A Memorial Day Rerun

It was May 5th in the year 1868 and by the ruling General Order 11 (General John Logan pictured above) Decoration Day was instituted to honor the fallen dead of a recent war. In the South it goes by many names, but Mama always called the Civil War "the Late Great Unpleasantness". It didn't change anything in her mind about the validity of the war (and BTW the war she missed by about 50 years) but the concept of brother fighting brother was unpleasant, you see. Southern women had begun to lay flowers and ribbons, nosegays and scraps of paper with words of love on the graves of their fallen loves. Husbands, brothers, sons...there was no official holiday, it was just something they did until there was an official holiday. General Logan apparently took notice of this allegiance to the fallen and so a holiday we still celebrate was born. Through the years Decoration Day was changed to Memorial Day and every small town began to hold celebrations with parades and flags and marching men from every branch of the Military proudly walked in it...some old soldiers (with uniforms smelling of mothballs, taken from attics everywhere) current Military men and women, heroes from World War II up thru the current war in Iraq will be honored this year. Something I have noticed, being of the VietNam era, is that we honor our heroes more vigorously during war than peace. It's more than the typical barbecue holiday it usually is. War is at the forefront of everyone's minds and so we pray for our Troops...we pray for the war to be over and everyone to be home and safe with their loved ones. I don't say Happy Memorial Day, because when you think about it, there's nothing remotely happy about it. My grandmother, Nancy Douglas, read "In Flanders Fields" to us when we were little. She read it with much emotion and often had tears in her eyes. I am sure she was always thinking about her beloved Martus (Douglas) who had died on the soil of France after barely disembarking from the troop ship that had carried him there. The words are as moving and meaningful now as they were when first written by a young Canadian Officer named Lt John McCrae, MD. Of course it would be a Doctor who would take note of the carnage that war leaves behind. Take a moment to read it and feel its power. And remember all those who shed their blood to make us the great Nation we are and always will be, because of three simple words. We the People.

In Flanders Fields By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) Canadian Army


IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row

That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.


Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch;

be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep,

though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

A Well Traveled Cat

Her mother was a fierce hunter who prowled the gardens like her panther ancestors.  She crawled on her belly after field mice and stalked snakes with stealthy finesse.  Until she didn't.  We found her lying in the garden with the dead snake nearby.  She had fulfilled her destiny and met it at the same instant.  We didn't know what to call her because she had been tossed out at our place several weeks before and she had not told us her name.  So she was buried  in the garden with a mound of stones to mark her passing.  That evening we heard a pitiful mewling coming from the garage.  Mac checked around and sure enough, there nestled in the hold of the cinderblock  ship lay a tiny barely week old kitten.

We at first called her Cinderella, for obvious reasons.  But she soon taught us her name.  I made her a formula that did not agree with her at all.  Calling Dr Lawhon I explained that we were fostering a new born and were experiencing projectile vomiting after each feeding.  He recommended we put her on Pedialyte immediately.  What a valuable piece of information this has proven to be over the years. 

Having planned a trip to Alabama that July 1996, we packed up the baby and all her supplies, portable litter pan included and headed off to Selma to be in time for the Olympic torch to pass through that historic city.  Gizmo as she was now known, was 9 weeks old and still taking her pedialyte straight up.  She was bossy and cantankerous, loving and dependent, agile and boneless in her acrobotics.  She was loved as we have loved all our feline companions and then some.  She made us laugh and she entertained Mac's family with her antics.  Even though we had brought her kennel with us, she was allowed the run of both the Grandparents and her Aunt Ginger's.  She had been from South Carolina through Georgia into Alabama.  She went as far as Mississipi and North Carolina.  All before she was a year old.  She loved to travel.

