Turtle empathy

After writing yesterday's post about the difficulty I've encountered in getting things accomplished recently, I spent a little while at one of my favorite pastimes: looking at my digital photo collection while listening to songs I love on iTunes. As I scrolled through photos in the folder entitled "Animals," I came across a few pictures of this guy (shown here at a safe distance from my left foot):

Now, there was a creature who would have understood the frustration I've been feeling.

We met this turtle last year when Kim backed her car out of my driveway and we discovered he'd been resting under there.  I didn't know where he came from or where he thought he was going, but I knew one thing for sure:  He'd made a big error in judgment and had no doubt realized it by the time we found him.  He had ended up here:

That's my garden shed in the background, on the other side of the fence.  I don't know how far the turtle had walked before he turned into my driveway, but once he made that turn, he had to walk more than 150 feet, much of it uphill, to get to where you see him now.  And this was as far as he could go.  Behind him there was nothing but fence.  On his left?  More fence, about 85 feet of it.  On his right?  My house, a doublewide carport, then another house.  You might think he could have taken a shortcut through the carport, but if he'd tried to do that, he'd only have encountered more fence.

I felt so sorry for this poor, tired turtle.  He'd expended so much effort to get here, and now he'd have to spend a lot more effort just to undo his mistake.

Except he didn't.  A neighbor came out about that time and saw us looking at the turtle.  The neighbor picked the turtle up, carried him to the front yard, and set him down to resume his travels.  Or to rest a while longer.  Or whatever else the turtle chose to do.

Thanks to my neighbor's kindness, this turtle got what I think we all need once in a while:  just a little break to help keep the faith.

Like slogging through molasses

Recently it seems as if everything I've tried to do has been more complicated than it ought to have been -- or taken longer than it should have taken.  In order to give you some examples of what I'm complaining about, I've been writing this post for more than an hour.  I've written long, detailed paragraphs about contradictory diagnoses and recommendations from a doctor, lengthy delays between communications with another business professional, and the general apathy of too many workers these days.  Oh, yes, and why there are dirty dishes in my sink.

After all that writing, I came to three conclusions:

1.  It's probably not a good idea to spread all my business out on the Internet;
2.  I could have unloaded the dishwasher and washed the dishes in the sink in less time than it took to write all those paragraphs which I will now delete; and
3.  I'm more pissed off now than I was before I started writing.

So, writing this post is the only example I'll give you today of something that turned out to be way more complicated than it should have been.

But that's just me and my bad attitude.

You have a nice day, hear?

Tea party talk -- not the political kind

I can't imagine why this popped into my head today, but how many of you remember the Jewel Tea Company? When my children were small and we lived in East Texas, the Jewel Tea man came around every couple of weeks to sell baking mixes, household cleaners, and any number of other items. If I placed an order on one visit, he'd bring the products on his next visit, and I'd pay him when he delivered -- usually.

The only pocket money I had in those days was the little bit I earned typing transcripts for a court reporter friend while my babies napped. My name wasn't on my husband's checking account. Even our groceries were charged and paid by him once a month. So if I'd placed a Jewel Tea order, I had to make sure to have the money ready on delivery day.

One day, when Kim was about two and a half, I was playing with her in the living room while Kelli, about six months old, napped at the other end of the house. I happened to glance out the window just in time to see the Jewel Tea man turn his car into our driveway. He was a couple of days early. I knew I didn't have any money. It flashed through my mind that he'd tried to make a delivery one day a few months earlier when I wasn't home. On that occasion he'd left the items at the back door and had come back the next day to be paid. I quickly decided that's what I wanted to happen this time.

I grabbed Kim around her waist and ran with her to the back bedroom, whispering to her all the way to be quiet. "We're playing a game," I told her. "In just a second someone is gonna knock on the door, and we're gonna pretend we aren't home, okay? Just be very, very, very quiet."

We waited for the knock, and it came. Kim looked at me expectantly, and I winked at her and smiled, putting my finger to my lips to remind her to be quiet. There was a second knock at the door, and that time Kim looked at me and grinned. She was getting into the game. Just when I thought the Jewel Tea man had given up and gone away, I heard the door open. I was shocked, and Kim's eyes got huge. I clapped one hand over my own mouth and one over hers as we waited to hear what would happen. We both listened intently as the man made his way to the kitchen, set our packages on the table, then opened the door again and left. We listened for his car to start, then waited a little while longer to be sure he had driven away.

