My New Rock Band -Lulu and the Goat Boys

Let me introduce you to Gizmo, one of the pygmy goats in the backyard. He's devilish in a cute sort of way with his little horns and markings over his eyes.  I luvs me some Gizzie goat.

This is Blanco.  He is much bigger, but I love him, too.

Blanco sort of looks like a lamb in this shot because someone at some point removed his horns  I don't get that, just like I don't get cropping dog's ears.  I think it is baaa aaaa aaaaad, to quote a goat.

So why are they there?  Just my little protest on government tyranny.

My neighbors, John and Aimee, across the street, belong to Gizzie and Blanco.  Both goats are neutered males and the size of dogs.  However, some zealous city employees judged them as "livestock" and cited their owners.  Actually, they are beloved pets.

Goats are great lawn mowers.   So they are on the uhhhh lam, so to speak, in my back yard with the six foot high privacy fence until the heat is off their owners. My dog, Lulu, has totally taken it in her stride.

Really, we have murderers and folks selling drugs to high school kids, I think we have more important things to spend time on than hassling miniature goats.

We're going to the next City Council meeting...repeat with me, "Save the Pygmy Goats, Save the Pygmy Goats!"

Cesar Chavez' 86th Birthday - Are You Kidding Me, Google?

I admire Cesar Chavez as much as the next person.   I sympathize with the plight of migrant workers.  A San Diego Red Cross program I was affiliated with for 5 years served migrant workers. Such workers are exploited by farming operations both large and small which make a great deal of money from their efforts.

While living in San Diego, I often considered the cruelty of circumstances which gave me, born on one side, such advantages over folks born a quarter of a mile to the south.  Their education, immunization status, medical care, and life expectancy are all much poorer than we enjoy in the United States.  I understand why women in labor cross the border illegally so that their children will have a better life.  I don't approve, but I understand.

My late sister-in-law met Bruce's brother, Eric, when she was a migrant worker on the family farm.  I know her life was very hard before she met him.  Margaret was gorgeous.  Our niece, Heather, inherited her mother's stunning looks.  As an ardent watcher of The Big Valley, I always thought it interesting that she named her son "Heath," the name of the character played by Lee Majors.  Heath was the youngest son of the land owner, Victoria Barkley, just as Eric was my mother-in-law's youngest.

I'm always fascinated with the clever things Google does to recognize special dates on their opening page.  They make the Google logo move or light up or create a graphic in the style of Monet or Picasso to recognize an artist's birthday.  However, sometimes their political correctness is so extreme that they appear moronic. Easter was one of those days.

Yesterday, Google recognized the birth date of Cesar Chavez, union organizer, and champion of the rights of migrants.  That's fine, Cesar was in important figure in US labor relations.  However, Google failed to recognize the date as Easter, when Christians throughout the world celebrate the resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ.  Not only is it short-sighted and, quite frankly, demented - it just makes Google look dumb.

Whomever you believe Jesus was and is, there can be no denial of his influence over the course of human history.  In fact, we divide time based on the birth of Jesus Christ, despite this BCE (Before the Common Era) nonsense.  AD, as in 2013 AD, is an abbreviation of the Latin phrase meaning, "Year of our Lord."

I find it fascinating that tolerance is extended in our present day world to everyone BUT Christians.  We are tolerant of Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, gays, and lesbians -  as well we should be.

However, in the name of tolerance and political correctness, we Christians are not allowed now to use the term "Easter eggs" or "Christmas tree" at school.  This semantic nonsense is just absurd, especially considering that Easter eggs and Christmas trees actually have nothing to do with either holiday. Religious tolerance should be for everyone, even the Christian majority in this country.

I wonder sometimes if Jesus is looking down saying, "Yeah, Google, not so much..."   Kinda like when I go to small group and we put a DVD on the TV to sing praise songs to the television set.

Jesus said to them, "Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation."  And they did, 12 uneducated, erratic, flawed men who deserted Jesus at the crucifixion went on to change the world after they witnessed the Resurrection - never mind how much Google would like to ignore it.

I had a doll house like this once long ago when I went to St Mary Star of the Sea School and lived in the ranch house next door to Major Hart and across the court from Colonel Frank.

