Separation anxiety (mine)

I left work a little bit late this afternoon, made a quick stop at the post office, then found myself unable to make a necessary left turn in the rush-hour traffic. After throwing in the towel, I turned right instead, intending to go to the second traffic light, where I could turn left with a green arrow and double back to the route I wanted to take.

It wasn't so easy. Roadwork blocked off the route I knew, and I was forced to zigzag my way through an unfamiliar neighborhood until I found a through street.

Running late wouldn't have been such a big deal except that I knew Butch and Kadi would be concerned. They like their routine, and they seem to have a pretty good handle on what time of day certain things are supposed to happen. Also, they'd been alone all day. Kim and her pooches are normally at my house for part of the day, but today they didn't come over. Yep, I thought, Butch and Kadi will be waiting anxiously.

I drove under the carport about twenty minutes later than usual, parked the car, locked it with the keyless-entry fob that causes a short honk, and noticed as I unlocked the house (noisily) that I didn't hear my dogs. In fact, it was so quiet I felt an immediate pang of concern.

I flipped a light switch, dropped my purse on the coffee table, and rushed toward the den where I'd left the dogs at lunchtime. That's when I saw Butch on the futon. He raised his head and pointed his nose in my direction. Kadi, on the dog bed nearby, lifted her head then, too, and blinked at me like a deer caught in the headlights.

I woke them up.

Bless their little hearts. They were obviously so anxious about my tardiness that they forced themselves to go to sleep to keep from worrying, right?

Monday's washday -- but that's not cast in stone

My grandmother used to clean house according to a schedule. Monday was washday, on Tuesday she did the ironing, and so forth. I think I remember reading or hearing somewhere that most women followed a similar schedule back in the "olden days," but I don't remember ever knowing how that schedule got started. Who decided Monday would be washday, and how did that person get the rest of the women to go along with it?

I don't have a cleaning schedule. I clean when the spirit moves me, which may or may not be when it needs to be done, or when I think someone who'd care might be coming to my house.

Did your mother or grandmother clean according to a schedule? Do you? Does it make it easier? I've heard there are women who actually enjoy cleaning house. I don't even aspire to enjoyment; I'd just like to know something that would make me hate it less.

Intellectually, I think a schedule would be helpful. I've read the FlyLady website more times than I can count, and all of it sounds wonderfully efficient. I read it until I begin to think about the big results I could achieve by making a number of little changes in my daily routine. Usually that's enough to give me a warm glow of possibility and make me tell myself I'll start first thing tomorrow. So far that glow has never survived the REM sleep.

And, speaking of sleep, I do have a schedule for that, at least during the work week. Good night.

Ambition?

The Country Music Awards ceremony is on TV as I sit here and look at this blank Blogger screen, and right now Reba McEntyre
is singing with Big and Rich. I don't even care what they're singing; I'm just delighted that the sight of Reba reminds me of something I can write about tonight.

In the early '90s, when I worked in human resources, a young man came to my office for a job interview. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of Reba McEntyre. To break the ice, I asked, "So, are you a big Reba fan?"

"Well," he answered, "I'm trying to be."

I ended up hiring him. At least he had some kind of a goal.

Keeping us safe

The six o'clock news this evening included one small segment about Veterans' Day, not as much coverage as our veterans and enlisted men and women deserve, perhaps, but enough to start me thinking about them.

While I watched that news program, I sat on the sofa in my comfy living room. The lamplight in the room gave it a pleasant glow. There was a good book on the end table, close enough to read a few pages during commercials so I wouldn't have to be bored for even two minutes. I'd just finished eating a delicious dinner, leftovers from the Lebanese-restaurant lunch my daughter had brought with her when she visited earlier today. Butch lay sleeping at the other end of the sofa, Kadi on the floor by my feet. They'd spent time outside this afternoon, sunning themselves in the grass in the fenced-in patch of earth that's ours. I felt safe at that moment, and in that safety, I felt gratitude.

Thank you, veterans, for keeping us safe in our homes.



This World War II photo was sent home to my grandparents by their son, my Uncle Neale (standing second from left in front of the Little Helper.)

Exercise equipment

There was a period of time in the late '70s when I walked four miles a day. We lived in a neighborhood that had sidewalks, and a good friend who lived across the street walked with me. With the exception of those long walks -- and quite a few nights of dancing -- I can't honestly think of any physical exercise I've ever really enjoyed.

