Finding Beauty in Unexpected Places

Sometimes you can miss the beauty in life when you fail to take it in all around you.  Saturdays I usually take a longer bike ride.  I head toward a marina along Scotts Creek.   The road that takes me there is Harper Avenue, actually a private road owned by the CSX Railroad.  Last week, I showed you all the Queen Anne's Lace that grows along these tracks.  The picture you see above is Harper Avenue's opposite side.  This area teems with egrets, Cooper's hawks, foxes, and rabbits.

If you were straddling your bike from the picture's perspective and looked over your shoulder, you would see locomotives and shipping containers in brown, orange, and bright blue; Maersk, Chiang Ming, Hanjin, and Hapag-Llloyd emblazoned on the sides.  Looking from the picture's vantage point, you would see my view this morning of nature and a pure white egret.

My focus during the bike ride can be a metaphor for life; something that psychologists call "framing."  We all have ups and downs.  For everything there is a time and purpose under heaven, as the Byrds sang, and God said eons before they made it into a Number 1 hit.  The key to life, and in getting a good picture, is to choose your focus carefully.  As a woman thinketh in her heart, so she is.

This morning, I could have focused on the industrial yuck of the tracks and the rusting containers with the ubiquitous white plastic shopping bag blowing along the tracks.  Instead, I focused on the egret I inadvertently disturbed into flight rising into the blue sky, the Queen Anne's lace, the sun on my shoulders, and the view of Norfolk's skyline as I reached the marina.

From Around the Cottage Garden

Evening Storm

The weather was oppressively hot yesterday. The rain began sometime after 9:30 p.m. My Grandmother Dunn would have said it was teeming. The rain came down in sheets, streaming down under the street light. and bouncing back up from the darkened street under that pool of light. I confess to loving a good ole thunder storm. I shut off the porch light and sat in an old fashioned black rocker as the light show began.

The dark sky had a slight orange cast from the city lights bouncing against the cloud cover, until flashes of lightening illuminated the night sky blue white. Fireflies swooped to shelter under the roof of my front porch. Bioluminescence they call it. I call it a miracle. They winked and danced under the eaves, glad to be in from the rain. I rocked with my hands on the broad painted arms of the chair.

The temperature dropped at least 15 degrees and a breeze hit my bare legs, rocking back and forth. The old live oak across the street swayed its branches just a bit. The tree has no plans to go anywhere. Nearly a hundred years of rain and thunder have raged around that tree and yet it stands.

Cars wooshed by on the rain soaked street and I kept rocking. My Grandmother Galvin's sleeping porch would have been an ideal spot last night with huge old-fashioned glass windows which pulled away from the screens entirely and hooked to the ceiling. The result was a screened in porch to sleep in up on the second floor under the trees. I longed to drag a mattress downstairs so I could sleep on the front porch listening to the falling rain all night long. But that would be too weird even for me.

Queen Anne's Lace

Before

After

Did you know that Queen Anne's Lace is a member of the carrot family?  I know, me neither, but I looked it up today.  How weird is that?  That old ironstone pitcher is a particular favorite; thrift shopped for my birthday by my friend Nancy, who always knows what I will love.

So, my kind of day.  I had breakfast at Starbucks with my sis.  Two days post surgery and I was able to ride my bike about 6 or 7 miles.  My bike and I are inseparable this time of year.

Queen Anne's lace is definitely a wonderful llustration of that old adage, "bloom where you're planted."  These particular lacey blooms were growing on Harper Avenue next to the CSX tracks when I picked them.  Or braced my legs and yanked hard on them.  They are tenancious. 

I like the marina and view of Norfolk's harbor at the end of Harper, but the area where these flowers were growing was pretty desolate.  Or was desolate until these flowers moved in. 

The Mirror

Today I had one of those a-ha moments that wasn’t so fun.   You know, when you see yourself in the mirror and it isn’t too pretty?

I have a friend whom I admire very much.  He is the opposite type of personality than I am, a Type B, very cautious. He thinks things through before he does anything. I’m the opposite.  I’m glib.  A smart-mouth retort is often at the forefront of my mind.  It has served me well at times, but has also proven disastrous. 