My father used to say that Jane Hart talked breathing in and breathing out.  It was true.  She wasn't a large woman, but a chair once broke underneath her and she was still telling a story when she picked herself up.  I can still hear her calling her son into dinner, my little friend Chipper, in her honeyed Deep South voice, "Chippa, Chippa Hart!"  My doll house was made of metal, just like this one and was populated with a little family.

It came the same Christmas that Santa also brought me an easel with a green chalk board on one side, a place to clip white paper on the other, a chalk trough, and a covered area which held paint jars.  I had a sailor suit with a swirly skirt and purple curtains in my room.  My mother made those curtains; they had silhouettes of black cats on them.

That's when Rose came to help us and made butter-flavored hard candy on a cookie sheet.  When the candy cooled, she would smash it into bits with a hammer and store it in a cookie tin.  Rose liked to watch her stories and would sometimes assemble puzzles with us.  She was also known to occasionally say, "Don't be back-sassing. Rose."  I'll let you guess whether she said that to me or my brother, Reid.

Major Heatherly kept his boat in our backyard while he was in Vietnam with Dad   Reid and I took many voyages in the grass on that boat, with Space Food sticks and Hi-C for sustenance.  We would catch lightening bugs in mayonnaise jars and watch Flipper when we came inside.

I saw this doll house in an antique mall near Richmond, up on top of a tall bookcase.  The sight of it brought back every one of these memories. Now it is at home with a much older Annie who still back sasses from time to time.

The Real Easter Bunny and His Assistant

Horrible Day

Yuck.  Thursday was a horrible day.  As usual, I found two typos in my blog post after it was up.  Hate that.  I proofread it three times. 

I got in to trouble at work yesterday.  Now, everything turned out just fine.  I am not in trouble now.  However, it just gives me the shivers for anyone at work to think that I’ve done something wrong.  In fact, I don’t want anyone anywhere to think I’ve done something wrong.

I try very hard to do the right thing.  However, there are many gray areas in the division I work in.  Actually, there are many gray areas in law enforcement in general.  That’s where what is called “police discretion” come in.  Every single possible scenario cannot be covered in an SOP, so one must use educated judgment.

There are 39 other people in the state who do my job.  All of us work with a law enforcement officer who is more seasoned than we newbies.  Not everyone in my organization supported the idea from “on high” that created our unique positions.  Change is difficult in any big organization.  Heck, change is difficult for individuals, never mind hundreds of individuals at once.

My more senior colleague and I had not communicated effectively about an issue.  It was nothing deliberate on anyone’s part and certainly not that we were being slackers or trying to do the wrong thing.  However, when I got the speaker phone call from my direct supervisor and the officer, I was filled with dread.  I literally got sick to my stomach.  I fretted, worried, castigated myself, second guessed how I handled it, fumed…basically put myself through the wringer. 

I’m so Godly, right?  Not.  The Godly thing would have been to leave it in His capable hands.  As the Word says, “and having done all, stand.” Nope, I had two glasses of wine while out to dinner, my hands shook all night, and I didn’t sleep.  Jeepers.  Not that I think having a glass of wine is a bad thing, but drinking to calm down from being upset is not a good idea.

Where and when did I decide to leave out that part of the Word which promises, “There is now therefore no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus?”  Why is it that I think God’s promises apply to everyone except for me?  God knows the cure for every situation, which we can discover in His Word...except for poor, pitiful Annie.  She’s in trouble at work and she’s gonna get it!

After sleeping about an hour during the entire night, I got up and went to work.  My more senior co-worker called my cell phone and my stomach lurched.  I let it go to voice mail to give myself time to think briefly.  I was really angry that he had gone over my head to my supervisor before he ever talked to me.  I thought of being cold and distant for a second, you know, to punish him.  Of course that would make any interaction SO MUCH BETTER…not!

Golden rule, baby.  Treat him as you would want to be treated.  Love justice, seek mercy, and walk humbly with your God.  I forced my voice to be cordial when I called back.  He had several items for me to take care of. I took all the information down.  I took a deep breath and apologized to him for the trouble yesterday. You can always say that you’re sorry for a misunderstanding or a stressful situation.

