Stick Horse Cowgirls

Cowgirl V: Cheers, Goodbye 2011 and My Holiday Newsletter Ramblings

2012-01-01T02:38:00.001-06:00

So ends 2011. I don’t want to sound like a pessimist, but I must say that I will not miss 2011! Our family has dealt with some difficult events that were unforeseeable. Eldest daughter has suffered a complicated pregnancy, a diagnosis of epilepsy, a bacterial blood infection and a blood clot. She endures a painful injection in the abdomen of a blood thinner medication everyday . My grandchildren had to call 911 one evening when I had left for just an hour. I have never been so afraid in my life, except when my son broke his neck in an ATV accident a few years back.

The Christmas Dinner 2011 Roast Goose

My son cooked the roast goose!

Our son’s fairytale wedding (which I posted about) a couple of years ago, sadly didn’t have a happy ending. It came to an abrupt end when he discovered she was involved with someone else this summer. Just telling it as it is. He was devastated and so were we, but he is staying busy and close to family and friends. He’s going to be fine, but sometimes eldest daughter and I see a deep sadness in his expression. It’s hard! Only God knows how much he’s been through and the struggles he’s had in his life. Makes me almost despair at times, but I still see hope and faith in him and I pray for him everyday. Really, his whole life is a miracle and an answer to prayer. Some day I will post what he’s given me permission to write.

I love to get Christmas letters from friends and family! Maybe I’m just nosey, but I like to keep up with people I know. Most newsletters focus on the accomplishments and vacations, etc. Kathy, my neighbor from years ago writes the best newsletters! She writes about the good and the bad—the accomplishments, the losses—no veneer or glossing over, but truth and hope prevail in her letters. I hope I never embarrass anyone or air dirty laundry as a sort of voyeurism, but I appreciate REAL! A while back, I told “C” about an especially braggy newsletter I had received. “Here’s an example of mine this year if I were to write one”, I said. Then I recited my imaginary letter with the true real life events of my messed up life and all the stuff my kids had done in their rebellious years. We laughed our heads off! Better than crying!

The way we were around 1978. Has it been that long?

I’ve been cleaning my house like a maniac and I came across a family photo with our firstborn. I realized how much I’ve (we’ve) changed and yes, aged over the years. When “C” and were visiting my sister and mom last month, my sister asked us “Do you ever pass by a mirror, and catch a glance and think “Is that ME? Is that REALLY me?” We both had to confess: Yes, we have! I hate to admit to vanity, but I’d be less than honest if I denied it. I don’t spend a lot of time on myself, but maybe I SHOULD try a little harder! I just submitted a recent photo to Karen’s blog (one of my favorite places to visit) at www.thisoldhousetoo.blogspot.com. It was a little scary, because as I told her, I usually duck or run when I see someone coming with a camera. Especially, my hubby because he has a knack for catching me in the most unflattering poses—such as mid-chew during dinner or eyes half closed! He let me know tonight that he does not like the blond highlights I’ve added. The brunette of my youth seems too harsh, but the blond seems to wash me out. “Maybe, I should just go with the gray”, I said. I’ve earned every single gray hair over the past 20 years! Ummm, they say that about wrinkles too, don’t they? Just don’t want to be the pathetic aging woman trying too hard to hang on to lost youth. There’s a certain dignity in getting older, isn’t there? Or there should be! I suppose this angst over aging is fairly common to most babyboomer women, but I would really like to come to peace with it this year. I was in a state of disbelief when I first became a grandmother at age 45, but I’ve come to terms with it—yes, I’ve even embraced it as they say. I dearly love my grandchildren, but it was a shock to become a grandmother when I still had a 12 year old at home! Just sayin.

The way we were in 2006. My hair was still dark! I may have had a little help!

So my New Year’s resolution this year is self acceptance. I can’t tell you how difficult that is for me! To publish a recent photo, is just a little excruciating, but I’ll get over it! It may sound strange, but it’s something I need to get over! On her birthday (June 24), Dulcy Stewart’s post on turning sixty at www.dulcysdoorstep.blogspot.com, inspired me to consider that there are indeed worse things in life than turning sixty! Of course, not everyone ages as gracefully as Dulcy, but one can hope! I love her longish silver hair and sense of style. She is also an amazing artist!

After tucking grandchild into bed, we read one of our very favorites- The Napping House. As we lay there , we watched the fireworks display from the neighbor across the road from the upstairs window. A sweet, quiet way to see the year end. Hubby retired early due to a viral infection he’s having difficulty kicking. I forgot to buy the customary champagne when we were out today, so there will not be a New Year’s toast. We’ll celebrate the New Year tomorrow evening with Cowgirl C. She’s cooking short ribs and gouda grits and she keeps telling me about this new salad recipe with fresh brussel sprouts and I know she will have wine! I can’t wait! We’ll have to eat some black eyed peas so we’ll have good luck in the coming year! Hope we will post more at Stick Horse Cowgirls this coming year! Life just presses in sometimes and gets in the way of what I want to do. So peace, hope, and joy to all out there in the blogging neighborhood—blessings to you all in the coming year. Happy New Year!

C: The Easy Way Out?

2011-11-23T05:16:00.001-06:00

To say that V and I have been challenged by life lately is an understatement. She is totally consumed by family illness and other family distractions; I’m having trouble sleeping because of my workload.

When I come home from work at the end of a long day, my mind really wants brain candy, so I turn to “Top Chef” or any of the mindless offerings of TV (some of which I am embarrassed to admit to watching). Let me just say that if it is “mindless” you are looking for, TV has a lot to offer.

Lately, however, I have been enjoying Oprah Winfrey’s “Lifeclass” series. Oprah is splicing in some clips from her many shows, having guests and audience participation to explore what lessons we can all learn from these episodes. Some of them are quite good. I have actually been congratulating myself that this, at least, has some substance as opposed to some of the mind-numbing things I have been known to watch at the end of a day.

Last weekend as I was doing some bedroom cleaning, I turned this show on. This episode featured one of the editors of Oprah Magazine, “Beth,” who is also a life coach. Beth told of an experience she had while “out” during a surgery. She did not die or nearly die, but she had some of that out-of-body experience you hear so many of the near-death people relate, She “floated” above the operating room, watching her doctors. She was bathed in light, which brought utter and complete happiness. She hated leaving it and came away with the “understanding” that this complete happiness was the way she (and all of us) should feel all the time. She “understood” that it was our own doing that our happiness in this life was so diminished, and she set her life’s path to exploring why that is and what she could do to avoid that diminishment.

She has decided that “truth” is the key. She says that any time she shades the truth (even, “I like your hair…” when you don’t) diminishes her happiness in a way that she can feel.

So the rest of the segment was about lies we tell ourselves (even when we don’t know we’re lying to ourselves) and to others and the way that destroys a happy life.

The clear theme: If you stick to the truth and only the truth, you will live in the bliss for which you were created. If you are not living in heavenly bliss, it is because of untruth—even that of which you are not conscious. You must, therefore, discover what secrets you are keeping from yourself so that you can be totally truthful and, therefore, totally happy. Voila!

Well, it is a hypnotic proposition, and I literally sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about what lies I was living in which were diminishing the ecstasy for which I was truly destined…because, Lord knows, that is diminished at the moment.

As I fell toward that message, suddenly Elvie began jumping up and down on my shoulder. Remember Elvie? I have written about him, here—he’s the “Little Voice,” the one that rides around whispering in your ear, and he’s always right. My son and I use his initials “L V” to refer to him as “Elvie.”

And what Elvie was saying was this: “What about those people in Africa where some guerilla-type soldiers come in and hack people to death in front of their children’s eyes? What shades of untruth was it that got in the way of their happiness?”

And, “Gee, could it be that if only V would get truly honest with herself, then her daughter would be healthier and V could, therefore, be happier?”

And suddenly I saw myself, having been entranced by the allure of the message I was hearing, like this depiction of poor little Mowgli hypnotized by the scheming Kaa (first couple of minutes—although the rest is classic, too!):

Now, let me be clear: I believe we should be truthful. I totally believe that lies we tell ourselves can hinder our happiness and success. I believe that lying (however small) sometimes can cause havoc in our lives, and we should avoid it.

But, c’mon!

As I sat there, awakened by Elvie, wondering about my own readiness to fall into this New Age message, I also wondered why? I believe it is a search for the easy way out. I would LOVE to find a formula to life’s happiness, where I could be assured that if only I would follow that formula, life’s unpleasant challenges would dissipate.

But I don’t think that’s gonna happen.

No, instead, I think I’ll try to remember that I should not fall for “easy fixes” to cure any discontent or unhappiness I may have. I simply do not think that someone in a third world country who is watching their child die of starvation because of drought needs to look inside herself to find what lies she is stuffing. Let’s face it, life just brings difficulty. Yes, we exacerbate them by our own actions, but sometimes we have nothing to do with the misfortune that comes our way.

And, I think that (I’m speaking of myself, here, as much as anyone else) only too-fat—from-too-much people who have the luxury of time (not to mention a steady supply of potable water) are sitting around seriously wondering if getting honest with oneself is the key to happiness. That scene is probably not happening very often in, say, Haiti.

So, that’s a nice Thanksgiving message, isn’t it? Maybe we should accept the challenges that come our way, do our best to overcome them with honesty and truth but also remember that struggles—and, yes, unhappiness—come with life. There isn’t an easy way around it.

Let’s concentrate on our blessings this season and derive happiness there. C

P.S. – And about that “total honesty” thing…I am in/from the South. If you ask me about your hair, I am probably going to tell you I like it whether I do or not. Sorry, It’s the Southern way. Guess I am not destined for heavenly bliss…

V: The Important Things in Life: Update & New Development***

2011-11-10T22:11:00.004-06:00

***We learned this morning since I wrote this post last night that my daughter has a blood clot in her arm. Please pray for it to resolve safely.

For those of you who drop in here from time to time, you may know that my oldest daughter has been ill for some time. She suffers from serious chronic health problems and recently discovered she is pregnant. YES, it was a surprise!!! Because of her health issues, it was not the plan, and she is in the hospital again—this time because of a serious blood infection she contracted from her IV port. I have left my job for the time being to care for her children. All of your prayers are appreciated very much!

I have some important decisions to make in the near future. I’ve felt the need to keep working for financial security (like being able to have health insurance and not be a financial burden to my children in my retirement years)—Hubby is also reluctant for me to give it up. If I leave my job (of which there are scarce few in these parts –will I regret it later?

Yes, don’t miss the caption at the top of the cartoon: “There’s a little bit of the bag lady fear in all of us!” “C” and I have often joked about this very thing! Still, I have to confess: My lack of faith disturbs me.

I love helping take care of my grandchildren; shopping for groceries, driving kids around, etc., but it’s hard after I’ve put in a full days work. My job involves working with disabled teenagers in a school district which is struggling financially, has been cutting staff left and right. Truth be told, I’m struggling also with the stress and pressure that has increased in my job. My job is much more difficult than a few years ago! Even if it were not for the situation with my daughter’s health, I would find it difficult. Also, my daughter’s health problems are chronic—they are not going away. There’s just a lot to consider, but I keep thinking—what will matter most years from now?

So, I’m throwing a line out there to the blogging neighborhood. Any ideas out there? I’d love to hear and again, I’m so very grateful for all your thoughts and prayers!

C: Harried

2011-10-31T17:16:00.001-05:00

This is just the time for V and me to feel harried, I guess. Her last post was about the same theme as this one: too much to do!

I’ve been blessed with company over the past couple of weeks, and my business is so hectic that I have been feeling like the old woman who lived in the shoe with so many kids tugging on her all the time.

I am beginning to liken myself to this:

Ys,

Yes, my job is like herding cats. For one thing, there are never enough hours in the day. For another, my clients have lately been tending to veer out of the herd on their own—not safe—and have to be “rounded up,” back under control. It just seems like craziness is more rampant lately.

I guess this is either good or bad, depending on your point of view: good for my business but bad for those folks who need a divorce lawyer!

Even V and I have not had time to get together, and I miss it. Hoping to rectify that soon and being able to post more frequently.

Happy tails, er, I mean “Happy Trails!” C.

V: Sometimes Life Just Gets in the Way

2011-10-23T22:44:00.003-05:00

Sometimes life just gets in the way of what I want to do. Like post here more often! Everything’s been so crazy lately that I find very little time to even visit the blogging neighborhood anymore, which I’ve discovered is a major way I chill and relax!

Years ago “C” gave me a little book about the Tyranny of the Urgent. I need to reread it! Seriously, it would make a great post—when I have time of course! Sometimes we get so caught up in the “urgent”, we lose sight of the “important”—or what we are called to do. Believe it or not every worthy endeavor though it is fine in and of itself, may NOT be what “we” or “I” am called to do. It gives me pause to consider when my family needs me so much and my energies are so divided due a job I think I need financially. Just being honest here!

***UPDATE: Eldest daughter has been hospitalized for a few days. Your prayers would be much appreciated.

Eldest daughter is ill and I can’t go into detail now—She has chronic conditions complicated by pregnancy. We expect she will get better soon, but she has children she homeschools and they are all involved in extracurricular activities such as guitar lessons, homeschool groups, etc. I’m trying to help out with meals, driving to guitar lessons, etc., but I’m also helping youngest daughter who is a single mother with a two year old son. I pick him up 3-4 days a week and keep him until she gets home about 6:30. I’m TIRED people!!! Youngest daughter and her little one have been slowly moving in with us the past few weeks, but they will be here full time beginning tonight. The other day when I picked “J” up from daycare after work, he refused to walk to the car and when I finally got him there he arched his back screaming his head off. I could NOT get him into that car seat! Suddenly I had a flashback to my two year old son from almost 27 years ago behaving the same way. I thought I had “retired” from that nonsense! Oh well, he is so precious and cute that I forgive him!

Oh yes, little “J” has a new Papillon puppy named “Desi”. A boy and his puppy—what could be cuter?

Youngest daughter recently was in a fashion show wearing a design made by her friend, local designer, Amber Taylor.

I love the dress and it was perfect for her.

Yes, they were all glammed up!

This little model wore a design by Punky Monkey!

It was a beautiful October evening with a large crowd in the historic Hillcrest neighborhood! Loved all the street vendors and this booth with all the vintage, kitschy stuff! I was a good girl and didn’t buy a thing—except a chili dog!

Hubby spent most of his time checking out the dogs in attendance—when he wasn’t snapping shots of “the prettiest girl in the show”!

Interesting dog here!

Whew, it’s over! Yes, she was nervous!

Well, off to face another harried week! Happy tails to you!

The End. Sorry, I couldn’t resist!

C: Personal Introspection on the Last Post

2011-09-24T04:43:00.001-05:00

My last post about domestic violence was a report—passing on information I learned in a recent class and some of my observations from my law practice. But in the course of discussing that post with V, she jolted me into a realization that this subject had touched my life and is, perhaps, touching it still.

As most of you know, V and I have been friends for 57 years (oh, Lordy!), and we lived right next door to each other as children. I moved away when I was about 8, although our parents had the great, good foresight to be certain we saw each other frequently (this friendship has been a life-saver for me in these later years).

As some of you also know, I grew up with a brilliant but alcoholic and womanizing lawyer father. I loved him very much and miss him even now, but he was a mess, and he brought that mess down on his wife and children. He would often come home very late at night, reeking of alcohol, women would call our home…you get the picture. My brother and I grew up in this kind of turmoil.

I can remember being quite young (5-ish?) and awakening in the night and hearing the sounds of a party. My parents occasionally had parties in their home, tucking my brother and me in bed as the guests arrived. I knew the sounds of gay conversation and laughter and the tinkling of ice in the ubiquitous high-ball glasses. On this particular night I vividly recall that it was the ice tinkling that jolted me awake and then the loud party voices brought me to full consciousness.

I remember my puzzlement, thinking, “Are mom and dad having a party? I didn’t know about it…” and walked down the hallway to check it out.

Well, it was not party. The tinkling ice sounds were of glass breaking. The “party voices” were argument. It was a full-blown fight. That’s all I remember—I don’t remember their reaction to me. I don’t remember how that night resolved. But I sure remember the episode. Which brings me to…

As V and I discussed my last post, she brought up another incident. “I remember that awful night when you, your mother and R (brother) had to come to my house—and it was snowing outside!”

I have absolutely no recollection of this, to V’s astonishment. She went on to say that my mother had come across the snowy yards with us two kids, banging on the door for help. She well recalls my mother lifting her shirt to show her parents the bruises up and down her back.

I was astonished! I have no recollection of this. V was shocked at this because it made such an impression on her.

The next day my brother and I were visiting at the office. He and I practice law together so we are together daily (our sister is a paralegal there, so all us siblings are together every day). He asked about my continuing education classes, and I told him some of the domestic violence statistics I had learned. Imagine my surprise when he said:

“Gee, C, remember when Mom had to take us to V’s house in the middle of the night? I was just little, but I can remember the police coming and we had to leave to go to V’s. At first I remember that it was very odd and fun to walk in the snow with no shoes….and then when I saw the bruising on Mom…”

When he mentioned the bruising, I got a flash picture in my mind of my mother’s bruised back. That’s all: just a flash of my mother’s bruises.

Here’s the point: I was there during that episode, no doubt. And, no doubt, this was a traumatic experience for us all. It made an impression on V and R that they carry with them today. Where is the impression on me?

Oh, I know the impression is there, alright—somewhere in my spirit. For me this is an up-close-and- personal illustration of how children (and adults) can repress things that are so hurtful and traumatic that it’s just easier not to know about them. It makes me wonder how this has played a part in shaping my life (gives me yet another excuse for how screwed-up I am).

It is a deep lesson, I think, that all parents ought to take to heart. Don’t do things that cause so much pain to your kids that they can’t even bear to know about it…and there is very little that is more painful to a child than one parent hurting another. Even verbal battles are damaging. It rocks their foundation.

As V and I talked, we commented on the fact that both of us are children of domestic violence…I’ll let V tell her own story when she’s ready, as it has a different twist than my own. But it just lets you know that the problem is rampant in our society and the effects are deep and shadowy.

Please take heed. C.

C’s Social Commentary – Domestic Violence

2011-09-21T06:25:00.001-05:00

If you’ve followed this blog long, you know that I cannot help but offer social commentary.

I’ve spent the last two days in continuing education. One of our speakers was on domestic violence. I am somewhat an expert from decades of helping women escape and trying to convince them that they should escape. It is such a problem in our society that I think it is helpful to review the statistics. They shock even me. Just look at these statistics for the US:

According to the U.S. Surgeon General, domestic violence is the leading cause of injury to women in the United States. 95% of the victims of domestic violence are women.
35% of all emergency room calls are a result of domestic violence. It is the largest single reason for ER visits by women.
Of those who abuse their partner, well over 65% also physically and/or sexually abuse the children.
EVERY day .....4 women and 3 children in the US die as a result of domestic abuse.
Victimization by domestic violence is usually not a single event. If a woman is abused once, her risk of further abuse is high, and this abuse often becomes not only more frequent over time, but more severe.
On average, more than three women are murdered by their husbands or boyfriends in this country EVERY DAY. (Bureau of Justice Statistics Special Report, Intimate Partner Violence and Age of Victim 1993-9, October 2001.)
A child's exposure to the father abusing the mother is the strongest risk factor for transmitting violent behavior from one generation to the next. (American Psychological Association, Report of the American Psychological Association Presidential Task Force on Violence and the Family, 1996.)
One in five female high school student reports being physically or sexually abused by a dating partner. - Massachusetts Youth Risk Behavior Survey (YRBS), August 2001

These statistics are from domesticpeace.com, which has some very good information and links to resources.

I just want to add a few things that the speaker mentioned, which I believe noteworthy:

There is a cycle to domestic violence. Women will almost universally return to their abusers at some point after “official recognition” of the abuse. The average? Nine returns before she finally leaves.

Because of this, domestic abuse counselors offer “safety plans” to try to keep women as safe as possible during these universal returns. These are chilling to me….listen to this, which is my close paraphrase to what the counselor had to say:

We tell our women not to run out into the garage or to the kitchen. There are too many sharp or heavy objects there which can be used as weapons. They are risky places to be. We believe the safest room to be the living room because there are fewer weapons there, and there is access to an escape route.

