Counting Down...

Only a few hours left and 2012 is over...forever.  Even though it means time is inexorably moving on and I'm not getting any younger, it also means a new year filled with endless possibilities where anything can happen--an exciting, yet slightly scary awareness.

So, I've been thinking today about my 52 Weeks plan, and already have six things in mind that I've either meant to do or want to do.  It's an odd, eclectic half dozen adventures, and no, I'm not telling until I do each one, but then you'll be the first to know...

Here's a cool thing:  A quick, simple way to feel refreshed that works like a magic trick...

Rub your hands together really vigorously until they feel toasty, then cup them over your closed eyes for 10 seconds or so.  During those seconds, breathe deep and exhale a few times.  Applying the gentle heat and energy of your hands to your eyes counteracts the tired feeling.  Try it...

Thanks everyone for stopping by this year, reading my words, admiring my photos, leaving comments now and again.  I hope we'll stay neighbors, chatting over the fence in our cyber cul-de-sac in the future.  

I wish you all a wonderful 2013, filled with love and laughter and joy. 

Happy New Year!

Namasté.

 

Room With a View...

I talk to Jan (BFF) on Sundays.  Today we're mulling over what's happened since last week's phone call; we commiserate about men, goofy dogs, the sad and sorry state of the world, and what I'm currently writing.  Along the way, we laugh, feel bad, perk up and laugh some more.  We could take this act on the road, it's so familiar and comforting.

As we're talking, I wander about the house doing easy chores, like watering the plants, start the laundry, make a smoothie, load the dishwasher...whatever I can do that only takes one hand.  So, as I'm dinking, I happen to glance out one of the front room windows that overlooks the road and the ol' dead oak tree on the other side.  I stop, squint, move closer and stare.  Jan asks me what's wrong as I've stopped talking in mid-sentence.  "It's the hawk," I whisper, as if the bird could hear me and fly off.

"Quick!" she yells, "Get your camera!"

This is the third time in as many weeks the hawk has either appeared or flown around the house while I've been talking to her.  I have yet to get a solid shot of the guy.  I grab the camera and dash to the den window which has an unobstructed view of the tree.

"Is he still there?"

"Yeah," I mutter, "though I'm having a hard time holding the phone and the camera--"

"Put down the damn phone!"

I drop the phone to the desk, but now I'm having trouble focusing the telephoto because I'm laughing at the tiny little voice wafting up from my phone as Jan keeps asking me questions.  "Shut up," I hiss, then we both start laughing harder.  Pathetic really.  If I worked for Nat Geo, I could never take her with me on assignments.

Still.  Here are three fairly good photos of the elusive Red tailed Hawk.  He is not only a very handsome fellow, but huge.  Like eagle-sized huge.  If you click on the last two shots, look at the color of those eyes.  Wow.  I think I'm in love...

Later, pictures taken, Jan asks me about New Year's resolutions, but I mention that instead I'm attempting The 52 Weeks idea.  Now we've decided to do it together.  Well, not do the same things, but do one thing each week, then on Sundays we can tell what we did.  Since we both live in very small towns, there will definitely be challenges; there's only so much going on, after all.

Though, maybe that will be half the fun...??

Haiku Heights 202...New

Buried treasure sleeps

Spring awakens budding life

Bright golden smiles

 

 

 

New was the prompt this week at Haiku Heights.  I have always loved the way daffodils are planted in Scotland, in massive clumps buried in lawns and gardens, popping up willy nilly every Spring like new-found gems.  I took this photo a few years back of the kirk (church) down the street from our house in Edinburgh.  This is just a small portion of the daffodils that covered the area in riotous profusion.  So beautiful...

 

Slightly Odd Day...

It started nice and early with the electricity going off, for no reason I could figure.  I had just poured my first cup of coffee, when suddenly everything went dark.  All the utilities are underground, the weather was overcast,  but no wind or rain, so I don't know what happened--still don't.  The furnace had barely come on, so the house was cold and getting colder by the minute, then the two hard-wired fire alarms started to alternate between an annoying chirp and an ear-splitting screech, which sent Max into I'm-Gonna-Die mode.  The poor guy, he runs down one hallway to hide in the den, and the alarm bleats; he freaks, runs down the other hallway just as that alarm does the shrieking thing.  Back and forth he ran, until I finally put him in the back bathroom, far from the turmoil before he had a heart attack.

