Show and Tell

Now, class, guess what this is?

Yes, indeed it is a vinyl 33-1/3 rpm long-playing record album. Not too long ago I was commenting on how I learned to handle them correctly way back when I was about 6 years old (never mind when that was).

Now, what you probably did not guess correctly is that I just bought it from an EBAY dealer. It's probably been at least 15 years since I last purchased a vinyl record. But, (to quote Sarah Palin) gosh-darn it they just will not release this particular album on CD. I ran across it doing some idle searches and the dealer promised it was in near-mint condition, so I bought this example of archaic music media. It arrived this afternoon and it was as promised. It played flawlessly and I thoroughly enjoyed hearing it.

I was a big Burt Reynolds fan back during his popular period. This was the soundtrack from one of his lesser-known films, W. W. & the Dixie Dancekings. Part of the appeal of this movie was that Burt's character took up with a band and they cast well-known country-western musicians as the band members and in the supporting cast: Don Williams, Conny Van Dyke, Mel Tillis, Ronnie Stoneman and Jerry Reed. I always loved Jerry Reed no matter what he was doing - picking and grinning on the Glen Campbell Good-Time Hour or in the Smoky & the Bandit movies. This was his first movie role and he nailed it.

Every time I've seen the movie, I'm always taken with the final musical number the band sings over the radio as Burt's character is leaving town. I was not surprised to discover that the song, "A Friend" was written by Jerry Reed. It has bounce and feeling and that unique Jerry Reed touch. Jerry Reed also wrote one of my favorite songs, "A Thing Called Love", which contains one of the best of his special guitar licks. Jerry Reed died a few weeks ago and the world lost one of the all-time great guitarists. A little piece of trivia - when Elvis set out to record Jerry's song "Guitar Man", he was frustrated that his musicians could not deliver the intricate guitar licks that Jerry's original version included. A call was placed and Jerry Reed brought his unique guitar style into the recording session and played the backup for Elvis' cover of his song. He was a unique talent.

I was listening to Satellite Radio in Big Red the other day, tuned into Laugh USA, and heard a comic describe his son's first encounter with a 33-1/3 vinyl record. The boy was non-plussed and asked his father what it was. The father explained that it was his generation's CD, with the sound recorded on the surface and requiring the same care in handling, being careful to only touch the edges. The boy seriously inquired, "did people have bigger hands then?".

I'm thinking that this year as my Christmas present to myself, I may just buy a turntable that will allow me to record some of my old albums and 45s onto CD. There's a lot of wonderful music tucked in the back of my closet that no one has seen fit to re-issue on CD. This little taste of long-unheard songs has whetted my appetite to rediscover the hidden jewels in my collection.

LSW

It's a Stand Off

Coco has appointed herself guardian of the All You Can Eat Critter Cafe this morning. The newly filled feeders are busy and would be busier if Mr. Squirrel could figure out a way to get to the feeders without messing with Coco.

Mojo also battles the squirrels, but in the course of doing so has discovered sunflower seeds and is becoming as much of a seed pig as Mr. Squirrel. Nobody ever told him that dogs don't eat seeds.

LSW

Part of the Herd

It was a gorgeous day today, a perfect setting for the annual Cattlemen for Cancer Research auction in Hills Prairie that benefits the U. T. M.D. Anderson Cancer Center. There was a crowd of about 500 milling about, enjoying the music and the free barbecue. A silent auction was the focus of the early part of the day (a second silent auction ended the day). I managed to snag an autographed book, but was quickly outbid on another book and the basket of handspun mohair I had my eye on.

At the end of the first silent auction and before the big cattle auction, presentations were made and notable people were introduced. My aunt and her sister-in-law watched the proceedings from a shady vantage point (front row center). I parked myself on a hay bale nearby.

Cousin Lisa was part of the recognized survivors group (middle of the 3 ladies on the right).

The folks who are behind the event gathered for a group photo.

The general store was manned by my uncle and their friend Charlene while the presentations were being made.

And at two o'clock, the big cattle auction was getting ready to take off. I watched the first heifer get bought and sold and donated back and bought and sold and donated back and bought and sold a third time and at that point decided that it seemed it was going to be a long afternoon at the auction barn. It would have been fun to stay and watch, but today I had to get other things done and had to leave.

It's an interesting event and it's for a good cause. The mood is upbeat, everyone is there to enjoy themselves and raise money for cancer research. Doctors and scientists mingle with ranchers, and cancer survivors mingle with the craftsmen who donated items for the auctions. It is a day to feel good and to do good. Everyone did.