DO NOT lock yourself in the bathroom. If you have been one who has huddled behind a locked bathroom door, it is a very bad sign. The bathroom is not safe because he will eventually come in on you if he wants to, and there is usually no escape route for you. Also, you have no awareness of what is going on outside the door. If things die down out there, how do you know if he’s just sitting there waiting on you to open the door?

Scary.

Now, my two-cents’ worth:

I echo the counselor: domestic violence rarely (ever?) gets better. It only gets worse in my estimation. Someone in our class asked this question, “Have you ever seen someone ‘reconcile’ with an abuser successfully, say through counseling?'” Her answer: “It’s possible—but I can honestly say that I have never seen that happen.”

Neither have I. What I have seen is abusers move on to another relationship where they did not appear to abuse, and I don’t know why that is. This is not to excuse abuse—by any means—but perhaps some relationships are just a bad mix. But if you’re in a “bad mix” relationship, you owe it to yourself to get out of it. And, if you have a child, I submit that you have no choice, whatsoever, but to leave.

Finally, here’s what I tell my Mom clients in an abusive relationship:

When you birthed a child you gave up certain rights and privileges. This life is no longer about your sole happiness—it is about the welfare of that baby you brought into the world. Do you want your little girl to grow up to suffer abuse? Do you want your little boy to grow up to disrespect women? Or would you prefer to have him grow up adjusted and be able to live a normal, happy life and make some woman happy in their marriage, providing a harmonious home for your grandchildren?

You need to think about this, because the longer you expose your little one to the fighting (yes, including verbal abuse and discord) or violence, the more engrained these patterns become to your children as norms.

And, here’s another astounding fact: If you leave your child in this stressful situation (even just hearing you scream at each other through their bedroom wall) it can have PHYSICAL effects on their brains’ development. I’m not making this up—too little space to go into this here, but if you leave your child in this situation, you are affecting the hardwiring of his brain and his development. It leads to all kinds of problems.

Remember, Mommy, your child’s fate is largely in your hands. Who else does she/he have to rely on? Please provide her/him with a peaceful home in which to grow up.

And, one last word for the women reading this who say the phrases below:

We’re different—our relationship is not like those others (for one of a large variety of reasons given);
I can handle this. I know when to get out and when I can deal with him;
It’s partially my fault—I pushed his buttons.
He’s sorry—he loves me—it won’t happen again.

Well, let me say these things: You are no different, honey. Almost every domestic victim says those things above (counselor mentioned this, too). If you have an abusive relationship, don’t wait nine times to leave. Leave NOW. You owe it to yourself, and if you have a child, you owe it to him/her ‘cause it ain’t about you and your abuser any more—it’s about that baby. C

C: Pet Peeve—Diaper-Whiner Dads

2011-09-11T11:29:00.001-05:00

One of the perks of being a blogger is having an outlet to vent about one’s pet peeves in hopes there is an audience. Better than screaming to yourself. Combine that with a day on the lawn tractor, which leads to even more over-thinking than usual, and you have a full blown rant on your hands.

The other day a friend, speaking of the father of her child, said, “Jo-Jo just does not change dirty diapers. He doesn’t like wet ones, either, but he absolutely refuses to change the dirty ones. It makes him retch”

Oh, my. This kind of thing just sends me into orbit, for it is a sign of something deeper—an infantile man. And a bully. Let me explain.

Jo-Jo happens to be a great outdoorsman. He would stand over a deer he had just shot and watch the last lights of life ebb away. He would then string up the still-warm body, slit it open, allowing the guts to spill out, and lasciviously grin at his triumph.

But he claims to have too-weak a stomach to perform some basic act of nurture and love for his helpless child? You know, the baby who relies on others for everything—every.little.thing? You know, the one who ought to look to his parents (both of them) to willingly and lovingly take good care of him/her? Da-da’s stomach is too weak for this?

Huh?

I’m not buying it. Not even a little. There’s something else at play. I submit it is the following:

Infantilism. This is a man pitching a little bit of a tantrum to avoid doing a little something he doesn’t want to do. Dirty diapers were never the highlight of my day, either, but c’mon.

Selfishness. Goes hand-in-hand with the above.

Bullying. The purpose of his little tantrum? To get his wife (mother, grandmother, aunt…any sensible female who happens to be around) to do HIS JOB. Yes, HIS JOB as a parent.

Do not put up with this stuff—not even a little bit. If he’s gonna be “Dad,” he needs to be “Dad.” Okay?

And if he’s the type to let his little loved one lie there in a dirty diaper because handy females won’t cave to his bullying or because there doesn’t happen to be one around, then he is something much, much worse: He’s a child neglecter. He is not worthy to watch this kid. In fact, you need to start distancing yourself, because this is a bad, bad omen for other areas of your life. This is a selfish man, and don’t you ever forget it. One who refuses the care of his own little child is seriously selfish.

For all his mid-life-crisis scumbagness, I must say that my husband never, once, balked at taking care of our baby. He was as eager as I was to see to it that our little son had a dry, clean bottom and was comfortable in every way he could be. Anyone with any different attitude needs to hang his head in shame.

And you women out there! If I hear you speak of this with a little “wink-wink, aren’t men just so silly” in your simpering voice, you need to know I’m gunning for you even more. Do not put up with this foolishness. Not one second. It’s an attempt to bully you or something worse. And take note of this character attribute and watch for it to pour out in other areas. If he’ll do it to his own helpless infant, then…

Now, if Jo-Jo ever reads this (he’ll have to be shown, which is just fine with me), I know what he’ll say. “I don’t give a rip what she thinks.” I know that, but you need to know:

“I’ve got your number bully-dude.”

So there. C

C: Kitty Wars

2011-08-22T22:00:00.001-05:00

Fifteen or so years ago my husband and I ran a boarding stable for horses. This was to defray the expense of our horse habit—not sure it defrayed any costs, really, but it did provide us with lots of horse-nut friends. We had “real jobs,” so our stable was a you-care-for-your-own-horse facility. This meant that most everyone was out there every day; that, of course, meant that we all became fast friends.

This picture is similar to our barn. It was specifically a horse barn with 28 stalls. It was old but serviceable and time-tested. I loved walking through, seeing our contented equines with their heads poked over their stall doors.

Part of our barn family was the cat population. Through the middle of the barn was a raised (not quite a “loft”) concrete-floor where hay was stored. From this section we could throw hay down into the hay racks of two rows of stalls. This huge hay expanse made a great kitty heaven, and we sure did not mind the fact that the mouse population was kept down by their presence. These cats just “materialized.” They also just disappeared from time-to-time, and we knew that the coyotes that would lurk about the place at night were a constant danger to them.

The cats were friends to our horses, and I have seen many a scene of affection between the species, similar to this.

V and her family were out at the barn a lot—V’s oldest had a mare with us. She and I (mostly V) would occasionally take some of the females in to be spayed. It seemed a never-ending battle and, truly, it began to seem like the kiss of death. It became a running joke that those we selected for the operation were either soon run over by some car or just disappeared like so many before them. Neutering the males seemed like a lost cause, too—there was always another tomcat down the road to impregnate our cats. So, we soon gave the population control thing up.

Two cats who stand out in my memory were sisters, tortoise-shell cats like this picture, here. We called them “Daphne” and “Camou,” which was a reference to her camouflage-like pattern. They were difficult to tell apart, and were almost always seen together. I suppose that it should have been no surprise that they turned up pregnant at the same time.

Daphne was the first to have her kittens. We knew about the litter in the hay. On the day they were born, I spied Daphne moving her four kittens, one-by-one down the hallway. I know that mother cats do this frequently, seeking a safe place, so I did not think much about it until I spotted her less than half an hour later going back the opposite direction with a kitten in her mouth. I began to pay attention.

What I noticed was that when Daphne was moving away from the original site of the litter, she seemed noticeably bigger than when she was going back toward it….it dawned on me: Still pregnant, Camou was moving her sister’s kittens. And Daphne was bringing them right back.

All afternoon these sisters moved kittens, and I did not know quite what to do but watch the drama play out. I did find where Camou was taking them, and I would check periodically. Sometimes there would be a kitten or two lying there. Sometimes there would be none. Daphne would take spells when she nursed what kittens were in her nest.

Finally, later than night Camou had her own litter in her own bed. You might think that having her own four kittens would satisfy this mothering urge, but no—she seemed to have grown to love the first litter, too. The moving started up again.

We at the barn were all aware of it and somewhat stressed out about it. Finally everything settled down. All eight kittens ended up in a big pile in the hay together. Both sister-mamas were right in there with them, lying there nursing them all, showing them off happily when we would come to check on them.

As these kittens grew, we never really knew who belonged to whom. I wonder if these mother/aunt cats knew? I wonder if it mattered at all? I think not.

I miss my barn days. C

C: Child from Another Planet? A Bright Spot in the World.

2011-08-20T00:27:00.002-05:00

Yes, every once in a while God does something that stands out in the midst of the mundane world…
I’m probably the last person on this planet to know about her, but I was flipping channels last weekend and happened upon a clip of this child on a PBS fundraiser. I had never heard of her, but sat in total disbelief—slack-jawed, really.
Look at this video—hang in there through the America’s Got Talent promo stuff—you won’t regret it:

Jackie Evancho. She is ten years old. TEN YEARS OLD! I did a little Googling on her and found some interviews. What poise!
The story goes that two years ago—you, know, back when she was 8?—her mother took her to see The Phantom of the Opera. She was enchanted with the music, got the soundtrack and began singing around the house. Mom thought she sounded pretty good.

Ya think?

I guess the rest is gonna be history.
Jackie says that she does not perform any special rituals before each performance—only to thank God each time for her gift and ask that He be with her on stage…
It was her special dream to sing with the great Sarah Brightman, the original “Christine” in The Phantom of the Opera. Here is a picture of the together during their performance. If you go to youtube you can see many clips of Jackie, including this performance. Believe me, she more than holds her own with Brightman.
It is, indeed, like God decided to do something really special with this child. She seems the total package, doesn’t she? There are very few people more beautiful physically than she and with that amazing talent…her parents must vacillate between pride/joy and abject fear at such pressure on their child.
Anyway, I was captivated and thought that some of you might enjoy hearing her as well. C

PS. Jackie's mom did want everyone to know that she has had a couple of months of voice lessons...right...

C: Winds of Change and Bruins in the Area?

2011-08-17T21:19:00.001-05:00

Well, after two years of nursing my hurt feelings over the divorce, Son has decided to take a job two and a half hours north. It is a good opportunity for him to combine work with his passion for outdoor skills.

Much as I know it is time for him to go (and he has been good to stay as long as he has), I will miss him. He has seen me back on my emotional feet, good son that he is. I am thankful that he’s not out of reach, at least.

My mother is worried sick. My mother’s job in this family, however, is to worry—especially about her grandkids. My sister and I think she’s adopted “worrier” as her identity. She has called me with all kinds of “what ifs.” I reminded her that not too many years ago, young men (at what? 18 or 19 years of age?) would kiss their mother’s on the cheek, saying, “I’m off to seek my fortune” and go off into the sunset, their belongings tied in a rag on a stick.

At least it’s not that bad…at least we have cell phones and internet now. I don’t know what I’d do if he was headed West on a wagon train!

“Besides,” I told her, “Worst-case scenario is that he has to come home!” Won’t happen, I’m betting, but still nice to know that’s the worst.

So MIL treated the two of us for a “goodbye/looking forward to the future” dinner at Red Lobster.

She splurged and got a big ol’ lobster from the tank! She’ll be having Red Lobster again tomorrow! We brought three containers of food back with us.

Son had his favorite: Crab Legs and Scallops, finished off with hot coffee and the “chocolate wave” cake and ice cream. We all left stuffed.

We’ve been having an odd going-on around here. Three times this week I’ve had broken (inside eaten out) watermelon in my driveway. I meant to take a picture,but by the time I get a chance to, they’re gone.

These melons are not sliced open, they are clearly broken open. The insides are scooped out. Whatever is eating them eats the good central part and then apparently comes back and finishes the rind.

The spot on the driveway is right even with my neighbor’s garden (which, I know from her gifts to me, has watermelons). It is clear that this is where the melons are coming from, but we’re talking over 100 feet distance. I’ve wondered what could be coming to eat these melons and what would be big and dexterous enough to move a good-sized melon from the garden to the driveway. And why? I speculate that it is to eat it on the hard surface of the driveway, out of the bumpy grass but who knows for sure?

I have a theory. I believe it might be a black bear. It is the only animal around here that I know might could move these melons in this way. I Googled the question of whether black bears like melon, and I found out that they sure do! In fact, zoos often toss them into ponds or pools in the bear enclosures because they float. The bears fish them out of the water and carry them up onto the bank to break them open and eat them.

Here are pictures from the Museum of Life and Science, Durham, North Carolina.

Bear swims to fetch the floating melon:

Bear takes melon out of water:

Bear enjoys melon on bank…notice this one has TWO melons!

If a bear can do that, he can surely get one to my driveway from my neighbor’s garden. I can’t think of any other animal out here that can do that.

What do you think?

Just this past June I’ve written about the bears out here. It is a bit of a concern that they would be habituated enough to come this close, but my neighbor has thought she has heard one nearby. I won’t be walking after it starts getting dark.

Chili is inside each night with me when I’m home, but it makes me wonder if he knows anything about this! Will keep you posted if there are developments.

The weather was fooling with me this week. A couple of mornings ago it almost felt like fall, but by afternoon it was blistering again. I say this every year, but: I am so ready for fall!

Hope you are all well…and avoiding the bears. C

C: Chili – Trying to Seize the Mowing Opportunity

2011-08-14T18:50:00.001-05:00

I’ve written before about how I believe our animals know more about us and have more cognitive ability than we like to think.

My remaining dog is a three-year-old Belgian Malinois, “Chili.” My other pet is “Sasha,” my cat who predates Chili in this household by a couple of years.

Sasha is one skittish cat. She was born here and has never been mistreated at day in her life, but my mother and I are the only humans she wants anything to do with—making occasional exceptions for Son.

Sasha has lived her entire life on my back porch and in our fenced back yard. She has her own little kingdom back there, shared with birds, who take their lives into their own wings by being there, and a raccoon who peaceably comes to her dish to share her cat food. She makes occasional forays outside the back yard fence, but only few. It is to this that we attribute her long life.

I have never been able to get Chili to quit thinking of Sasha as prey. I have come to terms with the fact that he is incapable of this. The few times he has gotten into the back yard, he has gone like a rocket trying to get her, ignoring my commands. And his is normally a very obedient dog. We have solved the problem by making the back porch/yard off limits to Chili.

Chili knows and respects this fact, and he has stopped trying to go out the door when he is in the house and I go out onto Sasha’s porch. He knows the rule and respects it. But he sometimes goes to the windows of my breakfast room which look out onto Sasha’s porch. He watches my cat, and I do not like the gleam I see in his eye.

Today I was in doing laundry and, as is his custom when “Mom” is home, Chili was in with me, following me around when I move from room to room, lying around when I am sitting at work on the computer.

Son started the lawn mower up and was riding it back and forth through the meadow next to my house, working his way to the back yard. When he made it to the yard section, Chili became restless. He looked out the window which is at my back utility porch (a different porch, opposite side of the room from Sasha’s windows) toward where Son was working.

Chili began to whine, which is very unusual. He began pacing from the window back to me, then back to stare at Son out the window. Then back again. This is very unusual behavior. He clearly wanted me to get up and let him out. I was wondering what the heck was going on. Normally he is quite content to be with me even when Son is outside. This was not his normal request to go out. It seemed to me that he would want to avoid that noisy lawn mower, but he was getting rather insistent.

Then Chili did something that gave his motives away to me. He left his post at the window and moved across the breakfast room to look out toward Sasha’s porch, then back to the other window, then back to me and then back to look out at Sasha—whining all the way.

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place. This evil dog realized that Son had to open the back gate to mow the yard….his chance to get the cat!

I spoke sharply to him and he reacted with pure guilt. Ears went back, tail between his legs. Oh, he was guilty, alright—of impure thoughts about my cat.

Here’s his mug shot:

You think you can’t tell when a dog is guilty? Look at this little video from YouTube and then try to tell me that. I don’t know this dog, but I can tell you one thing: she’s guilty!

When Son came in later, I asked, “Has Chili ever gotten into the back yard when you mow?”

His answer: “Oh, yes! I have to watch him like a hawk. When I get the mower he tries his best to get in the gate and run like a streak around to try to get Sasha!”

So, Chili remembered, put two-and-two together and was asking me to let him out so he could take advantage of the situation! His body language busted him!

And we call them “dumb animals!” C

PS – am I anthromorphizing here?

C: Vintage Recipes and Vintage Ways of Dining

2011-08-13T05:58:00.001-05:00

I loved V’s post on vintage recipes. I knew MawMaw—knew V’s other grandmother, too. Elsie, I must say, was a character—a Wonder Woman. She was a kind, intelligent woman who could have been really something in today’s world of more opportunity for women—she raised a wonderful son mostly on her own. Now that I am “of an age” to appreciate what her life was, my hat is off to her. V has written about her before and must again.

But the topic of recipes and meals with grandmothers is what I want to talk about.

Both my grandmothers came from country stock. My paternal Grandmother, Lyda, was accustomed to cooking for farm hands. She was a humdinger of a cook, too.

When we would go to Lyda’s house for Sunday dinner, there would ALWAYS be these things: Fried chicken, chicken and dumplings, mashed potatoes, a salad and angel food cake with canned peaches, homemade biscuits (I don’t remember rolls) and a variety of vegetables. Those were just staple dishes. (I never see Angel Food Cake without thinking of my grandmother).

What would be different at each meal would be the addition of some of these: ham (often served), pork chops, and what she called “beef roast,” which would be braised in gravy.

Yes, my Grandmother Lyda would serve up to four meat dishes and a groaning table of side items and desserts for Sunday dinner. As I think back, it amazes me, but I realize she was still in farm cooking mode, harkening back to the days when she would have a bunch of hungry men crowded around her table.

My other grandmother, Gertrude, was also a good country cook, but she never served such a lavish table. Gertrude was much, much poorer in her young mother days than Lyda was, and Gertrude’s meals were plentiful in quantity but not so lavish in array was were Lyda’s.

Gertrude would have a main meat dish with sides of vegetables—always potatoes included. On her stove would be a BIG pot of greens of some kind, “cooked down real good.” Ummmm. And her green beans would be “cooked down,” too, with bits of bacon or ham and—yes, it’s true—seasoned with some of the bacon drippin’s (grease) she kept in a container on her stove, adding to it each time she fried bacon. Listen, you youngsters, everyone, including my mother, kept a silver metal drippin’s container on their stove to use for seasoning back in those days.

Something both my grandmothers did is something you don’t see today. Both these women were spotless housekeepers. This was the day before plastic wrap. I don’t recall either of my grandmothers having plastic containers. They kept a big supply of “flour sack” dish towels, clean and folded. When we got up from the noon table (the big meal was always mid-day, not evening), all the leftovers were moved, still in their serving bowls, to the kitchen table where they were covered with clean dish towels, awaiting the evening meal. I don’t remember anything being refrigerated for those several hours between meals. The food just sat at room temperature until folks got hungry and helped themselves again.

And I don’t remember one case, even, of food poisoning.

Neither of these women would understand—nor care to—my grab-and-go lifestyle of Lean Cuisine in the freezer. I don’t much like it, either, but what’s a single girl to do? I have MIL, who graces me with meatloaf and last night let me have the rest of her Stouffer’s lasagna, which was great! But she’s in the same boat—we just don’t cook anymore.

My Grandmother Gertie’s style of poverty cooking was reflected in some of the dishes she was known for. One of them was bread pudding. It was not chunky like bread pudding you see these days, but smooth and rather thin. There was no fancy-dancy whiskey sauce for it. It was just plain left-over bread mixed with milk, eggs, sugar and cinnamon. She usually baked it in a 9 x 13 pan, and it was served room temperature, cut into squares. It was delicious. It was a way to avoid wasting old bread—a delicious way.