In recent years I've exercised rarely, even though I understand how important it is. My knees are arthritic. If I sit too long, they lock up. I know exercise would be good for them, but most types of exercise I've tried have caused my knees to flare up and hurt so much that I've quit. I've been looking for something I could do that wouldn't put a lot of stress on my knees, and I think I may have found it:


The large box contains the Resistance Chair. Have you seen it on TV? (I won't advertise by linking to it, but Google it if you're interested.) I like the fact that the ads show older people using it. I also like the fact that I'll be able to do many (not all) of the exercises while sitting on my ample behind. In addition to the chair, I also ordered the Mini-Bike Exercise Cycle (smaller box in the photo) that goes along with it. I'm hoping that the strength-building and resistance exercises I'll do with this equipment will build up the necessary leg muscles to make my knees a little more stable, and that maybe that will alleviate the pain somewhat.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I must point out that I ordered this equipment more than two weeks ago. It arrived more than one week ago. I took the photo tonight, and you'll notice that the chair and the mini-bike thing are both still in their boxes. It seemed like such a good idea to order this stuff, but I haven't yet pulled the first staple out of the packaging.

Contrast that with three new packages that arrived today. I opened these three boxes as soon as I got home:


These books are exercise equipment, too. They'll exercise my imagination, and one or two of them might even exercise my brain. And they won't hurt my knees.

The measure of a man dog

Each of the sofas in my living room has three cushions, room for three people to sit comfortably or more than that if they're friendly. I sat on one end, reading quietly, and Kadi lay next to me, her head touching my thigh, and stretched across the second cushion onto the third. Butch decided he wanted to join us.

He stood on the floor at the far end of the sofa, sniffing Kadi's extended feet, then turned his head and shoulders to sniff the arm of the sofa. Then he did it again. Back and forth he went, sniffing Kadi and the sofa arm five or six times before I realized what he was doing: He was carefully measuring his target area.

Satisfied, he stepped to the center of the measured distance, bunched up his hindquarters, leaped up, landed, turned around, lay down, and rested his chin on the arm of the sofa, his feet a few inches away from Kadi's.

It's been a little over three years since Butch lost his eyesight. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but I'm still impressed when he demonstrates his problem-solving skills.

He's a mighty fine dog.

I hope Tom Armstrong got away

I’ve had my head buried in genealogical research today, not looking for anything specific, just randomly picking out any name that falls at the dead end of a branch of the family tree and trying to find a clue to help trace that line back a little farther. I chose this project for today because I’m trying to wean myself away from the political news that has kept me riveted to the television set for weeks on end.

Still, the recent election is very much on my mind, and the historical importance of it captured my attention again today when the cursor on my computer screen trailed across one particular name: John Jude.

John Jude was my great-great-great-great-great grandfather on my mother’s side. He was born about 1708 in Powhatan, Virginia, and later lived in nearby Cumberland County. John Jude was a slaveowner.

When a slave named Tom Armstrong ran away, John posted an advertisement in the Virginia Gazette newspaper in which he described Tom as having “a bad scald head” and being “pitted with the smallpox,” telling me Tom Armstrong’s life hadn’t been any picnic prior to his escape.

I learned about this when a Google search directed me to a photo on a University of Virginia website entitled "The Geography of Slavery." It’s a photo of the actual newspaper ad. The site is copyrighted, so I’ve resisted the temptation to capture the photo and post it here. If you’re interested in seeing it for yourself, click here, then go to the second item on the list and click on the date, October 13, 1768.

It’s been 240 years since John Jude placed that ad, but only a couple of years since I found it. I’ve wondered more than once about what happened to Tom Armstrong. Coming across John Jude’s name today, while part of my mind was still thinking about our first black president-elect, made me hope more than ever that Tom got away.

I’d like to think he lived a long and happy life, with a loving wife and many children. I’d also like to think there are some great-great-great-great-great grandchildren of Tom Armstrong alive today, somewhere far away from Cumberland County, and that they’re as proud of our country as I am at this moment.

Hurricane stew

When I was a teenager, my stepfather's second home was the boat club he visited almost every day after work. Boat club members liked good food and took turns cooking for the group on special occasions. The first time it was my parents' turn to cook, Daddy showed Mother how to cook Kentucky burgoo, a thick, delicious stew they cooked in a pot the size of a tall washtub. It was wonderful.