LSW

See Building Blocks for a related item.

Red Shoes

I need shoes like I need a hole in the head. However, yesterday I went to Beall's to check on jackets for the fall because I had a couple of 25% off coupons. I did not find a jacket I liked(apparently boxy is in at the moment), so I decided to check for a pair of brown heels. I have beige heels, navy heels, red heels, bone heels, black heels, bronze heels and green heels, but somehow I had not acquired a pair of brown heels.

The only pair that might have suited was not available in my size, but at the end of the counter was a pair of bright red pumps that caught my eye. They were on sale and, with the coupon, were ridiculously cheap. So what if I already had 3 pair of red shoes, plus a pair of red boots. A girl can always use another pair of red shoes.

I am reminded of a time a few years back when I was headed to the funeral of my great-aunt Ruby. As we were leaving the house to drive to Wharton, one of our group remarked on the fact that I was wearing red high heels to a funeral. "Of course," I said, "I'm wearing them for my Aunt O." I was given a quizzical look, but the subject was dropped.

My Aunt O, sister to Ruby, always had a love of bright and vivid colors and was especially partial to pink and red. Everyone else in the family always paled next to Aunt O. I, too, love bright colors. I, too, like to stand apart from the crowd.

To make a short story long, when we arrived at the cemetery, my Aunt O was there wearing a pair of bright red shoes. No one that knew us considered it inappropriate apparel for the occasion.

The Sisterhood of the Red Shoes.

LSW

P.S. See today's entry over on Building Blocks for a reminder of Aunt O's love of pink.

A Day of Distraction

I've been very tired lately and very frustrated with paperwork and hitting my head repeatedly against brick walls, so I had not intended to indulge this year in the madness that is the semi-annual Round Top Antiques Fair. However, when a co-worker I don't get to see very often suggested we go and volunteered to drive, I decided I would take her up on the offer. So this morning we were up and on our way early and arrived about 10 minutes before the doors opened.

The official fair is contained in two sites, but the entire area bounded by Shelby, Fayetteville, Warrenton, Round Top and Carmine turns itself over to antiques fever twice a year. There is no way to see it all, so every time I attend I try to choose the best spots to get the broadest shopping experience. This was my friend's first time to attend and she let me choose which locations we would hit. We started at the official fair at The Big Red Barn and adjoining tents. I found not one, but three antique oak bedsteads that I would have been happy to cart home, but I'm still not 100% sure what I want, so I decided to pass on them all this time around and will probably spend the next few days regretting the ones that got away.

From there we went to my second favorite location at La Bahia and had another enjoyable ramble.

The stop was a success for my friend, who acquired two pieces of McCoy pottery for her collection. I acquired a couple of miniatures for my dollhouses.

Our next stop was the huge show at Marburger Farm near Warrenton. This particular location spreads across a massive area and after grabbing a fantastic lunch, we walked through about 8 tents and a half-dozen buildings and had a great time, even though we were beginning to stumble up the steps at the last few dealers due to exhaustion.

You always see things at Marburger Farm you've never seen before. Like, when was the last time you saw an honest-to-goodness $1,000 bill?

We saw lots of iron bedsteads, which also tempted me, wonderful shop fixtures from days of old (what I wouldn't give for a huge kitchen that I could fill with antique shop display cabinets), lots of wonderful pieces of golden oak, and lots of friendly dogs sleeping in the corners of the various booths.

I have a real weakness for golden oak. I hardly ever attend the fair without hauling at least one piece of golden oak furniture home. It's where I've acquired 3 desks, a bookcase, a stool, a sewing stand, a pair of night stands and I forget what else. This year was no exception. I passed on the bed steads, but I found a great mirror that looks wonderful over my golden oak chest of drawers in the bedroom.

They were made for each other.

Our last stop was an old favorite in Carmine. My friend acquired a third piece of McCoy pottery. I think she was satisfied with the results of her first trip to the Antiques Fair.

I'm delighted with my mirror.

And a day of wandering about the lovely countryside around Round Top in perfect weather was just what I needed.

It's just too bad we only scratched the surface of what there was to see.

And I sort of wish I had gone back for a bed stead.

LSW

Ole Blue Eyes

Some folks will immediately think of Frank Sinatra, but for me it was always Paul Newman who was "Ole Blue Eyes".

I remember watching Cat On a Hot Tin Roof with my parents way back in the sixties. I would watch it with my father on many an occasion after that. It is an exquisitely written play, but it was enhanced multi-fold by the performances of Burl Ives and Paul Newman on the screen. I think Daddy and I were both particularly fond of the "mendacity" scene in the basement where father and son confronted their demons.