Grandma lived about an hour south of us. One time my Aunt N, who lived two doors down from us, made the trek to see her. For some reason, my mother did not go with her. A few days later Mom was speaking with Granny on the phone.

“How’d you like your bread pudding?” Granny asked.

“What are you talking about?” was Mom’s answer.

They got to the bottom of it…It was Mom’s “turn” to get a pudding from Granny, Aunt N having had the last one. When Aunt N visited, Granny sent Mom’s pudding by her….never made it.

“I got it home and it just called to me,” was Aunt N’s confession. “I sat and ate half of it by myself. The boys finished it off.”

These octogenarian sisters will still occasionally say something like, “N, remember when you ate my bread pudding?” Ah, memories.

But we live a freezer/fast-food lifestyle nowadays, don’t we? I think back to Lyda’s huge meals and Gertie’s bacon grease seasoning and wonder at the fact that people were not any heavier than they are today—in fact, I think we have more weight problems today, don’t you?

V’s theory is that, for all the “unhealthy” cooking methods, the food was at least “from scratch” and not processed (except for Lyda’s store-bought Angel Food Cake and canned peaches). I remember both my grandmothers sitting on the porch shelling peas or snapping beans in preparation for the meals. Those sessions of women companionably snapping beans (us kids helping sporadically) were comforting times for me, listening in on their chatter.

Most everything was fresh, and what did come from the freezer had been frozen, “put up” from fresh state by my grandmothers.

I see in V’s vintage recipes the trait both my grandmothers shared—avoidance of waste, turning vegetables that would otherwise be unused into chow-chow and pickles.

But that style of life requires full-time homemakers, something becoming scarcer these days. Different days, different styles.

Oh, for some of Gertie’s bread pudding…. C

Cowgirl V: I Love Vintage Recipes

2011-08-09T15:08:00.001-05:00

In the many years since my grandmother Elsie’s passing in 1977, I’ve often perused my great-grandmother Ada’s recipes(Ma Ma Elsie’s mother), handwritten in faded pencil in a small, falling apart ledger book. There are various recipes from Chow Chow, Chili Sauce, Piccalilli, Tomato Relish and homemade catsup; there are different varieties of homemade pickles, pies, cakes and old fashioned chicken remedies! Particularly interesting to me are the vinegar pie and buttermilk pie, and Mrs. Pruitt’s Fruit Cake (with a cup full of whiskey or spirits poured over each one and laid away for a month before serving to age to perfection! Now, I have not tried many of these recipes, but I’m going to! This week I’m going to make vinegar pie!

After visiting Karen of http://thisoldhousetoo.blogspot.com/, earlier this week and seeing the prolific harvest from her beautiful garden, I decided today would be the perfect time to post a couple of recipes from this 19th century collection of recipes. Here goes:

Really, the pages look just like this!

TOMATO RELISH

Scald and skin 15 ripe tomatoes.

Pare, core, and cut into small pieces, 6 sour apples. (I’m thinking Granny Smith apples might do well here)

Peel 5 medium sized onions.

Chop all of these very fine, using a food chopper if you have one. Put in a large saucepan with 2 level Tablespoonfuls of salt, 3 green peppers or 1 level teaspoonful of black pepper.

1/2 pint vinegar.

Bring to a boil and boil 1 1/2 hours.

Remove the vessel from stove; put relish in jars and seal while hot.

This photo from www.tasteofhome.com

SPICED TOMATO RELISH

Peel & slice one peck ripe tomatoes, add 6 green peppers, 6 onions, chopped fine.

2 Tablespoonfuls cinnamon

1 Tablespoonful of salt

2 teaspoons cloves (I would go scant on this heavy spice) My notation.

2 cups brown sugar

5 cups vinegar

Boil mixture 2 hours. Seal while hot.

* This one I use with success.

*That last remark was my great –grandmother’s—I have not tried this recipe, but I think it sounds good!

*A peck equals approximately 13 pounds of tomatoes.

CHILI SAUCE

1 peck of tomatoes

6 big onions

3 green or red peppers

1/2 tea cup of salt

2 teaspoons of ground allspice

2 teaspoons of ground cloves

4 teaspoons of ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon of black pepper

1/2 teaspoon of red pepper

1 tea cup of sugar

1 1/2 pint of vinegar

* I think this sounds especially delicious and spicy—especially with that red pepper! No cooking directions were given for this recipe, but there is also a homemade catsup recipe which says to bring to boil and simmer til thick and when a teaspoonful is removed and placed in a saucer, no water will run from it. Then put in sterilized jars or bottles. I’m sure this could be processed in a hot water bath to be food safe—that is what I would do!

My son planted his first garden this year. The cucumber harvest has been plentiful and he has made over 60 jars of pickles—dill, garlic and bread & butter varieties—and those bloomin cucumber plants are still producing! Unfortunately all the heirloom tomato plants I bought have yielded little—perhaps due to the deluge of rain we had right after planting! Now we are in a terrible drought—up to 114 degrees this past week—miserable for man and animal—BUT it rained last night and again this morning! So, unless I break down and find a good deal at the Farmer’s Market on Saturday, there won’t be any tomato relish here this year!

So I am just wondering! How is your garden faring in this extremely hot summer? What is your best crop so far—and are you putting up food for the winter? Canning and/or freezing your extra produce?

P.S. Just wanted to add here that right after posting this, I visited http://www.beverlysbackporch.blogspot.com and she had this amazing recipe for Old Fashioned Tomato Preserves that sounds quite easy! It is a sweet preserve with a sliced lemon and orange in it which is a little different twist.

C: The Universe

2011-08-09T03:49:00.001-05:00

Night before last I watched the Discovery channel’s opening episode of their “Curiosity” series. If there was ever a curious person (in more ways than one!), it is I.

If the adage “curiosity kills the cat” were true and I were a cat, I’d long be dead.

The pilot episode was presented by Stephen Hawking, the great British physicist/cosmologist who has become a celebrity brain, of sorts.

By the way, I have learned that a cosmologist is one who studies the origin and structure of the universe and time/space relationships. The universe is defined by Wikipedia as “the totality of everything that exists”. Hmmmmm. Hmmmm. Big topic.

I am sure you have seen Stephen Hawking. He has written several books for mass publication—for us lesser minds—seeking to open the world of physics and cosmology to those of us with more pedestrian IQs. He is made even more remarkable by the fact that he is wheel-chair bound, almost entirely paralyzed by ALS, and is among the longest-living victims of this awful disease. He speaks only through computer-generated means. A tiny sensor attached to his cheek uses those movements to generate his words and voice. His voice is totally synthetic.

His subject for the series: Did God create the universe?

I was intrigued by this great mind and by the topic, in general. Son and I tuned in, ready to learn.

Now, let me say that I am a Christian,having been raised nominally a Christian and some thirty years ago having come to a much deeper faith through a rather remarkable event…another post, maybe. My faith has formed the cornerstone of my life for thirty years. Because of the “curious” turn of mind that God gave me, I’m rather an expansive, flexible Christian (I know, I know…sounds like an oxymoron to some), which I believe is wholly-endorsed by my Creator. I dearly love to hear opposite points of view, dearly love it, especially from persons I believe to have credible intellectual standing. In other words, I love to have my mind and my faith challenged.

My openness to the views of others has never shaken my faith, although it has honed it. One thing I do not doubt—for a second, even in my darkest moments—is the existence of God.

So, Son and I settled down, ready for this great mind to ‘splain things to us. We listened through his fascinating discussion of stars and suns and galaxies and black holes. Mind-boggling and intriguing. Then we moved on into the nature of time—bending it, for example, (black holes apparently bend time—who knew?) which I must admit totally loses me. I, for one, would like to know how to stretch it…

On he talked about the probable beginning of the universe—the “big bang” and on and on. There was a sense of “See! I’ve proven this!” as we progressed.

And I’m sitting here thinking: “Okay, so if the big bang theory is correct, then why did it bang in the first place? And what caused the bang? And what was there before the bang?” In other words, what is the answer to the question of “first origin?” (is that a redundancy?). I realize I am not the first person to ask this question; still…

According to Hawking, there was nothing before the big bang. Nothing. Not even a bunch of space because, you see, there was no space before the big bang. There was no matter, no energy, no time, no space. And then the Big Bang occurred and there was suddenly matter, energy, time and space, where there had been none of these ever before (but then, “ever” did not exist back then because there was no time). Hmmmm. Hmmmm. Hmmmm.

Okay, I was spellbound, sitting on the edge of my chair, really understanding only that I was in over my head with this whole physics thing and waiting to learn. I was waiting on Hawking to prove this, as he promised.

But I am a lawyer. And while recognizing that I do not have a scientific mind, one thing I am used to doing is building cases. And in the instance of the opposition’s case, I am used to finding the holes. I can follow chain of logic and spot a gap in that chain.

I’m afraid that Stephen never clinched it for me. Notwithstanding his proclamation (a bit smugly) that “See, I’ve shown you that something can spontaneously come from nothing—Nothing certainly did not need a God to become something,” he just failed to do that.

A little disappointing, but not surprising. Maybe he tried to cram too much (as in the whole universe) into one hour…minds like mine need a lot more time to get there, I suppose.

And then he said something truly remarkable. As the show ended, he said something like this (and this is a paraphrase): “So, there is no need for a God. And I don’t believe there is a God, which means that there is no afterlife—no Heaven, no Hell. We have only this one life, for which I am eternally grateful.”

Really? Grateful? This man who can do nothing for himself, who can speak only so long as computers still have the ability to pick up and translate his feeble cheek moves to generate a “voice” for him—this man is grateful?

Now, that is a wonder of the universe if I ever heard of one.

And it set me to thinking. Here I’ve been moping about the house over my finances and other “poor me” matters. But Hawking is grateful?

I looked him up on the web and read about his personal life. It’s a mess. He was born in 1942, came up through college enjoying athletics (one source said the physical activity “relieved the boredom of university life…”) He was diagnosed with ALS early and given a couple of years to life. He’s been married twice. One source said that he “reconciled” with his family from his first marriage in 2006…suggests a bit of rockiness, there.

So, great mind or no, we’re all subject to the travails of life.

If ever there was a person who had some excuse to rail against God, it is Hawking. Here is a man of unquestionable intellect who has been robbed of any semblence of independent living and of physical activity that he clearly once loved. It would be expected that he would be bitter about his circumstances. Heck, if I’m upset over my late bills, then surely he has excuse!

But he professes otherwise. He doesn’t shake his fists at God—he’s just erased God right out of the universe. And that’s one way to come to terms with things, isn’t it? Why even acknowledge One who has placed you in such an untenable position?

This is an unwarrantedly presumptive analysis by me, I admit, but it’s the thought I had.

In fact, this inspired a lot more questions/analyses concerning the Nature of God, my own view of Him, of suffering on earth, and on and on and on. (you all know how I love to overthink). But those thoughts are for other posts. Maybe.

I’ll keep watching. Maybe Hawking will one day be able to prove to me that God does not exist. But not yet.

My own take on this particular challenge is that trying to explain spiritual things in scientific terms is using apples for oranges…they are just different realms. I, frankly, doubt that God will let us “prove” or “disprove” Him. In some instances He “proves” Himself to us, as He has to me. So I don’t look for scientific proof to decide this question, ever.

But I sure love the exercise. C

Cynic C: The Most Powerful Force in the World

2011-08-07T09:06:00.005-05:00

Yet again, blame this post on V. She has assured me that since this has been on TV, we’ll retain our PG-13 rating.
Have you seen this ad?

It only confirms what I have learned in my fifth decade of life: Most everything revolves around sex.

You think I’m wrong? Nope, I’m not. I’ve practiced family law 32 years (shudder) and I know this to be true. Now. A bit late in the day. I would have denied this ten years ago.

We women have got to get it through our heads: Men just are not as relational as women are. They have a pull to sex from a perspective that we don’t have. This is not to say that we don’t like sex, too; only it is different for them and not nearly as relationship-based as we women assume. And it pulls in a way that can lead (often) one away from family and fealty.

Notice in the video—it’s the men scrapping for it.

The last issue of Discover magazine has a whole article on this. Just look at these quotes from it (p 48, 7/2011 issue):

Men don’t require any information about a woman other than what they can see with their own eyes.

Solitary, quick to arouse goal-targeted, driven to hunt..and a little foolish. The male brain is designed to be more visually responsive to sexual stimuli than the female brain is…

The male’s desire software is like Elmer Fudd…always on the hunt for …wabbits…easily fooled by ducks dressed as rabbits…but never gets discouraged. He reloads and gets back out there. tomorrow is another day…to bag a wabbit.

What you may have long suspected is true. Male brains are designed to objectify females..

Sorry, that’s the facts, Ma’am.

Why is it important for us to know this? For me to continue to beat this drum? Because we women need to plan our lives with this in mind—not with the idea of a fairy-tale life which we’ve been sold over the years.

Look at this picture of Snow White and her “happily-ever-after” (bet not…)prince . He wasn’t in this for the relationship—she was comatose when he fell for her, for cryin’ out loud. All he needed to "fall in love" was what he saw with his own eyes. Poor Snowy, however, thinks it's something different....

We need to understand that over 50 per cent of marriages in America will end in divorce, and most of those will be because of the difference men feel about sex—need for variety, for instance. It leads them to abandon relationships we women would never abandon.

We need to be teaching our daughters to love their husbands with their whole hearts, but to be able to fend for themselves. There is a great chance that they will have to.

Yeah, I know, I know: your guy is different. Mine was too for 40 years. Ask V. If ever there was a paragon of Christian, salt-of-the-earth, husbandly virtue, mine was, Until a 29-year-old came calling and that tendency to objectify kicked in and Elmer Fudd popped out…it is an amazing dynamic, and we all need to acknowledge it.

Sorry for the preaching…I know I sound like a jaded scorned woman. Okay, I am a jaded, scorned woman but from my profession I just know it’s an important topic for women. I help them manage this issue on a daily basis.

I feel like Cassandra on this topic…like I wrote about a few weeks ago here. I am right, right, right on this topic, but those who need to hear cannot.

Thanks for listening if you haven’t tuned me out by this time. C.

PS – By the way, I remember when showing bras on TV was a bit edgy…now we’re talking douche, viagra, and on and on…boy our kids are getting an early education, aren’t they?

PSS – Yes, I know there are unfaithful women, too. We’ve had a close brush with this recently. And, yes, I know that there are men who resist temptations. I’m talking statistics, here.

C: Summertime

2011-08-03T05:21:00.001-05:00

I am born and raised in the South. So why is it that the hot summers always seem to take me by surprise?

“Can you believe it is so hot?!” I’ll say to someone…well, yes, it gets hot here like this each and every year, Dodo.

In my defense I must say that others make the same comments to me. It’s just a way of making conversation, I guess, and the heat is main topic right now. My little car registered 106 coming home yesterday, and it’s not going to let up through the rest of the week. As I write this at 4 am, it is 86 degrees, and my computer forecast says 106 again today…

V and I were talking about growing up in Arkansas in the 50’s when no one had air conditioning, not even in the car. Ooooooh, I remember my bare sweaty legs sticking to the car seats and driving with the windows rolled down, glad for the warm air moving through the car. We would fight for a “window seat” so we could lean into the air (kind of like this dog in the picture!)…these were the days before seat belts and car seats. (Can you even imagine a car seat without air conditioning???).

V and I both remember uncomfortable nights with the attic fan whirrring. Sometimes my mother would put a box fan in the open window (all windows were open at night or you would suffocate) and the night air would be pulled across our bed, giving us some relief, letting in the night sounds we now miss, too. There were some nights that warranted a wet wash cloth to cool the face.

I knew families in old-style houses who still used “sleeping porches” when I was a child. These were screened-in porches where beds or cots would be placed so that the family could escape some of the heat at night, especially from upstairs bedrooms. One of my good friends’ home was a huge two-story house with most of the sleep space upstairs—which became stifling. Their sleeping porch was expansive, holding five or six twin sized beds turned here and there. It was screened on all sides and at night felt positively refreshing. The only problem was the grandaddy long legs who lived there, as well. Those and the mosquitoes. To be truthful, we lived in peaceful (although creepy) co-existence with the long-legs—the mosquitoes, however, were a different story.

Mosquitoes were a fact of summer nights back then. We all had screens on the windows but, I swear, those pests would find every little hole. Most nights we would hear the whine of a mosquito buzzing around until she found some exposed skin to pierce. Miserable.

I would have to say that the prevalence of air conditioning has revolutionized life. I read somewhere that it was a turning point in the growth of Atlanta for big business. No doubt. Who would intentionally expose oneself to that heat and humidity when you could locate your business in a more temperate clime? Oh, I know that even the northern states have their share of hot days, but here in the South they stretch across a good bit of the summer.

My two animals (cat and dog) are outside all day. Chili has to wait until I get home to get to his air conditioner. Sasha, the cat, is outside all the time. I have noticed that they both take refuge deep under our porches where it is at least cooler. We take care to keep fresh water out for them.

I work in the downtown area where we see the homeless pacing the streets, and I feel for them. I know that there are respite shelters for them to have some cool, and I am thankful for the folks who provide that.

You know, I have to say that part of my awareness of the extremes of weather is age, surely. Although V and I swap memories of the hot, summer nights, I do not recall our playing stopping for the heat. We played hard through the summer—barefooted. My mother was careful to make me come in for an afternoon rest under the fan (V was a late riser and, therefore, not a napper), but other than that, summer time was full-tilt fun for us.

We romped around the yard on our stickhorses, finding shade when we got a little hot. And, of course, the tinkling music of the snowcone man’s truck would bring us to action, scrambling to get our quarters so that we could make a purchase. We had our own personal water jars in the refrigerators. Our mothers kept them full and they were ice cold, waiting on us to come in for a swig, straight from the jar. I remember that when my water jar was an old pickle jar, it never quite lost the pickle smell/taste, which I did not mind at all. Now kids get their cold water from refrigerator doors! Not quite the same…nostalgia taking over, here…

So, my memories of summer as a child don’t usually focus on stifling heat, but rather these things:

Kool-aid sipped from metal tumblers that felt ice-cold to the hands;
Playing in the sprinkler. For some reason, V and I called this “shower baths”;
Crisp slices of ice-cold watermelon on picnic tables at the local “watermelon stand” where people would gather on summer nights to buy melon and trade news of the day;
The comfort of the sound of the attic fan—bygone now for most of us but a great comfort at night.

Hope you are able to stay cool…watch out for your animals. C

C: Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land

2011-07-30T19:20:00.001-05:00

I just finished reading “The Help” by Kathryn Stockett. This book is written mostly from the perspective of black maids in Jackson, Mississippi in the early 60’s—just my era. I could not put this book down. I identified with so much in it.

This is an uncomfortable subject for me. It was our life back then, but looking at it from 21st Century eyes, I see just all kinds of vestiges of slavery in the way our society was structured those days. It is, as I say, “uncomfortable.” Still, it is history, and I”m going to tell you what my life was like in this respect.

My father was a lawyer—Southern country lawyer. I remember him going to court in the summer time in blue and white seersucker suits and light (white or “light buck”) shoes. This was not unusual for attorneys of the day. Courtrooms were hot, and a dark suit would have probably been unbearable. I also saw lawyers back then with straw “panama” hats, although my dad never wore one. In this day of air conditioning, I don’t notice anyone wearing seersucker at the courthouse anymore.

Although my father was a professional and we were well-provided for, we were not “society” (my Daddy’s behavior just did not fit that), nor were we rich. Still, we were white. Back in that day, that’s pretty much all it took to have “help” at home. Amazing, as I look back.

V’s family wasn’t rich, either. We lived side-by-side in identical-but-for-the-chosen-exteriors tract housing. We had few frills, but we had ironing and cleaning ladies. I can’t remember V’s “maid’s” name off the top of my head. I know that her grandmother’s “Elizabeth” was a long-time, trusted servant.

I feel the need here to interject: NO MAID UNIFORMS! At least our “maids” never wore uniforms…

When we moved to the country the summer before my fifth grade, we moved into what we called the “farm house,” an old house from the 20’s which stood on the acreage our father purchased and would serve as our home while our new, more modern one was built.