 She also loved her dogs, two shelties named Duffy and Ripley.  She tried to slip into the back yard with them every chance she got.  One night she was successful and we didn't know.  The next morning we discovered that she was missing.  We called and called her name both inside and out.  We scoured the fields and called the neighbors.  Mac haunted the pound, going there several  times a week for over a year.  We posted her as missing in the Chronicle for 3 months, put up posters of our Gizmo sitting in my dolls house and still searched the fields and woods.  One day a lady called me.  She told me that they had found Giz several months back and that her daugter was wrapped around her heart, and Giz was wrapped around hers.  She had no intention of returning her, just wanted to relieve our minds, to let us know that she was okay.
We cried.  Although knowing she was perfectly fine helped, it didn't cause us to miss her any less.  It pained us that Gizmo had taken yet another trip, this time without us.  I hope that she is still with her new family and that she is still the apple of her little mistresses eye.  Our little world traveler deserves only the best.

Kindle Kindle Who has a Kindle

Everyone knows that I am an avid reader ( I nearly said rabid reader which is not far from the truth).  I love the ink and paper of books, the new smell of freshly printed paper and the tightness of the bound book.  I love the oldy moldy smell of books  long out of print but miraculously in my hands, sharing the story of men and women long gone told by an author now somewhere on another plane of life.  I fought the idea of a kindle every year since it's appearance on the scene.  This past Christmas, Mac ignored my every argument and ordered me one as a present.  Lucky girl, me. 
This past April 17th, I had a very serious operation on my foot called a Pantalar Fusion.  My left foot was so destroyed by RA and prior fractures that I was walking on the complete side of the outside of my foot and in pain so constant that I learned to live with it.  I didn't enjoy it, just learned to put up with it.  After seeing several doctors who could offer me no hope, I was finally seen by one who is visionary at worst, a miracle worker at best.  Dr Thomas Joseph of the Camden Bone and Joint office did not sugar coat it nor offer me false promises.  He told me he knew what was wrong, he thought he could fix it, but that I was still in danger of amputation.  Well.  I knew immediately that I had found the doctor for me and that I would put my trust in him absolutely.  Which brings me back to my kindle.  I find that I must lie on my back with my foot balanced on every pillow that I could find.  It must be above my heart and I am to put NO WEIGHT on said foot.  A boring life such as no human has ever been cast into.  I had ordered several books for my kindle (25) had checked a few out of the library (10) and gotten some for absolutely free (19).  I was set.  Already having read the library books I took delight in several of Dean Koontz's books....the Odd Thomas series has entertained me these past two weeks.  The new one is due out and I have preordered it.  I also reread The Dome by Stephen King.  Now the original book is well over a thousand pages and must have weighed at least five pounds.  I can not imagine holding that in my hands looking up at the printed page.  Had I dropped it I was sure to suffer a concussion.  But my sweet little Kindle only weighs a few ounces and I can read for hours.  I am content to lie with my foot above my heart and entertain my overactive brain.  I am trying not to think about the several nails and rod now holding my foot perfectly straight...I only think about what to read next.  Now I have been up to long and must go and assume the position.  I have a new Dean Koontz book to while away my hours called "A Big Little Life" about his and Gerda's beloved fur daughter, the late Miss Trixi...it is proving to be a delightful read .  I have not only my favorite author to thank for my sanity but also the aforementioned Dr Joseph, my new hero...

Holding Patterns: Hospital bound#links#links#links

Holding Patterns: Hospital bound#links#links#links

Hospital bound

So here is what is happening to me these days.  Several years ago (as in 6) I stood up and felt something go terribly wrong in my left ankle.  The pain was excruciating and the company I was expecting (my sister Holly and my aunt Margaret) was the furthest thing from my mind.  It took me about an hour to walk with anything like comfort.  Sad to say, comfort has been far from my mind for that long.  I was diagnosed with RA (Rheumatoid Arthritis) about 4 years ago and tried the different meds that was offered.  They helped the pain not at all and made me so sick that I couldn't keep anything down.  So, back to the Aleve and the softening around the edges of pain that it brought.

I have been to several doctors from podiatrists to Orthopaedic surgeons only to be patted on the head and told the good news is it isn't gout...like I ever thought it was.  After a few times of feeling the bones in your foot crumble, you sort of know.  So, while I was having other health issues that put my life on the line, my foot problem was put on the back burner.  Then a couple of weeks ago I stood up and felt the bones crumble yet again.  I called my Primary Care Doc and demanded that I be seen by someone who specialized in this type of thing.  This is how I was put in touch with Dr Joseph.  He took one look at my foot, asked me to remove my sock and walk across the floor for him and announced on no uncertain terms that he knew what was wrong, what I needed and that the time to move was nearly long past.