As we all grew older and I moved away, I always remembered the taste of that burgoo, with it's corn, lima beans, and shredded meat. I tried to replicate it, leaving out the okra that wasn't a favorite ingredient, and reducing the quantity of ingredients to a size my family could consume in a couple of days.

I must have cooked it a hundred times through the years, varying the ingredients slightly according to what I had on hand. Each time I made it, it was different from the time before, but the blend of meat and vegetable flavors always tasted like home.

On the last night my sister and her family were here because of Hurricane Ike, I made a big pot of the soup/stew. That batch turned out to be especially good, and my sister asked for the recipe. I explained that there was no recipe, but "I remember exactly what I put in it this time, and I'll write it down."

I had good intentions. Unfortunately, that was the beginning of the month when I couldn't string sentences together to write blog posts, and writing down that recipe seemed equally daunting. I had put in a handful of sugar. I knew what that handful looked like, but she wouldn't. I had sprinkled black pepper and basil generously across the surface of the soup, and I remembered what it looked like, but I didn't know how much I'd used.

After several weeks, it occurred to me that the only way I'd be able to produce an accurate recipe would be to make another big pot of it, measure the ingredients as I used them, and write it all down as I went along.

So that's what I did. And because it's already done, and because I can post it here and not have to think of anything else to write about tonight, that's what I'll do.

HURRICANE STEW

Non-stick cooking spray
1 pound beef stew meat
1 pound pork loin
3/4 pounds boneless, skinless chicken breasts
3/4 pounds boneless, skinless chicken thighs
6 to 8 cups water (this measurement is approximate – do NOT add water all at once, and less water will make the end result taste better than more water.)
6 medium potatoes (slightly bigger than fist-sized)
1 large sweet onion
2 cans whole kernel corn (with liquid)
1 can cream-style corn
1 can lima beans (with liquid) – (this is the small green limas, not butterbeans)
2 cans Veg-All (or equivalent) mixed vegetables (with liquid)
1 large (28-oz.) can crushed tomatoes
1 can Swanson chicken broth
1 jar Tostitos brand medium salsa
5 teaspoons sugar
2 to 3 teaspoons salt (I used 3, but start with 2 and add until it tastes right to you.
1½ teaspoons black pepper
2 teaspoons basil

Spray non-stick cooking spray inside bottom of large stew pot (mine is 8-quart and it’s just barely big enough), then add beef stew meat. Allow stew meat to brown slightly (stirring occasionally to keep from burning) while you chop the pork into 1" chunks. Add pork, stir, add more water if needed, continue to cook while you chop the chicken into 1" chunks. Add chicken and stir. Pour in enough water so that the level of the water is about 1" higher than the meat. Put a lid on the pot and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the chicken begins to pull apart with a fork. This will take a while. (You can add water as needed to keep all the liquid from cooking away, but the goal is to get a good, rich meat stock at a level equal to or slightly higher than the meat.)

When the chicken begins to shred, peel the onion and chop it coarsely (½ -inch pieces). Put all the onion pieces in a microwave-safe dish, and microwave on high for about 4 minutes, until the onion is tender. Add the cooked onion to the stew pot and stir. Peel the potatoes and chop them into 3/4" pieces. Add the potatoes to the stew pot and stir them in. Add all the vegetables (including liquid), tomatoes, salsa, and broth, sugar, and spices. Stir thoroughly, recover the pot and continue cooking over medium heat (stirring occasionally) until the potatoes are tender enough to pierce with a fork, all the meat is tender and beginning to shred, and the liquid begins to thicken.

This will be good enough to eat by the time you finish cooking it if you’re desperate, but it’s much better (richer and thicker) if you refrigerate it overnight and reheat it to eat the second day.

Citrus season

This is the time of year when citrus trees bear fruit in Louisiana. I don't know the psychology behind it, but fresh-picked fruit is much more soul satisfying than the store-bought variety. I would imagine that people who grow their own vegetables feel the same way. Maybe it's some kind of primal, connection-to-the-earth thing.

One of my boss's former clients has come to the office twice in the past couple of weeks to deliver bags stuffed with satsumas, oranges, and the biggest lemons I've ever seen. We've eaten them for snacks at work, and we've all taken home plenty to share with our families.

