April Already?

This year is whizzing by! Allergy season has arrived and has brought with it a couple of intense bouts of vertigo, during which I could do nothing but lie flat on the bed and watch my dresser and chest of drawers pass by again and again. Fortunately, antihistamines and this exercise seem to have stopped the spinning for now.

The new thyroid medicine has kicked in, and I'm feeling much better than I did a couple of months ago. The sunshine and warmer temperatures helped, too, of course. My spirits would probably be even higher if my summer clothes still fit. Thank goodness for the lightweight, stretchy knits we call "activewear." What a misnomer that is!

The weather this week has been beautiful, warm enough that the little anole lizards are out and about, which makes Gimpy just about the happiest dog on the planet. Every time he steps out the door, he closely inspects the drain pipes, the patio furniture, the spaces between slats in the privacy fence--all the places where lizards hide. He almost never catches one (thank goodness!), but it isn't for lack of trying.

Kim hosted a small dinner party last weekend, and my Goldendoodle boys seemed to think they were the guests of honor. Levi placed his ball in front of each person in turn, allowing everyone a chance to throw it for him, eventually narrowing the players down to one or two people who could throw the farthest. Gimpy played ball, too, but his main objective for the evening seemed to be making sure he left no chin unlicked.

One of Kim's guests had a charming accent (Mississippi, I think). When he spoke of "one feller who had a 'dee-limmer,'" I chuckled to myself at the quaint pronunciation and listened more closely, trying to determine what the fellow's dilemma was. Turns out Kim's friend was talking about clearing trees off some property. What the guy actually had was a delimber, a machine that removes the limbs from cut-down trees. My bad. Who knew there was such a thing?

Speaking of words, the Life Writing class I've enjoyed so much has been canceled, along with all the other LSU-sponsored classes in this parish. Our last class was Monday. It seems that enrollment was so low that the classes weren't cost-effective for LSU. That disappoints me, though I guess it shouldn't be a surprise that continuing education and artistic or intellectual pursuits aren't high on the bucket lists of many people in this small-town community. What delights me is that the members of our Life Writing class have decided to continue meeting and writing together on our own. We've found a meeting place and will start next week. Yay, us!

I'm looking forward to Sunday, when I'll get to spend time with kids, grandkids and great-grandkids all at one time. Those get-togethers are precious to me, and I hope you get to share the holiday with those you love most, too. Happy Easter, y'all!

MLK Day

I've had a profound interest in the Civil Rights movement since the 1960s, and it's an ever-present thorn in my side that I've never found the courage to be an activist. This morning I commented to Kelli, my younger daughter, that I'd slept extra late today when I could have been out marching in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

"Well," she replied, "did you at least have a dream?"

Yeah, I did. But not an important one. The big dreams come when I'm wide awake. Now all I need is a backbone.

"A long December and there's reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last..." *

May the coming year bring newfound peace to our hearts, our homes, our small towns and big cities, our nations and our planet. Best wishes to all of you in 2015.

Photo shot from my backyard in late afternoon sun - 12/31/2014.

Don't you love it when Mother Nature paints with her palette of pastels?

* From the lyrics of "A Long December" by Counting Crows.

Get Me Through December

The picture below shows the small-town hospital that is nearest to all my Louisiana family members. I took this shot last year, passing by, because I thought the tree at the center of the photo looked pretty. A few days ago my younger daughter suggested that we rent a school bus, pile the whole family into it, and park it right outside this hospital for as long as necessary.

The first in a recent spate of hospital visits came a week before Christmas when my older daughter had carpal tunnel release surgery and trigger thumb surgery. She's done a good job of getting along with one functional hand and is recovering nicely.

An hour after we brought her home, my grandson checked in at the emergency room with severe abdominal pain, where tests were administered that led to an emergency appendectomy. According to doctors, the surgery itself was routine, but my grandson turned out to be the one person in five thousand whose body lacks the enzyme that rapidly metabolizes the drug used to paralyze the patient during intubation. He was left paralyzed and unable to breathe on his own for hours after the surgery. A respirator kept him alive until the drug eventually wore off; only then did the panic endured by his family members subside. He, too, is recovering nicely and was well enough three days post-surgery to get out of bed and cook a gumbo for a family get-together.