[And speaking of those blasted fire alarms.  Why would anyone have alarms that were wired into the electrical system?  So, your electricity goes out, you're blissfully asleep, and the house catches fire.  What kind of plan is that??  Alan and I installed battery-operated ones, of course, but who knew the electric ones would come to life like hungry vampires?]

Half an hour later, just as I'm wondering how to open my (electric) garage door so I can get the three of us out of the house and into a warm car, the lights are magically restored.  I quickly open the garage, and we head down the mountain to the park.

The soccer park is totally empty, which means the boys can have a little off-leash time, and I'm the only car in the whole huge parking lot.  As I start to open the back door to let the dogs out, this gnarly ol' pickup truck comes toward me, and parks about three spaces away...in a lot with dozens of empty spots.  Crap.  Ozzy is bouncing up and down, eager to get going, but I'm not liking this scenario, so I make him wait while I wonder what's up with this guy.

He lumbers out of the truck, and right behind him two pit bulls come flying.  Double crap.  Neither dog is wearing a collar, which means no leash, though right off the bat it's pretty clear this isn't a leash-type guy anyway.  There's no frigging way I'm letting my two snacks out of the car now.  Resigned, I get back in and drive away, Ozzy whining the whole time.  We ended up at a different park, very muddy and boggy, but the boys didn't care.

Back home, I make a coffee, then call Mom for my usual Friday catch-up.  She wants to make scones, and has a recipe I sent her from Scotland, but the butter amount is too smudged to read, so she asks me how much.  Bear in mind I sent her this recipe in 2003; like I remember how much butter?  I start going through my cookbooks, then my two overflowing recipe boxes, and though I find several scone variations, I'm not finding the one that matches the one she has.  Eventually, comparing all the versions, I make a judgment call on the flour to butter ratio.  By this time I'm wanting some scones myself, so when we hang up, I whip up a small batch of eight.

When I take them out of the oven, 20 minutes later, they look like crackers.  Flatter than pancakes.  WTF?  I'm dumbfounded.  I've made scones dozens of times.  Grumpy, still trying to figure what's gone wrong, while putting the self-raising flour back into its container...I notice the expiration date says January, 2011.  Two years, people.  Two.

Goes to show a) I don't often use self-raising flour, and b) they really mean it on that expiration date.

I'm having Santa Fe soup tonight for dinner, and these scone crackers will taste great with the spicy flavor of the soup.  They're a bit crispy on the outside, and soft in the middle; I'm thinking of sprinkling a little Parmesan on top, then giving them a quick broil.  And hey, I might have just invented an entirely new snack cracker.

Though, I still want a scone.  Too bad I don't have any flour...

One Down...One To Go...

Christmas done and dusted for another year.  I had a very pleasant day, just the boys and me.  We took a nice long, late morning walk, then I did some writing, reading, and made a really great dinner later in the afternoon.  It was a quiet, cozy day, which was just fine.

So, now there's only New Year's left, and we can call it 'game over' for 2012.  Considering what kind of year it's been, it will be good to see the backside of it.

As always, I have high hopes when a new year starts.  I try to keep thinking the glass is at least half full for as long as I can, and depending on outside influences, sometimes I can actually maintain a positive attitude clear into February.  Just kidding.  Mostly.

Here's another thing: I don't do resolutions.  Setting myself up to fail isn't how I like to do things.  Although, this year I am going to try something.  I was reading a review on a book called, The 52 Weeks, by Karen Amster-Young and Pam Godwin (out in 2013).  The premise is to try a new thing, once a week, for a year.  It doesn't have to be hard or complicated: cooking something new, going somewhere different, talking to a stranger, learning how to waltz.  The point is to expand your horizons, step out of the familiar, and have some fun in the process.

So, that's my big plan for 2013.  No resolutions, just possibly some fun experiences.  And if you think about it, that's only 52 things in the whole year.  Surely I can find 52 new things to try.  Right?  Right.

You know I'll be posting about this--weekly, if all goes well.  It will be interesting to see how it plays out...