Do you know what?  I’m not in any trouble. He told me that I didn’t need to apologize and that he was sorry, too.  We reviewed what happened.   We brainstormed strategies for better communication.  We realized that there were two issues that were a bit confusing for both of us, so we agreed to get clarification from our mutual supervisor.  We both hung up feeling like we could work together better

What would have happened if I threw a fit?  What would have happened if kept my voice cold – men hate that!  Would I have had a good outcome if I went to complain to my supervisor?   I don’t think I would have had such a positive result, do you?

Maybe I don’t immediately handle this kind of thing well, but thank God I was able to hear Him by the next day.  Thank God I listened to that still, small voice telling me what to do this morning.  Thank God I listened and I obeyed.

I swore I would never do it again, but I did.  I let go of updating the blog for what seemed like one day and now it has been three months.

Where to begin? Bruce started a wonderful new job just over the border in northern North Carolina.  He loves what he does and they love him.  If you told me a few months back that he would be working putting spy and communication equipment on aerostats, I would have said you were crazy.

Okay – what (you are asking) is an aerostat?  I’m glad you asked. A dirigible is a lighter than aircraft.  An aerostat is a kind of dirigible which doesn’t fly around like the Good Year Blimp does. Instead, aerostats are tethered to the ground to stay in place to hoist something aloft and keep it there. A blimp has just an outer shell and is filled with helium. 

The Hindenburg, of “oh the humanity” fame, is not a blimp, but actually a rigid airship.  If you recall the famous picture where the Hindenburg falls to earth in Lakehurst New Jersey, you can see the frame as the outer shell and the helium burns.  The Goodyear Blimp doesn’t have that shell.  There will be a test on this later.

After applying for so many jobs, this one came to him via a headhunter.  He never applied for it.  As a submariner, I’m sure that he never thought he’d be qualified for such a thing.  God has such a sense of humor.  There were 5 possible offers on the table.  Four of them involved the military contracting world.  Then the aerostat company came in out of left field.  I discounted it, but told God that I was open to whatever he had for us.  This was it.

I continue to love my job in the Sex Offender Investigative Unit of the state police agency which doesn’t like us to mention it directly in social media.  Valor, Service, Pride…that’s all I’ll say, you can figure it out!

People are often surprised that I find my job so rewarding.  They cite the kind of folks they imagine that I work around and the danger involved.  While I suppose there is some danger, the folks would surprise you.  Most of them are pretty much like you and I are.  They are also sinners, many of whom are now reformed and redeemed. 

What I didnt realize was that sex offenders are the lepers of modern society.  They are never forgiven by others and wear a stigma which makes their lives difficult forever.  And I do mean forever.  Offenses vary from the very minor to terribly heinous, but all of the offenders appear on the same Internet list with their picture, home, and work addresses disclosed. Not only are they stigmatized, but their entire families often are, too.

I received a touching Christmas card from one of them; “Thank you, Officer Bremer, for treating me like a human being.”  The job is not what I thought it would be and affords me many, many opportunities for ministry.

During this transition to a new year, I’ve spent some time in thought and prayer to figure out what I need to work on in 2013. Opportunity to seize more of what God has for me stretches before me. While there is room for much improvement, I have narrowed my focus down to a few areas of concentration which center around mindfulness and avoiding rushing.  I’ve come to realize that nothing, absolutely nothing, is accomplished when I rush.

I am also choosing to stay focused on people when I am with them.  I want to be engaged with and on people, whether loved ones, neighbor children or the public I serve.  Often, I am trying to multi-task or rushing through what folks are telling to get on to the next thing. 

I realized in December that I was doing that to a child.  I stopped myself.  That day after Sandy Hook, I realized that she was only there in front of me, eyes expectantly locked on mine, a beautiful 6 year old, for that moment.  She was more important than my cell phone, the garbage that needed to be emptied, and the hundred things that press me in at the holidays.

This year I will slow down.  I will fully engage with everything around me. I will see the beauty in the small things.  That’s my choice.

Knee Mail

This sign was food for thought while taking a walk Sunday.

The name of this church, Monumental Methodist, cracks me up.  The church is over 200 years old, so the naming of the church is back deep in history. Every time I see it, though, I hear Ed Sullivan's voice saying, "It's a reaallly reaallly big, HUGE, giant, MONUMENTAL church. Actually, this old church is a normal size. My guess is that the church's name has something to do with a monument, although there is no monument there now.

Maybe if we spent more time sending knee mail instead of email, we'd have more productive lives.  I know I would!