Some of the very things I admire about him are those differences, his deliberate, measured approach to things.  I admire his dedication to duty and his dignity in the midst of a very tough professional situation which he did not bring upon himself.  I also admire his dedication to his children, which, without going into detail, has been considerable, even though they are now adults.   And there is a certain vulnerability there which I find endearing.

I thought I had been helping him with getting his credentials out there on LinkedIn and getting some of his thoughts down in a blog.  Today I was totally thrilled that a major police resource had picked up that blog.

And then the mirror.  In the course of a phone conversation where I thought I was encouraging him, he said, laughing, “oh you mean the part when you make me into something I’m not?”  I get my feelings hurt easily, so I am the master of hiding that and extricating myself from a phone conversation.  I was devastated.  I had a hard time continuing on with the professional task before me.  It is over two hours later and I still feel like someone punched me.

Could there be a worse message to someone you care about than trying to make him or her into something they aren’t?  Actually, the message you send is, “hey, you aren’t okay the way you are.”  I love to help people and be an encourager.  In this case, what I ended up doing was just the opposite.  Folks need to move at their own pace and do things in a manner comfortable for them. 

When someone has a problem, it is my natural inclination to fix it.  Terry doesn’t know all the bells and whistles of Powerpoint?  I can help her.  Jason has a long-term upset stomach?  I buy papaya enzyme and yoghurt.  Nancy has a heart episode?  I make spaghetti.  It is part of who I am.

You know the problem with that? People need to solve their own problems.  Sometimes, maybe most of the time, people just want you to listen to them and be their friend.  Maybe they don’t want to hear your smarty-pants suggestions.  Maybe they don’t even want to hear you piously say that you’ll pray.  Maybe the best thing to do is just keep your mouth shut and pray without saying anything. 

Today I learned with a few tears and a good dose of old-fashioned embarrassment, that the way I care may not always be received the way I intended.  So, I’m going to be more measured and cautious in my overt displays of caring and let my helping be in between me and God until I’m asked for more.  I have plenty of my own things to work on, my own blog to perfect, my own character improvements to make, and my own professional mid-course corrections to work on.

Victorian House on my Bike Route

I love this Victorian house on my bike route.  I want have a writing room in the side turret.  I want to sip Earl Grey on the second floor balcony.  Look very closely.  On the first floor behind the tree there is an enormous round window.  I've not seen one like that before.  Please note on the upper left hand area of the second floor, the adorable windows and the red accents.  

Papa's Repurposed Toolbox

Papa, my stepfather, was an accomplished carpenter.  His father was a caretaker at the DuPont Estate on Fisher's Island, NY.  Papa used to follow his father around and he picked up a lot.  He built the home his mother retired to on the Connecticut mainland.  Although he was a psychologist and an Episcopal priest, Papa could build anything; furniture, decks, plant stand wishing wells for the front yard, and fences with cut outs for hanging plants. As far as I know, he never used directions.

I repurposed Papa's tool box to hold kitchen things.  The tool box was originally Pop's (my grandfather and his father-in-law's), so it holds a great deal of history for me.  My Pop started out life in the coal mines of Wilkes-Barre, Pensylvania when he was a small boy.  Children used to work in the mines because their short stature and small hands were good for many tasks.  He went on to be a school principal and a math text book author.  My Pop used to dance by standing us on his feet, holding our little hands, and sailing around the room whistling "Tea for Two" from his back teeth.

I'm so glad I have this tool box

March to the Beat of a Different Drummer

This is a doorway at an upscale apartment building along my bike route called "The Myrtles."  The complex is an arrangement of sided units interspersed with brick fronts.  I like it, because it breakes up that everlasting sameness of most large complexes.

Now two doors down, there is a resident I'd really like to meet.  She (I think of her as a "she" although I have no diea of her gender) has transformed her tiny front porch area into a little urban Eden.

Over to the right, if you look carefully, you can see the cheesecloth covering some type of fruit bush from the birds,.  At the front and center is a sunflower.