When I texted my sister in East Texas to let her know about those two hospitalizations, she told me that her husband had been in the hospital for several days with dangerously high blood pressure and severely swollen legs. I know he made it home in time for Christmas, and, not having heard otherwise, I'm assuming he's doing better now.

On the day after the carpal tunnel surgery and appendectomy, both of my great-grandbabies had illnesses requiring doctor visits. Both kids were much better a day later.

This past Friday my daughters got word that their father was having surgery to relieve pressure on his brain after suffering a blow to the head when he fell off a horse. On Saturday they made the 300-mile round-trip to visit him in the ICU. According to the latest report, he is doing well and expects to go home in a couple of days.

My daughters called while they were traveling back from that trip, and I told them I was glad they were on their way home. I felt fine but was concerned that my blood pressure readings were higher than they'd ever been--some of them in the dark-red range on this chart, indicating that I needed emergency care. I felt well enough that I hadn't wanted to go to the emergency room, and I thought I could bring those readings down by doubling the usual dosage of my blood pressure medications. By the time the girls got home, the readings were lower, though not yet in the normal range. After a lengthy discussion, I promised I would go to the ER if the numbers climbed high again, which they did later that night. Back to the hospital we went. The ER doc assured us that I wasn't in danger since I had no symptoms except a very slight headache. He prescribed double doses of my current medications (just as I had done on my own) and a consultation with my regular doctor after the holidays. I left there feeling slightly silly but reassured. My BP numbers today are right where they should be.

Early this morning my younger daughter was back at the same facility undergoing a previously scheduled colonoscopy. She's home now, she's fine, and she's getting some much-needed rest, the last of us to reach that precious period of relaxation.

Our Christmas celebration together was wonderful, but we won't remember this year's holidays for the lights and laughter, the gifts and good food. I hope we'll be able to laugh when we look back on this season as the one that couldn't be over soon enough.

And, just as I typed that last sentence, one of the dogs threw up. It was Levi, so we'll keep an eye on him.

Come on 2015!

**********

The song is "Get Me Through December" by Alison Krauss.
Thanks to Tiffany Woolridge for posting this video on YouTube.
Click here to read the lyrics.

Lullaby, Peace on Earth

It's been sixty-six years since my first-grade classmates and I gathered with children from other classrooms to sit around a huge, brightly decorated Christmas tree in the school hall and sing Christmas carols. The memory is as strong as ever. If I close my eyes and listen to children's voices singing one of the first carols I ever learned, I can almost recapture the magic I felt as a six-year-old back in Missouri.

I hope you have a store of happy memories from your own past Christmases, that each year you take them out and hold them lovingly, the same way you revere the fragile tree ornaments that have been in your family for years. Even more, I hope this Christmas will bring you the opportunity to create some new magical moments with the people you love.

"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night."

_____________________

The song is Bethlehem Lullaby, performed by the AJ Choir.
Thanks to klingen 75 for posting the video on YouTube.

A Gift of Christmas Spirit

Once again, just like last year and most years before that, I've made it this far into December without having made a dent in my Christmas shopping. Yesterday I went to the local outlet mall to see what I could find, but in just a couple of hours my head was spinning in confusion about what to get for whom, and my knees were screaming, "Give us a break, lady!"

Today I tried a different approach. I got up early and went straight to the computer, telling myself there's still time to shop online if I do it right away. By early afternoon I had ordered exactly one thing: a pair of pants for myself. I hadn't found a single gift item that seemed right for anyone on my short Christmas list.

By mid-afternoon I was feeling discouraged, as I always do when time is short and I want so much to buy meaningful gifts for the people I love. So I gave up and took a nap. Then I read for a while. After that, I fed the dogs, then warmed up leftovers for my own supper and ate it while I watched the local and national news.

About that time it occurred to me that tonight's the night the garbage can has to be rolled out to the curb, but there I was--still in my bathrobe. I hadn't dressed all day and wasn't inclined to bother with it when there were only a few hours left until bedtime. Instead, I watched this week's results show on The Voice and waited for it to get fully dark outside.

Finally, I gathered up the trash, threw my very long, dark winter coat over my robe, peeked through the window to make sure no neighbors were outside, then lugged the trash bags to the garbage can. I'd just started rolling the can down the hilly driveway when I began to hear loud music and short blasts of sirens and horns. I stopped to look for the source of the sounds and was surprised to see a fire engine rounding a nearby corner. The big red truck was all decked out for Christmas. Recorded carols blasted out of loudspeakers as it passed slowly along the road in front of my house, its multitude of lights flashing in celebration of the season.