I carried Kim back into the living room so we wouldn't wake the baby, then I set her down and gave a medium loud whoop.  "Wasn't that fun?" I asked. "We'll have to play that game again sometime."  The two of us had a good laugh together.  We didn't say one word about who had been at the door

So much drama, I thought, but it was worth it. The Jewel Tea man would come back tomorrow, I'd have the money and apologize for missing him, and everything would be back to normal.

A few hours later, while I was bending over Kelli's crib changing her diaper, there was another rap at the door.   I couldn't stop what I was doing, and before I could think what to do, Kim ran to the door and threw it open.  I heard her say in a loud, cheerful tone, her words articulated clearly and precisely, "We hided from you in the bedroom this morning."

"You did?" asked the Jewel Tea man.

"Uh-huh, we sure did."

I could have died.

I still don't know whether Kim saw the tea man's car out the window when I picked her up to run, or if she put two and two together when she saw the things he'd left on the kitchen table.  I'd always known she was a smart little cookie, but I'd apparently underestimated her that day.

There was nothing I could do but face the music.  Holding the freshly changed baby in my arms, I walked back into the living room and pretended I hadn't heard a thing. So did the Jewel Tea man, bless his heart. I smiled and told him I was sorry I'd missed him earlier in the day, that I appreciated his leaving the items I'd ordered, and that I hadn't expected him so soon and didn't have the money ready to pay him.

He was very nice about it. He said he'd come early because he was going out of town, and that if I wanted to place an order, I could pay him for that day's delivery when I paid for the next one.  He let me off the hook.

Would you be surprised to know I ordered lots of stuff that day?  Lots and lots and lots of stuff.

Little bridges in summer

The road I used to take to work follows the curves of New River Canal, a pretty little waterway that meanders across our parish as if it's in no particular hurry to get anywhere at all.  People who built homes on the other side of the canal found it difficult to get into town until a number of little bridges were built across the canal to provide access to the road.

I remember some controversy years ago about whether or not the taxpayers were funding the erection of those bridges for the benefit of so few citizens.  I don't remember how that battle turned out, and if I ever cared, I no longer do. Now I just enjoy looking at the pretty wooden bridges.

On days when I took my camera to work, I often took pictures of the bridges as I approached them.  Because I was shooting from a moving car (not safe, I know), most of the photos were at least a little blurry.

Once again, the "dry brush" filter in Photoshop Elements came to my rescue and turned the less-than-sharp images into pleasant landscapes.  I love the bridges, the shade trees, and even the unknown fishermen in these little scenes:

I hope you're having a beautiful day today, wherever you are.

Lovely Lucy's Luxury Lunch

Some of you already know that Kim caught Lucy scarfing up grapes this past Monday, grapes that had fallen into our yard from a neighbor's vine. And some of you know that grapes are usually toxic to dogs. (Raisins are even worse, by the way.)

We feel lucky on several counts: first, that Kim had actually followed the dogs into the yard, witnessed Lucy's feeding frenzy, and investigated; and second, that we had had recent experience in how to induce vomiting in a dog.

We spooned hydrogen peroxide into Lucy's mouth immediately. While we waited for the desired result, Kim went outside, cut off all the grapevines that hung over the fence, picked up all the grapes she could find in the grass, and set up a dog fence to keep the dogs away from that area of the yard. She came back inside just in time for us to give Lucy a second dose, after the first one didn't work.

By that time we were worried that my bottle of peroxide, which had failed to work with Oliver, had somehow lost its potency. Kim made a quick run to the drugstore for new peroxide, and just before she got back, Lucy threw up. Just foam, not grapes.

More or less as a precaution, Kim called the veterinarian. They told her that four or five grapes are enough to kill a dog Lucy's size and advised that she bring Lucy in immediately. Kim hung up the phone, and Lucy threw up again: one grape. Knowing Lucy's tendency to gobble her meal like a TV prison inmate, we were pretty sure she'd eaten more than one grape, so Kim packed her in the car and headed to the vet.

After Kim came home, she discovered another little puddle of vomit, tucked away beside the toy box, that contained four grapes. Apparently the first dose did work, and I missed it. Not that it's ever fun to come upon unexpected dog barf, but we were quite relieved to find those unchewed grapes.

Kim and I tried our best to figure out why the grapes have never been a problem before; the grapevine has been there for years. We thought maybe it had only recently grown long enough to hang over into my yard, but I have a photo from three years ago that shows grape leaves on my side of the fence. After giving it a lot of thought, I suspect the real reason this hasn't happened sooner is that Lucy never hung out on that side of the yard before. Every summer of her entire life, until this one, she'd leave the backdoor, race to the opposite side of the yard, and hang out under the fig tree, where she'd stuff herself with fresh, juicy figs. (We cut down the fig tree earlier this year, sadly, because the neighbor on that side was concerned that its roots might soon breach the lid of her septic tank.)