So, here is the scoop.  He is doing something called a Pantalar Fusion.  He told me that with my foot in the condition it is in, that in the 80's amputation would have been my only answer.  He does not rule that out even now.  Healing with the double whammy of RA and diabetes mean that I will have to be diligent against infection.  But you know, I haven't worried.  I have such a strong faith in God bringing me through this, that I won't even lose any sleep over this.  He has brought me so far that I don't expect Him to drop me at this late stage of the game.  So, that is why my blogging has been sporadic to say the least, but I'm still out here, still visiting, still loving all my blog pals.  I hope to be back here with an update soon.  The surgery is tomorrow morning and I have hopes of at least wearing normal shoes once again, even though my fast dancing days may be over.  Keep me in your prayers.  Love to you all...

Here we go a googling...

I love my computer, let me count the ways...you see, like everyone else, when I first started writing I used pencil and paper.  I graduated to a fountain pen and took great pleasure in the rasp and pull of the pen nib on paper.  It gave me a sense of  accomplishment for some reason.  Then one day I found myself in possession of small manual Underwood typewriter.  It was a one owner machine (previously owned by a little grey haired old lady who only took it out of its case on the weekends.)  I was overjoyed with it at first.  Then came the hell of making corrections, changing ribbons and learning to clean the ink clogged letters.  I was soon back to my fountain pen.  It was far less trouble.

When the computer came along, I was overjoyed once I finally got the hang of Word Perfect.  That took a few weeks and a lot of blue air above my head, but I finally got the hang of it.  So, I began to write in earnest and to eventually take the time to learn the other great things about the computer.  The first time we went on line, it was an experimental event which entailed  my computer calling my  brother's computer.  I don't know that they had a lot to say to each other as I wasn't privy to their conversation.  But they did make contact and that event was rather like man's first landing on the moon.  We were shouting and laughing and I believe champagne was poured.  As they used to say, we've come a long way baby!

So, when Google came into play I was like a kid turned loose in a candy store.  I googled everything and everybody.  Some of the folks I googled couldn't understand why they had made computer news, as it were.  Neither could I.  But rather like on you-tube, everything that has ever been spoken of  or even thought about can be found if you google it.  And I google a lot.  Which brings me to the point of my story. 

While walking the dogs the other day (we keep our two on leashes even if we do live out in the country...no point in  my pooches being an annoyance to my neighbors) Mac told me that he had seen some unusual animal poo just the other side of the neighbors farm fence.   Asking unusual in what way, he started describing it rather graphically.  Since it was to large to be rabbits but not big enough to belong to one of the horses or cows , and peculiarly undoglike, he was at a loss.  So last evening, as he went with Chase in one direction and I started out with Cricket in the other, I asked him to pinpoint where he had seen this odd poo pile.  I located it with very little trouble.  As soon as Cricket had accomplished his contribution to the scene of the crime, we went inside.  When Mac and Chase came in I was already on the computer.  He looked at what I was typing and just shook his head.  "Did you ever in your life dream that you would be sitting in front of a magic box and writing the words "coyote scat" into it?" he asked me.  I laughed manically and pointed proudly to my find.  "No, "  I answered, "I can't say that I did but look at this."  There under the caption "coyote scat" were several pictures of exactly what was located not a foot from our property line"  "I told you Google would have it, " I said.  He patted my shoulder and said, "I never doubted you for a second but exactly how do you plan to use this information?"  I hadn't had to think about it for a second.  "Let's just say you can learn to whistle Pistol Packing Mama."