Lush green plantings off to the left-hand side with yellow lillies starting to bloom in the heat. I have no idea who this person is, but just by looking at her front door, I know that i'd like to be her friend.  She must be an avid gardener, making the city greener just outside her front door.  As they tell you in military life, bloom where you're planted, baby.

She lives along a busy street downtown.  Every time I bike on by, I think of sitting in my grandmother's breakfast nook and looking at a sentimental old painting with the words:

Let me live my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Sam Walter Foss

Thank you my unknown friend for the beauty I enjoy at your hands every day.

On Blogging Perfection

Last week I read an honest and poignant account of a fellow blogger’s marriage unraveling.    I had stumbled upon this blog the way you do, when you head over to a well-known old friend in the blogging world and look to see who they link to.   Brenda’s blog is called “Cozy Little House” and can be found here:  http://cozylittlehouse.blogspot.com/

In the few months that I had been reading, I grew envious of the gorgeous pics and inspired prose which Brenda used.  Her talent is light years ahead of mine.  My heart almost hurt when I saw her gifting in this area.  Not that I didn’t want it for her, but that I wanted more of it for me.  So I was stunned to read, outlined in spare words and no direct statements, much as sketch artist renders a likeness with a few well-chosen strokes, her sad discovery. My heart ached for her.  Her two blog entries entitled “The Truth” and “When the Ship is Sinking Fast” just knocked me over.

This blogging world has given people who might never have found a niche in the traditional publishing world a forum for thoughts and images which bless others in profound ways.  I think of the marvelous work of Kim’s Daisy Cottage Blog deardaisycottage.typepad.com which has led to published writing. 

I also think of my dear blog friends Debra @ As I See It Now debrasotherthoughts.blogspot.com and Judy  @ Anybody Home judyh58.blogspot.com.  Both are essentially shy women who stay busy at home blessing their families outside of the traditional work world.  With the incredible intimacy, immediacy, and access of blogging, their thoughts, humor, and dreams ripple out like dropped polished stones into this Internet lake, encouraging others through the waves and eddies their words ride upon until they reach some very distant shores.

All that being said, all of us who blog share only a portion of our truth with the rest of the world.  That’s entirely appropriate.  We choose to keep many heartaches private.  Some of the day to day routine is just boring.  For instance, I stepped in dog poop this morning, but that’s kind of gross to talk about.  I had a stir fry for lunch, but who cares?  I’m having eye surgery next week and even I am bored with all of it, never mind anyone else.

Bottom line?  We can’t all be Daisy Cottage Kim.  I can’t be my beloved Debra whose depth often amazes me.  I’m not as funny or quite as quirky (almost but not quite) as Judy.  My pics aren’t as good as Brenda’s at Cozy Little House.    God
called me to be the best Annie I can be, not the best Judy. 

So I’ve resolved to simply admire beautiful blogs, but not envy them.  Our blogs are extensions of ourselves, but not our entire truth.  We never know what lies beneath.  And I tip my metaphoric hat for Brenda’s courage in telling her truth as best as she was able.

The Turkey Burglar

I love this song

You had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
The camera don't lie
You're coming back down and you really don't mind
You had a bad day

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gH476CxJxfg

Now if you click the link and listen to the You Tube video while you read this, you'll see that on Monday, it became prophetic.

I was doing a large report in a team situation.  I am the team leader of a team of 9.  Half the team failed to follow directions, three team members turned in their portions late, and with the due date looming, I was about to rip my hair out.

A kind soul bought me a hot Starbucks and accidently tipped it all over my bare legs, notes, key board, and the floor.  Later in cleaning it up, I smacked my head on a stained glass window I have suspended from the ceiling as a room divider.  The day was starting to look up after lunch.  Then I discovered I had been committed to a social obligation at 7 which someone had forgotten to tell me about.   I quickly pulled together a menu of spicy grilled turkey burgers, potato salad with red potatoes, grilled corn, and squash with a fruit dessert. 

I set the raw burgers on the counter and went out to water the yard.  I came back in and discovered the most serious outrage.  I had been visited by the evil turkey burglar.  I know she looks like an intellectual in the pic, but she’s the devil, I assure you.  And she’s got some reach for a little dog, too!