I, who had sneaked outside under cover of darkness, was caught right there,  alone on the hill, in streams of colored lights. And you know what? All of a sudden it no longer mattered that they could see me dressed in my oversized coat and incongruous summer sandals or see my hair that hadn't had a brush run through it in hours. What did matter was to let them know that I could see them, to let them know they had touched me.

Thank God for our firefighters. I'm sure they've seen much scarier sights than the apparition of an unkempt old woman emerging from the darkness, waving her arms wildly, traces of sentimentality glimmering in the corners of her eyes, and a smile on her lips almost as bright as their emergency lights.

 Fire Department - Gonzales, Louisiana

Photo dated December 18, 2006

Corn on the Cob and Strings of Ash

It's America's 238th birthday and I feel excited! Well, maybe not excited enough to justify the exclamation point at the end of the previous sentence, but a pleasant, anticipatory sensation nonetheless. Don't ask me why. July 4th used to excite me because it meant a holiday from work, but now that I'm retired, every day is a holiday, so that's not the reason.

We aren't celebrating with a festive cookout, though tonight I will cook oven-barbecued sausage links and serve them with store-bought potato salad, slices of the single home-grown tomato remaining from those my younger daughter brought us from her garden, and maybe we'll finally eat that corn on the cob that's been in the door of the freezer for god knows how long. That all sounds holiday appropriate, doesn't it?

What I'm feeling might just be residual excitement from childhood. The 4th of July felt like a really big deal in the '40s and early '50s, though the truth is our family celebrations weren't elaborate even then. We usually had a watermelon, which made the day special, and we must have had some kind of picnic food, or else why would I think the occasion calls for potato salad and corn on the cob?

I'm not excited about fireworks. Fireworks displays are nice to see, but my enthusiasm for them has diminished in inverse proportion to the number of dogs I've had who've been frightened by them. When I was a kid, we lived in town. We couldn't have Roman candles or any other kind of "bombs bursting in air." We did have small firecrackers that the grownups would light. Sometimes there'd be a few cherry bombs we could throw hard against the sidewalk, and we could count on having sparklers year after year. I was always afraid of sparklers. (Whose brilliant idea was it to put fire on conductive metal wires and hand them out to children?) I gritted my teeth and waved them around anyway, because my little sister wasn't afraid and I needed to be as brave as she was.

My favorite firework back then (if one can call it a firework) was made of some type of gray-colored material that had been compressed into the shape of a sitting dog no taller than the diameter of a half-dollar coin. A lighted match held briefly to the dog's rear end would cause a long, continuous string of black ash to shoot out of its butt, a sight that cracked me up no matter how many times I saw it. Now that I live with four real canines, dog poop doesn't seem so funny anymore. Although dogs do look funny when they do it.

Whatever. I can't really explain the source of my mild excitement, but it's Independence Day in the US of A, and maybe that's reason enough.

Chocolate Choices

While washing the dogs' dishes at the kitchen sink yesterday, I noticed a box of candy canes I'd stashed on a window shelf while Kim and I were making Christmas candies last week. I looked at them longingly, then tossed them in the trash. They aren't even close to being my favorite candy, but I knew I might break down and eat some if I didn't get rid of them.

It occurred to me this morning that giving up sugar and other carbs may not be a resolution, but it's clearly a re-solution--something that has solved a problem once and now must solve it all over again. I totally blew it over the past couple of months. I cheated big time at a Halloween party, overindulged at Thanksgiving, and didn't pay close attention to staying on program in between. Then came the Christmas holidays. We made cookies and candy, and Kim made a cannoli-filling dip (OH-EM-GEE!), and if you'd seen me stuffing all those sweets into my mouth, you'd have thought I was in training for some nationally recognized eatathon.

Anyway, candy is what I wanted to write about today, but the two paragraphs above are not what I intended to write about candy; you may disregard them if it's not too late.

 

What I wanted to discuss is store-bought candy, specifically, the kind of assorted chocolates that come in a box with a neatly labeled flavor diagram in the lid. A neighbor brought us a box of those this year, and they started me thinking.