I remember The Long Hot Summer where Paul Newman played opposite his wife Joanne Woodward. It was sultry and steamy and sexy as all get out. And then I remember the two of them in a bit of fluff called Rally Round the Flag, Boys! that came from the same pen as the man who wrote the novel behind the Dobie Gillis television series. The atmosphere of the two movies was as far apart as could be, but I loved watching them play against each other at both ends of the spectrum.

We went to see Hombre with Daddy somewhere, possibly at the theater in Gonzales. For sheer enjoyment of those blue eyes, there is a scene in that movie where you can swim in them. The movie wasn't the greatest, but the scenery (particularly those blue eyes) was fabulous.

I especially remember sitting in the dark theater and watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the first time. The team of Newman and Redford was magical. I just ate it up with a spoon, as Butch would say. A few years later they were even better in The Sting. I loved Newman as the drunken Henry Gondorff at the beginning.

There were many other performances where Newman did what he did best. He was never anything but absolutely enjoyable. And he did many things to prove he was a good, decent person in private life. I've enjoyed many a bottle of Newman salad dressing, feeling good that some of the proceeds went to charity.

I am going to miss those blue eyes and the man behind them. He was one of the greats.

LSW

Signal Interference

Watching TV in bed has become problematic. There always seems to be some interference. Time Warner denies it lies in their purview.

LSW

I Have This to Say About That

Warning: I am way tired this week and up to my eyeballs with bureaucratic bull poop, so I'm stepping back up on the political soapbox.

Let me get this straight. When the Democrats last held the White House we ended up with a treasury surplus if I remember right. We weren't involved in a senseless war. We didn't have a systematic attempt by the top cats to feed their own bank accounts at the expense of the little guy who was barely able to make his house payment and put food on the table. The Republicans felt threatened by this.

So, we now have a HUMONGOUS economic problem. We lost several thousands of our young men and women in a war that should never have been started in the first place, with no end in sight. We hear every day how somebody used their office to lie and steal from the little guy or to screw the environment or render our elderly unable to afford necessary medication or medical care.

So how is it nobody is saying the obvious? It's the current administration that got us here. Why should we believe that anything will be different 4 years from now unless we completely disable the political machine that is behind it?

Not to mention the absolute drivel that is dribbling out the mouths of the McCain/Palin ticket?

For heaven's sake, isn't it bloody obvious what needs to happen? Throw the lying fat cats out of Washington and at least give us a chance to begin to fix what they've screwed up in such an incredibly short period of time.

The Republicans are terrified what will happen if the Democrats get back in power. But I ask you - how could it possibly be any worse than what we've got right now?

Don't answer that. I don't want to think about the possibility.

LSW

P.S. Step 2? Turn lobbying into a prosecutable offense.

How Quickly We Spoil

I've still got custody of the Ford Explorer for another week or so. I've been driving it around Bastrop on the days I work at home. Today was the first time I drove it following a full week with the Prius. I found myself getting mildly annoyed when I would reach for the handle of the door and it didn't automatically beep a greeting and unlock. And I had to go back to using a key, for heaven's sake!

Yeah, I like being spoiled. The latest report on gas mileage is an average of 48+ miles per gallon and I even saw a flicker to 49 for a minute or so. My first time at the gas pump? $25.00 to fill it up.

Tomorrow I put it in the shop to have the window tinting done. The sun's so bright, I gotta wear shades, as the song goes.

Still happy and with no regrets.

LSW

It Progresses

I told you the purchase of that little tin garage would lead to more. So far I've added the fire station, the dalmatians Cinder and Ella (in the firehouse door), a firetruck, a mechanic's lift and toolbox, and the drive in.

The drive in sign lights up. Neat, huh?

Another street scene is taking shape. I just can't control myself.

LSW

Critter TV

"If someone would open this door, we could have cardinals jubilee for dessert tonight."

"Or maybe chicken-fried squirrel."

Recently overheard at the All You Can Eat Critter Cafe scenic observation point.

LSW

Funny Name, Fine Family

Today was my second time to attend the Mobley-Turnipseed Family Reunion and I think I've just about become an adopted member of the family. I was invited last year by a Turnipseed in-law who is researching his wife's family and wanted to compare research notes on the Mobley line we share. (His wife and I are 4th cousins, both of us descending from Reason and Lucretia Mobley.)

Attending last year's reunion allowed me to finally meet another long-time Mobley researcher, and the three of us have since shared emails, visits at the McDade and Oak Hill cemetery association meetings, and traded photos and research notes that have helped us all plug holes in our family group sheets. Group efforts, especially genealogy group efforts, are a good thing.

