Levi and Gimpy, and marched them one by one to the driveway, where I could hose the mud off their legs without creating more of it in the yard.

The man who cuts my grass called yesterday to ask when I'd like him to start again. We agreed I'd call him when everything dries up enough that his lawn tractor won't get bogged down. As expensive as lawn maintenance is, right this minute I'm looking forward to the kind of weather that hits me hard in the pocketbook.

Remind me of that when I start complaining about heat, humidity, and grass allergies, would you? Until then, these birds and I will sing in praise of warmer days.

"That Window You Never Fixed"

Before I retired in 2009 I frequently took CDs to the office so John, my boss and good friend, and David, another attorney in the office, also a good friend, could listen to one song or another I thought they mght like. They did the same thing sometimes. Later, with the advent of YouTube, we graduated to music videos. John wasn't much into computers, but even before he learned how to send an email, he mastered accessing his favorite tunes on YouTube.

Sometime in the last few months of work I heard a bittersweet Ryan Adams song that strongly reminded me of John, but I never played that one for him. The "Dear John" of the song title was deceased. Even though I loved the poignancy of the lyrics, John was going through major health issues at the time, and putting the thoughts and feelings of a widow in his head wouldn't have been kind.

John had excellent skills as an attorney and as a sportsman but readily admitted that household repairs were beyond his capabilities. I'm not sure he could have hung a picture on the wall by himself if his life had depended on it. Like many of us, I imagine, he excelled at the things that interested him and chose not to bother with those that didn't. More even than the fact of his name in the title, it was this verse of the song that brought him instantly to mind:

"Ten years pass

And I ended up with a house full of cats,

But most of them went missing

Through that window you never fixed,

The door you never latched."

Some parts of the lyrics don't apply at all (is art ever perfect?), but isn't it interesting how our brains can override the non-applicable parts and focus like a laser on the words that matter to us?

After the sad events of this week, this one was destined to be today's Saturday Song Selection:

The song is "Dear John" by Ryan Adams.

Thanks to Macfae for posting the video on YouTube.

Click here to read the lyrics.

A Day for Hearts and Flowers

Happy Valentine's Day!

Best. Funeral. Ever.

John's funeral today was not a traditional one. There was a visitation service from 10:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m., followed by an hour-long celebration of life. By the time I arrived at the funeral home shortly after noon, the noise level of the visitors had reached a buzz that could be heard clear down the hall. There was a steady procession of people milling about, all talking at once, catching up with old friends, telling stories, hugging, shoulder-clapping. If there'd been drinks and hors d'oeuvres, you'd have sworn you were at a party.
I'm sure things would have been more subdued if there'd been a body there, but John had requested that he be cremated.

So many people: lawyers and judges in suits and ties and younger men, those whom John had taught to hunt and fish, wearing camouflage in his honor. His own hooded camouflage jacket was hung up and displayed with a handful of his duck calls, reminding me of the quacking noises that frequently emanated from his office when I least expected them. His life was well represented among the family and friends who loved him and who gathered in that large chapel.

There was no priest or pastor leading the service, using the opportunity to indulge in seemingly obligatory soul-saving amid a few brief remarks about the deceased. That's okay if you like that, if you want that, but it's always kind of bothered me. It's almost always seemed insincere--like a paid advertisement for Jesus at an event where people need healing, not to be reminded that their mortal souls are in jeopardy.  

Instead, John's son, Charlie, had written a beautifully moving tribute to him which was read aloud by a friend at the beginning of the memorial service. In it Charlie expressed what his dad had meant to him and why and recounted the life lessons John had taught him. Among those, reinforced by specific anecdotes, were the importance of living life honestly and honorably and the equal importance of living it to the fullest.

John's best friend, Ralph, gave the eulogy. He began by saying how honored he was to have been asked to do so. He said he'd started to write a speech, then thought, "Wait a minute! If I had died and John was going to give my eulogy, what would he do? He'd wing it." And so Ralph did. He spoke from his heart about John's love of his family, his passion for hunting and fishing, his forthrightness, his love of a good argument, his contrariness--all the facets of his personality that made him a unique human being. "He was a character," Ralph said. That he was.