An Echo in the Elms

I recently posted a picture of my grandmother's tulip tree on Face book, entitled "this is what spring is all about".  The cousins all recognized it immediately using phrases like "I'd know that tree anywhere".  And well they should.  My grandmother loved trees.   She taught us all a love for the growing things in our world.  While the tulip tree brings back strong memories, its what I don't have a picture of that brings back more.  The only picture of the grove of elms that once stood behind the big old farmhouse are in my mind.  Their leaves formed a canopy over the simple dirt floor of our playground.  In the heat of summer it was like being in a cool glade, which is actually was.  The cousins, Becky, Patsy ,Cathy, Kay, Crystal and  and I often played a rousing game of "coming to see" beneath those  old branches.  We would take a limb and mark off  rooms and use rocks and old pieces of wood from the woodpile and make our furniture.  Broken dishes destined for the trash would be lovingly rescued and taken to the elms for our play things.  Any old pot that we came across was used as kitchen ware.  We would draw designs in the dirt to form our rugs and the stage was set.  Gathering our children (our doll babies) we would play at neighbors, visiting each other and discussing world events as seen through the eyes of children.
The 1/2 acre elm grove and the cedar tree were delights of my childhood.  The grove itself was a delight of my grandmother's.  We were admonished not to tear the leaves from the tender branches while making "vegetable soup" for our company visits when the game was on.  She told us they needed their leaves like we  need our skin.  I seem to remember the day that Daddy Dwight told her that the elms were all sick, they had something called Dutch Elm Disease.  I don't think I  had ever seen  her like that.  She had the look of someone about to take a dose of nasty tasting medicine.   Later that fall I wasn't there when they took the axes to our elms.  When the following summer came, it was to a bare place where not even  ragged stumps punctuated the ground where we had once played.  The cedar tree stood silent sentinel over our childhood, looking lonely yet strong.  But if I were to go back there and stand where once the gentle elms gathered us into play...my cousins sisters friends...I  believe I  would hear our laughter and feel the cool of the glade echoing down through the years.

This could be a Notecard...

We're invited by mydear blog friend Vee, at "A Haven For Vee",  to enter photos we think might make good note cards...I am not as good at photography as you all are, but am going to give it a whirl!  The first one I think would make  a nice note card is of my lovely Old English Sheepdog, Digby.  Born in Gerrards Cross (Bucks) England, she was my constant companion and beloved Furbaby.

Myrtle Beach, SC...white sands beaches inviting, yes?

                                          
                  Our back garden area with Mindy and her cat Peanut...I had entitled this on "walking to heaven"

And the last one is of the archway at the patio with the first blooms of spring from my Clematis vine which is now 14 years old...this was fun Vee...yes we will have to do it again! I can't wait to see how many join us.

Games Games Games Come Get Your Games..and Watch This Spot for a Giveaway coming soon

My mother did crossword puzzles for as long as I can remember.  She had special dictionaries to help her find the right word for the right spot...12down an eight legged web spinner 8 letters fourth letter is c.  I know you  were  thinking spiders but it doesn't call for a plural s, and there's that wicked c in there to muddy the water.  So what could it be?  Think about it, it will come to you by the end of this I'm sure.  We learned to like the solving of the word mysteries and so became addicted to them.  By the time I was in my forties, they had become a chore to be done with the morning coffee .  I was often on the phone with Mama trying to see if she had the answer to one that had escaped my brain.  I couldn't leave the paper's offering until every word had been placed.  It haunted me.

Scrabble is another of my favorite games.  When Mac and I were first married and with his Navy career we were often on the move, I carried my scrabble board in a large hand bag.  I have been known to play me, myself and I.  When we were moving into a new neighborhood, the first thing I wanted to know about the neighbors was who played Scrabble.  I  had my kids addicted to it by the time they were in third and fourth grade.  My granddaughter has played since the second grade.  We're wordaholics.  And then someone introduced me to Facebook.  It was a disaster waiting to happen.  That same someone challenged me to a game of Word With Friends.  I didn't know what it was exactly, but I went to check it out and accepted the challenge.  The first game went quickly and so we played another and then my Sister(in law) challenged me and we played and I was still playing with the first of my friend's  then my nephew and then my niece and then my cousin and then another cousin and then two more friends.  Well, by the end of the first month I had 27 games going simultaneously.  I wasn't sleeping because I had to keep up with the games between housework and gardening and  some of my friends got testy if I left making a play to long.   I began to long for the days of crossword puzzles and scrabble.  I did the only thing I could do in the circumstances.  I stopped.  Cold turkey.  I resigned every game and quit.