When I was a kid and my mother worked at the stock exchange, the wealthy old men who visited her office daily to watch their investments were a rich source of boxed chocolates every Christmas. We're talking big boxes, most of them with more than one layer. Candy boxes didn't come with diagrams in those days, which is why Forrest Gump's mother was able to say, truthfully, "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."

That uncertainty was a problem at our house. I gagged at the thought of accidentally biting into a jelly-filled chocolate, and I don't know if the jelly or something else was my little sister's least favorite, but she and I both had our dislikes and preferences. We learned early on that we could pick a chocolate out of the box, plunge a small thumb far enough into the bottom of it to expose the filling, and, if we'd been careful, nobody could tell from the top that it had been disturbed. There would come a time in the life of each box when the only chocolates left in it were the broken-open rejects that even the adults didn't like.

I'm pretty sure I continued the chocolate-poking practice into adulthood, probably passing the technique along to my children, but it's been years and years since I've done that disgusting thing. Probably, I'd say, about as many years as it's been since candy companies started putting diagrams in the lids.

So, here's what I want to know from those of you old enough to remember when assorted chocolates didn't come with labels: Did you gratefully accept whatever flavor life imposed on you, or did you find a way to work around that?

**********

In keeping with tradition, I wanted the first Saturday Song Selection of the new year to reflect the theme of the post, so I started looking for songs about sugar or candy. The best one I found, musically speaking, is good enough that it just this minute became the first song I've downloaded in the new year. If you like your music (and maybe your chocolate) on the dark side, you can click here to listen to The Grateful Dead sing "Candyman." That one doesn't fit the mood of the post, though, so I'll go with one that's super energetic, the way a good sugar high ought to be: 

The song is "Sugar Sugar" by the Archies.

Thanks to Todd S for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.

Reset

Aaaaand...the clock has started ticking down a brand new year. Whoopee!

I've written here before that the fallacious do-over concept makes New Year's Day my favorite holiday. This year will be better, I declare every year, and usually I feel that way the whole day long on January 1st.

This year I didn't. I had the familiar, warm, fuzzy sense of anticipation on New Year's Eve, but I woke up the next morning feeling distinctly...well...pissy. The weather was cold, and the sky was dull gray and drizzly (pissy, too) just like it's been for most of the last week. I wanted sunshine and sparkly blue skies with fluffy, optimistic clouds scooting across them. I wanted bluebirds singing and got only the raucous cawing of a couple of old crows.

My younger daughter and her husband had invited us over for a traditional New Year's Day meal, so we went, even though I didn't feel fit for company and was afraid I'd cast a pall over the whole event. Instead, the great company lifted my bad mood higher and higher as the day went on. The good food didn't hurt anything, either (the diet didn't start again until today).

There wasn't a big crowd like there was at Christmas, just four adults for the meal, plus two granddaughters and a great-grandson, Owen, who came later. When my daughter greeted Owen with a hug and asked him how he was doing, he announced somberly, "Bob died." Bob (named for Bob the Builder) is an iPad. The battery ran down.

At three-and-a-half, Owen can't read, but he's proficient with the iPad, and his scheming skills are highly developed for his age. His mother told us he brought the iPad to her the other night, pointed at the screen, and said, "See, Mama, it says right here it's okay to mix the Play-Doh colors." Heh-heh. Good try, little buddy.

He's beginning to like jokes, especially practical jokes, but he can't quite pull them off. The newest one he's learned is supposed to begin with the promise of a kiss on the cheek, but Owen botches it every time by saying, "Here, I'm gonna kiss you on your raspberry." Even though we know what's coming, the joke ends the way it's supposed to, with a big laugh that a small boy finds very gratifying.

Anyway, as I said, the bad mood lifted. Hope and optimism finally arrived this morning, albeit exhausted from the trip and missing some luggage. Tired as they are, they'll help me meet goals (not resolutions!) and challenges in 2014.

Right off the bat, the no-sugar lifestyle is back in effect (Kim threw out cookies this morning--be still my heart!), and after I finish writing this, I'll begin working my way through Mark Kistler's You Can Draw in 30 Days book. I know from experience that the sugar ban will help with everything, and I think the workbook will build some skills I'll need when I take another painting class in February.

Those two things are just the beginning. There's a long list of other projects I intend to tackle this year (too many to itemize here) and an equally long list of self-improvement goals (including becoming quicker to respond to emails and slower to anger when I see misleading Tea Party posts on Facebook). Looking around this room now, I see that better housekeeping should be on one of the lists, but...meh.