For the first time ever I left a funeral feeling uplifted instead of mournful. I walked out of there with a keen awareness that I'm alive and that it's up to each of us to pay attention to all the possibilities that are open to us, to make the best of the time we have left. I feel energized and inspired.

What a gift!

I loved this celebration of life and love. I know John would have loved it. And I'm pretty sure God would give it an A+, too.

John

Yesterday I lost a good friend. His wife, also my friend, called early to tell me that he had died in the wee hours of the morning. As far as anyone knows so far, the cause of death was a heart attack. Ironically, it's been almost seven years to the day since the first and only time I wrote about his heart condition, and he's had his ups and downs since then. Lately, I'm told, he's had mostly ups.

He was a good man and a successful, well-liked lawyer. He cared about the clients who could pay him and the ones he knew probably never would. Unless he was scheduled for court, where a suit was required, he showed up for work in starched, neatly-ironed jeans. It was common to walk into his office and find him kicked back with his cowboy boots up on his desk, a big stack of law books on the floor beside him and another book open in his lap. He liked to listen to music while he worked, everything from opera to zydeco, and it makes me smile to remember how many times he cussed the CD player when he couldn't make it play what he wanted to hear.

On slow days we had time for long talks about hunting and fishing (he talked, I listened), dogs (his and mine), books, movies, and other people. We argued sometimes (which lawyers like to do and so do I) when we veered into discussions about various aspects of politics and religion. More than a few times we speculated about whether or not there is an afterlife. Today I find myself oddly envious of the fact that he now knows for sure.

He had called me Christmas morning. We spoke for only a few moments then (he said he still had his brothers and others to call). He asked about my family, I asked about his, and he laughed as he told me about the new love in his life, a Yorkshire Terrier that had recently joined his family. He sounded really good.

He's touched a lot of lives, and a lot of people are going to miss him. As sad as it is, I felt much better yesterday after going to his house and spending time with his family. The stories about him were already flowing there, stories about things he's said and done over the course of his lifetime, enough of those stories to keep everyone who knew him laughing for years. We'll shed tears every time it hits us anew that he's gone, but when we remember him, when we think about who he really was, it'll be impossible not to smile through the tears.

You were one of a kind, John. I hope the hereafter was ready for you.

A Labor of Love: The Owen Poems

My granddaughter, Kalyn, will turn thirty this week, and just over a month later her son, Owen, will turn four. When Kalyn was Owen's age and spent the day or night with me, I loved making up silly rhymes and singing them to make her giggle. She thought they were funny enough that they became a routine part of our time together. To this day she remembers all the words to one song that started out simply as lunch menu suggestions:

You can have pimento cheese

Or ABC's & 123's,

I'm begging you on bended knees,

Please don't make me eat green peas.

Actually, I love green peas; she's the one who didn't.

I don't get to spend as much time with Owen as I did with Kalyn, but during the recent holidays I saw him enough to know that he's developed a pretty good sense of humor. The boy likes a joke. I could tell that by the way he laughed uproariously every time he used the words, "chicken eyeball," which he did repeatedly on Christmas Day.

A couple of weeks ago it occurred to me that one way to build a closer relationship with my great-grandson between visits would be to send him letters. That was the start of the Owen Poems. Since then I've been making up short verses and "borrowing" photos from Google images to illustrate them. My plan is to send him a new poem--or something--every week or ten days until he loses interest.

With a little help from his mama, a clearly excited Owen called me after he got this first one:

You'll have no trouble guessing what the illustration is on this next one I'm mailing today:

Owen Poem #2

Owen Asks the Body Question

Owen suggested, "Pick only one thing:

From your hair to the tips of your toes,

What part of your body do you like the best?"

Claire answered, "My eyes, I suppose."

Nicholas said, "I would pick my right arm

Because of the cool way it throws."

Jonathan said, "I can wiggle my ears,

so I think I'm gonna choose those."

Emily's choice was her curly red hair,

And Anthony? He picked his nose.

Rounding out the first three (all I've written so far) is this one:

Owen Poem #3

Up and Down

A dog named Up and a duck named Down

once walked together into town.

They walked along a railroad track

and didn't bother looking back

until a whistle made Up shout,

"A train is coming! Down, look out!"