So now I play Gardens of Time, Hidden Chronicles and Blackwood and Bell.  But it isn't a problem.  I have lots of neighbors to help me get my little kingdoms completed.  I can quit whenever I want.  But just this morning I noticed that Cat Clark has challenged me to a game of Word With Friends and I feel that one game would clear my head and make me a better person.  I'll just keep it to one or two friends...maybe three.  But definitely no more than five games at once.  I'll have to be careful though, these games have a way of luring you in and  like the arachnid will wrap you in webs of games with promises of wealth and fame...and next thing you know you're in Farmville slopping the hogs that your neighbor gifted you with.  And they never gift you with fences, you know.  Did you notice I slipped the answer to the crossword question in there?  Maybe I'll just go dig my crossword book out of the closet.  I wonder where I put my crossword dictionary.

The Great Egg Fight of 1960

   I was on the phone with my sister Toni the other day and we were talking about the times we spent at our Grandparents home every summer. I looked around as though someone might overhear me as I asked her if she remembered the egg fight. She laughed and said she remembered it well. This particular summer in 1960 we had taken the train from Washington, DC to the station in Hamlet, NC all on our own. It was an uneventful trip, but we grew more excited the closer we got to our destination. We couldn't wait to see Mammy and Daddy Dwight. We were also excited to see the cousins who were waiting on our arrival at the house. The first two or three weeks went well, tobacco season was well underway and we enjoyed being involved in the work. Every Saturday Daddy Dwight went to town to get things he needed for the farm. He always stopped at Hurst's Feed and Seed to pick up three to six dozen eggs. Just that week Mammy had read in the Readers Digest that the common practice of the time of buying what was called "cracked eggs" as an economy device was no longer considered safe. They recommended that people in the habit of this practice should stop immediately to avoid salmonella poisoning. Mammy had taught school for years and this made sense to her. She had worried about using the eggs that were already in the house and tried not to let Daddy Dwight know that she was disposing of as many as she could in the compost bucket.

One Saturday about midway through our visit she told Daddy Dwight that she needed him to pick up eggs. She explained to him about what the scientists were saying about the cracked eggs and asked him to get only good whole eggs. Something about the dependability of Scientists in general and the FDA in particular was muttered under his breath as he left the house. Mammy must have had a suspicion that her orders were going to be ignored, because on his return when he and the hired man brought in the eggs and placed the crates on the kitchen table, she immediately opened the box to take a look inside; Daddy Dwight had sat down in his chair at the table to read the newspaper. He never glanced one time at her to see what she was doing. What she was doing was examining each layer of eggs as she removed the trays from the box.
"Dwight, I thought I told you not to get cracked eggs. There's cracks in every one of these."
"Waste of money. There's nothing wrong with these eggs. Use them."

Now Mammy could get this look on her face that started in her eyes and moved down her face like a glow. A smile crossed her face and she picked up an egg in each hand. She looked down at the egg in her right hand. "Oh, I'll use them all right." I was never quite sure why I laughed. Was it the look of shock on Daddy Dwight's face as egg white and yolk mixed with shell dripped down his face or the sudden widening of his eyes as he realized that the second egg was headed in his direction? And as they say, that's when the fight started.
They threw eggs at each other saying not a word. No yelling no swearing (I don't believe I ever heard either one of them use a swear word as long as they lived.) They grabbed up cartons and moved through the screen porch still flinging eggs. The fight moved into the front yard the eggs still flying. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me to my Aunt Margaret's house to get help. It had ceased being funny when Daddy Dwight broke the egg on Mammy's head and ground it in with the heel of his hand. That just was not done! You know, I believe it may have been the quietest fight I've ever heard. The only sound was the whoosh of eggs as they flew through the air and landed splaatt on the intended target. Pretty soon Aunts Margaret and Pat were on the scene and got things under control. The fight was over, but the glaring continued for days. You know how when something perfectly awful happens that you say "we'll laugh about this one day"? They never did . Not ever. It was simply not talked about, the egg fight. It was as though it never happened. And Lord help any of us that brought it up.

