The Things We Tell Our Children...

The other day while at a family gathering, my nephew sat with his chin propped in his hands and the corners of his little mouth pulled down into a frown. When my daughter asked him what was wrong, he commented the other kids had teased him about all his freckles. She tousled his hair and told him he should like his freckles because those were angel’s kisses. Of course the child rolled his eyes and looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. Then he asked me if he could have an extra piece of cake since the other kids had been so mean. I even added ice cream.

This conversation reminded me of some of the tales I’d been told while growing up. So, I thought I’d list them here.

1. Don’t cross your eyes. They’ll get stuck like that.

2. Cats eat mice head first so they can use the mouse’s tails for a toothpick.

3. The sound of thunder is Thor throwing his hammer. (I must have Scandinavian ancestry somewhere.)

4. The sound of thunder is the angels bowling. (This was from the other side of the family.)

5. I found you under a cabbage leaf. (No one in my family even said the “S” word much less ever committed the act.)

6. When I was young and saw a pregnant woman, I was told she’d swallowed a watermelon seed. (See item number 5.)

7. You can’t have coffee. It will stunt your growth. (My aunt must’ve had a lot as a child. She’s just 4’8”)

Were you told any stories as a child?

How Rude!

Have you ever encountered the type of person who's so miserable with their own existence that they're determined to make everyone's life just as hard to bear?  I was unfortunate enough to run across just such a young man the other day. 

I had to get a prescription filled.  The line stretched back about four people deep and this young man didn't want to be at work that day.  As each of the elderly customers ahead of me cringed when he barked for them to come to the counter, he'd pound on the computer a bit harder each time, cursing under his breath when the computer rebelled as the keys jammed due to abusive pounding.  This boy really hated his job.

My turn came.  I smiled, paid and told him I hoped his day got better.  I was rewarded with a shoved bag across the counter and a snarled, "Yeah, whatever."

At first, I thought I'd complain to the manager but then my twisted sense of humor got the best of me when I remembered this old joke I'd once heard, so I just laughed out loud and left.  Forgive me, if you've already heard it.

Two southern belles were swinging on the veranda sipping their tea.  The first southern belle turned to her friend and said, "I want you to look out there at my beautiful new car Daddy bought me.  Isn't it just the loveliest car you've eva' seen?"

The second belle nodded and replied, "That's nice."

Then the first southern belle waved her hand toward a prancing stallion. "And look over there.  Daddy paid more money for my new horse than your Daddy has eva' seen.  Have you eva' seen a  horse so fine?"

The second belle nodded again and repeated, "That's nice."

By this time, the first southern belle is a little perturbed. She sets down her tea and says, "So, tell me.  What has yo' daddy eva' bought for you?"

The second belle takes a sip of her tea and then says, "Daddy sent me to a fine southern charm school."

"A charm school?" The first belle huffs. "Well, what did they teach you at this so-called fine charm school?"

The second belle dabs her napkin to her lips and says, "They taught us to say, That's nice instead of Go to hell."

Chivalry Lives!

I'm happy to report chivalry is alive and well...at least in my neck of the woods. After several hours of power shopping, my husband and I paused for a much needed pit stop at the public restroom.

I went my way, he went his and that's when things got a little interesting. While my husband stood attending to business, an elderly woman, bent and clutching her purse to her chest ambled in behind him, entered the stall and locked the door.

Anyone who knows my husband would laugh out loud right now. I'm not sure what the Kentucky equivalent of the Blarney Stone is but I’m sure my husband has kissed it several times. In Ireland, it’s claimed to bestow the gift of eloquence. Here we call it the art of BS. My husband is a grand master. He's also a prankster and if he likes you, he'll aggravate you to no end. On the other hand, if he doesn't like you, there'll be no doubt left in your mind about that either. But I know that old bear to be a truly soft-hearted man even though he’d be the last to admit it.

Since he was the only male in the restroom, he finished up, washed his hands and rushed to block the door. Soon another man approached and the scene unfolded something like this.

"You can't go in there."

"Why not?"

"There's a lady in there."

"You’re kidding."

"No. She's just a little confused. She'll be out in a minute."

"Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll wait."

By the time I finished up and made my way out of the women’s restroom, my husband and two other men stood waiting outside the door.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“We can’t go yet,” he replied and explained the situation.