Out back of the farm house was a shack. It was an old, long rectangular house with a central kitchen-living area flanked by two bedrooms. You wouldn’t have wanted to live there…the floors were uneven and I doubt it was very warm in the winter since there was no insulation. It was old, old. But there lived Beal and Betty and their two sons.

I could not find a picture that fit, but this one below is close with one exception: the only door was on the long side, not the end…and there was a long, low, wavy porch across the front. But it still had this “shotgun” architecture of just being a row of rooms—no hallways in this house. And it had a tin roof.

Beal took care of the outside chores, including tending to my horses. Betty’s portion was the inside of our house. She did all the ironing and cleaning and some of the cooking. On my parents’ bowling nights, Betty would leave her own children out in the shack with Beal. She would sit and watch TV with us and babysit until my parents came home. She also was responsible to look after us when my parents were out at night any time, and these would be the times she would usually do the cooking.

Beal and Betty moved after a couple of years, and Dad had the shack bulldozed down, if that tells you anything. This all happened about the time we moved into our new home, just around the corner. And at that time we switched “help.” I don’t really have the story on why Beal and Betty left—whether they just found opportunity or something else.

Our new help were Dannie for the inside; Willie for the outside. They were not related, but they came from the same small black community a mile and a half or so north of us. Living areas were not integrated at the time—no more than schools (except, of course, when one had a shack out back…). We all knew where black folks lived—all together, and who could blame them?

I remember riding with my mother or father to transport Dannie to and from work. Lanky, proud-tall-standing Willie, on the other hand, walked wherever he went. Willie reminded me of pictures I had seen of Masai warriors. He stood well over six feet tall and was thin as a rail—probably from all that walking and hot outside work. Despite his menial labor, he had a nobility to his carriage.

Willie had a distinctive, rhythmic walk, his long, long legs, eating up distance, his long arms swinging far to his front and then back, in time with the beat of his walk.

Willie was nearly blind and I remember him placing his face right down next to a nail head before he began hammering in order to be accurate, which he was once he got this up-close look. His poor sight, incredibly, did not interfere with his hard work.

There were other black men who helped my father outside occasionally, but Willie was the “constant” for years.

Dannie was with us from about my sixth grade until my sister (twelve years younger) was through most of elementary school. When I would come home from school, it was Dannie who fixed me an afternoon snack—fruit salad or chicken salad sandwich or pimiento cheese. She was intimately involved in our lives and knew all about us. I think I knew even back then that her parallel life was not so open to us. She was entrenched in ours; we knew little about hers.

And, here is part of the shame I feel as I look back: In order for my family to afford this, we must have paid her peanuts.

I remember that Dannie sang in a Gospel group called “The Spiritual Echoes.” She had a deep, rich, beautiful voice that I would hear as she rocked my little sister to sleep. She was kind and gentle with us, and years later when my mother’s mother was dying of cancer in our home, it was Dannie to whom we turned. She would come every single day and take care of my grandmother with competence and compassion.

Dannie is dead now. I remember her with great fondness.

So, reading “The Help” made me reflect. It was an odd time in our country’s history. I imagine my black friends might think of terms other than “odd” to describe it. It was a hazy limbo land for them, hung between slavery and freedom—they had legal freedom, okay, but for what?

In my junior high days we experienced integration. The Central High episode of 1957 (I was 5) is famous in my state. When I consider it, I wonder if I would have had the courage that those black parents showed in sending their children through that screaming mob—I doubt it. I imagine those parents sent up lots of prayer around those nine children who were sent to forcibly break down the racial barrier to education. But at my schools we did not have much racial trouble. I recall little tension, just awareness. And the separateness of our lives continued.

I am grateful to say that I believe we have made strides in this area, as I have many black professional colleagues, crossing swords with me in the courtroom and I don’t bother to think about race when we do. I hope they don’t, either….but I sure thought about it as I read this book.

I wonder what my black friends would think about my view of the era. What would they say at the thought that I, who was not a rich youngster, grew up with “servants?” That this was my privilege, not because my family could particularly afford luxury but because the labor of my black neighbors was valued at so little that we could afford that.

As I say: uncomfortable. But I’m going to talk to them about it. My interest is raised…I’ll give you a report.

I would love to hear your own stories from this time—especially if you are African-American.

As for me, it is, indeed, the part of “Dixie” from which I do want to “look away.” C

C: Cake Walks

2011-07-29T07:10:00.001-05:00

At the risk of sounding even older than I am, let me say that there are things I miss about “the good old days” of my youth. Yes, life had its trials back then, too, and—especially having just finished reading “The Help,”—I realize that being white and growing up in the 50’s and 60’s was a whole different experience than my black friends had. But, still, there are by-gone things that I miss. For example…

Each year we had a Halloween carnival at our school. And, no, we did not call it a “fall festival;” it was a Halloween carnival. As I recall, it was a fund-raiser.

It started out with dinner of some kind in the “cafetorium,” which doubled as a lunchroom and auditorium for plays and programs. It had a stage at one end of the large room with the kitchen and serving window at the other end.

In between stood long folding tables with chairs to accommodate the school kids at lunch each day and, on this occasion, the community diners. Often the ladies would have prepared huge vats of chili or spaghetti. Sometimes just hot dogs were sold.

After dinner, the volunteer parents would take their places at the activities set up in the class rooms, and the doors would open to the carnival, proper.

We had standard carnival activities, each costing a small price to participate and each offering some kind of “prize.” There was always a fishing booth. Volunteers were behind a sheet with small prizes. The contestant would drop a fishing line over the sheet (the “hook” was a clothespin) and wait for a tug on the line. When he brought it back up, there would be his prize! No skill required but somehow fun for us kids.

There was always a haunted house room, and there is no telling how many kids we scarred for life with this venture. It was always in a darkened room, of course, and we would be told the back story of the poor dead man who was scattered about the room. We would be led from station to station to feel all his parts…grapes were his eyeballs; cold spaghetti were some of his “guts.” You get the picture…we loved it!

But the one activity that was a draw for everyone was the cake walk. I’m sure the schools still have them, but there is one big difference: Schools nowadays require the donation of only packaged, commercially-prepared baked goods at school functions. Back in the day, no one ever would have even considered donating a store-bought cake for the cake walk!

No, mothers baked their finest to show off their culinary skills. There would be pies galore. Ms. Elta’s three layer German Chocolate Cake was a legendary standard, much-anticipated each year. There would always be at least one large coconut cake with seven-minute frosting (no canned frosting!). If there were cookies or brownies, they were definitely homemade and piled high, as befits a prize.

And it was this activity that would bring Phroney Hale right into our midst for a change.

If you have read this blog much, you know that I grew up surrounded by eccentrics. You can read about some of them here and here, where I wrote about Bud and Cassie. Phroney was another odd one.

Phroney was a man—maybe in his 50’s or early 60’s, hard to tell looking back—who lived, so I was told, miles on up our road, far away from our little hub of a community. His face looked permanently swollen and disfgured which, alone, caused us kids to shy from him.

Also, we understood, he was a hermit of sorts. He apparently lived alone in poverty. We knew very little about him, only that he was a fixture of sorts in our rural community. We saw him several times a week, walking, walking, walking along the side of the road. He clearly had no car and he would carry things wrapped in a cloth—exactly like you might see a hobo do. In fact, “Hobo” was the word you might think of if you saw him. Today you would peg him as “homeless” from his look. He was tattered—usually in coveralls, as I recall; never looking very clean.

A lonely figure, always.

Sometimes he would be sitting cross-legged under a shade tree, munching on a sandwich at midday. He never spoke to us and we sure never spoke to him…skirted him when we saw we were meeting him on the road.

Phroney kept to himself as far as I could tell, and had no use at all for any social graces. One time when my brother was a young teenager and suffering from the pangs of acne, he stood in line behind Phroney at our little grocery store. Unbidden, Phroney turned to him and gruffly said, “If ya’d use a little Epsom Salts on yer face ya could clear that mess up.”

My brother was shocked and not a little hurt that one who had such a messed up face as Phroney did would have the nerve to call his face a mess! It only served to heighten his anxiety about how bad he looked with his acne…

So, back to the carnival: Every year Phroney Hale came to the carnival. I do not recall seeing him partake of the pre-carnival dinner, but every year, without fail, he would pay his dimes and take his place on the cake walk, walking until he won an appropriate piece of baked goods. Each year we’d see him walk away into darkness, toting his goodie.

As I look back with warm nostalgia, I realize that this was just an opportunity for Phroney…it was a way for him to have—for once—something good and home-made by others. I wonder if it was an indication of more than just a hankering for these fine and beautiful cakes. Maybe it was a desire, too, to fill his lonely life once a year with some other kinds of home-baked goodness.

As I think about him this morning, I realize that there was more to Phroney’s life that we knew about. We knew very little about him, really, and what we didn’t know, I’m afraid we probably filled in some blanks badly, ala Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird. It is my hope, as I sit her, that Phroney, in fact, had a circle of friends around him at his distant house or maybe family of some kind who would share time with him.

We just never saw any evidence of it.

So, yes, I miss those days of show-off-Mom cakes and pies; of popcorn balls made by neighbors and shared with kids without fear of poisons or contamination.

And I miss some of the eccentricity of my neighbors in my community, which I realize now was moving from country to suburban life in America’s march toward more and more to the homogeneity of civilization.

Yes, I miss so clearly seeing those marching to different drumbeats. And I miss Miss Elta’s three-layer German Chocolate Cake. C

Guest Post by K: Whirlwinds of Change & a New Normal

2011-07-21T10:19:00.001-05:00

Cowgirl V:

Shortly after the tornado that struck Tuscaloosa, AL, I asked my sister if she would consider writing a guest post about her experiences there. She is a registered nurse who previously worked with Hurricane Katrina refugees. V

Enormous, menacing killer tornado looming over Tuscaloosa, Alabama April 27, 2011

Well, it has finally started happening. I knew the day would come, but it has taken much longer than I expected. You see, I live in a tornado ravaged city. The April 27 devastation that occurred in Tuscaloosa, Alabama did not destroy my home. In fact, we had no damage. We were out of town when the storm hit but were glued to the television as we watched it begin to tear across the city. I cannot describe our feelings we had as we watched this giant storm make its way across the city. Then we had to come home. We actually came home a day early to see what we could do to help.

The large building in the background is the local hospital.

44 deaths have been attributed to the April 27 tornado. This photo is of a memorial set up across the street from the house where Carson Tinker, long snapper for the University of Alabama lived. The home was destroyed; Tinker was thrown 50 ft. and suffered injuries, but his girlfriend and their two dogs were killed during the storm.

Since the day of our return I have driven past destruction, work crews and piles of debris at least 4-5 days a week. It was such a shock to witness the piles of rubble everywhere and slabs of concrete completely bare where the tornado seemed to have vacumned up the structure. The landscape of the city is forever changed. One of the first things I noticed driving into town on our return was how far away I could view specific buildings, like the hospital. So many trees and buildings that were once obstructing the view are gone. It will be quite some time before this changes. After several trips along familiar paths that no longer seemed familiar I began to wonder “When will this seem normal again?” We all have our “normal” lives and circumstances that periodically get terribly disturbed. This is one of those circumstances. For me it is just a disturbance in my familiar surroundings and some inconvenience because some of my favorite shopping spots are gone. For many their normal has been terribly disturbed. They are coping with loss of life, property, jobs, security, and even memories. But the question is the same for them, “When will this seem normal again?” We like our “normal”!

So I have been thinking about that each time I drive by an area of devastation. And yesterday it happened. I didn’t rubberneck! Yes, a lot has been done to clear away debris, but a LOT remains. The trucks and tractors are still busy. A few businesses have been able to put a trailer on their business sites and reopen. And I guess somehow I have finally accepted that it will be years before you will be unable to see where the tornado’s path of destruction travelled. And in some way seeing things continually getting better, a little at a time, my mind has created a new “familiarity” with the scenes as I travel. I didn’t feel the usual shock when I crossed the line between previous normal and new normal! And it is good. I am convinced the new normal will be a better city. And a chance to make needed changes.

My personal philosophy about “bad stuff” is that it happens to all of us…maybe a different set of bad things but none of us get out unscathed. The difference in the outcome from the “bad stuff” is attitude. Some people come out better on what I call “the other side”, while others get stuck in the circumstances they are in. I think this is called “the victim mentality”. And so it is with the tornado victims. I have a few friends that had damage and one lost all property and cars. She has been amazing in the way she has handled this. She already had a lot to deal with in her life because her husband is ill, her mom was very ill and has died since the tornado, and her daughter is pregnant with her second child and has had many complications. Seems like that would be enough, “bad stuff” for one person to me. But then this storm came through and destroyed her home, possessions, and cars. But no injuries to her family. So she feels blessed. Yep, no despair. There have been moments of anger and sadness and these are certainly normal reactions to the very abnormal circumstances. But she has chosen to pick herself up and get on with her life. She has even commented, “Well, it was certainly the only way I would ever have a new house, all new furniture, dishes, clothes and a new car all at the same time.”

Then there are those who continue to complain that “I’m not getting enough help” and declare that they will never get out over this disaster. I do realize that for some who have lost so much and may not have good support systems for coping mechanisms it may take more time to work through the negativity. But when working with Hurricane Katrina refugees I learned that there will be some people who choose to stay in their clouds of anger and bitterness waiting on someone else to rescue them or waiting on their circumstances to magically change. Unfortunately their “new normal” will not be one of hope and change because they have chosen to remain a victim.

I think in all of life’s adversity we have a choice. We can remain a victim or we can become victorious. I hope I always remember this no matter what circumstances come my way.

V: Sisterhood and Survival

2011-07-19T14:33:00.001-05:00

If you’ve read Stick Horse Cowgirls for very long you would know that one thing “C” and I are in complete agreement on it is the importance of “sisterhood” –the enduring friendship of women. Life IS hard sometimes and we need each other! I hope our friends out there do not get tired of hearing that message, but lately we are getting constant reminders of how vital it is to have that connection—sometimes for our very survival!

Let us cheer each other on!

In the blogging community, two neighbors, have come forth recently with their stories of desperate domestic situations. Brenda, of Cozy Little House http://www.cozylittlehouse.com , and Belinda of Ninja Poodles http://www.ninjapoodles.blogspot.com are both strong, smart women who have found themselves in a bad predicament. I hope you will visit these women and peruse their archives—you won’t be disappointed! They are both profound writers and exemplify the talent of women in the blogging community. Brenda has recently taken action to get out of her situation and is planning a move to Oklahoma. Belinda’s husband suffers from Bi Polar depression and she has a y0ung daughter. Ninja Poodles was one of the first blogs I ever read—(she lives in our neck of the woods)! At the time I didn’t really know what blogging was. Unfortunately, Belinda stopped posting regularly due to the enormous stress in her personal life, but hopefully she is back. I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to tell their story—they have done that themselves so very eloquently. Truly, their writing is a gift! Open it!

So, I just had these two women on my mind today and thought perhaps a shout out in the community might influence a few to offer their prayers, support and encouragement.

C: Cassandra Speaks…and Speaks…and Speaks…

2011-07-16T04:54:00.001-05:00

Hearken back to your Greek-mythology/literature-study days. Do you recall Cassandra? She was the daughter of King Priam and his Queen Hecuba of Troy (Remember? Iliad??)

A stunningly-beautiful woman, she caught the eye of the god Apollo; and it’s always a dangerous thing to catch one of those gods’ eyes.

Apollo, so infatuated was he, bestowed upon Cassandra the gift of prophecy, of foresight. And, then, when Cassandra did not react to Apollo in the way he desired (can you spell S-E-X?), he put a little twist on his gift to her. He cursed the gift so that, although she was unfailingly right in her predictions, she would never be believed.

Her life was not good…

This picture is supposed to be of Cassandra. See how she’s tearing her hair out?

I thought about Cassandra the other day and wondered if the literary figure might be a metaphor for the wisdom of age.

I sat in my office just this week, listening to a very wise older-than-me (which is getting up there) woman speak of her domestic travails. This woman had lived a life that had given her great insight into others and into life, I could tell. Her husband of forty years, however, had seemed to go the opposite direction as he aged. This man of nearly seventy had taken up with a 32 year-old exotic dancer and was acting the fool, big time. Running backwards, as it were.

My client said to me: “ I have learned so much over my years. Why, it took me fifty years to learn that men are so very much different than we women are. I mean, I knew it and was told it, but I was over 50 before I really knew it. I only wish my daughters would listen…”

And that last sentence is what grabbed my attention and made me think of Cassandra.

I am feeling very Cassandraish these days. Mind you, I am paid for others to hear and heed my advice. As a lawyer, advising is my job. But why is it that members of my own family just won’t listen to the advice that others pay dearly to have?

Yes, another literary reference comes to mind: “A prophet has no honor in his own country…”

V, my sister, and I are all struggling with youths in our family (all separate instances) who are treading treacherous paths. Don’t get the wrong idea: we’re not talking about criminals, here, just plain, logical wrong (really wrong) decisions that are sure to make their lives much, much harder than they have to be. From the vantage point of our age, we can so see disaster looming around the bend in each instance. These youths are screwing up—there is not one doubt about it.

My little group of support (my five BFFs) met last week. Besides V and me, there are two of that group whose children just will not listen. I’m not talking about idle style choices, here; I’m talking about things that will impact these “kids” (not) for a long time and, in one case in particular, for the rest of her life.

So, what is it about we Cassandras of a certain age that preclude youth from believing anything we have to say? Is it just that they must learn on their own?

I am re-reading one of my favorite books, Out of Africa, my go-to soothing literature. In it I find that the Somali women of the 1920’s were not like us. Their young women hungered to sit at the knees of their elders to learn of life and, yes, womanly arts. They saw the opportunity afforded them by their elders’ teaching as privilege, and they revered the examples and lessons given.

What is it about our society that we have lost the art of passing down/accepting wisdom of our elders? I have bemoaned this trait before in another post. It is as if Apollo had fixed us up to be Cassandras—blessing us with great gifts, but plugging up the ears of our youth to the lessons we have learned the hard way.

Yes, I guess they just have to learn them, too—in their own way.

Sheesh! I sound just like Mama… C

Cowgirl V: Kool-Aid, The Egg Man & Unmentionables!

2011-07-14T23:45:00.001-05:00

Summers in the late fifties and early sixties were slow paced and hot. We played outside all day long, coming in only to eat and then back outdoors again to play games and catch lightening bugs til bedtime. Running barefoot through the sprinkler to cool off, moms made Kool-Aid for us to drink, and we ate watermelon on the backyard picnic table. Great memories of growing up in the 50’s and 60’s-- except the nights when it was too hot to sleep before air conditioning!

This was the last generation to see door to door peddlers, as most mothers were working at home instead of the office. I barely remember the Standard Coffee salesman, and am a little too young to remember the Jewel Tea man, who sold loose tea in vintage tins like this, but this was the day before the large grocery stores.

How well I remember the milkman (yes, milk tasted SO much better in the glass gallon jugs from Prickett Dairy), who delivered milk to our door several days a week. We also had an Avon lady, and the old farmer who sold eggs and vegetables door to door in the summer.

My dad worked nights at the town newspaper, so he was always home during the day. This was great for my sister and I to spend more time with him during the summer, but the evenings were pretty lonely and my mother never felt safe at night. I remember her always hearing sounds in the night and looking out the window.

The egg man would come to our house once a week with his offerings of eggs and whatever happened to be producing in his garden that week. I remember him as an older man with grey hair. The quintessential farmer, he always wore overalls and a straw hat! My parents always visited with him and regularly bought eggs and whatever vegetables he had out in his truck. Sometimes it would be corn, tomatoes, green beans or peas; we ate from the bounty of his garden.

Then one year when summer was almost over, my mom received what she called an “obscene phone call!” She was convinced that it was the egg man! Apparently the anonymous caller inquired as to whether she was missing any “unmentionables” from the clothesline! Yes, she was certain that she was missing some bras and panties, she told my dad. Perhaps the voice was familiar, but she was sure that it had to be someone who knew my dad’s unusual work schedule. The caller never called again, and there was no evidence it was the genial old farmer, but……we never saw him again. It was the last summer he ever came to our house. So I wonder to this day, WAS the lingerie thief the familiar egg man who visited our home for several years?