The animal hospital kept Lucy for two days. Her treatment included administration of activated charcoal to thoroughly clean out her stomach and IV fluids to clean any toxins out of the rest of her organs. She came home yesterday, slightly traumatized but with a clean bill of health.

Oliver had searched for Lucy for two days and seemed overjoyed to have her back. He, Butch, and Kadi surrounded her and sniffed her unusual, "doctor's office" scent for many long moments, while she tried her best to find a place where they couldn't get to her. I talked to Kim awhile ago, and she said Lucy is quiet this morning. She's sleeping a lot and hiding out under Kim's desk.

The ultimate cost of those five grapes? $575!!!

Oh, baby, baby!

My new great-grandson, Owen, turned five months old yesterday. In those five short months he has firmly secured his place in our hearts. He doesn't know it yet, but he is definitely the king of our world.

"My first ride in a buggy!!!"

Age 4 months

Photo and caption by Kalyn Hoover

"Nothing like driving a jeep with the top down and

 the wind in your hair on a Sunday afternoon!"

Age (almost) 5 months

Photo and caption by Kalyn Hoover

Owen's mama is doing a great job of providing the family with current photos. Her digital camera and her photographic skills have moved way up near the top of my gratitude list. (I cheerfully snagged the photos above from Facebook.)

This past Sunday Kim and I had the pleasure of spending an afternoon with Owen while his Nana, my daughter Kelli, babysat.  His mama sent his Jeep with him on this visit, and I remembered to take my camera, so I got the chance to take some pictures of my own:

How we hope he'll be in 16 years:
  driving safely, hands on the wheel, 
big baby-blues on the road ahead.

How he'll possibly be in 16 years,

given the genes he's inherited:

Rowdy hollering, hearty laughter,

"Look, Ma, no hands!"

TV Typo

Yesterday afternoon I was reading in the living room while CNN played in the background. At one point I raised my eyes to glance at the screen for a split second, then returned to my book. But wait. Something jarred my brain. Did I really see what I thought I saw? Surely I was mistaken.

Curiosity got the best of me, so I pressed the rewind button, then the pause button, and voila! My eyes did not deceive me, and I took a picture to prove it:

Old souls and giant spirits

Elephant with Sad Eyes - Photo by Kim Neely

I'm not sure when my fascination with elephants began, and I'm not sure what started it. My mother told me a few years before she died that my first-grade teacher once reported finding me crying despondently in the classroom. When she asked about the reason for my tears, I supposedly replied, "I don't know how to spell 'elephant.'"

Mother took us to the circus every year at the Shrine Mosque in Springfield, Missouri, so it's possible that I actually saw live elephants before first grade, but I don't remember seeing circus elephants until I was older.

In the mid-1950s, my family traveled to St. Louis, Missouri to visit my great-aunt Edith. We went to the St. Louis Zoo while we were there, and that's where I saw the first live elephant I remember. I couldn't get enough of her. She was so big, and I couldn't believe our good fortune that we could get so close to her. A chain around one leg was all that kept her in place. I felt sad that she was chained, but kind of relieved, also.

In 1965 my husband won a trip to Las Vegas in an automobile sales contest. The best moment of the trip, for me, was at a cocktail party for all the winners and their guests. The star attraction at the hotel that night was a magician, and he appeared at our cocktail party with a baby elephant he used in his act. People dressed up for Las Vegas shows in those days, and as I stood there in a borrowed cocktail dress and borrowed, sparkly-silver shoes, the baby elephant wandered over and checked out my shoes with its trunk. It stayed there for a magical minute or two, exploring gingerly.

In the 1970s I began collecting elephant figures, many of which I still have. My favorite is the mother with her baby, displayed in the center set of shelves in the photo below (among the Readers Digest Condensed Books, another 1970s collection I can't seem to part with).

I've written here before about paying for the privilege of spending a day "behind the scenes" at the Baton Rouge Zoo, during which adventure I helped to bathe an elephant. That was in the early '80s, and I'll never forget the texture of that elephant's skin. Her name was Judy (like my sister).

The reason I'm writing about elephants now is that I came across a video this morning that reminded me of both the strength and the gentleness of these massive, wonderful animals. If I'd been sitting in the jeep with the photographer who shot this video, I might have died, either from the fright or from the thrill of it. But if anyone was going to die that day, it wouldn't have been the baby elephants; watch how the adults kept them safe.

