Stick Horse Cowgirls

      Every year I eagerly await the arrival of Spring with it’s warmer temperatures.  I bask in the days of sunshine, so welcome after the long grey winter. The  budding flowers and  the promise of May, my favorite month of the year!   “C” recently wrote about her family’s visit to the Wye Mountain Daffodil Festival, and a little ditty posted on Facebook by our blogging friend, Tess Kincaid, of www.willowmanor.blogspot.com , inspired me to post about my family’s recent visit to Wye Mountain also.  You might want to visit Tess’ blog sometime—she is a published poet with a new book coming out!  She is also a movie buff and  lives in a haunted house,  which I find most intriguing!!! The little nursery rhyme she quoted is one most of us are probably familiar with.  I thought it’s origins were English, but Google research indicated that it was written by none other than the renowned American author, Nathaniel Hawthorne, of The Scarlett Letter fame!               

I am self-employed, true enough.  You might think this means I have all kinds of discretionary time.  I guess it depends on how you define “discretionary.”  I feel like I have very little, really. Last weekend, for example, I worked both days.  No one said I had to do this.  It isn’t that I have a burning desire to work seven days a week.  No, I just knew what needed doing and went in.  Same with going into the office very early or staying late. Yesterday (Friday), my brother suggested we go out to lunch together.    We seldom do that, ending up eating at the desk 9 out of 10 work days (usually something bad for us, although we’re trying to pack healthier choices now).  I was tempted to go.  I had no afternoon appointments and the weather is so fine right now that I knew we could probably score a table out in spring. Still, I was nagged.  Shouldn’t I stay and get just one more thing done?  He and I had a serious discussion about being workaholics who fidget through times when we shoul

My niece has two dogs, Ruby and Razzle.  They are both rescued dogs, having been adopted several months apart from the humane society as puppies.  Niece and her husband are a young couple with no children, so R and R are like their kids, cared for diligently and melded into their family.  When niece and husband are home, R and R are in the house with them, much like Chili is with me. Niece reports a puzzlement about her dogs: when she and husband are watching television and a doorbell rings on the screen, both dogs instantly jump up and rush to the front door, barking raucously and clearly expecting some stranger to appear.  Now, I know that this is a common occurrence.  My Chili, too, will sometimes respond to the doorbell rings on television.  But here’s the kicker about Ruby and Razzle:  They were adopted as small puppies from different litters, some months apart.  They have lived their whole lives, save a few first weeks, with niece—who has NEVER had a doorbell.  No, Ruby

Susan and John.  They had a charmed life; both had deep trust funds from old money.  They had grown up in the same country club, had fallen in love and married seventeen years earlier.  Susan had a career as owner of a retail store.  She didn’t have to work and started this out of her passion, but still she made money.  She was a smart girl.  John had a successful career as an executive in a large locally-based company. They had two sons, in the third and fifth grades.  John was on the private school board.  Susan was as involved as any mother could be in school and sporting activities. John decided he wasn’t happy.  He came to see me to get out of the marriage.  He didn’t blame Susan.  He said, in fact, that she was a great person, a great mother, and did her best at all.  He just wanted out.  He confessed that the fault was his.  He had been through an affair and, while that woman was not someone he would leave his wife for, the single, swinging life was.  He simply did not want to

Do all of you have “legendary” pets?  I certainly hope so.  We have many, in fact almost all of the pets we have owned over the years have their own legends.  But the one that stands out—the one about whom almost all my friends have memories—was our Alaskan Malamute, now gone from us for years; I forget how many, but more than five, I know.   He was a gift to us from V.  V and her family owned Shadow’s mother, Brenna.  When Brenna had her first litter, V called and offered.  We accepted and V and her family actually chose him from the litter for us.  He came to us as “Big Mac” because he was the largest of the bunch.  We looked him over and decided he just did not look like that name to us.  My son’s good friend came up with the perfect one: “ Shadow .” Shadow’s coloring was striking.  He was black and white, and his eyes were ice blue against the black eyeliner of his coat pattern with shadowy shades of wolf grey.  Perfect camouflage in shadowy woods. We learned that his blue