Tonight, though, I tasted the most satisfying fruit of all, a tangelo grown right in my own backyard. The spindly little tangelo tree is only three years old and isn't much taller than I am. It's produced fruit every year since Kim planted it, but we picked it too early the first two years. This year we exercised a little patience, and the results are juicy and delicious.


You know, I may have missed something by not trying my hand at gardening. Except for the dirt, the hot sun, the constant watering, the allergies, and (not the least consideration) my aversion to physical labor, I think I might have enjoyed it.

Tears of promise, tears of hope

In the neighborhood of modestly priced homes behind my office, one lone house has sported a campaign message in its front yard, a single Obama/Biden sign that miraculously stayed in place for about two months. This morning, the sight of eight identical signs in that same yard made me laugh out loud. I could imagine that family happily and proudly hammering signs into their yard at 10:00 p.m. CST.

First I laughed, then I cried. Again. I’ve cried off and on for two days, not noisily or blubbery, but tears that seemed to spring from a well deep within me, a well overflowing with emotions too powerful to contain.

I’ve been happy with election results before, and sad about them sometimes, too, but never in my life have I been as moved as I am this time. I’m not sure what inspires me most: the historical aspect of the election, the idea of so many people working together to make the moment happen, or the realization that my dream of a peaceful, unified nation is a dream shared by many, many others.

Today I’ve read blogs written by others who admit to bouts of election-inspired weeping, and I’ve seen familiar news anchors and television personalities break down in mid-sentence. It’s reassuring to know that others feel the way I do, that my tears aren't an indication of personal wussiness.

And if you haven’t yet been moved to tears, then go get a tissue and watch this video:



God bless America!

On pins and needles

The polls are beginning to close in the eastern part of the United States, and the numbers are beginning to come in. I can't wait.

This presidential campaign has been the longest I can remember. I was beginning to think it would never end, and, just when I thought I couldn't stand another day of campaign ads, the big day arrived.

Right now I'm trying to figure out how I can possibly leave the television long enough to cook dinner and take the garbage out to the road. I understand intellectually that my temporary absence won't change the vote tallies, but the early numbers show the vote to be very close, and I don't want to miss the moment when one candidate (my candidate) starts to pull ahead of the other.

I hope I can stay awake until that happens. And if it doesn't happen? Then I'll freeze the meatloaf left over from tonight and dine on crow tomorrow.

"...and the Lord taketh away."

Barack Obama's grandmother, Madelyn Dunham, died today.

Whether Senator Obama wins or loses tomorrow, our children will one day read books and watch movies about this historical presidential election. Being a lover of books and movies -- and an enthusiastic supporter of Senator Obama -- I've thought a lot about his story. I've mentally cast the lead actors in some future film and imagined long lines of average citizens waiting for a chance to be cast as extras in the campaign rally scenes.

Much of the movie would be filmed on location, in the exotic locales of Obama's childhood and in the streets of Chicago's South Side, and the tension and excitement would build as he continued to gain grass-roots support in state after state despite the unlikelihood that such a thing would ever happen. Moviegoers would get a big dose of history and inspiration for the price of a ticket and a box of popcorn.

As clearly as I can imagine all this, it would never have occurred to me to include a scene in the movie in which the candidate's beloved grandmother dies on the eve of the election. That would be too much irony; I'd be afraid no one would believe it.

Can you imagine the conflicted feelings Senator Obama and his family are experiencing tonight? They must be exhausted, physically and emotionally, from the fast pace of the campaign, and I wonder at the strength of character it must take to absorb one more major life event at a time like this. Even as they dream of winning tomorrow, they suffer a loss today.

Life is unpredictable.

If I hadn't promised...

...to post something every day this month, I wouldn't be writing this. It's almost time for bed, and I can't wait to get there.

As much as I love getting the extra hour of sleep when Daylight Saving Time ends, the earlier darkness always makes me want to go to bed early. I'd be there now if it wasn't for one load of laundry still in the dryer and the need to write this (feeble) post.

This morning I had big plans for the day, a whole list of things I wanted to do. Of the few items I checked off the list, only one was important to me: to cut my hair.