Oliver (the "Twist" is in his tail)

Last week flew by in a haze of muscle aches and sleeplessness. My muscles were sore because I finally broke down and thoroughly cleaned my messy house. The sleeplessness was partly due to the muscle aches but mostly due to the fact that my granddogs spent the week here, and Lucy wasn't necessarily tired when the rest of us were.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed their company. Oliver, the newest and youngest pack member, is a treat to be around. His joie de vivre is infectious, and he's definitely the most stable, grounded dog I've ever known. Nothing fazes him.

Kim brought Ollie home on New Year's Day, not too long after her beloved Winston died. Ollie was a rescue dog. He'd been found running wild, his long hair matted to the point that he had to be shaved, and his whole hind end was inflamed as a result of a flea infestation. A Shih Tzu rescue group found him in the pound, and a foster mom in New Orleans fixed him up and took care of him until Kim saw his picture on craigslist and fell in love.

Nobody knows how long Ollie was on the streets before he was picked up, but it's obvious he was on his own long enough to pick up some street smarts. He's very clever. When he wanted to jump up on Kim's lap but couldn't get to her because other dogs lying on the floor blocked his way, he jumped up on the other sofa, gauged the distance between the arm of that sofa and the arm of the one Kim was sitting on, and made the leap. His front and back legs were stretched out so far it looked like he was flying.

One day last week a violent thunderstorm gave us a little relief from the heat, but it made the other dogs nervous. After one particularly loud clap of thunder, I took inventory of the dogs: Butch buried himself in the tiniest nook he could find in my bedroom. Lucy burrowed between my hip and the arm of the sofa. Kadi stood at my feet and trembled. Then, here came Oliver, racing in from the den and tossing a stuffed hedgehog into the air. Being inside during a storm probably seemed like a great thing to him.

Oliver's Trail of Toys

Ollie lives for toys. He likes to pull all the toys out of the toy basket in the den, pick out four or five favorites, then carry those into the living room to enjoy them. To a dog that loves toys, everything looks like a toy. One night I walked into the kitchen and found poop -- little-dog poop. By Lucy's reaction I knew it was hers. Ollie stood beside me as I fussed at Lucy and pointed my finger at the one long piece of poop and the two little round balls beside it. I left the room for just an instant, and when I came back with a big handful of toilet paper, one of the little round balls was missing. So was Oliver. I turned around to see him on his way back into the kitchen, evidently going back to make a second pickup. The missing ball of poop, I noticed, was now sitting perkily in the midst of Ollie's other toys.

We did have one other scary incident. Just before bedtime one night, I gave Kadi her thyroid pill, folded into a mini-marshmallow, and she dropped it. As fast as I moved, Ollie beat me to it, grabbed it and swallowed.

The dosage of the pill was for a Kadi-sized dog, three times the size of Oliver, so I called the after-hours vet, explained the situation, and asked whether or not I needed to bring Ollie in. They said no, but I needed to make him vomit. They said to give him hydrogen peroxide, about a teaspoon and a half at a time, every 15 or 20 minutes until he vomited.

After talking to the vet, I felt like it was time to call Kim, who was in Baton Rouge taking care of her vacationing friends' three very large dogs. While she was on her way here, I gave Ollie his first dose of peroxide. Nothing happened.

When Kim arrived, Ollie was busily playing with his toys, leaping around and happy as the clown that he is. We gave him a second dose. He licked his lips a couple of times and got an odd expression on his face, but nothing else. We encouraged him to play. We picked him up and bounced him around and rubbed his tummy. Nothing.

We dosed him again. This time we could tell he didn't feel well. He lay down, looking confused and miserable, and we heard a burp or two. But he didn't vomit. We felt so bad about making him sick on purpose, and we were quite aware that the label on the peroxide bottle stressed that it shouldn't be taken internally.

Kim called the vet again. They couldn't believe he hadn't vomited and said to give him three more teaspoonfuls, all at once. Kim asked what we should do in case that didn't work, and they said getting him to vomit was just a precaution, that the pill probably wouldn't hurt him unless he had an allergic reaction to it. Same thing went for all the peroxide in his system.

The larger dose didn't work either. By the time we gave up it was almost one-thirty in the morning, and we didn't know what else to do. Kim finally decided to go back to her friends' house in Baton Rouge, where she'd left the lights on when she rushed to come here. I promised I'd call her if anything changed with Ollie, one way or the other. I must have stretched a hand out to check on him a dozen times during the night, and each time he looked at me as if to ask why I was bothering him in the middle of the night. He never did vomit, and he's been fine ever since.