Regardless of Persuasion...

Happy Holidays !!

 

 

Coffee, With a Side of Perky

So, Mom and I are talking yesterday.  Chit chat, catch-up, nothing big, when suddenly she bursts out laughing.  For a few seconds there she can't stop long enough to tell me what's so funny.  Finally, still breathless, she asks me if I've seen the television commercial about the woman buying her kid a big doll house.  I guffaw.  "The one with the too-perky sales person?"  And we're off, both of us howling, stomachs aching, tears streaming.  I manage to gasp out, "Redwoods, the drive-thru coffee place..." 

Here, let me explain...
 
A few years ago, when Alan and I first came to America, we stayed at my mother's house for a bit.  One day, we decided to take a road trip, so the three of us piled into the car and drove south to the Redwoods, a place I wanted Alan to see.  It was a beautiful drive, not even two hours from Mom's, through ancient forests and winding mountain roads.  We do the northern section of the Redwoods--it would take more time and involve hiking to see the whole park, something Mom can't do.  In the afternoon, before heading back, we stop in this small town on the California coast to have lunch.  Can't decide where to eat, so I suggest we get some coffee, and we can ask a local where a good place might be.
 
We pull up to the little drive-thru coffee kiosk and before I've even started to lower my window, this girl bounces forward--literally--and chirps out the most manically cheerful "Hello!!!!!!  What wonderful drink can I get for you today?" that I've ever heard.  It's so over the top, I'm startled for a moment, completely taken aback.
 
I'm driving, Mom's in the passenger seat, Alan's in the back.  I turn to Mom with a look of horror on my face.  She takes one look at me and bites her lip to keep from laughing.  I try to act like an adult, but it's hard.  Remaining calm, I ask what she and Alan want, then tell the girl, who exuberantly says, "Excellent choices!!!!!!!" and again bounces to the coffee machine like she's got tennis balls glued to her feet.
 
"Oh god," I mutter to Mom.  She starts to laugh.  I tell her to stop because I'm hanging by a thread.  Right then the girl comes to the window and tries to talk us into having "Yummy whipped cream" on our coffees.  I tell her no thanks.  She does this pout thing that makes my mother snort, and again tries to sell the whipped cream.  Jokingly, I say, "Do you get a commission on the whipped cream?"  Blankly, she looks at me.  Mom is eating the sleeve on her sweater, and I'm trying, so, so hard, to be nice.
 
I tell her to please forget the extras, we just want coffee because we're going to lunch, then take the segue by asking if she knows a good place to eat.  A very, very big mistake.  Miss Perky totally forgets our coffees, and proceeds to give us a complete menu rundown on each and every restaurant, bar and fast food joint in town.  Thank all the gods in this world and the next it was a small town.  She bounced, she giggled, she dithered, she wandered, and I'm sure there were at least two more blank moments.  At one point I mumbled under my breath that I wanted whatever drugs she was having.

At long last, unable to stand it, I (politely) interrupt, remind her about our drinks, then as I'm pulling away, she shouts after us, "Have a super wonderful day!!!!!!"  When I get onto the highway, Mom commends me for not leaping through the window and strangling the girl, knowing my threshold is extremely low for mindless perkiness.  As we drive away, I start talking all chirpy and goofy, then reiterate that I really should have ordered whatever kind of coffee the employees drink because no one is naturally that cheery.  The three of us lose it at this point and I have to pull the car to the side of the road because I can't see to drive from laughing.
 
So yesterday...

In the commercial, as the woman leaves with her Christmas doll house, the clerk bounces behind the counter and says soooo cheerfully, "Have a super sparkly day!!!!!!!!!!"  I tell Mom it has to be the coffee girl's sister.  We crack up again.  It was the best laugh I've had in ages.  Mom said every time she sees the ad, she thinks about that road trip.

As we finished our phone call, Mom and I tried to beat each other to the punch, but ended up saying it at the same time.   We were both laughing as we hung up, "Have a super sparkly day!!!!!" echoing in our heads.  

I think it's just become the new goodbye.