The reunion includes a fund-raising auction, just like the one we have every year at the Frankum reunion. This one was a little less lively (the Frankums are a boistrous bunch who really enjoy their auction), but there was a point in the proceedings that was very familiar. At both, there is always a bid no matter what is offered but if an item comes on the auction block that has to do with family history, you can count on a bidding war.

Even the non-genealogists love to grab a piece of family history. A few years back I won a fierce battle for a silver locket that contained a curl of my great-grandmother's hair. That was a battle I did not intend to lose and neither did several of my cousins, but once I make my mind up to have something I usually get it. That particular battle was an expensive one.

Photo collections are always a popular item and it was probably fortunate for my pocketbook that I was not able to attend the 2008 Frankum reunion. It was a photo album that took top dollar at this year's reunion and the winner paid considerably more than I did for the locket.

It was a photo collection that produced today's bidding war. Three of the family members were bidding against each other so rapidly that the starting price of $50 soared within minutes to the winning bid of $200.

This was an inspired idea and a very appreciated one. More than 100 individuals are featured in the collage and there was almost always a crowd of folks standing around it, studying the familiar family faces.

There were other displays of family devotion today. A memorial board with the photos and obituaries of the family members lost. A special presentation to a WWII veteran. Family stories and gentle teasing floating around the room. The solid bonds of a family.

Before the day was complete I had been encouraged by several to come again next year. My blood ties to the Turnipseeds may be faint, but their generous hearts welcome even the most distant cousins to the family fold.

They're good people.

LSW

Everyone Wants to Be Me

One of those movies I watch anytime I happen across it is Overboard. Yeah, I know, it's fluff and a chick flick. So sue me. I love Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell and together they are great fun.

Toward the beginning, after having been told off by Kurt's character for being a bored, rich bitch, Goldie flops down and says "I'm not bored! I'm happy! Everyone wants to be me!"

It's not often I get somewhere before everybody else, so I'm enjoying my brief stint as leader of the pack. For all that I work with a bunch of lawyers who travel incessantly by car, not one of them has yet ventured into the hybrid market. Of course they get a travel expense, which makes gas consumption in today's world a little less painful than it is for those of us not on an expense account. And the vast majority of them are Republicans and in denial.

But, there has been some interest in Big Red. One of the partners was in the parking lot when I was leaving for home today and came over and inspected it, sat in the driver's seat and asked me how I was liking it so far. I told him I was loving it, especially that little number in the lower center of the dash:



That's a whopping 47.6 miles per gallon I've averaged over 253 miles. When the salesman showed me this display, he remarked that I would find myself changing the way I drive. I snickered. I've been driving for thirty-four years and perfectly happy that I know what I'm doing. But, you know what? I'm enjoying seeing how my driving affects the rate those little green cars pop up. Every little green car on the display is a certain level of energy I have regenerated by lowering my speed, not accelerating faster than necessary, coasting down hills, and other things that help my over-all fuel consumption. (They pop up more frequently in city driving, where you regenerate energy every time you brake. The solid yellow columns represent highway travel.) Toyota knew what it was doing when it included this little screen.

For the last few months, ever since I put in the order, I've been drooling over the odd Prius as it passed me on the highway or sat next to me in the grocery store parking lot. I was even drooling over the icky green version. I am tootling happily down the road now, confident that someone else who hasn't made it to the top of the waiting list yet is looking on with envy.

For once I have made an intelligent decision and lead the way. For once I'm not trailing along in every one else's dust. I'm having a really good time with my little high-tech baby.

Now, for those of you who haven't actually been close to one or know someone who owns one, guess how long it took me to get used to that weird little gear shift?

It's that funny little grey knob to the right of the steering wheel. Forward, Neutral and Reverse. Who needs all those other positions? Bet you never use anything but P, D, R and sometimes N. The button above the gear shift is for Park. And the button just left of the air vent is what you press to start the car. No key. Really. That's been the hardest thing to get my head around. My remote sits in my purse and so long as it's in the vicinity, I have access to my car and can start it with just that button.

Too cool. Very weird. I love it.

LSW

Comparisons

I'm not much for being around kids of the toddler stage. They are loud. They bounce around a lot. They are often sticky. They are needy.

I adore being around my dogs. They are loud, especially when the squirrels are busy at the bird feeders. They bounce around a lot, from the front windows to the back windows to chasing the cats down the hall to checking out every single thing I do. They are often sticky (we won't describe the nasty things they find to roll around in). They are needy (I seldom sit for more than a minute or two without a warm body tucked in beside me).