The train was moving very fast,

but just before it roared on past,

the friends did what they had to do:

down Up jumped and up Down flew.

What about the pre-schoolers you know? What kinds of things do they find funny?

Five Things I Really, Really Like

1. Saturdays. Who doesn't?
2. Piano music. This goes back to my childhood. When I visited my Grandma Audrey, she would let me spend hours picking out "tunes" (at least in my mind they were tunes) on her upright piano. I never learned to play, but I've always loved the piano.
3. Ethereal voices. Those light, airy, haunting vocal instruments that run their fingers up and down my spine. 
4. Nashville, ABC's nighttime soap opera about the music industry. I wait for it from one Wednesday night to the next, caught up in between in a gnarly ball of characters and plot lines, looking forward to the next twist in the story and the next new song.
5. One particular song from the 1/29/14 episode of Nashville. With rare exceptions, all the Saturday Song Selections featured on this blog are ones I've bought and paid for, either through iTunes or on CDs that I've converted to MP3s to include them on iTunes playlists. Today's song is so new that it isn't even available for purchase yet. I know, because I've checked on it every single day since that episode aired to see if I could buy it. Instead, I've listened to it on YouTube enough times that it's now playing virtually non-stop in my head -- in a good way, not an earworm way. 

So, here are all five things wrapped up in this week's Saturday Song Selection:

The song is "Black Roses," performed by Clare Bowen.

Thanks to Kou Vang for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.

Color in a Box

It had been a long time since I'd worked a jigsaw puzzle, but I bought one recently when I knew we were going to be iced in for a few days. I was at the store to buy soup ingredients and other food to tide us over for the duration. A shortcut from the dog-food section to the grocery aisles took me past the toy department, where puzzle boxes were stacked at the end of an aisle. The colors in this one just reached out and grabbed me:

The after-effects of working a jigsaw puzzle never fail to delight me. While I'm putting it together, and for a day or two after I finish, I see the world differently. Instead of trees, I see the varied colors and shapes of leaves. I notice individual shingles on neighbors' rooftops, smaller ones at the peaks, larger (closer) ones near the eaves. I see shadows, grasses, flowers, woodgrain, chips in paint, spots of rust--all the little details needed to properly place a single, small piece of scenery into its surroundings. It's magical for a brief time, then it fades, and I go back to seeing only the big picture.

Right now the big picture outside my home is mostly shades of beige and gray, some drab greens clinging to the live oaks and long-needle pines, and the sky such a faded shade of blue that it looks as though it isn't even trying. If this scenery were a puzzle, there would be no joy in working it.

That'll change. I browse through my photo files and see pictures of beautiful, bright-colored flowers, shots I snapped in late January and early February in previous years, and they give me hope. They're there, I know, ready to break through the soil as soon as the time is right. All we need is a little stretch of typical Louisiana weather, a few days in a row of warmer temperatures. I think I can wait.

In the meantime, I'll find my color in a box, one piece at a time.

What I've Been Reading

My tried-and-true method for choosing a book is to read the first page--or maybe two, if I'm still undecided at the end of the first. If a story hasn't reeled me in by then, I pass it up. It's certainly possible that I've missed out on some good books that way, but I haven't often been disappointed in the ones I've chosen.

Here are the books I've snuggled up with during our recent cold weather, every one of them a good read:

Funerals for Horses

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

Walk Me Home

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

The Goldfinch

by Donna Tartt

Until Tuesday

by Luis Carlos Montalvan

War Brides

by Helen Bryan

The Patron Saint of Liars

by Ann Patchett

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

click on its image above.

Bits and Pieces

ENOUGH!
This is the view from my backdoor day before yesterday:

I expect to see a similar view as soon as I take a shower, do my hair, put on makeup, get dressed and step outside to go to the grocery store. If you click on the picture to enlarge it, you can just barely see that it was pouring down rain. Who needs more of that?

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GROSS!
This is what I found on the den floor yesterday, about an hour after the dogs spent a few minutes outside:

All the dogs were sleeping when I found the dead lizard, so whichever one had caught it must have tired of it quickly. Dead lizards are not good for much.

On the other hand, over in East Texas a couple of days ago, my niece's dogs killed a cat that had strayed into their fenced-in yard. She found it on her porch, where her sleeping puppy was snuggled up with it.