Haiku Heights 201...Snow

Drifting flakes fall soft

Winter homes silent and cold

Snowbirds have flown south

 

 

 

[Prompt this week from Haiku Heights.  I took this photo last year of the birdhouse in my back garden.  The image also made me think of all the houses left behind when, every year, 'snowbirds' head to warmer climes in their RVs.]

What Day Is It...??

Tomorrow, December 21st, the shortest day of the year, the Winter Solstice.  How cool, because now it's straight uphill, each day growing just a tiny bit longer and brighter as we slog through January--endless, bleak January--then February, March, until suddenly we notice those tell-tale signs of Spring, see those little buds poking up through snow, mud, or dirt.

I don't mind hunkering down for a few months, slowing the pace.  With miserable, bad weather, there are valid reasons to stay home, wear cozy warm clothes, read or nap on a blustery Sunday afternoon, snuggle on the couch to watch old movies under a quilt.   Ah, the hidden joys of Winter...

Now, about those strange folk who don't see tomorrow as the Winter Solstice, but instead think the world will end because of a very misunderstood and badly interpreted Mayan tablet.  I don't know what to say.  I've written before on my complete bafflement on this issue, so won't go into it again, because I just don't get it.  I really don't.  But, each to his own, I guess.  And if tomorrow the world implodes?  Well, I'll be the first to say, "oops."

I doubt I'll have to say that however, because here's what I really think:

Happy Winter Solstice everyone...

Heap on more wood--the wind is chill;

But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.

                                                                                 -- Sir Walter Scott

Words, Wind and Wee Dogs

In case no one noticed, I just have to point out that I finished the 2012 Reading Challenge!!  Totally cool that I actually managed to finish something this year.  Okay, I know that's not really true, I finish stuff all the time, but after bailing on NaNo and feeling a bit like a loser, I really wanted to nail this one.
 
And hey, if you're wondering: I'm loving my Lemon Cheesecake cookies...though they don't look like something you would take to a Christmas Cookie Exchange, do they?  Still, if you close your eyes and take a bite, they taste exactly like cheesecake.  The base is a graham cracker crust-like mixture, then the dollop in the middle is the cheesecake stuff.  So.  Who cares what they look like as long as they're tasty...right??

I'm having fun with the Library story on blog two.  Course, I wrote too much for a single post, I think, so divided Chapter One into two parts, even though in an actual book, 2,300 words is just about right for a chapter.  Oh well, it's a blog, not a book.
 
Weather is bitterly cold, and again with the wind!  When we walked to get the mail this afternoon, a very strong gust blew up the mountain and actually rolled wee Ozzy across the road!  He was not a happy boy and looked at me like it was my fault, which made me laugh.  After I plucked all the road debris off him, I carried him for a bit just to soothe his ruffled feelings.  It can't be good to only weight as much as a bag of flour when it's really blustery.
 
Still.  He got a ride out of the deal...I just got numbed fingers and frozen earlobes.

Seriously? You Call That a Storm?

Some good snow overnight, though right now at 3:00pm it's so sunny I'm nearly blind from the glare beaming through the front windows, and all the beautful fluffy white is gone.  What kind of crap storm was that?  I was truly hoping for a couple of gnarly snow days, but though the sky is churning with black clouds, they aren't coming anywhere in my direction.  Nuts...

I finished the new blog and the prologue, but haven't officially published either.  I'm not totally pleased with it, but hope once I get into the plot, the next installment will be more interesting.  Uh huh.  This whole idea could be one big charley foxtrot, but I'll run with it for now. 

Here's the link, if anyone's curious: www.scribbles2013.blogspot.com.

And now that I've linked it, I guess I'd better go publish the stuff, huh?  Then I'm off to make some Lemon Cheesecake Cookies.  I saw this recipe on a Food Network show the other day and hopefully it will be as easy for me to bake as it was for the TV person. 

Okay, I know.  Famous last words...

Storms Aplenty

Last night I thought the house was going to blow off the mountain.  So did the boys.  Truly strong winds, branches falling, debris crashing into the windows, lost internet and television, and a long stretch with constantly flickering lights that made me put out flashlights and candles all over the house.  We went to bed earlier than usual, though none of us could settle very well, what with the weird noises and the wind wailing like a banshee 'round the corners of the house.  A bad storm is a good time to be glad I have a Kindle.  I was under my heavy blankets, a dog on either side, and a book to read that didn't require electricity, candles or even my trusty flashlight.