I've cut my own hair for about the last ten years, mostly because it's faster to do it myself than to go to the hairdresser, plus I wear it in such a simple style that it doesn't take a lot of expertise to do it. That being said, I'm not as good at it as I used to be. This time I got it a little too short, and every time I've passed in front of a mirror today, I've spotted another little strand of hair that's needed to be trimmed a quarter of an inch.

The good news is that I don't much care. A little touch-up with the curling iron before work tomorrow is all it'll need to pass as grooming, and these days that's all I'm after. It just needs to look like I made the effort.

Which, coincidentally, is exactly what I would say about this particular blog post.

Good night.

Why did the chickens cross the road?

The McDonald’s restaurant closest to my home sits on a corner where a major east-west interstate highway crosses a busy four-lane state road. Traffic at this particular intersection is almost always fast and frantic, definitely not for the faint of heart.

There I was, sitting in the drive-thru lane at McDonald’s, when a movement at the edge of the parking lot caught my eye. I turned to get a better look and saw two hens, one red, one white, walking together next to the curb like two women on a mission.

All those cars whizzing by on the interstate? Didn’t seem to faze them. The hens walked with a purpose, as if they knew where they were going, stopping only for a moment to pick up a discarded french fry, then continuing on their eastward path.

I wondered how the hens got there. How and where did they cross the busy road? Did they recognize the danger they were in? And had they consciously decided that the reason for their trip was worth the risk? Why did those chickens cross the road?

One possible answer occurred to me, but even as I thought it, my mind wanted to reject it. Maybe I’ve seen too many movies on the Lifetime Channel. Maybe it was just my imagination running wild, but do you remember the movie about the woman who traveled to the seamy underbelly of the city in search of her runaway daughter, who had been drawn into prostitution against her will? No amount of danger could have kept that woman from searching for her daughter.

I thought of that movie as I saw those determined chickens. Were they crossing busy roads, dodging SUVs driven by people on cell phones, in a desperate search for their missing offspring?

The possibilities continued to play out in my mind, and just as an arm reached out the drive-thru window and handed over my breakfast order, I had an even more horrible thought. It stayed on my mind all the way home.

I almost cried as I ate that Egg McMuffin.

Pumpkin patch

On Monday of this week I posted a picture of three plain, plump pumpkins (say that three times fast) and issued a challenge to any interested readers to digitally "carve" the pumpkins for Halloween.

Here's the original photo:


Naturally, I had to try it, too. Googling "pumpkin carving templates" turned up plenty of great ideas, but it took a while to figure out which patterns I might be able to duplicate. Actually, the word "duplicate" is a stretch. I didn't succeed in duplicating anything, but I think you can figure out what I had in mind.

Here's my best effort (click on the photo for a close-up):



Response to the challenge was underwhelming. One brave reader said she'd do it, and another said she might.

Click here to see Creekhiker's pumpkins, which look like they've really been carved and make me wish I'd used black instead of the yellow "lighted" look. Good job, Holly!

Janet said she'd "give it a shot" and let me know. No pumpkins on her site as I write this (before work Friday), but I'll be watching for 'em.

Happy Halloween, everybody.

UPDATE: Janet came through! Go see her pumpkins.

Here I am, Senator!

I watched Barack Obama’s infomercial last night, then switched to Larry King Live to see his interview with John McCain. McCain’s take on the infomercial was that it was made possible only by the suspicious contributions of “mysterious donors.” That would be me. I’m one of those.

Earlier this year I made a $100 donation to Obama, the first time in my life I’ve ever donated to a presidential campaign. Oh sure, once in a while I’ve checked the presidential campaign donation box on my income tax form, but who counts that? The problem with my $100 donation, apparently, is that it was under $200, the minimum amount that the government has declared must be recorded and made public. If I’d had another extra $100, I’d have been glad to give it -- more, even -- but I didn’t. That means my donation is buried with millions of others the Obama campaign received, even though I had to give my name, address, employer information, credit card information, and swear to my American citizenship before they'd take my money.

Another reason the Republicans would never suspect me as a donor is the fact that I’m a white woman, 65-years-old. That puts me in a category they were convinced would not support Obama. Isn’t that great? My identity is a natural disguise.

Elisabeth Hasselbeck said yesterday that she thought the idea of spending money on a political infomercial was “repulsive.” In truth, I, too, am appalled at the amount of money required to fund a successful presidential campaign. I hope that changes one day. For now, though, campaigning costs money, and that’s why I and the millions of other “mysterious donors” sent money to him: so he can spend enough to win. I want him in the Oval Office. He’ll have plenty of time to be budget conscious once he gets in office, but if he doesn’t get there because he hesitated to spend one thin dime of my donation, then he doesn’t deserve to be there.