One can only do so much.

Happy New Year!

"My dear acquaintance, it's so good to know you
For strength of your hand
That is loving and giving,
And a happy new year
With love overflowing
With joy in our hearts for the blessed new year!" *

Wishing all of you a wonderful 2014!




The song is "My Dear Acquaintance" by Regina Spektor.
Thanks to George T for posting the video on YouTube.
Click here to read the lyrics.

Unbridled Silliness

Photo by Michelle G.

Her name is Olivia. She's two years old and has eyelashes for days. For Christmas she got a microphone, complete with a red-and-white plastic stand. Someone turned up the volume for her, and she happily entertained us, swaying and grinning as she sang the old standards: "The ABC Song," "Old MacDonald Had a Farm," and a snippet or two of "The Little Drummer Boy." As the day wore on she needed a nap, but she was too happy and too busy. She'd crawl up on someone's lap for a moment, snuggle her head into a shoulder, then hop off and start to play again. Her favorite toy (her version of a security blanket) is "Monkey B," a hemmed square of brown plush fabric attached at its center to a brown plush monkey head. At one point she climbed up on the sofa next to me, placed Monkey B carefully on top of my head, called me "Grammyhead," and cackled with joy. Olivia has a big laugh for such a little girl. I loved it. I love her.

Photo by Kalyn H.

His name is Owen. He's three and-a-half years old with blond hair, blue eyes and a huge imagination. He took Olivia's mic stand apart, assembled two pieces of it into an L-shape and called it a gun. (It doesn't matter if we don't give toy guns to children; boys can and will make pretend weapons out of anything.) He quickly shot a couple of us dead, then, possibly remembering previous discussions, reconsidered and announced, "No, this gun doesn't make people dead; it only makes them sleep." His mother warned him to be careful with the tubular-plastic assemblage he was waving around, so he looked each of us directly in the eye as he aimed it at us and said sweetly, "It only shoots marshmallows." Then he pulled the imaginary trigger and made a soft "pow" noise. We all fell over anyway, of course, which delighted him enough to up the ante: "Now they're fire marshmallows!" he shouted. Like Olivia, Owen was happy but tired--and wired. He laughed and laughed, talked a blue streak, changed the mic stand/gun into a one-segment "freeze gun" and froze his Nana, my daughter, into a stiff human replica of all sorts of things, one after the other. He aimed it at me and declared me to be a "chicken eyeball," getting such a kick out of his own good joke that he didn't even notice I had no idea how to portray such a thing. I loved it. I love him.

I am quite willing to be a Grammyhead, a chicken eyeball, or anything else it takes to make those little ones laugh out loud. So were the rest of the adults at our Christmas gathering. I loved it. I love them all.

Visits with Santa

Every new Christmas evokes memories of all the ones we've celebrated before. Over the past week I've dug out some kids-with-Santa photos, so today, for the sake of nostalgia, I'd like to invite you to walk back through time with me. 

Unless you were alive and old enough to experience 1971, 

you'd never dream that the daughters of that year's mini-skirted moms

begged for ankle-length dresses like these that my beautiful girls

 wore when they visited Santa in Miami, Florida.

This earlier photo of Kim on Santa's knee was taken in Orange, Texas.

This dress was short, a bright red plaid that she wore with red tights.

By the length of Kim's hair and the fact that there's no matching

picture of Kelli, I'm guessing this was December of 1964. Kelli would've

been only nine months old then. If she'd been even a year older, I'm sure

I'd have propped her on Santa's lap one way or another.

Stepping back still further in time, here's my sweet sister, Judy, with Santa.

(I must note here that this Springfield, Missouri

Santa looked much more realistic than the Texas and Florida Santas

of my daughters' days. Except for his deep tan. Could that have been

windburn, do you think, from all those long sleigh rides?)

This must have been no later than 1950, because the next picture

shows me with the same Santa, and by the Christmas of 1951

I no longer believed in him. 

Of course, it could have been 1951, and I could have agreed to sit on Santa's lap

only to help keep the secret safe for Judy. I feel certain Mother would have asked me to do something like that, and it might explain the goofy expression on my face.

Or, if it was 1950, as I first guessed, maybe my eyes were lifted up because

I was concentrating on remembering every single thing on my Christmas list. 

