Big feet, big toes, big fingers. 8 pounds 10 ounces.
Buttercup and Baby Brother
This is last year's post for Memorial Day. I just wanted to revisit it.
(Fun Monday is below this
We drove through the foothills today into the
As the mountain road changes from paved to gravel it ascends into switchbacks that slice through rock-filled ravines and open meadows. The blustery air followed us up the crooked path. The tamaracks and pine trees whispered and moaned. The aromatic scents of wildflowers mixed with pollen and dust to tickle our noses.
Our original goal for this afternoon jaunt was to utilize our permit to harvest rocks that have rolled into the roadway. The landscape around our pond and the waterfall feature has yet to be completed. One of those ‘always in progress’ tasks.
However, my attention kept drifting from rock viewing to the symphony of sounds and smells. The blessings of living in a beautiful place and sharing it with those that I love felt overwhelming. My emotions climbed with the terrain.
I saw the Memorial Day events listed in the Sunday morning paper. I felt guilty that honoring those who served and sacrificed was not in our Monday plans.
As a result, I took a few moments away from the hunt to remember.
Three of our grandchildren’s Dad is in the Air Force. He will be returning to the
Alex, you are in my prayers.
Prior to our meeting, my husband served four years in the late sixties as a submariner. His dress whites are in a storage box. Pictures of his “Boats” hang at the end of the hallway.
Hubby, you were a handsome sailor. I love you.
The army drafted my youngest brother, a conscientious objector, about the same year. I was in high school and cried as he reported for duty and climbed into the waiting bus. The nightly news was all about
My eldest brother graduated from College in the late fifties and received his “Greetings”in 1958. “The White Coats” in
degree in Biochemistry.
Big brothers, - You made our family proud.
The hubby’s dad (1925-2002) was yet a teen when assigned to a sub chaser in the
You were indeed -The Greatest Generation.
Tecumseh, my dad’s 23-year-old brother, died of pneumonia while serving in World War I. Dad spoke of him with quiet admiration.
Uncle Tecumseh, I knew you because dad told me about you. Now my kids will know about you, too.
During the Civil war, Typhoid fever killed my maternal Great Grandfather George. My paternal Great Grandfather Elisha, lost his arm in battle. Great Great Grandfather Ambrose on the hubby’s side was a cavalry soldier in that uncivil War, as well. He returned home safely. You can read about them in my post One Wore Blue.
You men came home and mended a broken nation.
May your sacrifices and forgiveness remind us about unity and greater good.
The Revolutionary War included my Great Great Great Great Great Grandfather Titus Travis, who was on the “Muster Roll of New York Provincial Troops,” and his son George, with four greats. George escaped after capture by the Redcoats. Through your commitment I am a "Daughter of The Revolution."
Thousands of children are your descendants. Thousands more have arrived here to share in the dreams that you had.
Back in time Burnett's Urban Etiquette tagged me to write my memoirs in six words or less. I've waited so long to respond that James has moved away... to a blog that is a more "formal" part of the newspaper. He writes for The Miami Herald. (He's a great writer, too!)
So -- my life story in six words. "I think I can do it." Not really. That was my response when he handed me this assignment. Here is the real one:
"I want to do it over."
This stems from a lifelong dissatisfaction with all my first attempts. Possibly originating with my order of birth.
As the youngest of eight, I always knew someone older and wiser would respond to my pleas for help or advice. My older siblings came along and cleaned up my messes or took over my half finished projects.
It is tough to enter the family chain of command at the bottom. Everything has already been done, and done better than you can do it (at least in the eyes of the youngest.)
So...no...I'm never happy with the first product of my efforts. I also admit to rejecting many of the redoes.
This admission leads to a second MeMe handed to me by Karina. She is an entertaining writer that juggles three blogs, Candid, Cafe, and Creative, and works full time. I bet she does everything right the first time.
Here is her request: Six Random Things About You. (Me, actually)
Obviously the first one we just covered.
(1) I never get things right the first time. But I digress.
(2) I buy the more expensive soft toilet tissue. Believe me (refer to #1) when I say I have tried all the others.
(3) I balance my checkbook to the penny and I straighten out the edges of all my paper money and turn the faces all the same direction. BUT,
(4) I don't where I set my glasses or took off my shoes.
(5) Yellow roses. (No red, thank you very much)
(6) I do not watch horror movies. I get anxious, my palms become clammy, and my stomach churns to the point of nausea. So if you insist on my presence - bring a bucket.You may think this post is tame. Argh. Maybe I didn't get it right. Or, I already wrote all the juicy stuff during the past two years. The random meme just keeps showing up like a bad penny. (If you are interested in my previous confessions, you may find them in my side bar labels under TAGS.)
Squeaky noises emitted from the huge maple trees that shade our back yard. I knew early last week that it was the same sounds heard three years ago when two screech owls raised their tiny duo in the tree tops.
One parent appeared at dusk in recent weeks. My neighbor, Myrna, joined me on Friday night to watch the small owl glide between the branches, calling in muted tooo-tooo-tooo-toots. We saw a dead rodent dangle from its beak, and heard the delighted response of a little one as it received an evening meal.
Saturday afternoon the distressed cries of the baby drew me to the fence. It may have fallen from the protection of its nest. (I put up an owl box last year - but it was claimed early on by the rascally starlings.)
There it was - the baby--at the base of the 100 plus year old maple tree.
I ran for my camera and hoped that there were no cats, crows, or magpies also attracted by its distress.
When I returned, the fledgling was climbing the tree. I appointed myself photography and protector and stood by.
Several times it flapped wings - but always held tightly to the bark with its talons.
A curious magpie lighted nearby as the owlet rested from a hard-struggled 20 feet of trunk. The long tailed black and white birds have a reputation for stealing and eating eggs and fledglings.
My flailing arms distracted the hunter. As did my shrieking and yelling "YOU GO AWAY YOU NASTY OLD MAGPIE!" (Even though I know their babies have to eat, too.)
Suddenly, the parent owl swooped between trees and made its presence known.
The magpie retreated.
After dark I cooled off in the hammock by the pond.
Soon, the sounds of the owls discussing their nightly details echoed over the quiet music of our little waterfall. I was relieved.
I don’t understand the appeal of Collagen injected lips.
When a recent Dancing With The Stars contestant took to the floor, I was reminded of Batman’s great nemesis, The Joker. Then today I saw a recent photo of one of the Vegas Stars. Her lips were so engorged that her cupid bow flat lined and her smile was dead. As unnatural as a pregnant frog.
I am reminded of childhood games, when we stretched our eyes, cheeks, and lips through the most extreme contortions. I was quite often the winner of silly face competitions with my impression of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. (I can still do it.)
Some of today’s celebrated faces would put my creation to shame with the twisted looks they’ve fashioned with Botox, Collagen, and Lifts.
The female celebrities aren’t the only ones that give me pause to gasp.
Just the other day I leaned over in my usual head down manner to blow dry my hair. I made a turn just in time to observe my jowls, cheeks, eyelids, and eyebrows respond to the unfortunate call of Gravity. The skin around every feature in my upside down face extended upwards towards the floor.
“Oh My GOD,” I shrieked. “I’m Wayne Newton!”
It’s a gulag.
At first one is held captive by fascination.
(So many blogs - So little Time)
Then freedom is bound by technical ignorance.
There it sits. Wires, blinking lights.
The Mother of all Boards.
(The hubby got it running- hopefully until we can replace it. Then he said he is so tired of the problems that he's ready to buy me a MAC.)
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The Dust Will Wait