May is National Law Enforcement Memorial Month

I don't talk about the law enforcement side of things too much in this blog.  However, I couldn't let National Law Enforcement Memorial go by unrecognized.  Actually, I did a lengthy post following our local memorial commemoration which Blogger "ate" when the system went down for 24 hours. 

While walking in Virginia Beach last weekend, I came across this stunning painting on the side of a building.  If you look closely, you can see a tear in the eye of the sad police dog mourning his human partner. 

Officer Down is the most gut wrenching thing you can ever hear if you live in the law enforcement world.  The most recent Officer Down I know of is Officer Andrew Garton of the Hawthorne , California Police Department.  His watch ended yesterday.  Please pray for his family. 

Seventy-three police officers have been killed in the line of duty so far this year, with 20 in the month of March alone.  This number is up 17% from 2010.  Approximately 60,000 officers are wounded in the line of duty each year.   http://www.odmp.org/search/year/2011

Rick Spaulding, a Portsmouth Police Officer, died in the line of duty.  His watch ended November 23, 2005.  He served his country in the military.  Prior to being hired by the Portsmouth Police Department as a paid officer, he served as a auxiliary (volunteer) officer for many years.  Rick is the person I honor this month.  Thank you for your sacrifice.  You have not been forgotten, nor have the other 12 fallen officers from Portsmouth.

So over the next few weeks, if you see an officer as you drive along, pray for his safety.  And if you happen to run across one directly, thank her for her service to your community.

Getting a New Disposition

I noticed this sign at the Naval Hospital the last time I was there.  I almost took a number, so I could be No. 9.  Because when the employee who sits on the right got back from her break, I wanted a new disposition.  I wasn't having a good day and, up until this time, I didn't realize that new dispositions were so readily available.

Now I'm sure if you consider it, you could think of quite a few folks who could use a new disposition.  Maybe you could use one, you never know.  The pharmacy tech I always seem to get really could use one. For someone I have to deal with through the Civic League, a new dispostion would really be excellent, as far as I am concerned. 

Quite a few people I see speeding across the West Norfolk Bridge could use a new disposition, especially the ones who give me digital encouragment for obeying the speed limit. 

Finally, the rude guy on the bike on the Great Dismal Swamp Canal Trail could use one.  He was one of the self-absorbed clowns in a court jester outfit with his head down, crouched in a stance to get the least drag to improve his personal best time on his bike because everything has to be a competitive event.

I had slowed down to talk to a walker.  Her friend, further up the trail had twisted her ankle and had gone to sit at a park bench.  I delivered the message.  After nearly running the walker down because he had his head down where he could only see his cycling feet, the biker opined, "You people really need to pay attention to where you're going" in a rather stunning example of the psychological term "projection."   He seemed pretty surprised when I suggested that a switch to decaf might be helpful for him.

Maybe I should have grabbed number 9 and gotten a new dispostion after all.











Virginia Beach Sunday

Sunday was glorious.  I took a long walk on the Virginia Beach boardwalk. 

This is Rudee Inlet, at the very end of the boardwalk.  After the long walk, I had grilled shrimp here:



and enjoyed this view:

Life doesn't get too much better than this.



Long Bike Ride Part 2

There is an interesting abandoned house from the 1800's about 4.5 miles along the trail.

I think I like it better in sepia



Here is another view of the Canal



 Some lucky folks who had a house on Old Route 17 decided to stay there.  Here's one of them:

There are a great many things I love about the trail.  Please consider these two signs.  I'm not sure which one cracks me up more.  This one:

or this one:

I did not have an ummmm "bear encounter" on this trip.  Here is the view from Kelly's where I tucked into a Greek salad for lunch:





Long Bike Ride

On Saturday, I drove across the canal above via this bridge:

And across here

To this bike trail.  This was once Route 17, but they made a new 17 and turned this into a bike/hiking trail.

This was an unbelievable feast for the senses on Saturday.  A light breeze was blowing.  The piercingly sweet scent of flowering blackberries and honeysuckle made the 16 miles fly by.

The trail is bordered by the Great Dismal Swamp Canal, part of the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway.  I guess they call it "dismal" because the water appears black from the tanic acid from the trees.  The Canal is ANYTHING but Dismal.  The water is more like a sheet of black glass the reflects everything around it.