Then this morning we woke to torrential rains, some of the blackest clouds I have ever seen, and my Christmas wreath in the bushes across the road.  It's a bit the worse for wear, but I put it back up anyway, though this will likely be the last year, poor beat up old thing.

Against my better judgment, I took the boys down the mountain to the park later in the morning.  We managed to get about ten minutes into a very soggy walk when the skies burst open and the rain took 'downpour' to a whole new level.  I thought Ozzy was going to wash away, so we all turned tail and ran back to the car.  It didn't escape my notice that we were the only dopes ones out there either. 

So, heading back home in wet coats (them) and drenched clothes (me), the car smelling like damp dog and the bag of poop in my pocket that I forgot to toss in my haste to get back to the car.  And believe me, with the heat on and in the confined space of the Blazer, I was sorely tempted more than once to throw the bag out the window, but I didn't.  I waited--then leaped out of the car and hit the garbage can the second I was in the garage.  Who knew those little bags were so...thin?

This afternoon I worked on the prologue to the story I'm writing for the new blog, while snow and wind raged outside.  There's something so comforting about being inside when the weather is foul.  We walked to the mailbox just before it got dark, which I was sorry about because a) the damn postman was late again so no mail, and b) the temperature was down into the low 30s and dropping with every step.  Guess the weather folks are right for a change: we're supposed to be getting a snowstorm tonight that will carry on into Wednesday.

Being housebound for a day or two might be just what I need to finish #75, the last book in my 2012 Reading Challenge; post the new blog and start the serial story; make some Christmas cookies...and stay indoors warm and cozy.  I've got food, wine, whiskey and a couple pals to keep me company.

Yeah...that works for me.

Snow and Sorrow

It snowed for an hour or so first thing this morning, though didn't stick.   There were just tiny flakes, so ethereal they seemed to float rather than actually fall. Still, it was snow.

In the photo above you can't see the mountains behind the ridges, but every now and then the clouds shift and there's a little glimpse of the real snowfall.

I've been working on building another blog, one that is just my stories, separate from my daily derrings-do on this site.  I have an idea about a novella, or maybe just a long, short story (and there's an oxymoron if I ever wrote one), though everything--the new blog, my thoughts, the plot--are in the early stages.

Since the horrors of yesterday, I have been avoiding the internet, and the television.  I cried for the poor wee babies who perished, and the families who will never recover, but the constant media bombardment is too much for me.  Even trying to get onto my blog just now, I couldn't avoid the screaming headlines.

And I'm not going to soapbox here, but I have to say one thing:  Besides addressing gun regulation--or more specifically the lack thereof--I think this country should also seriously begin focusing on the other, hopelessly overlooked issue of mental illness.  It's not just the gun, it's the mind behind the trigger.

That's all.  Snow and sorrow.  What a world we live in...

Santa's Lap

She hesitantly made her way forward, occasionally jostled by children both in front and behind her in the long line that meandered toward Santa.

Nervous, she kept her eyes on the jolly bearded man as he deftly lifted child after child onto his lap.  He seemed to listen carefully, head tilted, as each one told him what they wanted for Christmas.  His cheerful elf gave every child a large candy cane as they were helped off the platform, sending them on their way with happy smiles.

When her turn came, she balked and started to turn away, but Santa laughed and patted his knee, a distinct twinkle in his eye.

When she was perched on his lap,  he asked, “And what can Santa get you for Christmas, my dear?”

“I really just want a photo of me sitting on your lap,” she said.  “I thought it would be a really funny Christmas present for my parents.”

“I’m sure they’ll love it.”  He faced forward, murmuring, “I know I am.”  As she narrowed her eyes at him, he grinned, then brightly said, “Smile at the camera!”

Ramblings Amidst Rainbows

Today is a date that will not be seen again for a century.  12-12-12.  What a nice roundness to the numbers, and so easy to remember if you got married today, as hundreds of couples did.

So, could someone then explain to me why these simple, innocuous little digits mean The End--the precursor, the imminent slide down the slippery slope, the demise of civilization as we know it?  Why?  Anyone out there who can tell me why doom-and-gloomers actually want to believe this?