Red Barns

I was wondering about my obsession with red barns this morning when the Rolodex in my brain flipped the cards back to my Grandfather Dunn reading a pop-up book to me about a farm. I recall being amused that the book was a "pop up" book and I called this grandfather "Pop."

Each page had a tabs on the side that you pulled, causing the chickens to lay eggs or the horse's tail to move.  The center pages popped up a red barn in the middle.  That was back when I was learning to read and the letter "J" looked like a soup ladle to me.

My mother and my Pop, her father, were teachers.    They both read to all of us often; wonderful books like Hide N Seek Fog and the Lonely Doll series.  Christmas and birthdays always involved stacks of books like Little Women, Island of the Blue Dolphins, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and other edifying books.

I would sit in a blue patterned wing chair in the living room for hours transported to New York City at the turn of the century or Massachusetts during the Civil War.  I am so glad that my niece, Piper, carries on this tradition...despite Facebook and other electronic enticements.

So Saturday was a red barn kind of day. I find that weathered silo very beautiful.

If I could have staged this pic below, I would have added a pair of worn cowboy boots.

National Coffee Day

Today is National Coffee Day.  Do you ever wonder who makes up "days?" I get Columbus Day. Mother's Day,. Father's Day, etc.  Such days came about by tradition.  However, some of these "days" I kinda wonder about.  "Thank a Police Officer Day"....clearly I have no problem with that, but we also have "Wear A Skirt Day"...also okay, but what for?

I found this list of National "Days" as follows:
Real List of National Days

January 10 is Peculiar People Day...finally, a holiday just for me.

So about O'Doodle Doo's....This is an incredibly cool little doughnut cafe out in the "toolies" as we say in my family, in the country area of Suffolk.  The building has been a used car lot, an ice cream shop, and several other incarnations.

I adore the big billboard-type sign along the side of the road.  I've noticed it for about a year.  I keep telling myself that I'm going to go, but I never get around to it. Today, I got around to it.

Love at their posted hours, "5 a.m. til 2'ish or until the doughnuts sell out."  Love that. I would, however, like to change "everyday" to every day.

So today, to celebrate National Coffee Day, I finally went to O'Doodle Doo's.  I became a cliche of a law enforcement officer as I got a light sweet coffee to go and two doughnuts.  I had a pumpkin velvet and a banana nut.  Bruce had a pumpkin velvet and a "vanilla eyeball."  In where the doughnut hole should have been, there was a bloodshot eyeball in honor of the ghoulish season.  We sat under an awning at a picnic table, sat companionably sipping coffee and hot chocolate over "ooooh this is so GOOD." We gazed at this across the street.

Bruce told me this joke. A trooper pulled over a man and said, shining a flashlight in his eyes, "Sir, your eyes are bloodshot, have you been drinking?"  The man peered at the trooper and said, "Your eyes look glazed, Officer, have you been eating doughnuts?"  Why, yes, I have been.

It might be raining this morning,but life is good.

Learn more about this cool-lio place here:
O'Doodle Doo's

It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

And speaking of Andy Williams, I can just hear him singing that song.  No, I am not confused on the date at all.  For me, Autumn is the most wonderful; time of the year.  I do not blossom in extremely hot weather.  In fact, high temps often make me feel unwell and cranky.

Pumpkin spice lattes are a seasonal item which disappear after New Year's.  The moment they arrive at Starbucks marks the beginning of Fall for me, despite the temp or the calendar.  Shortly afterwards, the evenings become a little cool...just that bare hint of Fall.  The days are pleasant and this period of time is my most wonderful time of the year.

Virginia is still a major agricultural area when you get out of the suburbs.  We are blessed with farm stands all around which do Autumn in a big way.

I adore church pews.  This high-backed pew is particularly charming.

I couldn't find the name of this country store out 12 miles from my house in the country.  It was closed for the day, so I couldn't ask.  Yes, I did trespass and take pictures.

Enjoy every moment of this season with its wildly exuberant colors, the crunch of the leaves under foot, the sounds of the geese honking as they fly in formation, the taste of pumpkin bread,  and the slimey feel of the seeds you pull out when you carve a Jack-o-Lantern.  Savor it all, because it will be over before you know it.

Goodbye, Andy Williams

My mother had this record.  Another amazing crooner...gone.