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Whatever.

Actually, now that I think about it, that expression seems kind of familiar.

I believe I've seen it on someone else's face. Fairly recently, I'm pretty sure.

Hm. Let me think...

...

...

...

Still thinking...

...

...

...

Googling images...

...

...

...

Oh, here it is! I remember now.

Merry Christmas, y'all!

May the Grinch stay away from 

your house all season long.

I'm Always Excited About Christmas Once It Gets Here

It's been twelve days since my last post -- twelve days of mental (and some physical) preoccupation with Christmas shopping. Every year I swear I will never again wait so late to get it all done, and every year I end up right here at the last minute with the shopping unfinished and no idea what to buy or where to find it.

There's no excuse for this. There are reasons, but reasons and excuses are two different things.

The number-one problem is that I lack confidence in my gift ideas and can shoot them down faster than I can come up with them. My gift list isn't a long one, but the people on it are important in my life. Selecting presents for people I hold in such high esteem involves too many days of head scratching and cyber browsing on the front end of the process, narrowing the time allotted for boots on the ground (or rubber-soled shoes, to be more precise) at the mall, reducing the number of shipping days available for online purchases.

Equally troublesome is deciding what goodies to take to the Christmas festivities. I don't have a specialty. Anything I make will be just one more option on a menu that has all the taste bases covered already, so I've been scouring websites and cookbooks for that one recipe that will be unique and will appeal to the most people. Never mind the great-grandchild with the nut allergy; he can eat something else if he has to. Never mind the half dozen folks who don't normally eat carbs; they'll (we'll) gladly suspend that abstinence on an important holiday. I'm looking for a recipe that is delicious and also fairly easy--just in case it turns out to be so good that it gets elevated to specialty status.

Anyway, here I sit, four days before Christmas, ready for it in spirit but not completely ready in any tangible way. This is the point where--every year--I become a little bit frantic and have to fight the urge to crawl into bed, cover my head, and wait till the whole thing passes.

**********

About those carbs I mentioned earlier: I cut them out of my diet a little over three years ago and saw almost immediate health benefits. I hadn't felt so good in years. Somehow, this past summer, I started getting careless, eating a couple of cookies here, a few crackers there, and cake on special occasions. It seemed harmless, but it led to a recent spate of "oh-what-the-hell" indulgences that I'm paying for physically--especially in the stiffness of my joints. I'm experiencing leg pains reminiscent of those that put me on a walker for a while a few years ago, and still I'm eating malted milk balls, spicy pumpkin pecan ice cream, and sweet-potato chips, promising myself I'll be "good" again after the first of the year.

When I get up after sitting for a while, my knees are too stiff to stand up straight, so I can't walk until I've stretched them out for a minute. I used to not know that sugar was responsible for all that inflammation in my body. Now I do know, but I'm planning to poison myself for a week or so longer before I begin to correct the situation.

How stupid is that?

**********

In my last post I wrote about getting a new dryer. It was delivered and set up sixteen days ago, and is doing a fine job so far. If I could change anything about it, I'd like for the signal at the end of the drying cycle to be louder, and I'd like for the store's computer system to be upgraded.

Almost every day, sometimes twice a day, I get an automated call from Sears, apologizing for the fact that my dryer delivery has been delayed and requesting that I call a certain phone number to reschedule. I've called that number. Three times. Each time I had to hold for several minutes to make contact with a (barely English-speaking) human, who asked an endless list of scripted questions and then requested that I hold again "for about four minutes" so they could "update the system." I can't imagine why they can't update the system without me, so I've chosen to hang up instead of holding for the second time. Maybe that's why my calls haven't done any good yet.

I've also tried to notify them online that the dryer is here. The choices on the customer service menu lead me to a place where I can reschedule delivery, but not to a place where I can report that I already have it.

Shaking my head.

**********

Also shaking my head about the weather. As I write this, It's 77° F. outside with high humidity and brisk winds, and it's supposed to get quite stormy before the day is over. I think I'll stop writing, change into shorts and a T-shirt, and treat my dog boys to a short game of fetch before the rain sets in.

Then I'll get back to thinking about Christmas some more.

Scary Is in the Eye of the Beholder

The waning moon was large enough to cast a faint light across the sky, but everything at ground level was steeped in shadow. The nether regions of my backyard were dark. Very dark.