It's just a series of numbers, people!!  Instead of looking for the sign of the Apocalypse, why aren't folks glad to be alive, thankful to be living on our beautiful planet, appreciating the uniqueness of a date that will not be seen by most of us ever again.

Every year since we hit the 21st century, I've loved the symmetry of 1-1-1, 2-2-2, etc., and now we've arrived at the last of them.  Maybe the babies born today will be celebrating their 100th birthdays on the next 12-12-12.  Imagine how things will have changed, what advances there surely will have been in medicine, science, technology.  Hopefully, war will be obsolete, and prejudice, and divisive political parties.

I would rather look positively ahead to the future, then wait with fear and grim anticipation for The End.  Wouldn't you?

****************************************************

This morning when I opened the blinds, the sun was shining along one of the ridges, though the mist was thick in the hollows.  If you click on the photo, you can see a small part of the valley, to the right, in another little spot of sun...

The rains have stopped--for the moment, so the boys and I went to a different part of the park to walk along the river this morning.  I was startled to see how much damage the floods of last week did to the bank. 

Last month I was standing next to that large tree looking out at the river.  Now there's nothing to stand on, and look at the poor little tree.  Sadly, this is just December; the real floods don't happen until Spring.  At this rate, there won't be much of the bank left for the sapling to cling to...

With the threat of Armageddon (or is it the Apocalypse?  Who can keep up...), I happened to glance outside a moment ago...

Seriously.  I'm going for beauty over destruction.  Care to join me?

Magpie Tales 147...The Journey

The map of life

etched onto every

body

 

History written in

latitude and longitude across

skin

 

 

 

 

I love the prompt from Magpie Tales this week.  I was mesmerized by the map, settling like a cloak over the woman's body.  What a great photograph...

Mountain Life

Yesterday, while on the phone talking to my mother, I happened to look out the front windows--the same windows that overlook the White Oak tree I photographed the other day--and I nearly dropped the phone.  The biggest hawk ever was perched on a branch of that tree, staring right at the house. 

I told Mom I would call her back, grabbed the camera, then discreetly tried to slide the telephoto between slats of the Venetian blinds, focus, and manage to get a clear shot, all without alerting the hawk. 

Right.  A bird that can spot a field mouse from space, and he's not going to see me jostling the blinds or poking a camera in his direction from across the road.   And, of course, the second I get everything lined up--and through the telephoto, this guy was seriously scary and as large as a bald eagle--he spreads his enormous wings and flies off.  I got nothing.  Just a bare branch with nary a feather to be seen.  I kept looking throughout the day, hoping, but he didn't come back.

Then this morning as I drive around the bend toward the house after walking the boys, there's a large buck strolling casually down the road.  It's the Head of the Herd--all the does and fawns up here are his--and he wasn't in the least inclined to move off the road; this is his territory and he makes it very clear. 

Once, last year, he bellowed at me when I was out back raking leaves--guess he thought I was too close to the familia.  I wasn't even aware he was there in the woods, but I sure got his message loud and clear. 

I don't know where he hangs out during the Summer months, though there are plenty of fawns around so I know he keeps...ahem...busy.  Around this time of year he shows up and struts around just in case there are any interlopers or young bucks foolish enough to challenge him. 

So, I quickly parked the car, then dashed inside for the camera and went out on the front deck just as he walked into the bushes beside the drive.  I barely had time to get one decent shot before he leaped over the deer fence as if it were no more bother than stepping onto a city curb.

Here's my semi-crappy photo, nothing compared to how he looked meandering along in the middle of the road as if everything on the mountain belonged solely to him.  He's a handsome guy, isn't he?  And with that impressive headgear, it's no wonder he has such a nice big harem...

Now, if I can just avoid any more wildlife safari stuff for the rest of the weekend, I should be able to finish my last handful of Christmas cards, then get back to my latest book.  I am so close to the end of my 2012 Reading Challenge--only 2-1/2 books away from reaching my objective--and since I bailed on NaNo, I'm definitely completing this goal.

It's Never Dull...