We dog lovers tend to forget that our precious pets are natural-born predators. I wish they didn't have such a gruesome way of reminding us.

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BOTHERSOME!
While Kim and I watched TV last night, we heard a strange noise and couldn't identify the source of it. A few minutes later, we heard it again and got up to search it out. The refrigerator was...er...snoring. I'm not kidding; it sounded exactly like this. It makes that noise half a dozen times spaced a couple minutes apart, stops for several hours, then does it again a few more times. Otherwise, it seems to be working fine. If my car were making that noise, I'd take it to a mechanic, but I think I'll wait to see what happens with the refrigerator. It might stop cooling, but at least it won't leave me stranded.

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SAD...JUST SAD
On a serious note, I wrote the following on April 1, 2006: "...I can’t say enough good things about Philip Seymour Hoffman, who starred in the role of Truman Capote.  He’s been in so many movies that my daughter and I have joked about it for several years.  One of us will ask, 'Who’s in that movie?' and the other will answer with a list that always ends in '...and Philip Seymour Hoffman.'  He hasn’t been blessed with leading-man looks, which may be why he’s had time to hone his talent in supporting actor roles, but I think he’s brilliant!  It’s about time a movie came along that allowed him to shine."

Rest in peace, Philip Seymour Hoffman. We will miss you deeply, but your star will continue to shine.

The River Ain't the Only Thang Runnin' Deep Around Here

Here we are on the first day of February already, also the first day of Black History Month, which might have skipped my notice if I hadn't just finished reading the local library's monthly bulletin. Despite my lily-white heritage, I do have a deep interest in African-American history, as demonstrated by many of my favorite reading and movie-watching choices over the years. I've always been inspired by stories about overcoming adversity. If that theme is prominent anywhere, it's in black history, where so much has been accomplished--and there's still so much to be done.

I was reminded of that last fact earlier this week on the night of the State-of-the-Union Address. Because President Obama was a few minutes late starting his speech, a Facebook friend referred to him as "arrogant." I know from the trend of her other posts that what she really meant was "uppity," and I'm still steamed about it. Don't like his policies? That's fine by me; we can agree to disagree. But I detest racism, no matter how someone tries to pretty it up.

Okay, enough ranting. I'm glad you're here, regardless of which side's Kool-Aid you've been drinking--mine or another flavor.

Today also happens to be Saturday, time for a Saturday Song Selection. (I totally forgot about a song last Saturday, because I totally forgot that last Saturday was a Saturday.). The old spirituals seem well suited to this particular post, so I'll choose one of the many that touch my heart. I dare you to listen to the first few bars of this and see if you can remain unmoved by the soulfulness of it.

The song is "Deep River," performed by Mahalia Jackson.

Thanks to StudiosHawaii for posting the video on YouTube.

Click here to read the lyrics.

Snow Stories

This week's cold weather (almost over) produced lots of ice but no snow. The mere possibility of snow, however, was enough to bring back memories of my childhood winters in Missouri:

*****

In the 1950s Missouri schools didn't close because of snow, and when it did snow, those of us who usually walked to school put on our rubber boots and walked in it--uphill both ways, of course. I remember one day walking past a thigh-high drift of snow and deciding to test its actual depth by plunging one booted foot into the drift. Unfortunately, when I pulled my leg out, the snow held on to the boot, and the boot held on to both my shoe and sock. To reach the buried boot I had to stick my arm down into the drift and feel around with my mittened hand, which meant leaning far enough forward that my chin was in the snow. At the same time I had to balance on one leg to keep the other, barefooted one as high and dry as possible. You might think this would have ended my curiosity about snow, but it didn't.

*****

Following one winter storm, I set out from home mid-afternoon to walk about eight blocks to a friend's birthday party. The sidewalk, which was broken in several places, had a thick coating of ice over it. Several inches of snow on the ground had leveled out the appearance of the sidewalk so that the broken places weren't obvious, and each time I happened to step on one of those tilted pieces of concrete, I slipped, tossing the cheerfully wrapped present into the air as I fell. Falling on concrete hurt, even if it was covered by fluffy snow. After several hard falls, I started to cry. I arrived at the party with tears frozen on my face, a scraped knee inside my leggings, and the most bedraggled gift I've ever personally delivered. Happy birthday, my derriere.