We learned with Winston that it only takes an instant for things to go terribly wrong, so this was kind of scary. This little funny-faced dog already owns a big piece of my heart.

Down the garden path

Today marks the one-year anniversary of my retirement.

When I made the decision to retire, five months before the actual date, the only plan I'd made was a financial one. I'd given some thought to what I'd do with the rest of my life but hadn't reached any conclusions. All I knew for sure is that I wanted to spend more time at home with my dogs.

One year later I still have no plans.  Maybe that's the true beauty of retirement.

These days, instead of waking to an alarm, I wake up to the subtle flapping of floppy ears or a nudge from a cold nose. My mornings are so much better than they used to be.

My days are filled with . . . I don't know, really. They're a jumble of all the things I like to do and not enough of the things I should do. The things that need to be done get done eventually, and very few of them have deadlines.

At the end of the day I read as late as I want, chapters instead of pages, until my eyes won't stay open. I go to sleep without worrying about how I'll feel the next day.

Honestly, this year has been like a deep, deep breath of fresh air, and it's passed about that quickly. I know there'll be a time when I'll want more structure in my life, when I'll feel a need for accomplishment again or a need to contribute my time to something that matters. But not just yet.

I may be traipsing down the garden path, but I'm smelling the heck out of the roses.

To see or not to see: who decides and who cares?

This is not the type of post one would expect to find on an old lady's blog, but the topic is one I've considered from time to time in recent years. If you are easily embarrassed, perhaps you shouldn't read further. Or, perhaps you could read further while pretending you're watching one of the doctor shows on TV and letting your thirst for knowledge override your need to protect yourself from a discussion of things related to the human body.

I'm speaking out today about a sensitive topic because I feel that the male members of the FCC (Federal Communications Commission) have been scamming female television viewers and catering to male ones. (This will not be a discussion of "male members"; they can stand up for themselves.) I'm attempting to make a case that the FCC and network censors have perpetuated a fraud by insisting that any female nipple be covered or blurred on television, while allowing the entire rest of a big boob to bounce freely and while imposing no similar viewing restrictions on nearly identical male nipples. I think they're trying to make us believe that they're on the job by focusing our attention on the tip of the iceberg when, in fact, the giant mass that makes up the rest of the iceberg is where any prurient danger to society may lie.

Several years ago, the local board-of-something-or-other met to discuss what restrictions and ordinances should be applied to a couple of so-called "gentlemen's clubs" that had recently opened in the area. I still laugh when I remember reading the following item in the newspaper's report of the board's decision: "Dancers must remain at least three feet away from customers at all times and must wear pastries." Yes, it read "pastries," with an "r."

At the office we had so much fun discussing that typo. If the dancers themselves were tarts, would they meet the requirements? What if the dancers had cinnamon buns? Could they still be fined if they covered themselves with "bare" claws? Would doughnuts provide acceptable coverage, what with their dirty little peepholes? Thus began my mild curiosity about why female nipples are considered erotic when male nipples are not.

Do you remember the fuss when Janet Jackson had a nip-slip at the nationally televised Super Bowl? What a furor that caused! Since Janet was wearing the gold jewelry equivalent of a "pastry," I submit that it was not the nipple but the rest of the breast that censors and many viewers found too shocking for family television.

More recently -- and what set me on this current bandwagon -- I saw TV censorship carried to such an extreme that my eyes rolled more than once. The show was a documentary about a transgender man who would soon be undergoing surgery to make him a woman. The scene took place in a doctor's office as the doctor explained the upcoming surgical procedures. The patient had been living and dressing as a woman for about a year, but in this scene his body, naked except for a pair of white briefs (or panties maybe?) was clearly that of a very tall, rather skinny, flat-chested man. Get this: They blurred his nipples. Even though it was discussed at length that the patient was still a male in every physical way, the censors must have based their decision on the idea that he would someday in the future be a female. How big of a prude do they think I am?

Another point: If I stop to think about the last handsome, shirtless, well-built guy I saw on TV, I can conjure up a very pleasant image in an instant. I see broad shoulders and amazing abs. The nipples are there, too, but they're no more significant than shirt buttons. They play no role in my fantasy. Not being male, I can't say for sure, but I suspect men's minds work much the same way. My point is that, male or female, it's not the nipples but the shape of the flesh that surrounds the nipples that we find titillating, er, exciting.

I'm guessing most guys, given a choice between looking at a flat-chested woman with bare nipples or a woman with a set of well-rounded boobs under a patch of frilly fabric that conceals the tips, would grin and gape at the second woman. This is not to belittle the first woman, who might even gain a couple of points by covering up with a little frilly fabric of her own to distinguish her nipples from those of her male counterparts. And what about the sweater girls of the 1950s? Not a nip in sight, but they had everybody talking.