This area reminded me of Monet's work with lily pads at Giverny, France.

More to follow in Part 2.

Triangle Flower Bed

'

No matter what I put in this triangle flower bed, it didn't do well.  The spot is shady quite often during they day. There is a crepe myrtle tree off camera and the roots run under the bed, which didn't help.

I was reading one of those special interest magazines that was called "Cottage Gardens."  There were pages after pages of concepts called "Garden Rooms" where homeowners actually planned out outdoor rooms with park benches, bird baths, and other architectural elements.

I didn't have a lot of money to spend, so I settled on bright kindergarten colors and focused on some old chairs I had.  My neighbor, Nancy, rescued the cabinet hanging on the fence from the trash left out one Thursday night.

National Police Week 2011

In Valor There is Hope
I never talk about my law enforcement side of the house on this blog, but I was so moved today at the Portsmouth Law Enforcement Memorial service today that had to mark it somewhere, somehow.

Twelve department members, 11 officers and one crossing guard, have died in the line of duty in the Portsmouth Virginia Police Department.  The first African American police officer killed in the line of duty died in Portsmouth about a hundred years ago.  The most recent member to die in the line of duty was Officer Rick Spaulding in 2006.  Rick was a retired Coast Guard service  member and had been an auxiliary (volunteer) officer before joining the force as a paid officer.  He had a wife and family.

Congress designated this week to remember fallen law enforcement officers.  Over 19,000 officers have died in the performance of their jobs since the 1800's.  In this country, a law enforcement officer is killed every 53 hours.  Sixty thousand law enforcement officers are physically attacked in the performance of their duties every year.   Deaths in the line of duty are up 17% over 2011. 

Our keynote speak today was Dr. Jack Enter, a retired police officer, who had been providing departmental training on proactive policing.  His speech was short, but extremely poignant.   He relayed how history has found one of the first police officers to die in the line of duty in Pompei, which was over taken by the eruption of Mount Vesuvias (modern day Naples) in 79 A.D.

As archeologists were working to excavate the site, they were less careful in one part of the city, where people would have had enough time and distance from the eruption to survive.  They did not expect to find human remains.  Soon, however, a human foot was found and further digging revealed a Roman centurion with his breastplate and distinctive helmet still intact.  The judgment of the archeologists was that he died there because he stayed at his post, doing his duty until the volcano engulfed him.  Died at his post, in the line of duty.

The media loves to concentrate on

Evening Bike Ride to Olde Towne

I think this looks much more like somewhere in Europe than it does like a very favorite restaurant in my own hometown of Portsmouth, Virginia.   This should be in Vienna or Berlin or something.  They have some rocking cucumber salad and cooked red cabbage that makes me want to put on some lederhosen and yodel.

After having an entirely frustrating time working on an important Powerpoint presentation that the computer apparently ATE, I redid the three hours of work I lost.  A friend suggested that I go get a Starbucks.  I did just that, in the gathering shadows of the late afternoon.  I rode my bike instead of driving, along the Naval Hospital and the Elizabeth River. 

I love the light of this time of day, not the glaring harsh light of mid-day, but the more mellow colors that you see after 4 p.m.  Olde Towne is a fun area, not far by bike from my little neighborhood.  The Bier Garden in the pic is not too far away from Starbucks and considerably more quaint.  I love the way the vines grow all over the garden area.  

And by the time I got home, I was refreshed, invigorated, and nearly forgot about the computer.

A Cum Laude Miracle

This is my baby.  Surprised?  Me,too!  I never thought I'd have a six foot four inch African American son, but here he is.  He doesn't look that tall standing next to his girl?  Let me give you a hint, she just graduated from NC State, captain of the basketball team.  Did I give birth to him?  No, but I might as well have.

This is what he looked like when I first met him, just a young kid fooling around with my big wolf malamute hybred on Halloween:

Julius, child of my heart...my thinker, my court jester, my clown.  The kid who fell through the balcony from the second floor and landed standing on his feet hollering, "I didn't do it" as the railing crashed to the floor.  Julius who danced to "I Will Survive" in the spare bedroom so hard with his younger brothers that my dining room ceiling fell in.  Literally.