*****

One year it snowed on Halloween night, but the big, wet flakes didn't stop us from trick-or-treating. My little sister was about three or four at the time and low to the ground. As the snow fell and piled higher and higher, it eventually reached her low-hanging, brown-paper Halloween bag, gradually wetting and weakening it until all her candy fell through the bottom and sank into the snow. My sister sobbed, and Mother walked us straight home after that. I didn't make a habit of empathizing with my sister in those days, but even my own hard heart could relate to the trauma of losing candy, so as soon as we got home, I willingly divided my candy and gave Judy half.

Okay, all the best stuff probably stayed in my half, but still...

*****

Back to that curiosity thing: Walking home from school one afternoon, swinging my book bag and happy that the sun was out for a change, I noticed a patch of yellow snow near a bush in a neighbor's yard. I'd seen those yellow places from time to time but hadn't given the matter much thought until that very moment. We made snow ice cream all the time that winter and must have made some in the recent past, because my first thought was not, as you might expect, why is the snow yellow? It was what does yellow snow taste like? 

I was happy to report to my family that evening that yellow snow tasted a little bit like pineapple. And not so happy after they explained the reason for the yellow snow. Today, sixty-some-odd years later, I'm glad to be able to tell you that yellow snow won't kill you.

Brrrrr!

The thermostat in the hall tells me it's a cozy seventy degrees in the center of the house. I wish that thermostat could take a walk into the den and sit where I'm sitting, near a couple of windows and a door, and reassess the situation. Even the keyboard I'm typing on is cold to the touch.

I'm wearing an old fleece "jogging suit" (the quotation marks are because I've never jogged in it even once) with a sleeveless T-shirt under the top to keep out the draft, and I have a big plush throw wrapped around my shoulders. Heavy socks on my feet, of course. I'm still chilled to the bone.

The predicted "wintry mix" at our house contained sleet, not snow, with just enough moisture mixed in to turn it into solid sheets of ice.

Most of the driveway is coated in ice.

At the fence line there are pileups with leaves

and other things frozen inside. Is that a worm

in the bottom right-hand corner?

The patio chairs are all stuck in place.

I wonder if heat loss from the house is responsible

for that unfrozen path on the right side of this photo.

With temperatures in the low-twenties and wind chill temperatures nearing single digits, we've had to leave a faucet dripping for the last three nights and two days. It seems impossible to me that the forecast calls for temps in the mid-seventies on Saturday--three days from now. Say what? I'll believe it when I feel it on my skin.

The Last Trick Up My Sleeve (and on the Kitchen Counter)

Look at Gimpy's face:

From any angle it's a sweet face. That's because he's so sweet.

He's my go-to dog for hugs and kisses, the most affectionate dog I've ever had. He'll cuddle with anyone who'll sit still long enough, bestow kisses on anyone who'll allow it. He's smart, friendly, funny--a wonderful dog, really. The only problem with Gimpy is, he's a...well, there's no use trying to put a polite name on it...he's a thief. A repeat offender.

He's been stealing things since his first days here. He seems to have a fetish for soft things: towels and washcloths (freshly laundered and folded or, better yet, used), small blankets or throws, and the occasional paper towel or tissue someone has accidentally left where he can find it. His favorites are dishtowels and dishcloths. He can and does (several times a day) snitch them from way back on the kitchen counter, which means he's stretching up and putting his front paws on the counter. His criminal acts are increasing my towel-washing and counter-wiping chores.

It's annoying when I reach for the dishtowel I used half an hour earlier and it isn't there, but I know right where to look for it. Gimpy hides things in the same places all the time. The missing item will be in the den (either on the futon or in his crate), in my bedroom on Levi's bed (go figure), or on the living room rug on the far side of the coffee table. Often I'll find Gimpy right there with the booty, lying on top of it or holding it lovingly between his paws.

I know he knows he's doing something wrong when he steals, because he's sneaky about it. He never ever takes anything in front of us, and the fact that we can't catch him in the act makes it difficult to correct the behavior. It's the stealing we want to stop; nobody cares if he snuggles with things as long as they aren't our things.