Hmm.

It occurred to me awhile back that my unease around small kids might be alleviated if I just pretended they were dogs. It worked. I started talking to them like I talk to Coco and Mojo. If I know their parents well enough, I might share that information and they understand. I'm careful, though. Some parents get a little torqued at the idea.

A close friend of mine has a toddler who is approaching the age of two. I don't see Victoria very often, but she's a cutie and she now has her own blog. (You can find a link over in the left column.) A few days back she included a poem called The Toddler's Creed. It could just as easily be The Rat Terrier's Creed.

The Toddler's Creed
If I want it, it's mine.
If I give it to you and change my mind, it's mine.
If I can take it away from you, it's mine.
If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.
If we are building something together, all the pieces are mine.
If it has your name on it, it's mine.
If it looks just like mine, it's mine.
If it's mine, it will never be yours, no matter what.

Several of my readers out there are grandmothers and dog lovers. Thought you might appreciate the sentiment.

LSW

Learning Curve

So, I sat up last night and read most of the book on the navigation system. It's got a lot to it, but it seemed relatively simple. I have the attitude that no computer is going to get the best of me, at least not easily. I decided to go get some takeout for Sunday lunch to 1) give myself an excuse to take Big Red out for a small outing and 2) so I would not have to cook. Before I left, I played around with the navigation system a little and added my office address in anticipation of letting it tell me how to get there on Tuesday. In a side note here, I will add that I was surprised and pleased to see that it was now recognizing the name of the street I live on, even though initially it had told me such an address did not exist. GPS in action.

In another little side note, I discovered that the visor lights were not broken after all. The switch was set wrong. Always go back and read your manual and possibly save a ribbing from the service department. I wasn't born yesterday by a long shot.

So I headed out to the highway on my fast-food mission and did not realize that I had inadvertently told the car to go to work. Just before I reached the intersection with Highway 95, a loud voice informed me to turn right. It's not readily apparent how to switch off the guidance system, so I decided to wait until I was stopped to puzzle it out. So, until I reached Taco Cabana and took my place at the end of the drive thru line, I kept hearing the voice tell me to take the next legal U-turn. Every time I would pass a place that would allow that, you could almost hear the thing sigh in disgust and tell me where the next legal U-turn could be found.

It took me awhile, but I was able to find out how to disengage the guidance system and turn the volume down on the disembodied voice. I had plenty of time because the aftermath of the hurricane is that everybody is headed the other direction today and the highway business district was buzzing with people stopping for gas, food and restroom breaks. The folks at Taco Cabana and Wendy's had reached the glazed-eye state and the traffic was still coming.

It's disappointing that I won't be driving Big Red to work tomorrow. A co-worker is coming through Bastrop to pick me up and transport me to the office where I can retrieve the Explorer and bring it home. But come Tuesday I intend to start giving that navigation system a run for its money. I'm already looking forward to my scheduled trip to Dallas next month and testing it out under high-stress driving where I don't have a clue where I'm going. (At least I'm not starting with Houston.)

Oh, yeah, another cool thing. My car and my new cell phone communicate with each other and if I get a call it comes across my radio speakers and I can talk handsfree. Am I a high-tech granny or what?

LSW

Cafe de Pine Forest

I thought I had two squirrels. Today I discovered I have three. I looked out the door and not a bird could find a place on the bird feeders because of big fat squirrel butts in residence.



The dogs are incensed. I think it's rather funny. I let the dogs out every now and then to run them off long enough for the birds to get a chance.

LSW

Hurricanes

I've probably written about this before, but I forget. The first hurricane I can remember was Carla. 1961, I believe. We were living in Oak Hill at the time. That storm came in at Corpus Christi and the eye passed directly over Austin. I remember lots of rain blowing across the road. Several family members from the coastal area had evacuated to Austin and there was a great big gathering of them at Aunt O's house. We went over to visit and I can remember lots of people all towering over me. The cousins were playing dominoes off and on. The women were preparing food. Lots of laughter while it poured outside. I guess that was the first Frankum reunion I attended.

A few years later Beulah came across south Texas when we lived in Smiley. We missed a couple of days of school because of that hurricane. Over a two day period we received 22 inches of rain and Smiley was completely cut off on three sides of town. We drove down to look at the water where the roads were flooded and, as always, Daddy had to drive up too close for me. I had visions of being sucked into the raging water. I never have liked being close to a lot of water.