Think about the exposed cleavage you see on TV awards shows or red carpet interviews. Think about the barely-there costumes on "Dancing with the Stars." Think all the way back to "Baywatch." On TV, female nipples threaten to pop out all over the place, but they don't, quite. And as long as they don't, nobody raises a fuss. The TV censors go on taking care of their male viewer buddies by showing them plenty of the breast parts that really interest them.

In closing, I assure you that in writing about this topic, I am not making demands on network censors. My calling them out is not an instance of tit-for-tat. I just want the censors to know I see through them. And in no way am I expressing a desire to see more female nipples on television. I'm merely suggesting that if one occasionally does escape confinement, accidentally, it would be nice if we as a nation didn't get sucked into some great, collective, hypocritical gasp.

I can live with the fact that the female nipple doesn't get to breathe as freely as the male nipple does, so long as it gets the same amount of respect. After all, women's nipples serve a legitimate, honorable, and very respectable purpose.

If you have an opinion on this topic, I would be very interested in reading it. Further, I hope no one was offended by what I've posted here. I wrote this only because the perceived public fascination has resulted in a type of discrimination, and I needed to get these nipple issues off my chest.

Mexican food is on my mind

My mouth is watering for a chicken chimichanga, but the rest of me doesn't want to get dressed to go get one. Looks like I'll find something in the fridge and eat dinner right here in mi casa. And watch mi televisión.

The rules for taking turns

Butch and Kadi long ago mastered the art of eating from a spoon or fork. That's because I've always given them the last two bites of my own meal (as long as it's not on the bad-food-for-dogs list). Lucy and Oliver, my granddogs and frequent houseguests, have also progressed from licking a spoon to taking a bite from it.

At the age of 13, Kadi has recently become less interested in eating than she was in the past, and I've figured out that she'll eat more if I spoon-feed her. I've also discovered that it's nearly impossible to spoon-feed one dog when others are present and paying attention.

The dogs themselves have taught me that it's important to state the name of the specific dog who's going to get the next bite; otherwise, there's a free-for-all grab for the spoon. When I say one dog's name, though, the three others sit and wait to hear their own name called. I've been impressed that they caught on so quickly to the idea of taking turns and with the manners they show when we follow this procedure. But I haven't fully understood just how serious the concept is to them until a couple of days ago.

I was sitting in the living room, holding a bowl of moistened kibble with some canned chicken stirred in. The chicken was something new, so there was a lot of interest in it. Kadi and Butch got the first bites as soon as I sat down, followed by Oliver and Lucy as they scrambled into position. The eating order was established as Kadi-Butch-Oliver-Lucy, and I maintained that order as I doled out the food.

Things got a little bit confusing when the dogs shifted position. Oliver moved in to the left of Kadi, both of them to the left of my legs, and Lucy found a spot to the right of my legs, next to Butch. The feeding order was still Kadi-Butch-Oliver-Lucy, but their sitting/standing order was now Oliver-Kadi-Lucy-Butch.

For most of the meal I had no trouble maintaining the feeding order, but at one point near the end, a little problem arose. I got distracted and accidentally skipped Lucy. The instant I said Kadi's name instead of Lucy's, Lucy came unglued.

Oh.My.God! She stretched up on her hind legs. Her head detached from her shoulders at collar-level and thrust forward about a foot, her neck turning into a large, coiled spring. Her eyes grew about three times their normal size, popping out of her head and waggling independently, on little springs of their own, over the food bowl. Her mouth opened so wide I felt sure she was about to swallow the food, the entire spoon, and my arm all the way to the elbow. We got her message, loud and clear: "IT'S MYYYYYYYYYY TURRRRRRRNNNN!!!"

You can bet I'll pay closer attention from now on. And I'm going to remember the effectiveness of Lucy's display of righteous indignation the next time someone tries to cut in front of me in the checkout line at Walmart.

The best part of being a bug

Can you imagine what it would be like to live in a world where the flowers are larger than you are?

Note: The top photo in this post was taken by Kim Neely.

Hush Hush & Houmas House

Recently, on an otherwise boring afternoon, I was delighted to find one of my all-time favorite movies on TV: Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte. I've watched this film many times since I first saw it in a Texas movie theater in 1964, and it hooked me again this year.