Yes, this is my mother and sister standing in our backyard in front of THE clothesline that probably had some unmentionables hanging on it for all to see! I can barely see C’s swing set in the background! This was before a fence separated our backyards. I forgot to ask C if her mom ever bought anything from the egg man!

Cowgirl V: So is it Okay to be Judgmental Sometimes?

2011-07-11T01:17:00.001-05:00

Nobody wants to be called judgmental! Nobody! So, I’ve been wondering just what does it really mean to be judgmental? We’ve all heard the scriptural teaching that it is wrong to point out the speck in your brother’s eye, when you have a log in your own. Jesus rebukes the accuser saying in Matt.7:5 “You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.” So it seems that hypocrisy in judging others is the point of this rebuke.

Since I’m sticking my toe into the waters of theological territory here, I’d like to point out the distinction between correction and judgment as I see it . I’m no expert, so it’s just my opinion— for whatever that’s worth! Speaking out against wrong doesn’t seem to be the problem here. After all Jesus and the Apostles were bold and rebuked sin and condemned evil where they saw it. No lukewarm, wishy washy approach, thank heavens! So, correction is NOT judgment. I’m wondering, do you agree?

So, why am I writing about this? Friends in the blogging community recently brought to my attention that Nike has re-signed Michael Vick, football quarterback for the Philadelphia Eagles, after his felony conviction for illegal dog fighting. Many people who love animals are protesting this for good reason. So I posted to my personal Facebook page that I did not support Nike re-signing Vick. Just a simple statement. The next morning I discovered that a FB friend who lives in Philadelphia said that “people are far better than the worst thing they ever did in their lives.” There is truth in that statement, but I interpreted that as a rebuke for being ---yeah—judgmental.

I found some really horrific photos you would be glad I did not put here!

In all fairness, I thought perhaps I had been a little hasty in judging Vick. So I decided to do a little research on Michael Vick. I knew that dog fighting was inhumane, but I was shocked to learn that the crimes involved drowning, hanging, electrocution, using a dog as a jump rope and smashing it’s head into the pavement until it was dead. Some dogs who survived hanging, were then drowned in 5 gallon buckets. Cruel torture of under performing dogs. I couldn’t bear to read anymore of the gruesome details, but did note that Vick has a history of drug use, fraudulent misappropriation of funds, and other bad behavior. After the first raid by investigators, Vick wasn’t too concerned about it. “I’m thinking, I can get myself out of this situation. Money will get me out of this situation”. Sorry, but I have no problem labeling him as a thug and all round bad guy. How many times have we all heard that the most dangerous people in our society are those who mistreat and torture animals. My greatest hope would be that he would be genuinely sorry, but have to admit that I am skeptical. Am I judging him wrongly?

“C” and I discussed this last week. She asked, “So did it make you feel bad to be criticized?” “Yeah, it did sting a bit,” I confessed. “ But I do think I was right.” Pressing on I asked, “So, what do you think about Vick—do you think Nike was in the right in re-signing him?” “Well, there are some things in life that just disqualify you”, she replied.

“By their fruit you will recognize them. Do people pick grapes from thorn bushes or figs from thistles?” Matthew: 7:16

What do YOU think? Vick lost huge financially, but now after paying his debt to society with a prison sentence, he will be paid millions to represent Nike to a public of young people looking for a hero. Has Michael Vick disqualified himself as a hero?

C: Elephant Wisdom (or Over Thinking Again)

2011-07-02T03:23:00.001-05:00

When my son was a child and my husband was out of town, one of our favorite things to do was to sit in the bed together early and watch what he called “nature flicks.” We enjoyed the Trials of Life series, National Geographic animal specials and all things such as might be found these days on Animal Planet.

I love seeing into the social habits and ways of animals. Often I see parallels to our own lives or hints at how we humans might could manage a little better than we do if only we’d take cues from our non-human brethren. I thought about this aspect of nature study the other day when I saw a documentary on elephants.

In one scene a zoo elephant was being prepared for the delivery of her first calf. This was one tame elephant—they are so huge that they’d better be tamed. Her keepers were loving and attentive. They had trained her to submit to restraints, fearing that her domestic life away from the herd setting that nature had intended, had not prepared her well for delivery and motherhood. They were taking no chances for the baby. She was tied with heavy ropes at each leg, with enough room that she could comfortably move about some but also with several keepers at each rope’s other end, ready to restrain her further if needed. They simply did not know how she would react when her baby came.

The birth, itself, was amazing—as all births are. Mama was standing when she delivered, and that baby dropped right out onto the concrete floor of the elephant’s stall. The keepers were quick to pull the baby to the side and Mama did, indeed, look worrisome to me. She was clearly agitated/excited, straining to get to her infant but the keepers were concerned about this little 250 pounder being crushed accidentally. They worked hard to clean the baby and get him to his feet steadily so that he could be released into his mother’s care after Mama had settled down somewhat. All went well, and baby was standing and suckling within twenty minutes, Mama clearly enjoying her little one.

As the drama was unfolding, the narrator explained that this was not so far from what happens in the wild. In the wild, elephants live in matriarchal groups—no grown-up males allowed. Females in estrus go off for breeding and return to their herd of female relatives to wait two years for the birth of their calves. When these wild births occur, they are big events. All the aunts and sisters of the expected gather round. When the baby arrives, he/she is surrounded by loving females, who all use their trunks to explore the new baby and help him to his feet and to his mother.

The keepers, according to the narrator, were merely fulfilling the same role as the herd would play in the wild. They were a trusted, loving circle for this mother elephant, and they took care of the steadying of the new life and the introduction of baby to mother, just as her herd members would have done on the African savannah.

These babies are central to the herd’s life. The mothers, aunts, sisters of these little ones are all about their care and safety and giving them loving caresses with trunks. Babies are watched by all with loving eyes. When a baby elephant is in trouble, that is the concern of each and every one of the adults. When one is orphaned, other elephants will nurse the little one. Babies are taken care of.

I began to be fascinated again by lessons to be learned by us. Here are some of the quotes from my online elephant research which I found to be so pertinent to the conduct of our own lives:

Successful leaders (matriarchs) earn respect through their wisdom, confidence and connections with other elephants. They need to care for the needs of their herd, and be compassionate to their own herd as well as the members of other herds.

The matriarch is instrumental in teaching her daughters how to care for their own young. Once they start to bear babies, their sisters will assist in childcare. This provides training for them, preparing them for their own first calves. Elephant mothers are attentive to the needs of their young. Babies are born with almost no instinctive patterns, nearly everything they do has been taught to them by their mothers and aunts. What they get taught will vary according to the matriarch and her herd – different groups face different dangers and bear different responsibilities. The matriarch will determine what it important for that specific herd and mothers teach the young ones accordingly.

These female herds form deep attachments. As the herd grows, it can split into multiples, each going their own way but greeting each other with joy and excitement when their paths cross later, such as at the watering holes. These “women” elephants are all about relationship from birth to death.

Grown males are no where to be found in this herd. As the male offspring mature (usually about age 14), they leave the herd to live a solitary life or to join male “pods,” coming to the females only to mate. They have nothing to do with this marvelous matriarchal system of raising young. Nope, they are used solely to produce these much-loved babies and to continue the existence of these marvelous creatures…

And it cannot be left without saying that these bachelor groups are the ones that cause trouble. Wikipedia says:

The males spend much more time than the females fighting for dominance with each other.

During this season, known as musth, a bull will fight with almost any other male it encounters, and it will spend most of its time hovering around the female herds, trying to find a receptive mate.

Apparently “musth” is caused by excessive testosterone levels at that season, creating aggression. It may be where the “rogue elephant” term comes from.

So, we have this peaceful, loving orderly society of lady elephants who choose their leadership for “wisdom and compassion.” This is juxtaposed against the males who gain their leadership among peers by fighting and live just-for-me lives, “hovering” around the ladies looking for sex. Hmmm. Hmmmm. Overthinking kicks in.

Oh, yeah, my mind goes right to the human race with this.

Yes, I know, there are exceptions, good and devoted men who are not this shallow—what I’m talking about here is a frequent observation everyone in my office has made at some time or another. When women “move on” to other relationships, normally their babies go with them, incorporated into a new “blended” family. These women (yes, there are exceptions) do not abandon the young who are so central to their lives.

Not so for the male who separates from his family—those original children will fade in importance in favor of children he has with his new one or, in some cases, even the new stepchildren. He often decries even paying child support, saying [I am so sick of hearing this], “If she would only spend it on the kids…” like she’s not “spending it on the kids” every time she pays the light bill.

You have no idea how many men I see in my business who “move on” because of sex, largely abandoning meaningful relationship with their young so as to satisfy their own desires. All the while these children are nurtured by their mothers and aunts and grandmothers; our equivalent of the matriarchal elephant herd.

And, this elephant society structure dovetails nicely with advice I give to all my divorcing women clients: “Keep your girlfriends close…” It is important advice that I wish all women would heed whether they have great marriages or not. (another post…)

But the elephants seem to have recognized and incorporated into their society a gender difference. They have come to see that males have an important role to play—and they relegate those males to that role! I love it. Could it be that they have hit upon this scheme because they have an ability that we human women seem to lack? Such as: “Elephants never forget…” C

But ask the animals, and they will teach you,

or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you;

or speak to the earth, and it will teach you,

or let the fish in the sea inform you… Job 12:7, 8

Cowgirl V: Rainy Days and Rainbows

2011-06-29T00:29:00.001-05:00

The rain this morning seemed somehow to reflect my somber mood. Just have a case of the blahs the past couple of days. We just returned from our trip to Alabama to see my mom and sister. We brought my mom’s two beloved cats with us because she will soon be moving to a special unit due to the Alzheimer’s Disease. The cats are old and confused too. I can’t help it! When I see them, I feel a little sad. They are isolated in a spare room until they hopefully acclimate to their new home which includes two cat friendly dogs! Actually, the female cat has always been somewhat antisocial, and hides out. The friendly orange tabby, Chester, just lays on the daybed. Poor thing, he seems so confused and sad. The only option besides traveling to Arkansas with me, was euthanasia, and I just couldn’t do it. Not many people want to adopt a senior animal, and Tuscaloosa is overrun with homeless pets due to the recent tornado.

The rubble to the left of the Hobby Lobby store was Big Lots. It was flattened. What amazed me was that the major hospital in the city was missed by a few feet. Cars in the parking lot were damaged, but the hospital miraculously was unscathed.

I knew it was going to be bad, but nothing can prepare you for the devastation of a tornado. Tuscaloosa, is slowly cleaning up the mess, but where do you take all the junk?

Despite all the devastation all around, Tuscaloosa is a nice town with the beautiful Black Warrior River meandering through it. Fortunately, my sister’s neighborhood was not damaged at all. We brought home some of the bounty of her beautiful garden.

We had squash for dinner last night! This is the squash from her garden! Perhaps I’ll post my mother-in-law’s recipe for her amazing, delicious squash casserole soon! Yes, I will!

These red potatoes, boiled and seasoned with just a little butter, salt and freshly ground pepper were delicious!

Despite everything, we had a wonderful visit with my sister and her family. The grandkids swam in her neighbor’s pool, and my daughter and her cousin were able to reconnect and had a great time catching up! My 7 year old grandson met his cousin for the first time and they were inseparable. They speculated that being cousins was so great, they might become great friends too!

We drove to Birmingham one evening for some great barbecue, and got to see my niece’s lovely new house. On the drive there, my husband spied a beautiful double rainbow in the sky. It reminded me that mourning may last for season, but joy will come in the morning.

This is the rainbow we saw while driving to Birmingham.

Just feeling a little blue, but families truly are forever! Little Emma Rose in my arms is turning one year old tomorrow and we will be celebrating at the Purple Cow restaurant. I suspect Emma will be having some purple vanilla ice cream with her cake! Happy Birthday, Emma!

C: Birthdays

2011-06-26T08:01:00.001-05:00

I’ve used this picture before. It is a favorite of mine, V and me at age four. I am using it again because it has a picture in the background of my birthday cake. This is the only picture I can recall of any of my numerous birthday parties (Mother where were you and the camera?):

V and I are to the right of the photo, V forward in the darker dress, me over to the right edge of the photo in white. My little brother (now the big-time lawyer) is to the left edge, at age two.

You will notice that we were all dressed up. That’s the way birthday parties were “back in the day.” They aren’t pictured, but you can bet that my mother and the other mothers who were there were not in jeans, either. Everyone dressed for special days back then.

Back to the cake: It was a Circus Cake, complete with carousel top and plastic circus animals on it. I know without asking that my mother purchased this cake from Kohler’s Bakery. It, really, was the only bakery in town for birthday cakes. This was the day before in-store bakeries. We all went to Kohler’s for our special occasion cakes, as well as the occasional cream horn.

Besides a Kohler’s cake, another obligatory element of birthday parties was Hawaiian punch. Back then it only came in the original red recipe in great big cans, like this one. And we only got this sweet-sweet treat (loaded with red dye) at children’s parties. It was served universally at birthday parties and school parties, such as Valentine’s Day.

You will see from my picture that we had the birthday noise makers. I don’t see hats, but they were usual.

Birthday parties back then were fairly simple affairs lasting, maybe two hours at the most. You would have the “gathering period,” where everyone arrived, each with a wrapped package to put on the pile. Then there might be a game or two: Pin the tail on the donkey was a favorite. The donkey picture was taped to the wall. Each child was given a numbered tail with tape, and blindfolded. He or she was then spun around by the hostess mother, and pointed in the right direction to pin his/her tail on the picture. The closest to the correct tail position won some sort of little prize.

After games, birthday girl got to open gifts, after which cake, vanilla ice cream and Hawaiian punch were served on colorful paper plates and the party dissipated.

I was thinking, as I mulled over these memories, that with my own son and, later, with my nieces and nephews and friends’ kids, our birthday parties became more and more elaborate. For one thing, they became bigger. See from the picture, my guests were limited to five in addition to me and my brother. I have seen (and hosted) parties with whole class enrollments. Yikes!

And the party activities became more elaborate. It is as if we had to have some central (big) activity around which to center the party, instead of just centering it around the honoree: Horseback riding parties (I’ve done ‘em); parties with clown entertainment (done this, too); Chuck E. Cheez….not just the cake-and-ice cream gathering that were once so prevalent.

But then I thought about one “flash” birthday party my mother allowed in our Meadowcliff home. Truthfully, I think it may have been my brother’s birthday, not mine, but it made an impression on me, for sure.

There was a man who called himself “Cactus Vick.” He dressed as a cowboy and he was connected in some way (announcer, maybe?) with one of the local television stations. He could be hired to host birthday parties, and—here was the hook—he had a little four-horse merry-go-round that he pulled behind his truck!

Yessiree, my mama hired Cactus Vick for one of our birthday parties, and he pulled that little merry-go-round right up into our driveway. We thought that was just the bomb! Every kid in our city knew who Cactus Vick was and children who got him for their parties were the envy of all others.

I can remember discussions about when someone was “too old” to have a birthday party, and I knew girls who were given money instead of a party--$1 per year seemed the going rate, so a girl who relieved her parents of hosting a tenth birthday party could look to score $10, which was big money back then.

My family never did that, but I did transition from the regular birthday party to the “bunking party.” (We never called them “sleepovers” or “slumber parties”), and this became the norm for celebrating birthdays in those pre-teen and early-teen years. V and I had and attended many bunking parties over the years and, having thrown them for my son, I can tell you: Cactus Vick would have been worth his money several times over if you could avoid the expense and sleepless night caused by these sleepovers.

I don’t know why I woke up thinking about birthday parties! I now tend to want any birthday of mine to go off in a very low-key way (now that there is not enough room for the correct number of candles). But, for some reason I did start thinking about pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and Hawaiian punch.

I’d love to hear your birthday memories…C

C: Bright Spots – If Ya Gotta Do It, This is The Way.

2011-06-24T05:11:00.001-05:00

Yes, there are bright spots in the dismal terrain of broken families in which I work. As I work to help clients manage the dissolution of their families, normally I am in an acutely adversarial role. This is required because the parties are so polarized from hurt that they are unable to be collaborative. I understand that. Been there, done that myself.

Often where children are involved I see parents so blinded by their pain and their own rejection issues that seeing the best interests of the kids is impossible. Many is the time I have had clients tell me, “I want him to have every other weekend, PERIOD. It’s best for the kids…” Yeah, right. It’s best for the kids to see Dad four days a month? No, it’s a great way for you to jab back at him for his hurt to you and to have some control in this life of yours that has spun out of control.

But, they are sincere most of the time, I have come to understand. Pain colors perception in such odd ways.

But recently I was involved in a settlement meeting that was almost a pleasure to attend. I say “almost” because divorce is never a pleasure, especially where there are children involved.

The participants, Mark and Colleen, are both well-educated professionals. Mark makes an astronomical amount of money; Colleen has a respected profession without so much monetary return. They are parents to two sons, ages 4 and 6. They had been separated over a year before either sought legal counsel.

Incredibly, they had worked out caring for these kids without any visible hitch. Colleen had taken a spacious apartment, suitable for the kids and just minutes away from the marital home where Mark remained. When she moved out, her children (then three and five) rolled into the new digs without nary a wrinkle. For over a year they had been splitting the time with the children, fifty-fifty, and had continued to make decisions about the kids, throw birthday parties together, attend the five-year-old’s kindergarten meetings together and so forth.

When Colleen came to see me some months ago, she insisted that she have joint custody with Mark (something I rarely recommend because it rarely works). When she told me how the last year has gone, I agreed to give it a shot.

We met the other day, Mark and his attorney coming to sit across the settlement table from Colleen and me. A few minutes into the meeting, I could see why the joint custody would work.

We never discussed the whys of their break up, but I could see that there was still hurt on both sides. Both of them agreed that the move out of the house was so that there would never be any arguing in front of the kids. They say they stuck to that, determined that the children not see hostility between them. I believe they did that. It is a breath of fresh air.

Mark, was testy because I was asking for support from him for Colleen so that her standard of living for these kids would not be so glaringly disparate from his. He felt that she had moved out, she should not share in “his” money.

Not wanting to rock the boat that had sailed so steadily before attorneys entered the picture, I was easy in my approach. Still, I could not let Colleen walk away with a financial agreement that would impoverish her, despite her willingness to give in. I had to assert on her behalf.

At one point, it seemed we could not reach a deal, “Well, we’re at an impasse,” Mark said. “What happens now?”

My answer, to which his legal counsel nodded agreement, was: “We go to court. Without an agreement on this, it all has to be on the table. The Court will not order joint custody unless both parties come asking for it in evidence of your ability to cooperatively parent. We can’t request it without a fair settlement of the issues which affect your little boys—like their mother’s ability to provide a home for them.”

This sobering thought brought his attention back to his children. He retreated. Each time voices were raised (always over money) and it seemed we were stuck, someone would mention the kids, and both parties would immediately calm and move back in their chairs. The kids kept them centered and focused on their ultimate goal—good parenting.

As the process continued we lawyers learned the trick. Each time we broached the possibility that the kids might be pulled into the fray in some way or that the Court would rule that one have custody, both parties would retreat—not necessarily to give in on the issue, but at least to regroup, to rethink, to find a solution. It was clear to me that these parents were hyperfocused on their children and how this split could be managed to impact the boys the least. It was as if anything which touched the boys’ welfare was sacred ground. These parents will, I believe—I hope-- be forever united in their goal of dong the very best for their children.

We reached a settlement that I believe is fair and will work to the kids’ best interests.

I’ve tried to analyze what makes this couple so unique, why we were able to work things out as well as we did, and why they were so amazingly attuned to their children’s interests. I’ve come up with a few factors that distinguish them from the average case:

These two seem secure within themselves. They are both accomplished and confident in their chosen profession fields. We did not have to battle some of the problems that insecurities cause. It didn’t hurt that they were both extremely intelligent.
There had been over a year for them to get some of the emotional venting out of their systems. Neither had felt the need for an immediate divorce, and this gave time for them to get into a successful separation routine and for emotions to calm down.
They both had willing lawyers. I can’t emphasize the importance of this factor enough. If the other side had brought a lawyer who was combative or wanting to be sure he and his client “wins,” then we would have been sunk. A lawyer can whip those old emotions back up in a client in an instant. Thankfully, both attorneys were able to see our clients’ ultimate goal and help them achieve it. We lawyers can be real stinkers sometimes.