Salt and Light

Have you ever persistently forgot about one pesky item at the grocery store?  Like for two weeks?  For some reason, I kept forgetting the salt.  Finally, I remembered to pick some up, got on line at Farm Fresh, and realized that my wallet was in the other car.  You'll be happy to know that I took care of the salt yesterday.

Maybe I kept forgetting the salt because I don't purchase it often. Salt is ubiquitous...on top of most tables at home, in the restaurant booth, and in little packets at the bottom of the McDonald's bag. When do we ever think too much about it?  Shake, shake...salt is always sitting on top of my stove.

This morning, I was pouring salt into my special vintage shaker when I thought about how precious salt was in the ancient world. Salt was not only a flavor enhancer in those days, but was also an important preservative.  Back then, salt was a costly and essential commodity.  You can bet your last  garbanzo bean that Ali who ran the pottage stand wasn't throwing a bunch of salt in the bottom of the burlap bag of falafal he gave to every Esau, Moishe, or Aaron.

In the interim between running out of salt and remembering to buy it, my food was a little bland.  I used some bouillon powder, which is salty, but it wasn't quite the same.  I was rationing what I had left and the food suffered from it.

Jesus called us to be salt and light in the Sermon on the Mount as follows:

Matthew 5:13

You are the salt of the earth, but if salt has lost its taste (its strength, its quality), how can its saltiness be restored? It is not good for anything any longer but to be thrown out and trodden underfoot by men.

Wow, strong words!  In the ancient world, the world that the earthly Jesus walked in, salt served two basic functions. First, salt kept food from spoiling, a basic way of curing meat in a desert area with high temperatures.  In other words, salt kept food pure enough to nourish and sustain.  Secondly, salt added flavor and zest to that nourishment. Salt made food tasty.  Salt keeps food from tasting bland.

So I'm thinking what I always think about as I consider scripture.  So what?  Wait, wait, don't get upset!  I'm saying, "So what...what does this meant to me?

Jesus is telling me, as he always does, that I am precious.  I am to serve in this world as an agent to help keep others pure, to keep them from spoiling in a certain way.  I am also here to help make the lives others zesty, flavorful.  That's a fun task, isn't it?  Don't all we bloggers try to do that, to add a little bit of zest for others to enjoy?  

Don't we serve Jesus' purpose when we create beauty at home, cook tasty meals, take pictures, refinish furniture, keep ourselves interesting for our spouses, dress and groom ourselves to avoid being invisible, grow gardens, play music, sing, or write...make life more flavorful for others?  To me, all those things help bring zip to the lives of those we love.  It's all about joie de vivre.

And if we don't?  If we live dry, cheerless, introverted, drab, measly, joyless, humorless, stuck-in-the-mud Christian lives (can that even BE a Christian life?), well, we are fit only to be trampled underfoot.

.

Fall Drive

The first day of Autumn and we took a Saturday drive.  Starbucks pumpkin lattes are back for the season.  The evenings in the Mid-Atlantic region are just a little cool. The very first leaves of fall are turning and scatter on the mirror surface of Tulls Creek:

Look closer at the same shot.  A wise old turtle suns himself on a fallen branch:

The cornstalks sway, rustle, and whisper in the breeze.

The hay is baled in the field.

Just a drive on an ordinary fall day and yet so much beauty all around.

My heart jumped when I saw this old general store along the way.

Here is a close up of the signage:  The building dates back to the 1890's.

This shy deer scampered back into the woods when she noticed me taking her picture.  Just a little gift for me on the drive home.

Nobody Living Inside

I passed by an abandoned house on Tulls Creek Road in Moyock, NC.  I was drawn to it.

I wonder what the rhythm of the falling rain sounded like on that old tin roof...

As I explored the old place, a song started playing in my head, the sound track of my life that my brain plays at odd moments:

Well there's too many windows 

in this old hotel 
And rooms filled with reckless pride 
And the walls have grown sturdy 
And the halls have worn well 
But there is nobody living inside 
Nobody living inside...

I picked my way past the abandoned garden... 

and the pond...

To peer in the windows and see one of at least three wonderful old fireplace mantels...

As always, I wondered about the house and how it ended up empty with the curtains still on the windows.    I took this black and white pic through a broken front window.