It was past bedtime. Twenty minutes had elapsed since I'd let the dogs outside for the last time of the day. I stepped out onto the patio and called them, softly, so I wouldn't wake the neighbors. They didn't come. I called again. And whistled. Still nothing, except, in the distance, the muffled clanging of something bumping against the wire fence.

I went inside to get a flashlight, shined it from one corner of the yard to another until its beam fell on Gimpy and Levi. They were standing on their hind legs, stretching upward against the fence, their front paws batting at something I couldn't make out in the dim light. I could see that something's eyes, though. 

If I'd go closer, I thought, I could grab Levi by his collar. I knew that if I could do that,  Gimpy would follow Levi back to the house. In my ankle-length, navy-blue bathrobe, the one with the hood, the one that looks black in the dark, I traipsed through the damp grass toward the back fence. The dogs started barking. I wondered what the neighbors would think if the noise woke them and they looked out to see a dark-hooded form, holding a torch, moving through the pre-Halloween shadows.

Once I got close enough, I could see that the object of the dogs' interest was a possum (an opossum, if you want to get technical about it, but here in Louisiana we don't do technical) that was huddled on the fence rail, its prehensile tail just out of their reach. The possum wasn't moving, and the dogs wouldn't leave it. To lean over far enough to reach Levi's collar, I'd have had to turn my back on a possum that would be no more than two feet away from my head and shoulders. No way did I want to put myself in that position.

I turned around and slogged back to the house to get Levi's leash. And the camera. If I was going to risk letting a possum jump on my back, I was at least going to get blog photos out of the deal. 

Once more I trudged toward the back fence, a witchlike figure with a digital camera strapped around my neck as if I'd been elected public relations coordinator by a majority vote of the coven. I raised the flash attachment, pointed the camera at a patch of darkness in the general area of the dogs and the possum and hoped for the best. After half a dozen shots, the flash quit working (it's working fine today), but I got some pictures of the creepy thing.

Gimpy in the red collar, Levi in the black. 

Stealthy night visitor.

I got the leash on Levi and dragged him away, Gimpy followed as predicted, and we all went to bed and slept soundly. This happened several nights ago. I haven't seen any sign of the possum since. I know it's out there, though, probably nesting somewhere with its mate, the two of them raising a pouchful of ugly possum babies, teaching them to lurk in the darkness and look like they're planning to pounce. 

Are we safe in our own backyards? I think not.

Happy Halloween!

Pilfered Posies

May Day is supposed to be a celebration of spring, but to me it represents the anniversary of an annual childhood crime spree and brings back traces of the anxieties associated with it.

I loved the part of May Day that took place at school. I loved dancing around the schoolyard flagpole with my classmates as each of us held on to one of the colored crepe-paper streamers that teachers had attached to the pole. I loved making May baskets, cutting strips of (usually green) construction paper with our little blunt-ended scissors, then weaving and pasting them together into basket shapes. The at-school part of May Day was always fun.

The problem started when the bell rang and it was time to go home. I needed flowers to put in the May basket before I could give it to my mother. We had flowers at home in my grandmother's garden, but those wouldn't do. For one thing, Mother might have recognized Mammaw's flowers. For another, the whole point of the gesture was to arrive home with a basket of flowers and surprise her.

So I stole the flowers.

Every May Day from first grade through fourth I'd leave school and walk home by whichever route offered up the easiest pickings. As I walked along the sidewalk I'd try to appear nonchalant (though I probably didn't know that word then), but my eyes were roving stealthily, searching for showy irises, splashy roses -- any blossom that was large and bright. (Here's a tip: if you're stealing flowers, steal big ones. You can fill your basket faster with fewer chances of getting caught.) When I spotted one, I'd check to make sure no one was watching, then I'd make a mad dash into the yard, break off the stem, and run like crazy until I was at least two houses away. Then I'd do it all again, several times more, until my fragile paper basket was full. My crime scene was about six blocks long. By the time I got home, my nerves were shot and I couldn't wait to hand off the basket of evidence to my mother, who never once asked where I got the flowers.

They say confession is good for the soul. This time next year, if I remember, I'll let you know if writing this has diminished my guilt. And if I don't remember, then I guess you can assume it worked.

We'll Take a Cup o' Kindness Yet . . .