I am not deceived. In fact, those of you who have read this blog much know that I am quite the cynic. I believe this couple will have rockiness ahead, because that is the nature of dealing with an ex.

However, they are a head start ahead of most others in keeping those children central and as the most important part of this process. Regardless of their marital status, these parents will together face events with these kids from now on. There will be school and sporting events, graduations, weddings, grandkids….they are forever tied to one another to some extent. Best to recognize that those children who were so important to them while they were together should still be the most important things to them both.

I commend them and just wanted you out there to know: It can be done. C.

Cowgirl V: Welcome Summer and Chasing the Wild Horses of Sable Island

2011-06-21T22:57:00.001-05:00

Hello, first day of summer! You are welcomed as a long lost friend. I love your blue skies, fragrant flowers, fresh, colorful fruits and vegetables, and—SUNSHINE! After a long, dreary Spring, I look forward to the end of the school year. I work at a public high school, so I really cherish having time to putter around the house tending to long neglected chores, working in my garden, visiting friends –I love it all! If only I could get to the beach!!! It’s not in the cards this year! Maybe a little trip to the hills of northern Arkansas if I’m lucky!

I did a little shopping today—scored a couple of bargains at T. J. Maxx—I bought some Sketcher slip on shoes and sparkly starfish earrings—it must have something to do with my wistful longing for the beach!!!

I ran a few errands in preparation for my trip to Alabama later this week to visit my mother. She will be moving soon to a dementia unit where she will get more individualized care as the Alzheimer’s Disease progresses. My oldest daughter and her family will go with us to visit Grandma, so my sister is going to be deluged with house visitors! We will make some time for fun!

I stumbled upon a great site earlier this evening that I wanted to share. I found it via http://www.quintessenceblog.com. The June 20th post features the Samuel Owen Gallery in Greenwich, CT. and their current exhibit of Romanian photographer, Roberto Dutesco. For 14 years, Dutesco has been photographing the wild horses of Sable Island off the coast of Nova Scotia. The exhibit is: Chasing the Wild by Roberto Dutesco I hope some (ALL) of you will take the time to follow the link and watch the short video because it is so beautiful and amazing!

Just look at these AWESOME photographs!

Hubby got some new lenses for his camera for Father’s Day! I’m sending him over to Belgian Meadows farm (where son got married almost two years ago), to photograph the magnificent horses there! They may not be Dutesco photographs of the wild horses of Sable Island, but they will be amazing to me!

C: Lessons from Girl Scouts

2011-06-19T17:29:00.001-05:00

I was a Brownie and then, for one year only, a Girl Scout. I remember saluting and saying the Girl Scout “Promise” and our motto:

Be Prepared.

Prepared for what? Truthfully, that question never crossed my young mind back when I was saying these words in unison with my sister scouts. Five decades later, I know:

Be Prepared for Curves Life is Certain to Throw You.

This motto came to my mind while I was at an informal gathering of friends recently—all women. One of them told me her story, words tumbling out of her mouth so that I could not get a word in edgewise; I could tell the words were pushed out by pain. I know, from experience, of her need to have someone else listen. She is not my client but she found out I am a lawyer and felt compelled to tell me. I was riveted:

Jon and Mary did it all right. They were correct to the Nth degree. Jon’s parents were Missionaries. He grew up in the mission fields of eastern Europe, dedicated to Christ, as were his parents. His parents are off the field now, working in their mission’s home office not too far from Mary’s home town.

Mary was the daughter of a devout and respected clergyman. Because of this she found herself at the same Christian university as Jon, where they met.

Jon and Mary grew to know and love each other as friends. As fellow believers, they agreed to wait to have sex until after their marriage vows. They stuck to it. They also waited until both had their nursing degrees. All was in place for the perfect wedding and, to follow, the perfect marriage, the perfect life.

Surrounded on both sides by loving and supportive families, they began their careers, working in the same children’s hospital and, while they did not work directly together, they had similar schedules. They purchased a house. They found a church and did meaningful work there. Bliss settled over them like a blessing.

In 2009 Jon secretly arranged with Mary’s boss for her to have a week off in the winter. At Christmas he announced his surprise: A weeklong trip in January to Hawaii for which he had saved on the side. He had even ordered up a new bathing suit and clothes for Mary. She had very little notice—it was wondrous.

Hawaii was everything that Jon planned for. They had the time of their lives, seeing sights, soaking up sun and enjoying one another. Mary was amazed by the romance of Jon’s gesture, and it deepened her love for him, giving her even more faith that he loved her above all else.

Two months after their return, Mary’s pregnancy was confirmed. They were to have a child the following September. They learned it was a girl and, after much prayer for just the right name, they settled on Abigail, a woman of God. They decided that their daughter would be called “Abby.”

In June Jon left Mary to take a week long mission trip in Haiti with their church. He e mailed her every day—long, loving e mails about how he missed her, loved her, and each one contained a special message for little unborn Abby for Mom to read aloud to her. His homecoming was as intense for them both as if he had been gone a year instead of a week.

The very next month, July, Mary noticed Jon’s quiet. It worried her but she chalked it up to baby expectation anxiety. She had some of that herself.

The first week in August Jon came in with a strained look on his face. He sat down at the table where Mary was already seated.

“Mary, I’ve met someone else. I’m sorry—I don’t really want to discuss this because my mind is made up—I am in love with this other person. You must know that I have not been happy for a long time now. I’m moving out. In fact, I’m moving right now. You can have everything here—I just need my clothes.”

This was so quick that Mary had no time to process what was being said. Surely she had misunderstood, but Jon had left, going into the bedroom leaving her there in shock. She could hear him moving around, obviously gathering things to take with him. The panic rose as she realized what was happening.

There ensued a scene. Mary, full of emotion, begged Jon, reminding him of Abby, pleading with him to reconsider. He refused. Cold. The next thing she knew, he was gone.

As it turned out, he had fallen in love with another nurse, a young, twenty-two year old. Jon and Mary were ten years older. She was married, too, without children. She had already started divorce proceedings. Jon thought it would be a comfort to Mary to know that this new woman was excited about helping Jon parent little Abby when she came, sure (she assured him) that she could love her like her own. No comfort to Mary.

Jon learned that he could not get a divorce with a baby on the way. It made no difference, he moved right into his new love’s apartment. He would not return Mary’s calls, dealing with her only through e mail and only in order to take care of joint debts.

When it came time for the baby, he was notified by Mary’s sister, who was also her labor coach, since Jon was missing. He called to say he was in the hospital parking lot, awaiting word of the birth. He did not want to be in the waiting room with Mary’s family—or his, for that matter. His family had united to try to convince Jon that he was making a mistake. This, too, was to no avail.

At Abby’s birth, Jon saw her a few minutes, held her and left. He never asked to see her until they went to court for the first time in November. At that hearing, Jon not only demanded visitation rights, his lawyer raked Mary over the coals as Jon sat there smugly. Mary had changed jobs, not wanting to work in the same hospital with Jon and his honey. Her new job paid her slightly less money, but it offered her very flexible and fewer hours. She felt she needed this since she was now a single parent.

The hearing was a disappointment to them both. Jon did not get unsupervised visitation with this tiny baby whom he did not know and he was ordered not to have this child around his girlfriend until the divorce was final.

Mary was disappointed that she received the standard amount of child support, no alimony and only $200 per month toward their $1200.00 house payment. The judge had done the math and figured out that Mary could make it with this much money—although barely—pointing out that she had made a decision to cut her pay, and he did not feel Jon should have to pick up that slack. Huh?

Move forward to May, when we had our conversation. Jon has seen the baby twice at his parents’ house, preferring to wait until the divorce is final, when he can marry his girlfriend and she can help take care of the baby on visitation weekends. He knows the Court will let him have the baby around her after their marriage.

Mary is in shock at the thought of sending her little one off for “visitation,” especially into the care of a woman whom she does not know and who has been the cause of so much pain. It is something she never saw coming for her child or her life.

Mary is finding that her budget was so conservative that she is barely making ends meet. Her in-laws have graciously stepped in to provide her a cell phone on their account to spare her that bill, at least. She talked about how supportive they are and that they will not meet the new girlfriend, “until they have to when their son marries her.” What? Why then? Sorry, I don’t think the relationship should be countenanced, but I digress into my own opinion.

Mary is in the process of trying to decide if she should look for a job with more money, although it will mean far less time with the baby she must now raise mostly by herself.

And Jon? He’s living the good life. He is paying child support, which is far less than would come out of his pocket for this child if he were in the household, plus $200 per month. He’s living with his honey, sharing her apartment rent, and probably socking money back. He’s pushing for the house to be sold so that he can force the payment of his share of their small equity. And he will be successful.

So Mary is contemplating a move. On her own. Finding a place she can afford and which is appropriate to raise little Abby.

She talked to me obsessively because she is scared. I can tell. She has good reason. This is nothing like the picture of the life she had formulated in her mind and which she had every reason to expect, given her planning and the care in which she conducted herself.

What hurts her most are two things:

Jon’s allegations of his long, miserable life with her. “It’s not true,” she kept telling me. “I KNOW he and I were happy. He is lying.” and
The fact that Jon does not care—even one whit—about the hardships she must now endure. “This isn’t the Jon I know. He had a soft heart.” She is learning that when their heads turn, they feel nothing but contempt for the one left behind—contemptuous of anything that might get in the way of what they want.

I know she’s right. I hear it all the time. I’ve heard it in my own case. Men who find lovers suddenly “remember” all the unhappiness no one else knew about for years. Men who find lovers suddenly despise the one they leave behind.

So, I ask: What does one do to protect one’s marriage? The truth is that no one has any control—whatsoever—over the choices that another makes. And you can never predict another person’s choices. Mark it down.

Be prepared.

I feel for her, but I believe she will be fine ultimately. She is young and attractive. She will find someone else. She’s afraid of that comfort, too, and asked me where I think she went wrong this time.

“You didn’t,” I replied. “And, no, you can’t protect yourself against another betrayal. You can only have your feet on solid ground in case it happens again. Just be prepared…”

So, I repeat:

Be prepared.

Uncertainty is the only certainty there is., and knowing how to live with insecurity is the only security.

John Allen Paulos

- C (for cynic?)

C: To Everything There is a Season…

2011-06-13T01:31:00.001-05:00

Summer is most definitely here. With the turn of the season, my tastes in food turn, too.

We tend toward the meat-heavy in this household, I’m afraid. Through three-quarters of the year my homemade vegetable soup is chocked-full of vegetables, but there are plenty of chunks of beef in it as well.

Now that summer is here, however, we’re tending toward the vegetarian-style, without meat. There seems to be something about oppressive heat that turns one’s fancy away from red meat—at least in this household. When the fall crisp hits, we’ll be returning to stews and pot roasts, I can tell you; but for now summer tastes run toward foods like:

Sweet iced tea. Lots of it. With lemon, please. Occasionally you will find a slice of lime or sprig of mint in mine, but usually it’s lemon.

Fewer sodas and more lemonade—even the sugar-free Crystal light kind. Just seems to be more hydrating. Needless to say, our consumption of water goes up considerably.

Tuna salad—”Tunafish,” as I grew up calling this, as in “I’ll have a tunafish sandwich.” Sometimes I mound it up on a “salad plate.” I like mine with real mayonnaise (no Miracle Whip), very finely chopped celery and DILL pickle relish. I love sweet pickles, but not in my tuna salad.

Chicken salad. Truthfully, I like it made with canned chicken or with leftover cooked chicken, either way, although the two do taste different. Again, I like mayonnaise and celery, but I prefer capers in my chicken salad. Occasionally I’ll go a little exotic and add some curry powder.

And I tend to want cool pimiento cheese sandwiches instead of grilled cheese sandwiches, like in the winter.

Melons, melons, and more melons. I love watermelon and I’m crazy for cantaloupes and honeydews, although I have trouble picking really good honey dews. For the cantaloupes and the honeydews, I like to cut them up into a melon salad and sprinkle with lime juice, leaving lime slices scattered throughout. So refreshing!

Do you salt your melon? I don’t usually, but I can see the attraction…

In fact, I love fruit in the summer—berries, crisp chopped apples, peaches…ummmm.

Cottage cheese. I love this always, but in summertime I crave it. I like the “regular” large curd, if given the choice, but I will eat the lowfat, and usually buy that unless I’m feeling like I deserve a treat.

I like cottage cheese alone or with fruit. It seems so right to mound this creamy stuff up on a “salad plate” (see above) with, say, a little scoop of tuna salad and a little dish of melon mix. This can all look pretty fancy with some lettuce scattered on the plate and maybe an olive or two—on a toothpick if you want to get really fancy!

Wedges of iceberg with bleu cheese crumbles, bleu cheese dressing and maybe a few bacon bits sprinkled across. (No tomatoes, please—see below) Mmmmm. In fact, all green, leafy salads sound good to me in the summer, especially topped with a piece of poached salmon.

I could go on and on with summertime favorites. I’d like to hear yours…

And before any of you say anything about the fact that I’ve omitted garden-fresh sliced tomatoes or cucumbers in vinegar with onions (some of my mother’s favorites), let me say that I’m picky. Those things are not to my liking. Weird, I know. I grew up watching my parents and my siblings enjoy these, but never learned to like them.

I’m actually looking forward to the summer, heat or no. It seems a bit less frenetic, although I don’t really know that it’s true. But I like the longer days and the evenings on my porches and, of course, all that wonderful summertime food! C

C: Fauna

2011-06-11T03:49:00.003-05:00

I was walking down my drive way yesterday from MIL’s home to my own. It is a good walk. We are within “sight” distance, but still it takes me a fair few minutes to make the trek. Let me put it this way: she’s almost to one end of my 11 acres; I’m almost to the other end.

MIL had fed me with one of my favorite comfort meals: meatloaf and English peas. She knows I love the little Le Sueur peas. Ummmmmmm. (No, I did not snap this picture, but it sure looks like her meatloaf!)

As I walked, I spied my neighbor, Midlife Countrygirl, out doing her usual gardening. I’ve written about Mary before, and all her industry. My hat is off to this woman. She cans, she gardens, she mows, she keeps up her pool, her house is spotless…SuperWoman if ever there was one.

One of the things I love about talking to Mary is that she brings me up to speed on what’s happening in the area.

“You know we’ve got a bear out here.” Mary told me. Truth be told, we all know we have bears out here—that is not news. The state record black bear was shot by a hunter not a quarter mile from my home about five years ago. No, Mary wasn’t advising me that bears live out here; what she was saying is that there is a bear “around” that can be spotted by humans…not a good sign.

Apparently, there is a sow and two cubs who have been spotted right near homes just up the road from us. They are seen mostly early morning and have been seen several times. I don’t mind the thought of bears—like it, actually, that I live where there is a diversity of wild fauna, but habituated bears unnerve me. I think they are dangerous—they should be shy of us, not coming intentionally among us.

Mary went on to say that our neighbor up the road had come out upon this Mama bear in the yard and that it growled at her, putting her back inside her house pronto. Again…not good.

Mary also gave me the comforting (not!) news that she and her husband had heard something “breathing” in my woods across my meadow from her home. It had caused her cat to listen and raise its fuzzed tail in alarm. Again…not good. Gave me the shivers, as my eyes followed her pointing finger to my woods. Creepy. Who knows what’s watching us from the forest’s edge?

I have yet to actually see a bear out here, although V’s daughter, M saw one on the side of the road one day maybe ten years ago. But we did hear a cougar one night—my granny would have called it a “panther.” My husband and I were sitting out on our porch one fall night not long after we had moved into this house. At that time, the woods to the back of our house were even thicker than now and unoccupied by humans. They are extremely dark at night because they are so thick. They rise up to blanket a high ridge which is part of the beginning of the foothills that eventually come into the Ozark Mountains. There is a lot of forest for hundreds of miles to our west, including a lot of National Forest.

As my husband and I enjoyed the fall cool, a hair-raising, loud scream filled the woods. Twice. At the time we had our enormous Alaskan Malamute, Shadow, who was never afraid of anything. Except that night. He literally bounded up on the porch between us.

There was absolutely no mistaking what we heard. All my life I have heard my kinfolk talk about “panther screams” and how they sound like a woman’s scream only ear-splitting. We knew it when we heard it.

My husband called the Game and Fish Commission the next day to talk about what we had heard. He was told there are no cougars in our area. They lied, hopefully to keep hunters from looking for them.

Not long after that, the cougar was spotted by our neighbor on his way to work about 5 in the morning. The cat was slinking across our road, just a quarter mile beyond us up the ridge, disappearing into the early-morning woods. Mary has seen one. And a few months after we heard it, the newspaper carried a photograph of one, captured by a hunter’s tree-mounted camera not far from our house.

I’m thankful for Chili and continue to maintain that a large dog (at least one) is important to have if you’re going to live in the country. While I know that Chili is no match for a bear fight, I also know that no bear is going to bother coming about where a large dog is raising a ruckus.

(Doesn’t Chili look like he’s in a police lineup in this picture?)

There’s just a little double-sided feeling at news of the bears. On the one hand, it brings a little trepidation, and I won’t be traipsing off afoot to MIL’s after dark, for sure. On the other hand, it’s kind of exhilarating to live in an area that is still a bit “wild.” C.

C: Splurges

2011-06-09T20:13:00.001-05:00

It’s gettin’ summertime down here in the South—actually, I’m hearing that much of the nation is under a heat wave. I am born-and-bred Southern, so I don’t know why it always seems to catch me by surprise each year, but it does. Little car’s outside thermometer has twice this week registered over 100 degrees F on the asphalt as I pulled out of the parking lot at the end of the day, although it cooled by at least ten degrees out here in the country.

I worked last Saturday and have worked loooong hours this week. I have been tired, needless to say. But the other day, as I pulled into MIL’s driveway after work, I realized that for the first time in several days I felt pretty good at the end of the day. Maybe this is because I had just settled a difficult case in a way that I am convinced will be of benefit to the poor seven-year-old caught in the middle of his parents’ torment. Or maybe it’s that common-cold/pink eye virus losing its potency. Either way, I felt pretty good.

So, as MIL, son and I sat and chatted, I asked her out to dinner, intending on finding a seat at one of the local middle-of-the-road-cost restaurants that range up and down our highway.

“Nope,” MIL said, “We’re going to YaYa’s!” (this is a splurge, indeed; a great treat).

She continued: "And I’m buying!” (Ooooooooo! Double treat! )

Son opted out, choosing to go his own way. His loss. Off we went.

YaYa’s EuroBistro is what we like to call our “neighborhood Bistro.” It is, after all, only thirteen miles from our country home (believe me, there is nothing of substance any closer).

It’s a very nice restaurant with attentive, black-clad waiters who make you feel special. The food is divine. We love it (can you tell?), but it is not in the budget for frequent dining.

The pictures here are of YaYa’s, sans customers

And, it was every bit as good as I had anticipated. We had a glass of wine each. MIL had grilled Salmon with seafood raviolis. I had rainbow trout (perfect!) with Yukon gold potatoes and long green beans.

As I sat there, I thought about our splurge. It was pricier than most dinners we have…certainly far more than what I fix myself at home. I had planned only on, say, barbeque or Mexican food, which would have been far more “reasonable.” But I think the uplifted spirits and the company was worth the extra Dollars. (Especially since they were MIL’s dollars!)

I think that the value of the a splurge is not just the Dollars involved; it is also enhanced by the very fact that it is infrequent, limited by the budget as it is—perhaps if I ate at YaYa’s weekly, it wouldn’t feel so splurgey (?). As it is, it feels special.

But it sure did feel good! It will tide me over splurge-wise for a while.

Sometimes you just have to fit “splurge” into the budget…

Thanks, Immigrant Daughter! C

C: Expanding the Mother Tongue. Time for a Vocabulary Lesson.