I look at the cost of this campaign the same way I viewed the expense of purchasing energy-efficient appliances when I remodeled my kitchen: Obama may cost more up front, but he’ll pay for himself in the long run.

Anyway, Senator McCain, I just thought I ought to step up and be counted. Maybe enough of us will do that so you don’t have to spend the last few days of your discount campaign searching for all of us suspicious boogeypeople.

Butch and Kadi, host and hostess

It was interesting to watch Butch and Kadi while my house was full of company. The differences in their personalities were easy to see.

Kadi was tolerant. Just barely. She likes things in their correct places and takes comfort in routine, and it was obvious by her demeanor that she was a little stressed out by the disarray. Even though I’ve never seen her snap at a person in her entire 11 years, I felt nervous when the little ones played near her. She let them pet her, but she certainly wasn’t enthusiastic about it.

Butch, on the other hand, had an entirely different reaction, one that could be summed up by a single word: “PARRR-TEE.”


Once Butch learned to navigate around the extra feet, luggage, and air mattresses, he had a blast. He played so hard the first full day that he woke up in the middle of that night, tried to stand up, and screamed out in pain. I’d noticed him limping before bedtime and thought at first that he’d injured his foot. When he got up and moved around, he stopped crying and wasn't limping anymore. I couldn’t find any injury, so I concluded his old joints were stiff and sore and punishing him for exercising them too vigorously. Once I nipped his wrestling career in the bud, he was fine again.


Both dogs learned quickly that my two-year-old grandniece always traveled with a bag of chips in one hand. They followed her everywhere she went (giving me a clearer understanding of the phrase, “dogged her every step”), happy to clean up any crumbs that might fall.

Butch and Kadi also exhibited some pack behavior that kind of surprised me. They seemed to decide between themselves that the two smaller guest dogs were fine, but the large boxer was not. Inside or outside, they’d leave the poor boxer alone until she moved anywhere near me, then they’d slip into junkyard-dog behavior. Butch was just as nasty as Kadi was, snarling and barking as if he’d rip the boxer apart as soon as he figured out exactly where she was.

Often, when I sat down, both dogs lay by my chair, one beside me and one in front, their noses nearly touching at the corner. At night, instead of seeking out their separate favorite sleeping spots, they slept side by side near the foot of my bed. It made me feel good that they included me as part of their pack.

Now, if I can only keep them convinced I’m the alpha dog...

Hurricane Ike spawns a future SNL star

This is old news, but it was a big event for my family, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t write about it.

If you happened to read the comments on my September 23, 2008 post (the last one I wrote before falling out of the blogosphere and onto the end of my sofa for an extended period of time), then you know that my sister and her family spent a few days with me when they evacuated their East Texas homes to escape the winds and waters of Hurricane Ike. As close as we are emotionally, we’re just far enough apart geographically that we hadn’t managed an in-person visit in the three years between Hurricanes Katrina and Ike. I was delighted that the winds blew them in this direction.

It made me feel good that they were willing to “hunker down” here, all of them having lived through this experience during Katrina and knowing full well that my house isn’t the most comfortable port in a storm. I have two bedrooms and one bath, plenty of room when I’m by myself, but with six extra adults, two teenagers, a five-year-old, a two-year-old, an 11-month old, three extra dogs, tons of luggage, and a few air mattresses, we were stacked like cordwood.

It was great. Tight but great.

It’s rare that I’m around small children anymore, so it was a special treat to watch the little ones. The baby learned to walk while he was here. He looked so proud of himself as he took steps from one person to another, pausing in between walks to accept our enthusiastic applause.

And, on the same weekend that Tina Fey did her first spot-on impression of Sarah Palin on Saturday Night Live, my sister’s two-year-old granddaughter won the impersonation contest at our house. After CNN aired video of one Galveston, Texas girl who survived the storm, our own little comic regaled us with her impromptu interpretation of what she’d just witnessed on TV. For the remainder of the visit, she’d scrunch up one side of her face on command and say, in her best gravelly voice, “Sep in CAAAAWSET!”