When Julius was about 11, he must have seen an Elvis movie with a female character named Claire.  Most people who do Elvis impressions say, "Thank you, thank you verrah much."  For years, Julius would say, "I love you, Claire" in a perfect Elvis voice to me as he left the house.

As he got older, his vocabulary expanded.  His voice got pretty deep after it changed and when he was particularly disgusted by something he'd say, "Miss Annie, that's riDICulous, it truly is."

After Julius went on a full scholarship to a private Christian University in Raleigh, NC, he sadly said to me, "Miss Annie, I don't come home much, because everyone I came up with is either dead or in jail."   It was a commentary on an entire generation of African American males.  Thank God he is in Raleigh.

Today I watched a miracle.  I watched Julius Gregory graduate with honors from Shaw University.  My Number 15, GO SHAW BEARS. He beat the odds.  He left the streets.  He starts his job coaching young people on Monday morning.  Thank you, Jesus.  Thank you verrah much.

Is Your Breadmaker Out in the Garage?



Where's your breadmaker?  Do you still have it?  Is it out in the garage on top of the old refrigerator in a laundry basket with a hole in the side next to the almost empty can of bug spray from last summer?  Bring it inside!

I bet you haven't used it in a while.  Don't worry, you can download the instructions from the Internet.  There are all sorts of fabulous recipes on line, here is a good place to start looking:  http://allrecipes.com/Recipes/bread/bread-machine/Main.aspx

So here's the secret about bread machines.  Bread cooked in a bread machine tastes icky because it is actually steamed and not baked.  However DOUGH prepared in a bread machine is a lot easier to work with  The little paddle on the inside mixes things very effectively and there's no mess on the counter.  The bread machine does a lovely job of letting the dough rise.  When your dough is finished, you take it out and pop it into the oven. 

I use my bread machine to prepare pizza dough about once a week.  I make a whole wheat crust and put Italian spices right into the dough. The dough process takes about an hour and a half.  Then I knead and form the crust.   I put the crust only into the oven and cook for half the recommended time.  This keeps the crust from getting soggy when the ingredients are put on top.

I take the pizza out, brush it with olive oil, add my vegetables and cheese and put it back in to finish. You can see the result above; this particular pizza was topped with sliced fresh Roma tomatoes, carmalized onions, mushrooms, and green peppers.  Another favorite combination is spinach, carmalized onions, red peppers, and feta cheese.

Grilled Cheese

We all have comfort foods, don't we?  They are the yummies that we gravitate towards when we are feeling puny or the weather is cold.  Nursery food, they call it in Great Britain.

I don't think you can do much better in the comfort food department than grilled cheese.  Humble you might say.  Sublime I say.

Yesterday was a frustrating day. You know, one of those times when you have to do five things to get one thing accomplished.  While I was preparing dinner, I had a very important phone call come in, the cordless phone went missing.  Then I cut myself chopping vegetables.  All rightie then, bring on the grilled cheese.

No expensive Brie, Gouda, or Chevre need aplly for this job.  Nope.  Just your basic individually-wrapped American cheese singles and some good quality whole grain bread.  Just the right amount of browning on each side in the skillet.  Too little...the sandwich is too soft.  Too much and it is burned.  Other than the weighty timing issue, the grilled cheese sandwich couldn't be more simple. 

I served my grilled cheese last night with homemade soup and orange slices.  Yikes, was that first bite of crunchy toasted bread and molten cheese the essence of perfectly balanced flavor and texture or what.  And comforting?  Boy howdy.

My grandmother, Helen, used to suggest that a "nice cup of tea" would make everything better.  I'm sure she was right, but last night, it was all about a nice grilled cheese sandwich.

Why I am not Martha Stewart

The other day I was hurrying out the door to the gym.  I noticed that the yellow roses in my elegantly tarnished silver pitcher (purchased at Goodwill for $3.25) needed to have the water changed.  No ordinary dime store vase for me, oh no, all my containers have to be chic, thrifted, special, vintage, or antique.  Thinking that this little chore would just take a moment, I put fresh water in an ironstone pitcher and filled the silver one.  And filled.  And filled.  My, I thought, that water must have really gotten low.  