I can remember Celia, which also came in at Corpus I think. It did not have much effect on me, but in later years I worked with a girl who had lived there at the time and she told some horror stories. They were teenagers and looking forward to a hurricane party. Celia turned out to be a lot nastier than they expected. A couple of the kids had ventured out for some reason and were driving along when my friend happened to look in the rear-view mirror and realized that a tornado had formed and was chasing them. She said she was never blase about hurricanes again.

I've never had any desire to live near the coast and when these bad hurricanes come toward Texas, I am glad that I don't have to try and decide what to put in the car and take with me to safety. I prefer to be in a position to offer refuge to stranded kinfolk.

As I was headed home yesterday, enjoying my first drive in the new car, I turned east on Highway 290 and came face to face with the reality of Ike. Traffic was backed up, headed west for as far as the eye could see. That morning I had been surprised to see that the old nursing home in Elgin that had recently shut its doors in favor of a new facility across town and been put on the market, had been turned into an evacuation center. Buses were pulled into the parking lot and people were piling out with their bags and headed inside. I thought that was a smart idea on someone's part to put the old building to good use.

By the time I got to Bastrop, the traffic on Highway 71 had slowed considerably from the 2-3 days prior. Still, every hotel and convenience store parking lot was full. People in my neighborhood were stowing lawn furniture and other items that might get caught up in strong winds. As it happened, the storm missed us almost entirely. I had expected heavy rain over night and was surprised to wake up this morning and find nothing out of the ordinary. Until I turned on the news and saw the damage in Galveston, Beaumont and Houston.

Yesterday morning I needed a new audiobook and I decided it was an appropriate time to listen to Isaac's Storm, a recounting of the terrible 1900 Galveston hurricane where thousands of lives were lost. I was chatting about it with a friend at work who had read it and commented that it seemed that all the bad hurricanes were much further down the alphabet than they used to be. Carla, Celia, Camille, Beulah - it used to be that the deadly hurricanes were at the beginning. We decided it must be that weather forecasting has become so much more precise that more tropical depressions are identified these.

Thank goodness for the ability of the meterologists to issue early warnings now. Galveston got hit hard again this time and property damages will be great. But at least the horrific loss of life that was experienced in 1900 is now preventable with early forecasts and having the good sense to get out.

It's a good book. It can make you grateful for advanced technology. I am grateful I live far enough inland to be out of danger. It's pretty along the Texas coastline and I like to visit now and again, but I don't want to be anywhere near when hurricane season begins.

LSW

Surprise Arrival

I guess they were trying to get as many of the new cars out of the path of the hurricane as they could. I got the call at 9 AM telling me that the new baby had arrived. I picked it up and drove it out of the show room about 2PM and am cautiously making its acquaintance.

It has a dashboard that would make the Starship Enterprise envious. I've got a lot of reading to do this weekend before I will have a clue how to turn on the navigation system, much less use it. The satellite radio is installed and I don't even know where the control for that is.

I did figure out how to track my gas consumption on the trip home. It is living up to expectations. My first commute averaged 46+ miles per gallon. Ahhhh.




It is home safe and sound and has taken up residence in the garage, where it will probably sit until Ike blows on past Bastrop.

I will probably spend part of my weekend sitting in it, looking at the manual and then looking at the dashboard and trying to figure out how to use everything.

I'm in love. Not one particle of buyer's remorse. I plan to be the little grey-haired lady buzzing around town in her little red hot rod and making everybody drool with envy.

Yee-haw!

LSW

I Don't Like Ike

Ok, you need to be my age or older to remember "I Like Ike". I know I'm showing my advanced years.

Thanks to hurricane Ike, my new car is delayed in arriving. Seems it is at the distributor, somewhere in the greater Houston area, and now that Ike is toying with slamming into Houston the trucks aren't getting out for delivery on schedule. All I can say is, I hope my new baby is inside somewhere, safe from Ike's fury.

Guess instead of joy-riding this weekend, I will be sitting around twiddling my thumbs.

LSW

Marking Time

Today I was sitting in the Ford waiting room while my oil was being changed. It's something I've been doing regularly for years, about every 2 months or so. I've become a regular and I know the service writers and they know me. This morning I was sitting there, looking out the window at the familiar view, and it suddenly struck me that today was probably the last time I would be there. I almost felt like I should go to each of the service writers and say goodbye.

I'm supposed to take custody of the new Prius on Friday, hopefully, or early next week, at the worst. It's close by, getting the satellite radio added in and the optional floor mats installed. Next week I become a Toyota driver, after a succession of Fords in my life.