So we just didn't discuss it. Until now and I've waited a safe 20 to 25 years since they left us to bring it up. . I just hope I've waited long enough. But you know what? I've never laughed as hard as I've laughed this week as I've discussed it with Toni and cousin Crystal...and wondered why Daddy Dwight and Mammy couldn't see the humor in it. At least no one died of Salmonella poisoning...

Mammy and Daddy Dwight with my toddler mother at Winthrop University which my Grandmother attended

Trouble in Paradise

My sister Toni and her husband Tim celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary this weekend and took a trip to St. Augustine, Florida in celebration. It brought to mind a few years ago when they still had a young son at home (who I now in college) and needed a babysitter for the weekend. I have Toni to thank for saving this piece I wrote about that delightful experience. So, here goes.

It has been a long time I have cohabited with an 8 year old boy. Even when I did my boys did not talk to me all that much. Figuring that this was why they had friends, there was only parental communication between us. You know the drill, I gave orders they patently ignored. I would find myself giving the same order over a short period of time until it was ultimately obeyed. It was a war of wills between us, a war I usually won.

My sister Toni and brother in law Tim had a business meeting to attend in Boone. NC this particular weekend (or at least that was what I was told) and they figured my father would benefit from the company of his grandson for several days. He arrived on Saturday. It is now Monday and he is not with his grandfather, he is with us. My father, who likes the pleasant buzz of familial activity, likes it from behind his closed bedroom door. He was worried that Alex would fall in the pool and drown, that one of the dogs would bite him in his over exuberance or that he could not escape the endless chatter of said child. It turns out he didn't need to be the one worrying about any of those things. He simply took to his bed and called for back up.

So here I am with a very precocious 8 year old boy whose favorite activity is talking. He talks very well. If I could find one thing in common with a small boy this would be an outstanding situation. I like to talk, too. But as I have mentioned, my boys did not do much talking to me. I had no interest in Batman then and I find I have even less interest in him now. I am perfectly content on my day off to play in my garden until it gets to hot and then move my playtime to the computer. I have enough competition for computer time with Mac, and now I find this little person staying with us also likes the computer.

I also learned this little person is a picky eater. He doesn't much like vegetables of any color. He explained to me that his parental units were teaching him to eat vegetables, a lesson he should have learned in infancy, but he is a slow starter in that area. (I have to remember to tell the parental units they may have procrastinated to long on this one.) I found that the one vegetable he will eat is corn and then only on the cob or creamed. He likes chicken. I of course fixed Roast beef. He likes yellow rice, not white. Two guesses what color the rice was and the first one doesn't count. He will eat tomatoes if they're in spaghetti.

I had them sliced. Raw. When he saw the okra he very politely turned up his nose. This was after he had very cleverly asked what that green slimy stuff I was slicing was and if it was a vegetable. I should have told him it was a fruit and maybe he would have at least tried it.

Supper being a dismal failure, he continued his pursuit of the cat children. They, being of sound mind and good sense, hid from him. Duffy had long since pleaded guilty to a charge of child endangerment and was sentenced to the back yard.

The phone rang while I was cooking. Joyce wanted to know if I wanted to come in and work third shift for an officer who had called in sick. The answer was a resounding yes...I did want to but I simply could not. Mac, who had had even less experience with 8 year old boys than I have, would never have understood. I feared he would run off to Daddy's and lock himself in with him.

Toni called a little bit ago. She asked how it was going. I lied. I told her all was going well...great in fact. I told her if I was a bit sharp it was because I was in pain. My shoulder and neck had been been giving me a fit for about three days. I told her it wasn't that I didn't want to talk to Alex, I didn't want to talk to Mac either. In fact I wished that everyone would leave me to my own devices and let me suffer in peace. Alex came to speak with his mother and wanted to know when they were coming to pick him up. He said he thought he was making Aunt Sandi nervous. I suspect Toni now knows all is not well in paradise.