2011-06-07T06:56:00.001-05:00

In my heyday, long past, “text” was a noun. In this 21st century world, “text” has become a verb: If you want to send someone a “text message” from your phone, you “text” him. People have wrecks while texting in their car. So, we see the English language expanding to fit our lifestyle.

I have grown to like text messaging, but only in a limited sense. I am definitely not hooked on it, as some seem to be. I probably send or receive a text message once or twice in an average week. They are extremely useful in situations (court, for example) where answering the phone is impossible but you need to send or receive information. Usually the message will be something like “Witness is running late—she’ll be there in five minutes.”

I find text messages useful but not particularly personal nor a primary means of communication.

And then there is the “tweet,” which is no longer simply a description of bird talk. No, those who use the social media Twitter are now said to “tweet” their messages. I am determined to look into Twitter and learn to tweet—it can’t be rocket science given those who make the news using it—but have not taken the time. I suspect that I am going to find that this is not a particularly personal-feeling means of communication either.

But, apparently, there are those who do find these to be extremely personal means of exchange. Take U S Congressman Anthony Weiner, for example. You may recall that I only recently wrote about the Congressman here. At that time the Washington Weiner had not yet come clean about his very personal tweeting and text messaging. Now, it seems, he’s tearfully confessed that he has had inappropriate text/twitter messaging with at least six women.

Aha! So it was him and not an evil hacker! I knew it! Didn’t you?

But, let’s move on back to the topic of language. I am told from the news that what Weiner was doing is called “Sexting,” which apparently comes from combining the word “Sex” with the verb “Text.” Voila! How cute! A new English word. Sexting.

I became personally familiar with sexting a couple of years ago when I discovered some “Sexts” (is this the right word???) on my husband’s phone. Oh, dear! They were X-rated—no, they were XXX-rated! It amazed me that so much description could be packed into so few words. And the names by which his girlfriend signed off were, well, they, too, were imaginative, but, alas, are not repeatable here.

Hubby answered with equally-“sexy” messages, but I must admit he was not nearly word-agile as his lover in this game. As my husband’s best friend said when I told him of them: “Whoa! She’s a pro!” True.

When confronted, my husband, himself, said: “I am embarrassed. This reminds me of junior high.”

I agree. But it didn’t quit. Notwithstanding his professed embarrassment, he continued right along, apparently unable to break free from the fantasy admiration he felt from these missives, juvenile or not. I found more steamy sext messages right before we split for good. And he even admitted that he loved the game of sexting. It was, apparently, a huge turn-on and addictive. (I’m telling you men think differently from women…)

You may recall that Congressman Weiner is not the first to fall to Sexting urges. Former (as in “now resigned”) New York Congressman Chris Lee was sending out his manly pictures to Craig’s List—to anyone interested, and his sending them in the first place tells me that he was so proud of himself that he just knew there would be public interest out there. If you want to review Congressman Lee’s advertising picture, you can find it at my post. of February 10, 2011 (hyperlink gadget just will not work here for some reason). As for Weiner, here is one of his tamer picture-messages:

What a charmer? Who wouldn’t fall for this hunk, right? Isn’t that what this guy was thinking? (are you as embarrassed for him as I am? His poor wife!).

You can also Google and find the infamous crotch shot—through underwear, thankfully. I will spare you a copy of that picture, here, but I will say with regard to the same: “Poor Weiner…” I think that the thrill of this sexting thing must over-inflate one’s estimation of himself, if you get my drift…

And the person he was wooing (was he “wooing” her?) ratted him out, saying, “He’s got some serious issues…” No doubt, but I’m sorry to say that these issues are not rare in the male community. Like it or not.

So, everyone: Get out your vocab lists and update. And thanks to these hunks for expanding our mother tongue! C

C: Kardashians

2011-06-06T02:56:00.001-05:00

I remember when I first heard the Kardashian name. It was when OJ was big in the news. Remember the White Bronco chase?

Robert Kardashian was an attorney and a friend to OJ. The Simpson trial was in 1995.

Fast forward now to 2011. It’s Robert’s daughters, Kourtney, Kim & Khloe, who are all the news now, apparently.

I must admit that I am somewhat interested how someone becomes famous and extremely well-paid in our society for doing…well, for doing….well, for being….Okay, I give up. What are they famous for?

Here’s the family portrait. That’s Olympian Bruce Jenner on the right (stepdad to Kim, Khloe and Kourtney Kardashian and father to the two younger girls to the front) :

Missing from the photo is the Kardashian son (the focus is on the girls) and Bruce Jenner’s multiple children from his two past marriages.

I don’t mean to be critical, here, of the Kardashians, er, or the Jenners, er, or whomever they are. They just live differently (much) than do I, and it’s not just because they have waaaaay more money than do I, which they do.

I have watched a couple of their reality shows. (Okay, I admit it: I do watch sometimes as my brain is defusing from all-day real problems that are not seen on the K’s shows).

Okay, enough back story. The older three K girls live a fairly loose life style. Kourtney is on-again-off-again with her baby daddy, Scott. Kim is occasionally dragging some hunk in to spend the night—no shame on television. Guess I”m out-moded.

Kendall is the one I’m thinking about this morning. That’s Kylie to the front left of the picture above (in pink), her sister Kendall next to her.

As I walked through the living room this morning, television playing for white noise in the background, I heard a Kardashian promo. It seems that fifteen-year-old Kendall is on birth control pills. The promo was “Tune in to find out why Kendall is on birth control….” There is a short snippet of big-sister Khloe exclaiming, “I don’t think THAT’s the reason she’s taking them…”

Really? Really? Why would a fifteen-year-old girl take birth control pills? I think, probably, it has to do with her monthly cycles. (Gosh, I hope so!) But what fifteen-year-old wants that plastered on television?

Look at sweet Kendall in the family photo above, and then compare to this photo shoot of her last year—at age fourteen:

What are we marketing, here?

Or how about this fourteen-year-old Kendall:

Yeah, I know, I’m a prude, but I have to ask: is this mother doing this girl favors? She will be rich (already is, I suppose) beyond what I will ever be. So, I guess it’s just Mom looking out for her daughter’s future.

Oh, by the way, her parents will be richer, as well, as Kendall’s wealth grows—they manage all the girls. Do you think this has anything at all to do with Kendall’s going very public with all these personal aspects of her young life?

Should you sell your private life?

Do you think her parents exploit her? She seems to want to do this…is it wise? Just asking…

Not to worry, father Bruce, took the reins. (That’s him to the left—how many plastic surgeries do you think he’s had, anyway?)

Here is his explanation of how he was watching out for his fourteen-year-old model/daughter:

I sat down with her and said 'If I see school slipping, that's not going to work. You're going to stop until you're out of school,'" he said. "Last year she had her best year ever, so I encourage it. I think it builds a lot of character in a young person so I have no problem with them starting early.

Character building. Right.

Does Kendall get any privacy? Does she want it? Do her parents want it for her?

I guess those of us who are interested will know all about Kendall and her hormonal problems and her many growing-up changes. Very publicly. No privacy. At all…seems weird to me. C.

C: Pink Eye…Again!

2011-06-04T20:07:00.001-05:00

Sorry for the gross picture, but it really is this bad. If you’ve read our blog for a while, you may have noticed that this is the THIRD post I’ve done on pink eye. The first one in October 2008 was a really miserable time (surely one of the whiniest posts I’ve ever written, but with reason). I mentioned another attack again in September of last year. And here I am again with a case that broke out in my left eye—usually my left—this past Thursday.

Don’t you think that’s just too often?

I’ve been to the doctor with it in the past and am told that my particular version is viral. Therefore, I wait it out. All we can do. If it were the gooey bacterial version, they could give me something for it.

This has happened, yet again, when work is almost overwhelming. I have mentioned this to my doctor in the past, but he just look at me blankly (I can just see he is sighing inside at my layman’s theory). I truly believe that there is this pink eye virus (Google says its the same as the common cold) that pops out when I weakened by fatigue or stress. Is that possible?

The thing I love about pink eye most (besides the pain and itching, of course) is that it so darned attractive. On Friday I had depositions slated and when I woke up on Thursday with a ragingly red eye and with tears streaming down my left cheek (no chance to keep much makeup on that side of my face), I sent out a warning e mail to the other lawyer and the court reporter. I did not want them to be frightened at first sight or to think me rude for not shaking hands.

I have learned just to go about my business with this infirmity, and so it was on Friday. We just carried on with a giant pump bottle of Purell in the middle of the conference table.

My reputation for having pink-eye often is fairly widespread. A couple of months ago—when I was healthy and no sign of red eyes—I was in one judge’s chambers with other lawyers passing some time. I spied a beautiful Kaleidoscope on the judge’s desk and reached for it excitedly.

“ Oh, no you don’t!” his honor said, “Anyone else in this room is free to look, but you don’t ever get to use my Kaleidoscope!”

I was stunned. This judge and I are old friends and I told him how this offended me.

“No offense intended, C, but you’ve been in here more than once with pink-eye, and I’m not taking any chances…”

I had to admit that he had a point.

It will pass in a few days, and I will have to suffer the cost of replacing all my mascara and eyeliner to be sure there is no re-infection.

I’m just wondering about my fatigue/stress theory.Anyone else out there have this experience? C

C: PG RATING. Weiner Tweet and The Terminator

2011-06-03T06:07:00.002-05:00

Yes, I’ve been away from blogging. I’ve been putting in very long hours and some weekends—I’m too old for such a schedule! Besides, it cuts into m blogging time!

But, nothing like a couple of scandals to bring me back into the game.

I had to chuckle the other day when my sister-in-law on the East Coast called to check in.

“You okay?” she asked. “The kids (mostly college-age with a high schooler) have been saying, ‘You’d better check in with Aunt C. She hasn’t written anything about Arnold Schwarzenegger!’”

Ah, my reputation as a crusader against adultery…losing battle that it is.

Well, here goes:

What can I say about Arnold and Maria that hasn’t been said? He’s a scumbag. I think most of us knew that he had tendencies toward cheating from accusations of sexual harassment over the years, so I doubt that there were many who thought he was walking the line.

According to the pundits I’ve heard on the topic, he is widely regarded as being a double scumbag for bringing his cheating right into his home. I quite agree, knowing from the experience that my husband had brought his slut right on home, too. Which makes the other woman a scumbag as well. I can’t imagine the level of betrayal Maria felt at learning that her long-time employee—someone in her home every day, seeing her everyday life, which is extending a confidence to her—had borne her husband a son.

To the right is a picture of Arnold and his “lover.” I don’t think that even ten years off this photo would bring her up to Maria’s beauty.

But the questions asked are: “Is his political career over?” “Is his acting career over.”

Let me answer: “No. Nothing is over that Arnold hasn’t planned to be over.” (Except, maybe, for his marriage) He may not have any more political career, but I don’t think he planned to have one. He’d already begun a new movie, and it seems to me that he had the politics out of his system with the governorship.

As for his acting career? Since when did adultery ever hurt that career? Think back to the “famous scandals,” ranging from Ingrid Bergman, through Spencer Tracy/Katherine Hepburn, and Elizabeth Taylor/Eddie Fisher (Poor Debbie Reynolds!).

Nope, society winks—at all its levels. Fewer and fewer are thinking of his adultery when they watch Tiger play now. Magic Johnson? Who now remembers that he is HIV positive through his numerous (as in too many to count) adulteries?

Cheaters get to go their merry way—thank goodness Maria has her own standing. “Her own standing” is what I wish for all women in that shaky land we call “marriage.”

Now for the other “scandal” of the day: What I like to call “Weiner Tweet.”

The picture to the left is New York Congressman, Anthony Weiner and his beautiful wife. (You’ve married beneath yourself, honey—you’re stunning and could do so much better…)

As you all have probably heard, Congressman Weiner has tweeted a picture of a man’s private area—thankfully clothed in undershorts—with an obvious arousal.

Really? (insert snicker here). This is worthy of about junior high age. About the age we see Congressman Weiner in this photo to the right. Is the Congressman stuck at the emotional age of fourteen?

Let me just share with you that I have seen many pictures of genitalia in my 31 years of family law practice. In this digital age, this is only increasing. It is so commonplace that I have become totally unfazed at holding 8 1/2 x 11 color copies up in settlement meetings saying, “Sir, is this a picture of you?” (I actually love doing this and, no it does not embarrass me. Why should I be embarrassed?). The intended goal of this exercise is to get them to sign on the dotted line so that they don’t have to answer that question in a more public setting, like the courtroom.

All the time I have heartbroken women come to my office with pictures they have found where hubby has photographed himself—at attention—for emailing out to his new love. Now, why he might think his new love would want a picture of this is beyond me! If any of you out there are in her shoes, please comment and let me know what you do with these pictures. Frame them? Put them in lockets and carry them close to your heart? I’m not getting it, really…

While I have seen some pictures of my women clients (usually their boobs), the photo-sharing is vastly lopsided toward the men. They just seem to think that their lovers cannot wait until the next moment they are together (so manly are they), so a little picture to tide her over, perhaps?

And, then, there are the advertisers who don’t have a particular new love with which to share pictures of their manly glories, so they just throw them “out there” trolling for interested women. Weiner seemed to be advertising with his Tweet (ahem, assuming it is actually Weiner’s body…we await the investigation). You may remember another post about yet another New York Congressman Chris Lee (now resigned), who earlier this year put his manly picture on Craigslist! (idiot).

They are just sooooo proud of themselves.

Representative Weiner (oh, this name is so unfortunate in this situation) has yet to confirm that the twitter picture is of his body. He, tellingly, has also yet to deny it.

All that to say this about Arnold and Weiner: They risked much for sex. They risked loss to themselves and unbelievable heartache for those who love them and thought they were loved in return.

And they look like adolescent morons to me…. C

V: A Home for Rikki

2011-06-01T23:05:00.001-05:00

Do you see the happy gleam in her eye? The wild abandon in her leap? Her name is Rikki and I adopted her a year ago last March from a shelter at Poteau Valley, Oklahoma. “C” and I drove several hours on a cold, blustery March day. But it was a fun trip—we shopped and lunched at the Van Buren, AR historic district.

It hasn’t been easy. She was almost two years old and had been at the shelter since she was four months old—waaay TOO long!!! The nice lady at the shelter told me that this was pretty much her last chance. Rikki was nervous and timid, terrified of our two cats and my husband! She “dogged” my heels, charged at my husband trying to bite him and the poor kitties thought the little terrier was bad news!!! I attempted to keep her in a kennel thinking she would feel safe, but she put up such a fuss I thought she was going to break her neck! That first day she had to stay home alone, I decided to leave her in the bathroom with her comfy bed, food and water. To my surprise, who should meet me at the front door on my return home, but a frisky little Rikki! Going upstairs I discovered to my dismay, that she had gnawed through the door!!! YES, chewed right through it and splinters of wood were everywhere! Hubby was NOT pleased and suggested strongly that Rikki needed a trip back to Poteau, OK! But just look at this face!

With some hard work and perseverance, Rikki has adjusted to our home. She gets along with her buddy, Dudley, and is on friendly terms with the cats. In fact she often hangs out with my sweet feline friend, Goldie!

I found Rikki on a site called http://www.petfinders.com. Despite all the “issues” Rikki had, I strongly recommend it for potential adopters! This site has links to most every pet shelter in the country, from teeny little country towns like Poteau Valley, OK to urban shelters. If you’ve wondered what you could do to help during the difficult economic times and terrible weather diasters our nation has suffered this, please consider adopting a forgotten, displaced dog or cat—or both!!! The other dog we adopted from Petfinders, was from from a neglect situation also, but did not have the personality issues Rikki has. Of course she IS a wire haired Jack Russell Terrier!

Our daughter who lives on the farm, has had two puppies dumped on their property in the last three weeks! The first one appears to be a Great Pyranees/Rottweiler mix. Then last week, she hit a puppy as she pulled past the gate into their driveway. After being knocked about 15 feet, the puppy lay lifeless with blood coming from his mouth. My daughter who was just returning from the doctor after being diagnosed with pneumonia, promptly fainted, hitting her face in the gravel road! After awaking, she rushed the puppy to the veterinarian where they x-rayed and examined him, finding that he had bitten his tongue and had a concussion and hairline skull fracture. The vet told her that if she would just take him home with her, they would not charge her for the x-rays and shots of cortisone for swelling. The problem is that people are bringing pets in and not picking them up! So a labradoodle (the one on the left) now joins their menagerie of five dogs! These boys are going to be BIG dogs! Our family loves pups and dogs love farm life, but daughter says they are hoping no one dumps anymore dogs at their place anytime soon!

As for now, these lucky pups are enjoying their new home. Too bad and so sad that so many others remain homeless!

Stick Horse Cowgirl V: My Other Self and a Challenge to “C”

2011-05-14T00:47:00.001-05:00

Such a week this was! I was ill for a couple of days and “C” spent every day this week in court. We are both exhausted, BUT I could not resist the invitation extended to all from Karen of http://thisoldhousetoo.blogspot.com to participate in “My Other Self”. Here goes! It’s fun!

My other self would live in a red cottage like this one in Norway—red houses show well in the snow you know!

My other self would take good care of herself and have lovely vacations in Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard.

Although I’m a Southern girl through and through, I do have some Yankee ancestors who hailed from Vermont! My other self would love to explore the Northeast!

No ordinary jewelry for my other self. Only handcrafted artisan jewelry like this!

Love this jewelry from Robin and the Sage—she has a blog and Etsy shop. She lives in Finland and her Woodland Jewelries can be found at http://www.etsy.com/shop/robinandthesage Don’t you just love the name “Woodland Jewelries”? It sounds like jewelry for fairies!

My other self would also wear bohemian pieces like this from http://www.tracyporter.com. Tracy Porter has style and charm—even if she is not a Southern girl!

and this…

and this cardigan because my clothes are kind of plain!

and these shoes—the real me can’t wear flats or heels!

My other self would be a potter like Julie Whitmore and make gorgeous pottery like this! See this and other fabulous, unique works of art at http://www.juliewhitmore.com

And she would hook gorgeous rugs from glorious wool like this one from Karen Kahle. You can find Karen’s site at http://www.primitivespiritrugs.com/

And this wonderful piece by Deanne Fitzpatrick. Deanne’s AMAZING blog is at http://www.hookingrugs.com/ Even if you are not into hooking rugs, Deanne is a wise woman with lots of interesting things to say and some good recipes too! She also hosts guest writers often. This is a quality site!

My other self would make art with soul.

My other self would look like this! Of course my other self is not vain at all!! Right!

Sigh….I can only wish!

Since my other self was so wealthy from her creative endeavors, (oh yeah!), in the spirit of philanthropy and so as to not feel so guilty about all the coveting, she would always remember the downtrodden. She would help the Dohnavur Fellowship in South India, where Irish missionary, Amy Carmichael, spent 50 years working for the liberation of females being sold into temple prostitution. Although the practice was outlawed in 1947, female infants are still in danger of infanticide.

My other self would also support homeless animals through http://www.noahswish.org where they are working so tirelessly right now to help animals displaced in the tornado and flood disasters here in Arkansas and across the South. These two animals are available for adoption now!

This beautiful dog and many others need homes. Although cats are more adept at escaping, many of them are homeless too!

Even horses are without a home. One couple killed in Vilonia, AR area, had several horses, including a pregnant mare.

Sadly, the current economy and weather disasters have caused terrible suffering for people and animals. In our state, we have heard of horses being left in people’s pastures and in wilderness areas because people can no longer feed them—and this was before the tornadoes and floods!

So, my other self would be an artsy, self-employed grandmother working from home only when she felt like it! She would also have an animal rescue mission in her backyard—much to her husband’s dismay! Of course she would have “staff” to help care for them. Martha Stewart has “ staff”-- doesn’t she?!! “C” and I both agree that if our ship ever comes in we’re both having “staff”! Sounds pretty good to me! Oh yes, and my other self would look like a young Grace Kelly!

Ok, “C”, it YOUR turn now! I’m curious about your “other self”!

C: The Rewards of Legitimacy

2011-05-03T05:29:00.001-05:00

I had lunch with a fellow attorney this week. As we chatted, we slipped into sharing skeletons from our own families’ closets. We had agreed, being family lawyers, that there are no “normal families.” We all have closet skeletons, don’t we?