This old movie has everything going for it:  a great cast (Bette Davis, Olivia de Havilland,  Joseph Cotten, and Agnes Moorehead), a clever plot twist, and a lavish Louisiana setting.  It's that setting that holds particular interest for me these days.  Here are a couple of examples (images captured from my television set):

The movie was filmed in Burnside, Louisiana, about half an hour from my home, at Houmas House Plantation. This is one of the most beautiful places I've personally experienced. My most recent visit there was with my younger daughter, Kelli, in 2008 (unfortunately during my non-posting period). We spent an early-fall afternoon touring the gardens. At the end of our tour, we had two peaceful souls and a couple hundred gorgeous pictures to show for it.

Here are a couple of photos that remind me of the scenery in the movie:

If you compare the house in the recent photo to the house in the movie shot, you'll notice that a widow's walk (belvedere) has been added on top of the roof. The Houmas House website states that this change was part of a restoration begun in 2003 by the current owner of the property, so I'm guessing it was part of the mansion as it existed at some point in time before the movie was made.

If you've never seen "Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte," you really should. And if you have seen it, then I know you'll remember its hauntingly beautiful theme song:

The song is "Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte" by Patti Page.

Click here to read the lyrics.

Thanks to TheNewFormat for posting this video on YouTube.

A new set of wheels

About three years ago my older daughter bought herself a motorcycle:  a red, chrome and black Harley.  Even though I’m not a motorcycle enthusiast, I have to admit that her bike is a beautiful piece of machinery.  Over this past weekend she surprised me with new wheels in the same colors.  I’m now the proud owner of a brand-new...wait for it...walker!!!

I’d been in a lot of pain for several days because my arthritic knees were pitching a major bitch-fit, and I was using crutches if I had to move.  Crutches are cooler than walkers, I think.  When I was 25 years old and broke my knee, I even danced while using crutches.  Athletes with sports injuries use crutches.  Crutches are young. 

But this walker?  I could have kissed it when I saw it.  I could have kissed it even if it hadn't been shiny and red.  It offers so much more stability than the crutches and, best of all, it has a little basket I can use  to carry a book or a bowl of cereal or even, if I’m careful, a glass of Diet Coke on ice.

Between the new walker and the assistance of Kim, who cheerfully stayed with me and did the grocery shopping, cooking, and errand-running -- not to mention letting the dogs in and out a thousand times -- I was able to rest my knees enough for the inflammation to subside.  Now I’m walking on my own again.  The new walker is parked, waiting and ready for the next time I need it.  And I know from experience there will be a next time.

There have been several instances in the past few years when a walker would have helped.  I’ve just resisted the idea of it until now.  It's still a little painful to admit to myself that I'm old enough to need a walker, but I’m really glad to have it in my "just-in-case" toolbox.  


It feels so good to be able to take a book from one room to another without having to carry it under my chin.

Water lilies

The two of us, leisurely wandering,

saw lilies, peacefully PONDering.

The day everything changed in one spit second

When my second husband and I divorced in the early ‘80s, our relationship was still very amicable. We’d grown apart through the years and through many work-related separations, but we still cared for one another as one cares for close family. When we divided our community property, we did so in the spirit of fairness and graciousness.

As part of that property settlement, I ended up with some cash in exchange for my half of the (small) equity in our house. It wasn’t a large amount of money, but my husband suggested that if I would put it into a certificate of deposit, it would grow faster than it would in a savings account. And so I followed his advice.

Several years later, I needed some of that money. It’s been so long since this happened that I don’t remember why I needed it, but my best guess would be that my car had broken down. Again. Off I went to the bank, on my lunch hour, to see what I could do.

The bank officer I met with was a woman I’ll call Rusty Soloman (not her real name). At that time I worked in personnel management, and Rusty must have had similar responsibilities at the bank, because she and I were on a couple of human resources committees together. She was then about the age I am now. She was short and stout, with grey hair twisted up in the back. Her lips seemed permanently pursed. The way she tilted her head to peer over her glasses made me feel as if I were under close inspection, like bacteria on a microscope slide. I felt uncomfortable in her presence at committee meetings and even more so at the bank.

That day we met in Rusty’s office. As it was lunchtime, she spread a paper napkin on her desk, pulled an orange out of her purse, and commenced to peel it. While I explained to her that I wanted to cash out the CD, she finished peeling the orange, pulled off a couple of wedges and stuffed them into her mouth. I remember thinking that the remainder of the orange looked like Pacman sitting there on that white napkin.

Rusty finished chewing and began to tell me all the reasons why I should leave the CD alone. She asked why I needed the money, and I told her, even though I thought it wasn’t really any of her business, since I wasn’t asking for a loan. She told me there’d be a penalty for taking the money out early, and I told her I knew that and was prepared to pay it. I don’t remember all the stuff she said that day, but I remember clearly how little I felt as I tried to convince that sour, old woman that I needed to use some of my money, and she tried to convince me I didn't.