Sorry...Wrong Number

It was late one evening in Beaconsfield, England (the county of Bucks) and we had just retired for the evening.  I had my book in hand and Mac had brought up the Daily Mail.  He always read the paper in bed at night since he had to leave so early to "go up to town" to work.  "Up to town" was London, and it was an hour long train ride every day.  Both ways.  We had only been living in England for three months and I was still suffering from Jet Lag.  (I capitalize it because I am certain it must be the actual name for an actual disease.)  I don't think I overcame the symptoms of said disease for at least a year.  I found myself yawning at odd times during the day and wanting to curl up on the divan like a cat...why you may ask?  Because I simply was not resting well.  On this particular night, the phone was ringing.  Now, imagine watching a lovely British show on PBS and hearing the phone ring that peculiar "bringgggg brinnggg...bringgggg bringgg."  It still caused me to catch my breath every time I heard it in my own home.  There was something so foreign in the burr of the ring that you don't hear in our phones .  Of course now you hear everything from bagpipes to Ding Dong the Witch is Dead"  but that is now and I'm talking about then...1980.  Anyway, the phone was doing that thing that it does when it actually DEMANDS that you answer it.  Now, we only had one phone in the house, it was on the foyer table at the front door.  It had a lovely long cord so that if I wanted to carry on a conversation of any length it would easily travel into the lounge by the fire.  So the phone is ringing and Mac says, "now who  is that at this hour?"  I gave him the sideways look and told him the crystal ball was downstairs with the phone, but I'd certainly consult one or both of them to see who it might be.  I answered the phone in the accepted way by saying the phone number...Beaconsfield 4650.  A voice from the other end asked to speak to John.  I told him that I felt he may have the wrong number and he asks "are you American?"  I assured him that his wrong number was actually ringing in the UK and not the USA and he began to tell me about his dearest Aunt who was now living in Buffalo New York and asking me if I knew what it was like there.  We had a very nice conversation that lasted about forty five minutes.  I went back upstairs and climbed into bed and Mac roused himself enough to ask who had been calling.  He didn't bat an eye when I told him it had been a wrong number. 

Now, why this old story has come up is because something happened the other day that brought it to mind immediately.  Monday we were going into Hartsville and I called my friend Cathie from my cell phone to hers to see if she wanted to ride along.  The phone rang once then went to voice mail.  I left a quick message about why I was calling and thought no more about it.  I tried to call her again on Wednesday to firm up plans to go to the Smokehouse on Wednesday and the same thing, straight to voice mail.  Wednesday afternoon Cathie called me and asked if we were still on for dinner.  I assured her we were and would pick her up at 5:30.  So we're on the road and I told her about the calls going to voicemail and she said she had checked and that it didn't show my calls.  I  took out my phone and flipped it open and dialed her number and the same thing...but the phone in her hand didn't ring.  I hung up then opened it and called out the number that I had entered.  It was off by one number.  We laughed over the mistake and then suddenly my phone rang.  I answered and a lady said "you know you've called me several times this week and I just couldn't figure out who you are."  I explained to her that I had entered the wrong number in my phone and apologized for the bother.  She laughed and said, "well I was just going to say if you still want to go to WalMart's, I wouldn't mind."   Too bad she lives 193 miles away.  But I'll keep her number, her name is Gillian and she sounds a treat.  I make more friends this way...

A Giveaway!!

Gill, That British Woman, is having a giveaway at her place and it's easy to join the fun~!  Head on over and enjoy the read, while you're there!
Here's how
http://thatbritishwoman.blogspot.com/2012/02/giveaway.html

Babysitting the Big Kids

Babysitting for the big kids.