My wee boy, Max

 

This morning the weather was damp and soggy from last night's rain, but by the time the boys and I got down the mountain there were actually little glimmers of sun peeking through the clouds.  Because our usual route through the soccer field park is underwater from the significant flooding we're having right now, and the main field is a swamp, I took a longer trail that skirts the entire complex.  Some parts were still really muddy and slippery, but it was doable.

 

About halfway around there's a smaller parking area and a one-way-only exit.  As we meander past the lot, heading for the paved path along the river, this big blue van suddenly swerves off the road and drives into the lot going the wrong way.  WTF?  The dogs are off-leash as there isn't a soul in sight, or for that matter in the whole park--a disturbing fact I register as the van comes to a stop not too far from where I'm standing.

 

Funny how a dozen nefarious plots run through your mind in an instant.

 

I call the boys to me, and for once they obey immediately, but before I can leash them up, the sliding van door flies open and four teenage girls come tumbling out, followed by three guys, and they all head straight for me.  Well holy crap, what is this now?

 

One girl, very cute with wild, long red hair, smiles as she stops in front of me.  I'm taller, bigger, probably way meaner...yeah, I can probably at least take her, I'm thinking.  "I hate to bother you," she says, "but we're on a scavenger hunt for school," and now I see a woman climbing out of the van from behind the wheel, an adult who gives me a friendly smile and a wave.

 

"Okay," I say, making it a question of sorts as I dial down my inner Xena.

 

She actually blushes, turns to another girl who has a camera, and says, "I can't say it!"  All the kids start laughing and now they're in a half-circle in front of me.

 

"What's going on?" I ask.

 

Red turns to me and says, face nearly as bright as her hair, "I have to propose to a dog!"

 

I blink as all visions of my imminent demise waft away, then burst out laughing.  "Seriously?"

 

The girl with the camera is giggling as one of the boys waves a long list on a sheet of paper.  Grinning, he says, "Number 7."

 

"Okay then," I grin back, "your best bet is Max.  Ozzy won't come close, but Max will run off to Vegas with you if you give him any attention at all."

 

Just saying his name brings the Love Puppy over and he immediately goes from kid to kid looking for some action.  Red kneels down, and before she can even call him over, Max is wiggling and squirming and practically in her lap as she scratches behind his ears. Camera Girl takes several shots, then one of the other girls says, "You have to say the words."

 

Truly blushing now, Red leans toward Max and whispers, "Will you marry me?"  And leave it to Max, I swear he grins, then licks the end of her nose just as Camera Girl gets the last shot.  It was hilarious.  Everyone's laughing, then with profuse thank yous tossed over shoulders, they all jump back in the van and a couple of minutes later, the kids, the van, and Max's girl are just a memory.

 

"Sorry buddy," I say to Max, "some things just aren't meant to last."  I bend and give him a good scratch.  He looks up at me, wags his tail, then dashes down the path looking for squirrels, Ozzy on his heels.

 

Who knew when we left the house this morning that Max would get engaged, then get dumped, all in a matter of moments.  Good thing he could care less, though I bet his ex-fiancé never forgets him...

 

Tea and Trees...

It's been raining heavily for days now, and though I'm not complaining, it is a bit hard to get the timing right for dog walking.  And honestly, I lose my patience when I haul the three of us down the mountain to the flooded and boggy park, get ready to walk (phone? check; leashes? check; poop bags? check; umbrella? check), then the rain starts and the dogs refuse to get out of the car.  Somewhere along the line things got seriously twisted where being the human means nothing.

So, this morning I'm just heading down the driveway for the walk.  On one side of the car it's white, fluffy clouds and sunshine.  On the other it's dark and gloomy, sprinkles of rain just beginning to dot the windshield.  I sit in the car, debating with myself.  Stay or go, stay or go.

While I'm thinking, my eyes suddenly focus on the gnarly old oak across the road.  I look at this tree every day--it's right out the window where I sit at the table on the laptop--but today, in the approaching squall, it looks particularly sinister.  I park the car, get out and take a few shots...

What makes branches grow so kinked and convoluted?  All the White Oaks up here look like this, with dark, moss-laden limbs and crooked joints.