I stopped by at the library just behind the old house to inquire about it. A kind librarian handed me a fact sheet about square footage and numbers of bathrooms.  But that so wasn't what I wanted to know.

What woman stood in the kitchen in a gingham apron and put up preserves?  What children romped and shrieked and raced through the hallways?  Did they run down to that parlor with the fireplace to see what treasures Santa had left for them while the entire world was at war?   Did women with pearls and starched A-line sleeveless dresses play bridge in that parlor on July afternoons,  gently stirring the breeze with fans printed with funeral home advertisements?

Whose footfalls echoed down those stairs day after day?  When did they stop, leaving only the sound of the wind scattering the early fall leaves as the goldenrod gently swayed in the front yard?

Simple Things

The trouble with getting out of the habit of posting regularly is that as you ease back into it, you think that you must publish something momentous, stupendous, or deeply significant for the functioning of the world as we know it.

I don't know about you, but my life isn't like that, so as I get behind and try to catch up, I keep trying for that elusive next big thing to post about.

And then there's Alex and Living the Small Life, a favorite blog.  Alex posts nearly every day and I check up on her every day, too.  She doesn't post about momentous, stupendous things, but about her daily life and how she lives it.  And you know what...it fascinates me.

http://livingthesmalllife.blogspot.com/

I decided to jump back into blogging with the intent to try to chronicle something every day.  As Carole King says, "My life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue."  Life is mostly about the small stops and highlights of the journey, not the occasional enormous achievements.

My enormous achievement for yesterday was to minister to the kids next door.  Their mom struggles because their dad in another state doesn't pay his child support.  There are four of them and they hunger for adult attention.  I am closest to little Genesis.  That is her above through the mesh fencing of McDonald's play area.

A Happy Meal.  Chocolate milk.  Playing.  Picking out a little pumpkin. Eating a package of Starbursts on the way home.  Pure joy and chocolate milk mustaches.  Doesn't get any better than that.

Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for such is the kingdom of heaven.

I tweak and fluff, therefore I am

I haven't had much time to fluff things and tweak my decor lately.  I did do a little job on the Hoosier cabinet.  That's my great-grandparents on my mother's side, Annie and Martin O'Toole, in the picture. I am named after her.

I used to keep both of the cabinet's doors closed until I saw some wonderful blogger who had a similar cabinet open for display on one side.  No, of course I didn't write down whomever this genius decorator was.  I wish I did, because I love the results.

My sister gave me that sweet set of spice containers. Helen, my grandmother, had a set of spice containers just like this over the top of the stove.  I have more of them in another spot in the kitchen.  I had such a good time working on this!

As I edited this area, I noticed that I had spoken of my grandmother in the present tense, as in, "Helen has..." I corrected that and changed has to had.  Wishful thinking, but I can see her right this minute standing in front of that stove with the old-fashioned spice bottles, making creamed chipped beef with a big, wooden-handled spoon in her hand, chatting away.  The kettle is bringing hot water for tea to a boil for her proverbial "nice cup of tea".  Ginger, the marmalade-colored cat, is perched in the copper-lined dry sink, green eyes missing nothing.

My Dad is sitting at the breakfast  nook, reading the Hartford Courant as orange-red maple leaves drift past the kitchen window.  I can hear blue jays and crows crossly calling out to each other in the tree out back. There must have been a Saturday morning just like this or perhaps many mornings which now exist only inside me.  I'd give anything to be sitting waiting for creamed chipped beef on toast in my grandmother's kitchen this morning.

I feel sure that when I get to heaven that's exatly what Helen will be doing.  I sure hope so.  I miss her.

Thanks, Gale!

My friend, Gale is the best person in the whole, wide world.  Seriously, she is. No, really.   My grandmother would have called her a "peach."  In Yiddish, she is a mensch.  As the Golden Girls (and Carly Simon) used to say, "Her heart is true, she's a pal, and a confidante."

I hadn't seen her in quite some time so I was thrilled when she called to get together for lunch. I was on the way there when I realized that my wallet was in my personal vehicle not my state car.  And let me say right here that the state police really frown on employees driving without their licenses.  Just sayin'.

So Gale had to pay for lunch at Ruby Tuesdays because I am so absent-minded.  On the way out, she gave me a little gift which has been in her car for about a year.  Knowing my love for ceramic birds, she gifted me with this one.