Even if he does seem to know he's doing a bad thing, it's clear that he hates being thought of as a bad dog. He practically turns himself inside out with shame when we confront him with the stolen goods, and I'm sure he'd avoid going through that embarrassment if he could. Maybe he's a kleptomaniac.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, I had an idea: a booby-trap. I gathered the supplies...

...then put the pennies in the can and taped over the top:

I wrapped the can of pennies in one end of a dishtowel, then laid it on its side with the rest of the towel just on the edge of the kitchen counter. It must have looked like easy pickings, because it probably wasn't twenty minutes before we heard a crash and Gimpy came bounding into the living room with eyes as big as saucers. We made a fuss, of course, loudly scolding while quietly hoping his brain synapses were firing and making a connection between the noise and the towel.

We immediately set up the booby-trap again, of course, and another couple of days passed (something of a record) before he stole again. When he did, he took a different towel, one with a different pattern and one that was harder for him to reach than the towel with the can in it. (I was actually kind of proud of his thought process and problem-solving skills when he avoided the trap.) This time I wrapped the can of pennies in a third towel, another different pattern, and set it up again. He fell for the trap the next day, bringing the can crashing to the floor and harsh words raining down on his spirit.

Once again I wrapped up the can of pennies, setting it well within his reach in a different place on the counter. That was about a week ago. He hasn't touched it yet, nor has he stolen anything from anywhere else in the house. At this point we're beginning to feel some cautious optimism.

My next challenge is to figure out what kind of cuddly thing I can give Gimpy that he'll like as much as a towel but won't confuse with one. The soft things he presently "owns" don't seem to meet his cuddling needs. Except for Lucy.

Gimpy (right) on the futon in the den with Lucy, a dog bed stolen from

the bedroom, a towel stolen from the dirty clothes, a stuffed-animal carcass

and a tennis ball. Gimpy does the stealing and willingly shares with Lucy.

He's a good dog, really, with a great big heart and a bad habit.

Louisiana Ice

After yesterday's sub-freezing temperatures and "frozen precipitation," I stepped out onto the patio first thing this morning to take a picture of these tiny icicles hanging from the patio table:

I was back inside, taking my coat off, when Kim called, "Mom, I think you need to bring your camera out again and take a look at the back of the house." So I did. I've lived in this house nearly seventeen years, and it's the first time I've ever seen anything like this:

They looked ever bigger when I stood right under them:

Frankly, I was impressed. Lucy, however, couldn't have cared less.

The Great Duck Rescue

We're experiencing another cold spell today, nothing like the so-called polar vortex that's wreaking havoc on much of the nation, but still very cold for us. Tomorrow is supposed to be even colder. Local news outlets are, of course, issuing warnings to protect  "the four P's--people, pets, plants and pipes," so we're doing that. I didn't realize there had even been a discussion about the possibility of a rare Louisiana snowfall until I watched TV last night and heard the evening news crew groan in disappointment when the weatherman told them that, no, conditions aren't quite right, it won't be snowing here after all.

Our last snow was about five years ago. I have pictures of Butch and Kadi playing in it. Oh, wait--I probably wrote about it at the time--yes, here's the post. I remember that day well, especially the concerned phone calls I kept getting from my daughter Kim as the day wore on. The more I've thought about it this morning, the more tickled I've gotten, so I asked Kim for permission to repost what she wrote on her own website about that day. Here's her story (the beautiful photo is hers, too):

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Untitled

by Kim Neely

Believe it or not, this is what we woke up to here on Thursday morning:

To say that we were all excited would definitely be an understatement. We hardly ever get to see snow in these parts, so when we do, it's reason to celebrate. People were calling all their friends, running around with their cameras getting proof for posterity, and it seemed as though every other house had a snowman in front of it. Very cool, except for one episode that my friends and family aren't going to let me forget about any time soon.