I began explaining it to her again. And as I spoke with conviction on my own behalf, something happened that normally would have horrified me: A tiny drop of spit flew out of my mouth, arced gracefully through the sunbeams that were shining through the window, and landed, as if by intent or destiny, smack in the “mouth” of Rusty’s Pacman orange.

I stopped speaking and watched Rusty carefully. Her head was bent over the orange, her eyes focused on it as if in disbelief; then, slowly, she raised her head and glared at me.

I felt embarrassed. I felt like the worst kind of clod. I touched my hand to my mouth and mumbled some version of “sorry, excuse me.” Rusty mumbled something in return, pushed away from her desk, and walked out of the office.

While she was gone, I began to assess the situation. Not in a million years would I have done such an uncouth thing intentionally, but it did kind of sum up my feelings about the whole transaction up to that point. I realized that in spite of some minor embarrassment, I didn’t feel little anymore. I thought it was sort of amazing how one tiny, droplet of spit could shift the balance of power in a room. I thought and thought until I had to wipe the beginning of a smile off my face.

Rusty came back a few minutes later with the paperwork all filled out, and it took only a couple more minutes before the money I needed was in my checking account and the balance of the CD was in a savings account. We said polite but hasty good-byes.

I’m sure my skirt tail hadn’t cleared the doorway before Rusty’s orange hit the trashcan. I'm not proud of it, but I've secretly always hoped she had to ask to borrow money to buy herself a new lunch.

Oops...I did it again!

The new design templates on Blogger offer too many possibilities for me to resist exploring them every couple of weeks. As pretty as I thought the last background was, all golden sun shining through trees, I found that the lights, shadows and busyness made the text harder to read. Maybe it was just a condition of my tired, old eyes, but I've decided to change it anyway. Today I'll go with a background I'll call "sun shining through a sparkling clean, glass window." Or, better yet, "butter."

I think this simpler look will do a better job of showing off photos featuring colors that clashed with the orange tones of the previous background. Photos like this one (can anyone tell me what kind of flower this is?):

It also occurred to me that the new background is very close to the color I painted some of the walls in my home. I searched for a long, long time to find the right yellow-gold to accent the neutral, mossy green I used on the rest of the walls, but this blog background color popped right off the chart at me. Maybe that's because it was so familiar.

I apologize if you're getting tired of seeing the frequent switch-ups here. I'll do my best to leave this alone for a while and spend the "design time" writing new posts instead.

My daughter and I were discussing a fairly colorful incident last night; maybe I'll tell you about that next.

Picture me scratching my head

My project for most of the past week has been organizing my online photo albums. I scanned the majority of my non-digital photos a long time ago and categorized them by decade, but that turned out to be the easy part. Having scanned several photos at a tiime, I’ve had to go back to each scan and crop it into individual photos. This week I’ve been working on labeling each of those photos, which has turned out to be the biggest job of all.

A lot of the paper photos had names and dates written on the back, but the paper photos aren’t necessarily in the same order as the digital ones. That means flipping back and forth through the pictures one-by-one, searching for the one that matches the digital photo I’m trying to label. That gets old fast!

Two things have been most helpful in determining the dates of the photos: 1) the fact that we moved so often while my daughters were growing up, and 2) the girls’ school photos laid out in chronological order. The scenery and the furniture in the photos helped me be sure where each one was taken, and the girls’ hairstyles matched against the school pics helped me pinpoint a year.

So far I’ve worked my way from the pre-1940 photos all the way up through 1979; now I’m ready to tackle the ‘80s. Here’s a sceenshot showing just five of the 18 rows of pictures I have to identify and label from that decade:

The close attention to detail required takes a lot of time, but the biggest time consumer is my obsessive need to stop and admire each individual photo. These aren’t just pictures to me; they’re people and places and times of my life. They’re second on the list of things I would save in a fire, right after my dogs.

As I've been writing this post, the subject matter began to seem familiar, so I just did a blog search and discovered that I wrote about this once before, right after I began this project more than three years ago. The tone of that first post reflected much more of my love for the photos and much less about the technical difficulties involved in completing the project. Sometime between then and now, I seem to have lost the ability to envision an end to this work.

The photos mean as much to me now as they did then, so I assume that the difference in tone between the two posts is that I'm three years more tired and definitely more realistic about the amount of work this project entails.

One thing hasn't changed, though: It's still a labor of love.