It was when I was writing my check that I realized that tomorrow is September 11th. It is rather appropriate that I was having my oil changed this week. You see, I was sitting in the Ford waiting room while my oil was being changed on September 11, 2001. It was on their tiny, elevated television in the waiting room that I watched the first news reports coming in about the airplane that struck the first tower. I was watching that very tv as the second airplane struck the second tower.

For as long as I live, whenever I think about September 11, 2001, I will automatically think about sitting in that waiting room with the other folks waiting on their car maintenance and the total silence that hit the room when we realized it was not an accident. As the news reports came in, we were joined by the service staff and the salesmen from next door. The room was full and nobody was saying a word.

Moments we remember. September 11, 2001, I was having my oil changed. Who knew how much our lives would be changed that day?

LSW

Slightly Less Scary

The count on the dollhouse books is in at a mere 108 volumes. This includes some fiction set in the vicinity of a dollhouse. It occurred to me when I encountered those that I have some fiction set in the atmosphere of fiber arts that did not make it into the official count in the needlework spreadsheet. There is a mystery series by Maggie Sefton that involves a nosy amateur detective who owns a yarn store and a series of novels by Debbie Macomber that involves a group of knitters who meet and knit together at a community yarn store. That will probably raise the count in the previous post by another dozen volumes or so.

In addition to the books, I have years of magazines - Nutshell News, Miniatures Showcase, Miniature Collector, American Miniaturist and Dollhouse Miniatures in the dollhouse category and Vogue Knitting, Knitters' Magazine, and Interweave Knits in the knitting category.

At one point I had this vision of one day owning a yarn store and maybe with a few miniatures thrown in, and all this collection would be available to give ideas to my customers. Alas, every time I really wanted to explore that option, the economy took a dive. Every time the economy looked like it might support such a venture, I was involved in other things. At this point it seems like it will never happen. My vast reference library exists for my pleasure alone.

As reference libraries go, I have one last frightening category that I don't think I am going to inventory. My huge bank of Texas history, Baylor history, assorted county histories from across the nation and genealogy reference books could never be big enough to scare me into slowing down the acquisition of volumes for that section. I'll just add more bookcases. Who needs empty walls?

I envision my elder years involving a lot of sitting in a large comfy chair, surrounded by books on the subjects I love.

LSW

Scary

We all know by now that I am an incurable collector of certain items. But sometimes you get hit in the face with the realization that you have really slipped over the edge.

For years I have been accumulating a library of knitting and crocheting and handspinning books. For those of you who don't knit and crochet, just let me say that they are not cheap. For many, many years I bought selectively because of the high prices. And then I started frequenting Half-Price Books.

At half the original price, they are reasonable. Add in the slashed prices of publisher remainders and they are dirt cheap. I started picking up one or two every time I was in a Half-Price store. I didn't have time to really read them, but I told myself I was stocking up for a rainy day. As a result, it got where I couldn't remember what books I had and what books I didn't.

So, today I decided to rearrange the 3 shelves that hold my needlecraft books (and I'm talking books here - not pattern leaflets of which there are several crammed full bins stored in the garage). So long as I was pulling them out, I decided to build a spreadsheet so I could print out a list to take along on my book buying expeditions.

It was frightening. I have 250 books relating to knitting, crocheting and spinning. Some of them are limited editions that have become desirable in EBAY circles. Some of them are the most hideous of design. Some are so dated as to be comical. And I love them all.

Next up is an inventory of my dollhouse books. It may be even worse.

LSW

Here a Smirk, There a Smirk

I usually leave the political beat to brother David, who does it so much better than I do. Everyone who knows me knows that I lean toward the Democrats, though I admit that I've voted for a Republican here and there through the years. Not lately, but it has happened.

Republicans be warned. You may want to leave now.

The thing is, up until recently I really didn't have anything against McCain except that he is a Republican, which automatically makes him suspect in my book. Other than that, I felt he was relatively ok. But now? Is is just me or has he developed a clone of that self-satisfied smirk that has danced across W's face the last 8 years?

Ever since McCain tied up the Republican nomination, I've been noticing a change. There's that smirk. And now, when he opens his mouth, out comes Republican double talk. God forbid he should give a straight answer until it's been blessed by the Republican power machine in the background. I would much rather have heard him give a straight answer on the number of houses he owns than have him duck and run until he could come up with the "correct" answer. Give me a break.

Initially I was pleasantly surprised and a lot amused at his choice of a running mate. On the one hand I figured there were a lot of Republicans out there who were having to see their orthodontists to get their jaws put back into place. My first thought was that wow, we are going to make history regardless of who wins in November and this is a good thing.