They’ve been gone a month and a half now, and I still miss them.

A pumpkin challenge

Are you good at carving pumpkins? Do you think you can fake it? I'm not sure I can, either, but I'm going to try.

Weekend before last, I snapped this photo:


What I'm suggesting, for the creative types among you or for those who just can't resist a challenge, is that you capture this photo (right click on it, then select "save picture as" and save it to your computer) and use your Paint program or favorite photo-editing software to digitally "carve" or otherwise decorate one or more of these pumpkins for Halloween. No rules except that this specific photo of three pumpkins on the stairs should be the background for your work. Other than that, paint, cut and paste, or whatever your muse dictates.

If you decide to give it a try, please leave a comment with a link or url address to your blog or website and let us know to count you in. Then, on Friday, October 31st, you can post your edited pumpkin photos on your own site, and I'll post links here so everyone can see your results.

I realize time is short and apologize for not thinking of this sooner. I considered saving it for next year, but who knows if I'd remember it until then?

Interested? Okay, then, get to work.

I've tied myself to this chair...

...and I’m determined to write something--anything--before I get up again.

I’ve already procrastinated for half an hour playing Mahjongg and another 15 minutes looking at all the pictures I’ve taken over the past month or two.

How did blogging become so difficult?

Okay. Take a deep breath. Get ready. Get set. Write!

Lately I can think (and talk and write) of almost nothing except presidential politics. I read political blogs during the day, then I come home and watch the cable news networks until bedtime, switching channels frequently in search of any morsel of information I haven’t yet absorbed. I'm afraid I’ve crossed way over the line that separates keen interest from obsession.

I’ve always been interested in presidential elections, but never as passionately as this year. This time around I want to know everything, as if I’m cramming for the most important test of my lifetime. My mission is to be able to answer calmly, correctly, and explicitly when someone asks me, “Why are you voting for Obama? Don’t you know he [insert rumor or lie of your choice]?” So far I’ve been able to do it. That’s the good part about immersing myself so deeply in the campaign coverage.

The bad part is that this campaign addiction has left me feeling depressed. For one thing, I have an intense aversion to conflict, a long-term issue born of the bickering that existed in my home during my teen years. Even if I'm voluntarily watching panels of pundits talking over each other and vying for the last zinger, it makes me feel uncomfortable and anxious.

It also discourages me to see the leaders of our country and their minions repeatedly spread outright lies or misleading information when I know they know better. If somebody confronts them on one show with proof that what they’ve said is false, I expect them to say, “Okay, perhaps I was mistaken,” and not repeat it. Instead, I see them an hour later on another network making the same false claim. How stupid do they think we are? And do they think lying is okay with the average American citizen?

What distresses me most of all, though, is video footage of McCain campaign rallies. If you're old enough, think back to the Bible-story movies that were popular in the ‘40s and ‘50s and remember the scenes that showed arenas full of people watching Christians being fed to lions. Picture the jeering faces of the crowds who watched the slaughter. Those are the kinds of faces I see at the McCain rallies. Frankly, it scares the hell out of me to see large numbers of people like that who have been assembled and charged up by inflammatory rhetoric.

In real life, of course, I know many perfectly nice people who plan to vote for John McCain in this election, and I’m sure that many of the people at his rallies are perfectly nice as well. They’re the ones whose faces are not contorted with anger or smugness. What frightens me is the idea that large numbers of zealots and bigots come out of those rallies, walk our streets among rational people, spread their hostility to their offspring, and make our world less safe.

Okay. That's enough of that. I have written. If I’d written anything at all in the last month, it would have ended up about like this or worse. Because of that conflict thing I mentioned, I’m always hesitant to express strong negative opinions for fear of offending readers I care about. If I’ve done that, I’m sorry, but the truth is, if I’ve offended you to any large degree, we probably wouldn’t get along in real life anyway, so there’s no great loss to either of us. Go away and read Rush Limbaugh’s website.

On the other hand, if you’re still with me, I’ll promise you this: Barring computer outages or medical emergencies (human or canine), I’ll post something every single day between now and the end of November, and most of it will not be rants like this post. Some days it might be just a photo, but there'll be something new each day. I hope that the process of posting every day will help me find my missing sense of humor, reestablish the blogging habit, and make up to you for my just-ended month of self-indulgence.

Hope to see you here tomorrow.