In the Afterglow

It was Two Thousand Twelve, twenty-fifth of December,
A day that it fills me with joy to remember.

Our families came to spend Christmas together

In spite of some terrible, threatening weather.

The skies, they were black, and the rains were torrential,

Yet Christmas lost none of its magic potential.

The weather forecasts for Christmas Day were dire at best, with violent storms, possibly including hail and tornados, predicted for precisely the time of our own Christmas gathering at my daughter Kelli's home. I don't like to leave my dogs at home alone in bad weather, and I don't like to drive in it, but there was no way I was going to miss a chance to be with that particular group of people on that special day. 

I decided to leave early and see if I could get there ahead of the storm. I just made it. The skies opened up and dumped rivers of rain, then, oddly but quite nicely, fizzled to a drizzle as each new carload of family members arrived.

The young and the older, arriving in shifts,

Brought smiles and good wishes and armloads of gifts,
And inside the house, with its lights all aglow,
The merriment rose with each paper and bow
Tossed aside by a toddler, a sweet girl or boy,
Whose eyes shone more brightly with each unwrapped toy.

The youngest of the grandchildren is twenty now, so the excitement torch has been passed to the great-grandchildren, Owen and Olivia. Olivia was more interested in the bows than in the presents, but Owen, at two and three-quarters now, enjoyed the whole shebang. He played Santa's helper, happily delivering gifts as directed by his Popeé, Troy. Among Owen's own gifts was a kid-sized tool bench. He, having a small amount of nasal congestion, promptly dubbed it "the tool bitch," and you can imagine how often we tried to work that phrase into the conversation over the course of the afternoon.

On Dasher, on Dancer, on Donder and Blitzen--

Just smell the aromas that come from the kitchen!

There's shrimp fettuccine and crisp crawfish pies,

And pot roast and meatballs and audible sighs

At the display of cookies and candies galore.

Taste one, then another, then sample some more.

There was so much good food that I didn't even get around to tasting all of it. God knows I tried. Last night, for the first time in over two years, I had to unzip my pants after I got home, just to find enough comfort and breathing room to last until bedtime.

The kids were the focus till late in the day
When we knew it was time for the grown-ups to play.
A Christmas Day game is traditional now,
So we pondered the options that time would allow,
And decided charades would be given a go--
There's an app for that now, in case you didn't know.

According to an earlier post, the Christmas games tradition began about 2004, with the men and women on opposite teams playing Battle of the Sexes. Charades, though an old game by almost every standard, was new for us.

This year we chose teams by size instead of by sex, playing tall against small, and the teams turned out to be fairly evenly matched. The best-acting Oscars would have gone to Jeremy on the tall team and Kandis on the smalls. Both of them seemed to have remarkable abilities to zero in on the most important aspects of their allotted words or phrases and act out clues that conveyed them almost instantly. The words weren't easy, either: claustrophobia and turbulence, for example.

It's often a leap of faith for people to step outside their vulnerable skins and throw themselves into the spirit of a silly game. It's an exercise in trust and, in the best cases, a heartwarming demonstration of love and acceptance--all played out amidst riotous laughter.

The echos of laughter, the joy that still lingers
From down by my toes to the tips of my fingers,
Remind me that love is where everything starts--
The thoughts in our minds, the peace in our hearts--
And if we let love guide the actions we take,
The words that we say, the decisions we make,
Though storms may rain on us and strong winds may blow,
Love will see us through safely, wherever we go.

Wherever you're going for Christmas . . .

. . . may you and your loved ones be laughing all the way!

Merry Christmas!

from Linda, Levi and Gimpy

Christmas on the Cheap

Cutting back on expenses has become a way of life this year. Almost everybody's doing it, and knowing that has made it seem like less of a sacrifice. Sometimes, unfortunately,  the need for a balanced budget trumps the desire to shop where I can feel morally superior, so I find myself at Walmart. One day last week a brief stop there brightened my day.

The man waiting patiently in the next express lane was hard to miss: He was wearing a Santa hat. He was also wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt with khaki pants held up by wide brown suspenders. His white hair sat comfortably on his collar, and his full white beard glistened as if it had never once encountered spaghetti sauce.

It was amusing to see Santa in his everyday clothes, and a quick look into his grocery cart made my smile grow even wider. The only item in there was a cellophane-wrapped Santa Claus suit.

Like I said, everybody's cutting back.

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.