Then I noticed that the water I was pouring in was pouring back out down the spout of the silver pitcher all over the dining room table, on the green silk runner, all over the napkins, and the green placemats.   Finally, it was developing into a puddle on the floor. It was a Martha Stewart moment for sure.

The next morning, I took a whole chicken from the freezer and left it in the sink to thaw.  About four, I decided to stuff the chicken full of fresh herbs and lemon slices and roast it.  Then I realized that I had frozen the bird with the giblets inside.  The chicken was frozen solid down the middle.  I had no other ideas for dinner.  I started running water into the cavity.  It didn't budge.

Then I had a brilliant idea. Needle-nosed pliers, that's it!  I got some and started pulling and pulling.  I was GOING to get that frozen giblet packet out.  I braced myself, concentrated, and gave a mighty pull. The pliers slipped off and the momentum caused me to smack myself right in the face.

And that, my friends, is why I'm not Martha.

Rest in Peace AT LAST Pride of Midtown

Engine 54, Ladder 4, Battalion 9

THE PRIDE OF MIDTOWN

Psalm 72:2

May He judge your people in righteousness, your afflicted ones with justice.
 
Finally, may you rest in peace.

Sunset on the James

 I had dinner here last night, a grilled steak salad and a nice chilly glass of Pinot with my mom, her cousin Marianne and Marianne's husband, Bill.  The sun was setting over the James River and the temperature was nearly 80 degrees yesterday.  Amazing.

Funny how things happen.  My mother has had a home at Kingsmill for over twenty years.  It is a resort and golf course with private homes built around it.  Marianne went exploring around and said, "Hey what about that restaurant on the River?"  I'm not sure what we all thought it was, but we'd never been there.  Just goes to show what you can see and find when you look at things from a new perspective.

I had that familiar pain when I saw my father's jacket hanging near the door on the way in. We leave it there.  The jacket is a sort of talisman or something, I notice we all touch it lightly from time to time.

Most of the time, I don't have to think that often about my father's death.  My mother and I did the talking on the phone, since my father was rather deaf.  I don't think he enjoyed talking on the phone even when his hearing was better.  They lived most of the year in Atlanta, so it was not unusual for me to go for periods of time without talking to him.

But when I walk into the house at Kingsmill and he is not in his old familiar spot on the couch rising up with a smile to give me a hug, I can't really push his absence out of my mind.  In some ways, the distance is good because I can carry on with my life.  In this way, however, it is bad, because I experience his death all over again every time I go through the door.

I'm kind of glad that we didn't discover the restauarant on the water until after he was in heaven.  This gives us a new memory to make with the family as it is now and not as it was.  Life goes on and God's mercies are new every morning.

Don't You Love Before and After's?

Okay, obviously the above is a "before" shot of a dollhouse that I found left out for the trash.  I'm always so eager to get started on a project that I often forget the "before" shot.  I nearly forgot again!  I had already started "aftering" the dollhouse and then remembered to run in for the digital camera.

The simple dollhouse made me sad when I rescued it.  Some "Papa Joseph" or "Daddy Tom" or plain ole Grandpa must have lovingly made it from plywood for a small girl he cared for very much.  He carefully cut some extra flooring for the kitchen and different colors of carpeting for the other three rooms.  My heart hurt to see it out there for the trash.   I felt like I was witnessing the Velveteen Rabbit story gone wrong.  I HAD to rescue the lonely dollhouse.   

Here's the after, the finished project, bolted to the endless weathered fence around the back yard.  This is on the front yard side, actually.  I thought the finished treatment gave the house some curb appeal.

Here's a close up on one of the cubbies or pukas as they say in Hawaii.  Since I lived in the Aloha State for many years, they are pukas to me, too:



Those are just Goodwill and garage sale things, painted in the three kindergarten simple colors I use outside the house. 

Ahhhhhhhh, I feel so much better.  This is a much happier place for Grandpa's loving work than the trash!  Honestly, I felt almost outraged that the dollhouse was there.