There was a duck in the lake, about 4 feet from the bank on the other side, that kept swimming in the same place for hours. I had been seeing him there from 6:30 in the morning until around 10 AM, every time I passed by my window, before I realized that he was just swimming in the same spot and that I had never seen a duck do that for so long before. He looked OK, not like he was injured or anything, but there was snow accumulating on his back. Wasn't he cold? I just thought it odd that he wasn't off somewhere with the other ducks. I became convinced that he must have snagged one of his feet in something beneath the water and gotten stuck there. I worried about him for another long while, even soliciting advice about the situation from a few friends on the phone, before I finally broke down and drove to the management office of my apartment complex. My plan was to borrow the pool skimmer to try and rescue the duck, but they wouldn't let me use the skimmer - some nonsense about "possible liability issues." (I refrained from telling the nice management lady that if I wanted to go stand at the edge of the lake and help the duck, I was damned well going to do it, whether it was with the building's skimmer or the one I was about to go buy at the hardware store.) Anyway, she said she'd get the property manager and one of the maintenance guys to go check out the duck and see if they could help it, so I came back to my apartment and waited. After about an hour, when the duck was still there and I hadn't seen anyone out by the lake trying to help get it unstuck, I called Management Lady again to see what she'd found out.

There was kind of an awkward silence, and then she says, "Ms. Neely, the property manager did go out to see about the duck, and he says...um...well...he says it's a decoy."

"Is he sure?" I asked. She said he was, and I wanted to argue with her for a minute, but instead, I apologized for the inconvenience and hung up. I still wasn't convinced, but not long afterward, the sun came out and the surface of the water calmed, and I could see very clearly that the duck in distress was, indeed, faux. Even as I write this, 3 days later, it's still out there, "swimming" in the same spot.

I am choosing not to be embarrassed about this.

When I Was "Little Susie"

While I was writing about the Everly Brothers the other day, I recalled an event that happened when I was 18 years old. It won't do any good to tell you about it unless you remember this portion of the lyrics to the Everly Brothers' song, "Wake Up Little Susie":

"Wake up little Susie, wake up

Wake up little susie, wake up

We both fell sound asleep

Wake up little Susie and weep

The movie's over, it's four o'clock

And we're in trouble deep"

It was the spring of 1961, three months after I'd broken up with a man I'd end up marrying later that same year. At the law office where I'd worked since the previous spring, we had a new girl, Jude, who became a good friend. Jude was determined I would not sit around and mope after the breakup. She'd gone to a different high school than I did and immediately set about introducing me to a few boys she knew from school. They were nice boys, and I enjoyed meeting them and spending time with them. Most of them were a little on the country side compared to my own classmates, not that that was a problem. Except for Sidney.

Sidney was a greaser. He was Danny Zuko from Grease and Fonzie from Happy Days long before I ever heard of those characters. He wore the jeans, the black leather jacket and the motorcycle boots, and he slicked his hair back in the same ducktail hairstyle. There were no gangs in our East Texas town; the only other person I ever saw there who dressed like Sidney was a recent transplant from the Bronx.

Jude assured me that Sidney was a nice guy in spite of his cool, tough guy image, and when he asked me to go with him to the drive-in movie one night, I agreed. Jude was right: Sidney was nice. He had good manners. He opened the car door for me, offered popcorn and a soft drink from the concession stand, and, when the movie started, he stayed on his side of the car.

I don't remember what movie was playing, but it wasn't interesting enough to keep me awake. I didn't get enough sleep in those days and had a habit of falling asleep as soon as I relaxed in a semi-dark place. Sidney must have had the same issues.

The next thing I knew, he was waking me up. It was two o'clock in the morning. We were the only car in the parking lot, and the only lights we could see came from the moon and the stars. I knew my mother would be angry and doubted seriously that she would believe my true story about what had happened. Sidney apologized and said he'd have me home in five minutes.

But his car wouldn't start. The battery was dead, and there was no one around to jump us off. I could have walked to my house--we could see the movie screen from our front yard--but I wasn't about to take a walk at that time of night. So, Sidney took off walking while I sat in his car alone in the drive-in parking lot. I don't know where he went, the hospital across the highway maybe, but he walked somewhere to make a phone call. He called his mother.

Poor Sidney. Something is wrong in the universe when a guy in a black leather jacket has to call his mother to jump off his ride in the middle of the night. Especially when he's on a date. That is not cool. He knew it, and I knew the embarrassment was killing him.