I know that most people go onto Face book for the interaction with friends, the games and the (let's face it) gossip, but I have a whole different reason for falling into the Face book trap.  If not for Face book I'd not have one danged clue as to what my kids are up to.  Okay, so they're not exactly kids, they are well north of 20 and I've not paid a babysitter in years.  But I still like to know what is going on in their lives.  I don't want to be the last one to know that in the interest of health older son Wallace was entered in the Marine Mud Run last year.  I wish I could show you the picture of his new lean self covered in mud and it wasn't a beauty treatment. Oh, wait...I can!   Or that baby son Michael had changed jobs and was now working not to far away from our home, but a fair trip from his own home.  I haven't worked for the Sheriff in over 10 years so no longer have my brothers in khaki  or grey to keep me posted on their comings and goings.  (One of my favorite troopers once  labeled Michael the Road Warrior and then proceeded to give me details.  I don't care for details.  They keep me up nights.)

So anyway, the babies are no longer in need of babysitting, the teens are no longer in need of a shadow but I find that I no longer have a clue what is going on with them without Face book.  For instance...last week I went onto older son's page and saw a picture  of him that looked suspiciously like being seated in an airplane seat.  So, I asked him in the comment section "are you on an airplane?"  Hmmmm....seems  Sara (my Daughter((in-law)) was chosen to be a contestant on Jeopardy (May 28th is when the show airs) but did I get even a clue that they were leaving for LA?  Yeah, right.  Face book knew...mom was in the dark...
Son Michael bought a new car not to far back.  The old truck was beating him to death on the trip from Florence to Cheraw, and I found out when?  Yep, there he was on Face book standing next to his new ride.   So,  what do I have to do to get my kids to talk to me?  I don't nag them to call, but a call every so often would be nice.  Till then, I guess Face book will be my information highway and my babysitter of choice.

Life here on Planet Jefferson

We love living out in the country.  It's not just the quiet, it's the neighbors and the woods, the songbirds and the wildlife.  Granted I am not to keen about going walkabout at night anymore.   The woods are close and dark and deep.  At night I hear what I swear are coyotes.  If they aren't then our neighbors have some good dog impressionists.  I'm not so wild about getting up to highway 151 and having to dodge the hunters standing along side the road, shotguns laid across arms waiting for the dogs to chase the game out onto the road to them.  No, I'm not fond of that at all.  But all in all, we are far enough away from the road to enjoy our own gathering of the wild and free.  We put out corn to feed the deer and the doves, the squirrels and the rooster.   Yes, I said rooster.  Dudley and a small herd of guineas (I know, guineas come in flocks, but these came in a herd, I promise you,) showed up one warm spring day two years ago.  Now, Dudley once belonged to the neighbors on the other side of the woods, he and his guinea friends.  They came to us when a drove of dogs killed off the rest of their flock.  They traveled through our woods and begged for sanctuary.  Sanctuary they received.  The beautiful red rooster had no tail feathers left, he was lucky to escape with his head on his shoulders.  He was greeted by the cats and they protect him as she sleeps on the porch rail or on the glider.  When he sleeps on the glider, they gather around him to keep him warm, sleeping with him.  The guineas live in the plum thicket.  We had 13 when they first arrived, and sadly we are now down to 4.
I used to wonder what was happening to them.  I worried that dogs were making off with dinner right under our noses, but I don't think that is the case.  We have spoiled them so that every morning when we take the dogs out for their morning constitutional they run to the shed waiting on us to throw out their seed.  They will even gather at the porch steps if they think we have dalllied to long inside.  I started throwing them cold cornbread to the point that now I bake it even when we don't want any.  But getting back to the shrinking herd...they come to the koi pond, claiming it as their watering hole and just make themselves at home in general.  Now if they're at the pond and I'm trying to drive around to park, they come rushing out to greet the truck.   They rush the truck and refuse to move til I get out and shoo them away.  I used to hear my grandmother say that chickens would drown from looking up at the sky to see what that wet stuff we call rain might be.  Was she worried about their sensitivity or what?  When I see that these creatures won't even get out of the way of a truck, I have to say it...guineas are stupid.  I can't figure why they are smart enough to know where the feed comes from, yet not smart enough to get out of traffic...so we're down to Dudley (who most certainly is smart enough to stay out of the truck's way) and four guineas.  I love those stupid birds.  Think I'll go make them a hoecake of cornbread.