At that moment, the door swung open. She excused herself as she toddled between us and shuffled her way down the hall.

I hope when I’m older and a bit confused there’s someone to watch the door for me.

A muse with multiple interests...

Does your muse ever wander? Does she (mine happens to be a she, her voice gets quite shrill at times), does she ever grab you by the sleeve and say, “Psst! Let’s go do something different for a bit. I’m bored with this writing gig.”

Today, I thought I’d share a few photos of the times when my muse and I wandered away from the world of words.

I guess you could say this first group of pictures is the biggest project my muse and I ever attempted. This room belonged to my youngest daughter and she begged me to turn it into a jungle paradise. This is the result. She’s now grown and has blessed me with a daughter of her own and the room has remained. The paint’s getting a little faded in spots but I’ve been threatened within an inch of my life if I redecorate the jungle of her childhood.

Here’s a wall sculpture I pieced together from tiles my mother scavenged from a church bizarre. I couldn’t find just the right color grout to match the barn wood frame until it snowed one night and they used cinders on our road to keep them from being so slick. The gray-black cinders rendered the perfect shade and my muse smiled.
Then I decided to redecorate our tiny bathroom. I didn’t have a lot of options and I really wanted something different. Here’s the result of the painted tiles.

The only place my muse and I no longer explore is the kitchen, not since the pecan pie incident. That place is wicked and treacherous ground. Who knew that keeping baking soda and baking powder straight could be so important?

Does your muse ever wander?

The Power of Words...

For some odd reason this morning, I was thinking about a few of the bazillion books I’ve devoured and thoughts of my childhood popped into my head. I don’t often think about those years. Very few of the memories are pleasant.


Home consisted of cruelties I couldn’t escape and at school, I was the bespectacled clutz that all the guys sought out for advice on how to get the pretty girls to like them. Then I was introduced to the world of Barbara Cartland.

A very perceptive neighbor rescued me and took me under her wing. An older lady and avid romance reader, she belonged to a book-of-the-month club. And she had been a loyal member for a while. Stacks upon stacks, she had filled an entire room with paperbacks. God rest her generous soul.

Under the pretense of helping her feed her numerous cats or clean her house, she squirreled me away into a corner of that wondrous room and I’d escape from my miseries for hours. Thanks to an elderly lady’s kindness and the wondrous worlds of Barbara Cartland, a young girl found sanctuary when she needed it the most. Never underestimate the power of a book when it comes to a hungry soul.

Has anyone influenced you or saved you from misery with the written word?

Advances in Communication

While I sat at the day job and scrolled through a sea of URGENT emails, answered the phone and turned the two way radio down so I could hear what the person in the next cube shouted over the wall; my blackberry proceeded to vibrate its way across my desk. When I caught the little beast, I rubbed the wheel with my thumb. Wow. Now, I had two hundred and thirty-seven emails to read.


And then it hit me. A great blog topic. Communication. How some of the methods have advanced in as short a time as the past thirty years.

My youngest daughter is twenty-nine years old. What does that have to do with communication? My husband and I were stationed in Guam and that’s where she was born. No one in our family met our little bundle of joy until we returned to the United States eighteen months later. Other then photographs sent back home by overseas mail, they didn’t get to meet her until she was eighteen months old.

No internet. No email. No web cam. No video. We’ve advanced quite a bit wouldn’t you say?

Of course, when you’re buried up to your eyeballs in emails, tweets, texts, and IM’s, you might consider it a double-edged sword.

And even in this day and age of instant communication all over the world, sometimes we still don’t talk to the person right next to us. So, maybe we still have some advancement yet to go.  What do you think?

Do you suffer from "Sporadic Blogging Disorder"?

I have discovered that I have succumbed to a common writer’s ailment: Sporadic Blogging Disorder. Which I shall hereby refer to as “SBD”. From what I have observed, this syndrome strikes authors without regard to race, gender, religion or genre. It can attack at any point during a writing career, whether published or pre-published.

Authors attempting to write while holding down full time jobs outside of the home, in the process of rearing small children or training husbands seem to be especially susceptible to this problem. It appears to be directly related to a warping in the time space continuum and the fact that there are never enough hours in the day.

There is no known cure for this disorder but support and sympathy for this syndrome has been reported among groups of writers. It seems everyone has been there.