His mother came, and the two of them drove me home in her car. If I remember correctly, she did have enough compassion to let Sidney drive it. Sidney walked me to the door--his shoulders slumped all the way--apologized again, and politely said goodnight. I assume they went back to the drive-in after that and got his car started. (My mother slept through the whole thing--never had any idea how late I got home.)

Sidney never asked me out again. I didn't blame him. Once or twice in the months that followed before I married and moved away, Sidney and I would spot one another among the throngs of teenagers circling the parking lot at Zack's. We would acknowledge each other with a subtle wave and a sympathetic expression, then go our separate ways.

Those tough guys? Sometimes they're the tenderest inside.

Traces of Everly

My friend Annette, in a lovely tribute to the late Phil Everly the other day, referred to "the sweet beauty of harmony" that the Everly Brothers introduced to the world of rock and roll in the late 1950s, inspiring countless vocal artists to follow them along the path of harmony ever since. I was a young teen in Springfield, Missouri when "Bye Bye Love" hit the airwaves in 1956, followed by "Wake Up Little Susie" in the first part of 1957. Those songs caught my ear but not my heart; it's ballads I love. The B-side of "Wake Up Little Susie," "Maybe Tomorrow," was more my kind of music.

The song that secured my everlasting fandom came out in 1958: "All I Have to Do Is Dream." I bought that one with my babysitting money. By that time my family had moved from Southwest Missouri to East Texas, I had a new stepfather and stepsister, a new school, and a few new friends. I loved music then as much as I do now. At home my sisters and I harmonized while we washed the supper dishes, and Everly Brothers songs made up a large part of our repertoire. At school I was the tall, skinny alto in both the girls' chorus and the mixed chorus, safe places where I felt I belonged, and my love of singing harmony grew in leaps and bounds. To this day I can't sing a Christmas carol without slipping into the alto part.

I've always been able to carry a tune, but my voice, never anything special, is tighter now than it used to be. Many notes are no longer reachable. But still I sing. I turn up the music and sing along, old songs, new ones, songs recorded in harmony and others that should have been. I do it when I'm alone so I can sing as loudly as I want, and let me tell you, blowing all that air out of my lungs is one of the best things I do for myself these days. There is joy in harmony.

So many popular songs I've heard over the past half century are reminiscent of Everly Brothers tunes, and today's Saturday Song Selection is one of them. As I've listened to it this week, I've even found myself adding a third part to the two-part harmony of these talented Swedish sisters. Why don't you sing along with them, too? The lyrics are right there, and you know you want to.



The song is "Emmylou," performed by First Aid Kit.
Thanks to jamiecroft23 for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.

Seeking Warmth

The Internet's "Hourly Weather Forecast" says it's supposed to be 60°F outside at noon today in this zip code, which is quite nice for outdoors at this time of year. It's ten degrees warmer than that in the house, but I swear I'm chilled to the bone. Do you think getting older makes one colder-natured?

At night I try to remember to turn on the electric blanket a few minutes early so the bed will be nice and warm when I get into it. Then, when I do go to bed, I take my bathrobe with me. Once I've crawled in and pulled up the covers, I spread the bathrobe over me like a Snuggie to keep my arms warm while I read. I always get too warm sometime during the night and wake up just enough to turn off the electric blanket, but still, after all that heat, the perfectly reasonable house temperature feels shockingly cold.

While I'm talking temperature (which I promise to stop doing any day now), I forgot to tell you how we kept the dogs warm last week when the wind chill temperature was 10°F. Three of our four dogs have winter coats; Lucy has outgrown hers. It's quite a challenge to put four dogs into coats at the same time, which we did over and over for a couple of days. Gimpy didn't like his much at all. Levi didn't seem to mind the coat itself but was impatient while I was fastening the straps and repeatedly inched away toward the door. Oliver strutted around like a proud peacock the instant Kim put the coat on him, just like he did last year. And Lucy, bless her heart, was amiable and cooperative as we rigged her up with a folded towel and two headbands.

Here's how Levi and Gimpy looked this time last year, when they tried on their new coats for the first time:

And here's the best shot I got of the two of them last week, after they'd figured out that coats are highly grabbable:

Here is Ollie in his coat of many colors, with Lucy, who resembled a fat burrito:

You know I'll complain endlessly about the Louisiana heat this summer, but right now I'm thankful we live this far south.