Wow, I love the texture on it.

That medallion reminds me of the lace on the antique table cloth.

I was supposed to work on something right after I came home, editing for someone else's agenda.  I decided that was, uh, for the birds tonight! I postponed that task just for a little while to take pleasure in this small gift and eat some strawberries.  I think it was the best choice.  Life is short.  Say thanks first.

Conversation at Chez 256

Me:  I wish I hadn't finished all the cookies.

Him:  (Seriously)  We live in perilous times.

Fall Mantle

A friend asked me today what I do to re-acclimate after a trip.  Generally, I settle the dog down with a walk or a romp in the backyard, I cook a meal, and I do laundry.  Can't abide piles of laundry or piles of ironing or wearing un-ironed clothing, for that matter.  I live life on the wild side, don't I?  Yep, I'm a rebel.

I did all that Monday when I returned home from DC.  I also changed out the summer mantle to early autumn garb.  I don't know when or why I started on that, but I find it a cherished tradition now that I look forward to. Since changing my living room decor to blue and yellow, Autumn has been more of a challenge.  I think I met the challenge with a vintage Fall picture in soft yellow and blues with a touch of light brown.  You'll have to let me know what you think about it.

I find something about changing out the mantle very soothing.  I wipe it down with Murphy's oil soap, store the old season away until next year and fuss, stage, move, re-arrange, and tweak until I have it just right.  

I used to tease my mother about her need to match everything, including the candy in our living room dish which was blue to match the room.  I am more free-form about matching, but please note that my Indian corn is in yellow and blue tones which is probably a step too far into preciousness. Very twee.

Liturgical churches change vestments and altar cloths as the seasons move from Advent to Christmas to Epiphany to Lent to Easter to Pentecost to so-called Ordinary Time (I love that expression) and back to Advent again.  I guess a little of that liturgical tradition seeped deep into my soul.

Fall Mantle

Jim asked

Stinky's Restaurant

My brother in law is an expert in marketing.  Among other things I have learned from Corey is that real estate developers hire marketing firms to name new subdivisions and the streets in them. I hate anything contrived. You can immediately recognize a contrived name for such developments because there’s an “at” or “on” thrown in there for no apparent reason. Included in this concept are names such as The Golf Homes at Eagle Point, Kingsmill on the James, etc.  My brother refers to all such developments in generic fashion as being called, “Pretentions at Broken Wind.”

This is how we end up with street names these days such as Balmoral Trace, Winster Fax, The Cool Amber Forest, Leatherstocking Lane, and Tarleton Bivouac, my personal favorite for ordering delivery from Domino’s.  Try relaying that street name to someone who dropped out of high school.  Tarleton Bivouac is an unfortunate address for residents in the Williamsburg area of Virginia off Route 60.  Another favorite I ran across last year In Virginia was “Narvel Blackstock Lane, “ Narvel being the husband and manager of country star Reba McEntire and thus needing his own personal street.

I have lived on some streets with lovely names which emerged organically, rather than from the fertile mind of a marketer.  Knollwood Road, Wind Road, McKeen Place, Burnside Avenue, the generic Main Street. Mill Pond Road, Kohr Road, West End Avenue (New York City), Center Drive, Adrian Street, and my current Constitution Avenue, all strong names which just came about rather than being planned to match with other names in the area.  

Now to be fair, there are those really unfortunately named streets which did just occur naturally.  A few of them are in the Norfolk area; Quarantine and Omohundro (sounds like a name for the Hunchback of Notre Dame’s uglier brother) Streets, as well as Pleasure House Road in Virginia Beach. And yes, it is named after just what you think.  This seems problematic for Bayside Baptist Church which is located there.   I always wonder what the Southern Baptist Convention thinks about that!

All this brings me to Stinky’s, pictured above.  I think Stinky’s really needed a marketing name developer or whatever you call them.  I’m not sure what is worse, the name which seems to question either the hygiene or the cooking skill of the owner, or the skunk logo, which brings to mind a really noxious odor.  Please also note the yellow Stinky-mobile in the pic which is for catering.  All I could say when I saw this diner in the Grafton neighborhood of Yorktown, Virginia was, “Seriously?”

I think they must be related to the owners of another diner, located on the Outer Banks of North Carolina which is called, “Eat and Get the Hell Out.”  Seriously.