Then I turned the other way, and took this photo: just the tops of my Birch trees against the clouds and blue sky.  These bad boys are so tall, I would have to walk a ways up the road to get the full height in a photo.  At certain times in the year (Summer green/Fall gold), I can see them on the mountain if I'm down in the valley; I might not be able to see the house, but I can always spot my trees.

And speaking of the trees:  I spent some serious time working outside on Sunday and Monday, trying to clean the millions of oak and birch leaves off the decks and out of the yard.  It was brutal, cold and miserable work, but after hours of raking moaning, hauling crying, sweeping cursing, I got it done.  Late Monday night we had another freakishly strong wind/rain storm.  Tuesday I opened the blinds and the entire front and back were covered in oak and birch leaves. 

See how many leaves are left on the trees in the photo above?  I'm calling that compost and moving on...

Today my plan was to write my Christmas cards, though I seem to have dinked the afternoon away with one thing and another, including brewing myself a strange cup of tea.  These leaves supposedly make the most complex Chinese tea because of the length in the aging process.  Once steeped, the tea is very dark red, and tastes...sort of...uh.  Let me take another sip.  Nope.  Still indescribable, though I'll go with kind of musty, and earthy, like a strong mushroomy broth.

This won't become my daily tea, for sure, but it's supposed to be good for the blood, and who knows, maybe the taste is an acquired one and I might someday love that moldy dirt flavor.  However, in the meantime, I've got to get on with writing my cards...

...right after I go brush my teeth and gargle.

On Being a Memoirist

Over the weekend I read an interview in the December issue of The Writer's Chronicle, with Mary Karr, professor, poet and memoirist (of three books that chronicle her life: The Liars' Club, Cherry, and Lit).  It was a compelling article, and like her books, she didn't hold back on revelations about her journey.  She calls a stint in a mental hospital, her "nervous breakthrough."  I couldn't help laughing at the humor, mostly directed at herself.

And curiously, when did autobiography morph into memoirist?  I much prefer the latter, though can't help wondering when the change occurred.  Having looked up both words, I'm at a loss to understand the difference, though I suppose it really doesn't matter, the objective being a life told by the person who lived it. 

After reading the article, I went back to one sentence in particular that struck me:

"A memoir is not an act of history; it's an act of memory, and in that sense it's corrupt."

Oh man, I totally understand that sentence. 

Here's a personal example of corrupted memory:  There's an ongoing debate between my sister and I, and Mom about an event in our teen years.  During one summer, my sister went to this church camp thing when she was in junior high; I was in high school and wouldn't have gone to a camp, church or otherwise, for any reason under the sun.  Mom insists--vehemently--that I was the one at the camp, no matter that my sister can recite chapter and verse, and sing the hymns.  Why my mother--who should know which one of her daughters would have actually attended such a camp--persists in thinking it was me, is beyond understanding.

Mom's memory is corrupt.  (And if you're reading this Mom?  I did not go to that blasted church camp!!!)

Can anyone truly remember details of their past?  I could come close, perhaps.  I have many journals to use as refreshers--though even what I wrote is subjective and based on my age, my mood, my circumstances.  Still, my memory/recall is functional and I can bring back conversations, incidents, journeys, emotions.  However, if the recollection isn't precisely exactly unerringly perfect, does that change the reality of the event?  Turn fact into fiction?

I think intent is key here.  If I intend to deceive, or purposefully make something up, that's fiction plain and simple.  But when I write about an episode in my life, pulling it from the memory banks to relate it as authentically as I can, my goal is to share a fragment of truth as I know it.  And frankly, my actual life stories are better than anything I could invent anyway.

So, is there a point to this post?  Maybe.  It's interesting, after all, to troll through our memories, recall past events, tell our tales.  And though we should strive to be as faithful to the facts as possible--unless we're writing fiction--we probably ought to stop every now and then to ponder how accurate those facts truly are. 

Just don't ask my mother...

Haiku Heights 198...Storm

 

  

Early morning light

Softly offers Winter’s gift

Beauty shaped by storm

 

 

 

[The prompt at Heiku Heights this week was Storm.  I took this photograph last February after a wild period of relentless snow.  On the third morning, I opened the blinds and instead of swirling snow, there was just the silent, still beauty of weak sunlight behind the snow-covered branches of my Birch tree.]