I have no problem sharing my family’s skeletons—I can talk ad nauseum about my own marital travails. I’ve written before about my father, an alcoholic womanizer who is now gone. Lest you believe I am idly speaking ill of the dead, let me just say this: I loved my father—love and miss him still—but things are what they are. There’s not a soul who knew him who would deny the characterization I have just given him. Even he, who would deny the alcoholism (I guess he just chose to get slobbering, pants-wetting drunk) would admit, proudly, of the womanizing.

My friend was a bit more reticent, but here’s the story that came out.

There are five siblings, of which she is the least. When she was a high-school senior, her parents divorced, amicably. They remain friends. Neither has remarried. Although she did not say so, I fill in blanks to determine that another man was involved. My friend, we’ll call her “Sharon” for convenience, said that as the years went by, “Joe” became a sort of fixture in her mother’s life. The affair lasted nearly another twenty years.

All knew that Joe was married with a family at home. Sharon says that half -way through the years, all knew that the Wife had found out. She didn’t say how, only that Wife knew of Sharon’s mother. If there was ever altercation about it, Sharon did not mention it.

According to Sharon, her mother was the beautiful, well-cosmeticed-coifed mistress. She entertained Joe some week nights, some weekends. They traveled some together. He showed her a good time; Sharon’s Mom was arm candy. According to Joe, his wife was lackluster in all regards. But he always went home to her and he always spent the “real” holidays with her and his family.

Sharon related one conversation that she had with her Mother, admitting that even now it pains her because of its sadness. Mom had said to Sharon that Joe had never seen her without her face made up and she presentably dressed. When Sharon challenged her on this (how can you travel with a man and him not see you early mornings?), her mother replied quite sincerely and even proudly: “I always make absolutely sure that I am awake and out of the bed first. By the time Joe wakes, I have showered, put on my make up, fixed my hair and dressed. He loves it—remarks on how dreary it is to wake to his wife in her old bathrobe.”

Can you spell:

“o-b-j-e-c-t-i-f-i-c-a-t-i-o-n?”

Reminds me of Geishas…must exist to please the man…

Sharon railed at her mother about the evils of trifling with a married man. As Sharon and her siblings married and began their own families, Joe tried to insert himself in grandfatherly roles, providing Christmas gifts. Sharon and two of her sisters always—always—returned them, vowing not to model for their children that it was okay to carry on as Sharon’s mom and Joe were doing. It was a strain: showing disapproval while still, yet, wanting relationship with Mom.

Then she came to the real point of her story. Joe was a smoker. He developed lung cancer. Even before he reached the debilitation he knew was in his future, he took an early retirement and “went home.” His wife tended to him. He stayed at home. Almost immediately after his diagnosis and retirement, Sharon’s Mom just quit hearing from him. No phone calls. No notes. No nothing. He just disappeared.

Sharon’s mother was in love with Joe. She had always dreamed of his leaving the wife—sort of their mutual enemy—and marrying her, after which they would spend their latter years together. The loss of his companionship, erratic though it was, was a loss of something she had come to count on.

Furthermore, the thought of the man she loved suffering without her being able to attend him was excruciating. It wounded her deeply. She desperately reached out, calling his home for the first time ever, only to be told by the Wife that Joe did not want to hear from her. It must have been so, because he certainly never dialed her number. Not once since he had left his job to go home and await death.

As Joe became critically ill, one of his daughters had pity for Sharon’s Mom and called to let her know that Joe was at the end. But the mistress was not invited to his bedside. No good-byes for her. His “real” family gathered there, mourning him as he passed.

Sharon received a call from the compassionate daughter, telling her of Joe’s passing after the funeral. Sharon had no chance to even pay respects. No one would have wanted her there, she knew. Of course, the obituary listed his entire family, down to grandkids. Sharon’s Mom had no place there, either. She had no place, really, in Joe’s life.

Joe was quite a businessman, had built wealth and took great care of all his legal and financial matters. It was no surprise that he had a will and that it specified, down to the very last detail, how his estate was to be divided. The Wife, of course, received the largest largesse. The children were given generous shares in their own right and each was given specific items which Joe associated with them, a loving touch.

Sharon’s mother knew of this because she asked. The daughter told her—also because she asked—that she was not mentioned in the will, at all.

And my friend, the attorney, though she felt that the affair all those years had been wrong, felt outrage for her mother.

“How can it be “ she asked me “that my mother could devote decades to the pleasure of this man and yet as his life took its most critical stage, it was like she no longer exists? Mom did not care about his money, but you’d think there would be some mention, some small token. It would have meant so much to Mom. I just don’t understand how someone can matter one moment and then, suddenly, not matter at all.”

How, indeed?

Sharon’s mother still has pictures of herself and this man framed throughout her house. C.

C Surprises Herself

2011-04-30T03:46:00.001-05:00

You don’t have to read this blog for long to know I am a big cynic when it comes to marriage. I love the institution, believe it is totally the best thing for building families and relationships, but I just know the odds. They aren’t good, and that tends to tarnish my whole view of everything connected with marriage, including weddings.

Yesterday I awoke at my usual early hour. I fixed my wake-cup coffee and switched on the news. It was the Royal Wedding, about which I had completely forgotten. Imagine this cynic’s shock to find that she could not tear her eyes away from it. Literally. I simply could not stop watching.

I found this wedding to be just about perfect. To me, it was a fairy tale with just the right amount of solemn, spiritual influence. It was a picture of joy, on display for sharing with the world. And, although there is NO TELLING how much money was spent on this do, in no way did I sense haughtiness at the display. No, the participants seemed to understand that we—“the people”—wanted to watch this Royal ceremony, and they seemed glad for it. It seemed like we were all invited guests, and they were determined that we enjoy their day right along with them. And I certainly did enjoy it.

Some things I especially liked—no loved—about the wedding:

The trees in Westminster Abbey. And, if you didn’t watch, I mean, quite literally, trees IN Westminster Abbey. It really set the fairy-tale atmosphere, seeing guests and the bride strolling down the center of the cathedral amongst trees, the green adding just the right organic touch. It was amazing. A wedding in a fairy tale forest!

The dress! I just don’t think it could be more perfect. If ever there was a “princess dress,” this one was it. I can imagine Sleeping Beauty waltzing in just such a dress.

The fanfare! Talk about fairy tale touches—the fanfare trumpets blown by their uniformed trumpeters. Of course there would be trumpet fanfare for such a princess! All the pageantry and color. Pure fantasy…of course there were horse-drawn carriages. And a tiara! Must not forget to mention the tiara…

It was ethereal.

And this couple seems (but what do I know?) to be on more even footing than was poor Diana with her prince those thirty years ago when her own fairy tale wedding put her right, squarely into a life of heartache. I certainly hope that Kate’s ten years of age on that young bride, Diana, combined with her “commoner’s” grounding serves her in good stead and means that her Prince approaches her with the respect his father had refused his own bride.

But, enough negativity! I loved this wedding, and that fact was a shock to cynical me! I thought about why I was so attracted to it, knowing life as I do and realized that it may be that there is a romantic here..or maybe we women just all have a little girl, dreaming of being a princess, inside somewhere. C.

V: Sunshine after the Storm

2011-04-18T21:00:00.000-05:00

When you see the first bluebird of the season, it just has to be a sign that it’s going to be a special day!

No, that is not a “texture”! Hubby was trying out his new camera and it’s just out of focus!

Can a mother brag?!!!

Lovely eldest daughter won an Artist’s Choice Award for her hand painted egg for the Eggshibition benefit for Youth Home where troubled juveniles receive counseling and a place to stay during their treatment. Artists and celebrities paint an egg which will be auctioned off during a gala event. This year her egg featured thoroughbred horses racing at Oaklawn Park here in our state. Here’s a shot of her winning egg! It’s my favorite of all the ones she has painted!

The miniature horses have arrived at daughter’s farm! They are so adorable—they look like toys! If only their dispositions were so adorable! They came from a herd of about 70 miniature horses, so they had not been handled much. Hopefully with time and attention they will become socialized! They weigh 70 to 80 pounds—really, they look like toys!

On Saturday, granddaughter “J” had her party at the farm. The terrible storms that wreaked havoc on our state last week were followed by lovely weather. It was a glorious day!

Even the dogs had a great time!

Max the corgi arrived at the farm as a surprise for “J” last Christmas. Herding everything in sight is his job whether it be cows, horses, cats or children! He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, but I think the has “little man syndrome”! He runs around the farm like he owns the place!

The boys preferred to ride little ATV’s instead of horses.

The girls were in their element and the weather was perfect!

Am I too old to ride? Maybe I can persuade “C” to come riding with me! I fear we might have trouble hoisting our middle-aged selves into the saddle!

This looks a little scary—it’s been probably 15 years since I’ve been on a horse!

But it sure looks like fun!

“J” had the best birthday celebration ever!!!

“C” was busy working, so she missed the party, but her sister and niece were there for the fun. We’re both looking forward to the celebration of Easter later this week. Prayers go out for those who lost loved ones across the South from the terrible storms and tornadoes. Sounds like we may have another round tomorrow night. Hope and pray all will be safe. Blessed Holy Week to all!

C: Ahhhhhhhhhh!

2011-04-06T20:11:00.001-05:00

Who invented pajamas? I’m serious. Who is the person who came up with the idea that we must have something loose and comfortable in which to sleep? Whoever came up with it, I am indebted to him/her.

I am absolutely certain that it was a woman. Men seem to relish things like sleeping in the outdoors on the ground. In their clothes. Now that I think of it, I bet women invented beds, too. And three-hundred-count sheets. Don’t you think?

Could it be our Asian friends who came up with this wonderful attire? Some of their clothing looks very pajama-like. Geishas walk around in robes, don’t they? (Don’t think about those awkward shoes and bound feet…)

See these stylish Asian pajamas, to the right?

All I know is this: I have been working waaaaay too hard lately and waaaaay too many days. I am troubled by this, especially since I am just coming over hump-day today into what should be the home-stretch of the work week, and I already have scheduled an “emergency” settlement meeting on Sunday afternoon. Nope, can’t be avoided.

Why, I don’t even have time to write on this blog, as you can plainly see by how long it has been since I posted.

But, back to subject. I am so tired in the evenings that when I finally get home—even if it is before 6:30 p.m.--I’ve put in at least ten, maybe twelve hours. I go straight to the dressing closet, take off those tiring work clothes and uncomfortable shoes, and pull on some pajamas to pad around in the rest of the evening.

My country home has a wonderful back porch. It is just right for sitting out there in the warm spring weather with my cat, reading in my PJ’s, never fearing if anyone can see, although I doubt I would mind in any case

Our good friend Sandra has revealed to us that she sleeps in T shirts, and I know many who do. I occasionally grab one to top my pajama bottoms when the matching top is not readily apparent. My mother and V are sold on gowns. I’m not into them. They get wrapped up on my legs, and I don’t like running around the house in them. MIL seems to be a sensible pajama person.

No, I’m a pajama girl—I’m in a pair of light cotton knit lavender ones right this very second, which has inspired this post. They have a wonderful lightness and an exquisitely comfortable elastic waist band (very important). I am feeling very “ahhhhhhh.”

So, to whomever invented these special sleep relaxation clothes, my hat is off to you! (Along with my suit, and my heels, and my hose, and….)

Are you a PJ person or a gown person or a T-shirt person? Inquiring minds want to know. C

PS – And there are those of you who sleep au naturel….I don’t get it. Do you not know? Monsters can get you! Must wear pajamas…

V: Fields of Daffodils

2011-03-23T21:50:00.000-05:00

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!

Our visit to the daffodil festival was on a particularly windy day—hope the old saying concerning March “In like a lion, out like a lamb” bears out as April nears!

Eldest daughter has two sons with birthdays back to back so she decided that a family visit to nearby Wye Mountain would be a perfect photo opportunity AND we could celebrate both boys birthdays with a little party.

Eldest daughter with her sweet girls in the photo below.

Youngest daughter with her toddler son. He was an infant when they brought him to Wye Mt. last year!

Last, but not least-- my only son with his lovely bride!

I’ll end with a photo of the whole family! Eldest daughter is so right—our family is our greatest earthly treasure! There are many trials to be endured as we walk through life, and lots of families are under immense strain, but some days you just need to walk through fields of daffodils!!!

Little girls playing – reminds me of when “C” and I were young!

I love Wye Mountain and it’s surrounding rural communities and natural beauty. It is only about 40 minutes from our home in central Arkansas and nearby is the community of Little Italy where my grandmother taught the immigrant women how to can and preserve food at the local Catholic Church when she traveled as County Extension Agent during the mid to late 1930’s. Remote Little Italy has a checkered past—perhaps I’ll write about it some day!

So does your family have a tradition where you gather together every year to create memories? We’d love to know!

C: Is Whimsy a Waste?

2011-03-19T18:39:00.003-05:00

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 should be relaxing.

Ironically, it was my brother who ended the discussion by taking a phone call that took his attention away from lunch. He wound up sending his assistant for a Rally Burger to eat at the desk. I skipped altogether.

Yes, I know this is unhealthy on so many levels.

Now, let’s switch scenarios

At home I have eleven acres to tend. Even when we lived in a subdivision we were not lawn keepers—no “Yard of the Month” sign in ours. Right now I have winter deadfall that needs picking up and putting on the burn pile so that we can mow the acreage more easily. I want a few raised beds in the back yard, both for vegetables and for some flowers. The front door needs painting. The only time I have for any of this is the weekend. Last weekend was taken up by family activities and rain. This weekend is perfect for doing this kind of work.

So, what did I do? Here’s my day: Sister called to say that she and my two nieces were taking Mom to see the daffodils on Wye Mountain, where there is a daffodil festival each year (I’ve never been). It’s about 45 minutes away. I told her I’d meet them there. MIL was invited and opted out.

We got there about 11:30. Yes the flowers were spectacular but, really, (sorry), after we snapped some photos, we were ready to go. We decided to go for lunch.

As we sat at the restaurant, I got a hankering that I never get. “I’m going to T J Maxx,” I said. I have not been in a couple of years, but V haunts its aisles religiously and comes out with some snap-bang-up bargains. Boy, this suggestion perked up all the sets of ears around the table. We ended up meeting there.

We must have spent two and a half hours in that store. We have combed every nook and cranny. We found bargains: Mom got a crock in which to put her utensils on the kitchen counter and some bargain-basement-priced wash cloths. Sister found shoes and a new pyrex measuring cup. Her daughters got assorted items, including marked-down movies. I ended up with a marvelous new pie plate. I’ll get to that in a minute.

We loaded up our treasures, and I took Mom home, helping her stand her wooden spoons and spatulas in her new crock, admiring our purchase.

I stopped at Kroger to pick up a few groceries. By the time I got home it was 5:00 p.m. And now I’m feeling antsy—like I should have been doing things other than traipsing around two counties spending money. Shouldn’t I have been picking up my grounds? How about just going in to work to do the piles that are there on my desk? In the end, I don’t have any progress to show for this—only a marvelous new pie plate and fun with the girls of the family.

I have calmed my nerves about this thing. Deep down I know that I did the right thing. We had amazing fun—especially at TJ Maxx. I have to say that this is a woman’s store—totally—and no one can shop, gleaning through merchandise, like a bunch of females sans those dreary, impatient men! All-in-all it was a wonderful, comforting day. I think I did right.

But it feels like my whimsy is a waste…must fight this…

Now, about the pie plate. V is a treasured friend, as most of you know. But sometimes she is a bad influence…take the gifts she has begun to give me on birthdays and Christmas: Polish Pottery and items that match them. I LOOOVE this stuff, and she knows I won’t usually spring for it for myself. So I get gifts of it from her.

The latest is this wonderful pie plate (which I think is not really the “Polish Pottery,” but it goes well with it:

Last week I baked a pumpkin pie in it (yes, I know it’s off-season), and I was absolutely amazed at how good it felt to see my beautiful pie in a beautiful pie plate. I don’t think I’ve owned such a lovely pie plate before—having mostly pyrex and white ceramic and a couple metal pans.

So, as I strolled through TJ Maxx today, I spied this red plate for $5!!!!

And my mind peeled right back to the pie in that lovely plate V gave me and how much better I loved my pie the other day since it was presented so beautifully. What else could I do but snatch this one up and search the aisles for more, different ones? Thankfully, this was the single one because I was in such a mood that I was easy prey for pie plates.

An apple pie is going this new one tonight and, because of V’s influence, I’m now dreaming of a large collection of beautiful pie plates. Gone are pyrex and metal pie plates for me…see how she leads me astray?

So, what do you think? Was my day productive, or was it a waste? I know one thing, I am satisfiedly tired and relaxed. I think that’s my answer.

Hope you all have a restful weekend, too. C

C: The Meaning of a Dog’s Bark

2011-03-17T05:25:00.001-05:00

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 and Razzle have never actually experienced a doorbell ringing in the home and a stranger appearing at the door. The only doorbell ringing they have ever heard has been on television.

What do you think? Did R and R pick this up from watching TV? Did they reason that if the TV folks have people appear at the front door when the bell rings, the same could happen at their front door?

Sometimes I think dogs know more than we give them credit for. I know my own dogs have always become very attuned to patterns in our lives.

When I had horses, my Shelties used to consider it their very serious “job” to accompany me to do the feeding. They loved the specific duty of feeding time, for Shelties are working dogs and do love to have a job to do. This picture is not my Sheltie, but it’s what mine were bred to do. I just know they would have relished this kind of work.

So, come feeding time each day, the Shelties were especially attentive and, when I would move to the door, they would scramble to go with me, beating me to the door and running ahead to the feed barrels. They would bark and bully my horses each feeding time—keeping the herd in line! There were a few times when I would get out there and realize that Gus and Scout were in the fenced back yard, having been forgotten by me. They would see me through the fence and both bark urgently, clearly horrified at the thought of missing out on doing their job. It was so bad that when this happened, I did not have the heart to carry on without them and would trudge back to let them out to join in the work.

During the day when it wasn’t feeding time at all, if I pulled on my muck boots or my barn coat, the Shelties were off like a flash to the barn, reading my signs of barn duty even off hours. They clearly understood the phrase, “feed the horses,” and would respond to it even when I was addressing another person and not them…eavesdropping, as it were.

My current dog, Chili, has a routine: he stays outside during the day while I’m at work except as MIL lets him in at her house. When I come home each evening, he comes into the house with me and stays through the night. He has a bed on the floor in my bedroom.

When I watch television, relaxing after work each evening, he naps on the floor by my chair, heading for bed as I do. I can say, “Well, it’s time for bed,” and off he’ll go to the bedroom even before I move.

Last Saturday I worked all day at the office and then swung by to spend a couple of hours with my mother. Mom and I ended up going out for dinner, so I was after eight o’clock getting home (I am such an early bird…this is approaching my bedtime!).

When I got home, I turned the television on, captivated by Tsunami footage. Next thing I knew, I was being awakened by Chili’s emphatic pushing at my hand. It was 11:30! (Unheard of for me!). I had fallen asleep in the chair. Chili was push, push, pushing at my hand with his nose.

Thinking he was so insistent because he needed to go out, I started to get up, expecting to turn to the right to go the the door, but no, that’s not what he had in mind. Instead, he headed left toward the bedroom, pausing at the hallway to glance over his shoulder as if to say, “Time for bed, silly.”

Clearly, Chili needed to hit the hay and wanted me in the bed, too. When I turned off lights and came to the room, I found him already curled up and headed for la-la land.

And, of course, he has an English vocabulary that exceeds just “Sit,” “Stay,” and “Bed.” We have to spell T-R-E-A-T or he runs expectantly to the T-R-E-A-T cabinet (same was true of Scout). We had a poodle once who eventually learned to actually spell B-A-T-H. We could neither say nor spell that word if we were intending on bathing him, for he would disappear in the house somewhere, and it might take an hour to find him.

I know, beyond doubt, that I anthropomorphize about my animals, but I really do believe they have a deeper understanding of things than we sometimes think.

And that thing about Ruby and Razzle and the television doorbell: well, it’s really got me thinking! C