But, as time goes on and we learn more about this gal, I feel like McCain has pulled a Cheney and shot himself in the foot. If he had picked Kay Bailey Hutchinson or another high-profile Republican woman (I admit I don't keep up with who's who, so Kay is the only one I can dredge up at the moment), then it would have been a good move on his part. But Palin strikes me as the type of woman that women will hate and that will scare the pants right off the men. I didn't know one thing about her before the announcement and I don't care what her kids are up to and I still have formed a negative opinion of her because she has the smirk.

What is it with the Republican smirk? You put them up on the political pedestal and it snaps right into place. Maybe it's that smirk that causes everything that spills out of their collective mouth to sound like they wouldn't know the truth if it bit them.

Off the soap box and handing the political baton back to brother.

LSW

Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum

My inner child kicked in again today. I've had my eye on an item at the Round Rock Antique Mall since the first visit and kept talking myself out of buying it. Until today.

I decided at lunch time that I would go see if it was still there. It was. And it was on sale. I just can't resist a good deal. The original price tag was a wee bit too high, but the dealer renting this booth was having a 40% off sale. I mean, that's almost half the original price.

So I caved in and now I'm the owner of my own pirate ship. It's a one of a kind, handmade creation that is roughly 1:24 scale. It has port holes. It has a galley with a table and benches. It has a below-decks room. It has a crow's nest. While the interior will be nigh on to impossible to alter (for lack of access), there is quite a bit of deck space that can be accessorized with pirates, parrots, treasure chest, kegs of rum and telescopes.



I've said before, it's hopeless. I have a thing for miniatures and I refuse to grow up.

LSW

When They Are Good

To paraphrase an old nursery rhyme -

When they are good, they are very, very good.

And when they are bad, they are horrid.

I had such a happy little girl cat this afternoon. For some strange reason I decided to take all my clothes out of the closet, re-install the double clothes rod, and rearrange the shoe racks. Along about mid-way through - when I had a floor full of shoes and empty clothes hangers - I stepped back into the closet and heard the loudest purring you can imagine. Scout was lying under the row of suit jackets I had just hung on the lower rack, purring her little heart out. Nothing she likes better than a big to-do in progress with lots of opportunities for cat meddling. She has prowled and commented and napped and then prowled some more. Even after I was finished, she would step inside the closet and look around with utter satisfaction. I'm thinking in a past life she must have been an Imelda Marcos type.

Now, what I can't figure out is why I can't fit everything back into the closet, even with an extra rod and a big pile of items culled out for the thrift store.

LSW

P.S. The cat condo they are sleeping on is on its last legs. During their horrid stages, they zoom to the top, causing the thing to weave back and forth and shudder in protest. There are pieces hanging by a mangled bolt and the whole thing is slightly cockeyed. I'm getting ready to move it to the garage out of sight. They may have a collective hissy fit and insist I buy them a new one. Cat divas. Can't live with them, can't live without them. Well, I could, but life would be awfully dull.

Dinner Guest

Friend squirrel doing what he/she does best. Stealing food from the birds.

LSW

I Really Need to Get a Life

I think I've mentioned that I get caught up in computer games every now and then. It usually happens when I'm stressed out and looking for a total escape to another planet. When I can't focus on genealogy and I've been beating my brains out processing bad data and I'm too tired to knit, crochet or work on dollhouses, I have a tendency to fall into the trap of computer games.

During the work crush of July I was spending large chunks of my evenings playing Super Granny 3. This game has approximately 100 levels and the point is to race the little Granny character around the screen saving stray kitties, watering flowers and dodging bulldogs, pink poodles and maniacal robots. Along the way you have to collect enough points to purchase a required piece of equipment to reach the final half-dozen secret levels. I finally completed all the levels about the same time as the work petered out.

I mentioned this weakness at work the other day and was met with gaping mouths. I am something of an oddball at the office. The data processing folks are generally in their 30s and think I'm a grandmotherly type. There are actually two of us fifty-somethings in the group and we've worked together for almost as long as the others have been on earth. We are the wise old folks and it always surprises the youngsters when we reveal our quirky sides.

So I told them about Super Granny 3 and while they were still digesting that, I mentioned that I had played all the levels of Diner Dash (3 different versions), Luxor, Atlantis, and Pirate Poppers. By that time they were trying to decide if I was weird or senile. I got the distinct feeling that their mothers don't play computer games. I care not. I like being eccentric.

Well, along came this week and more stress and guess what? I needed an escape and I dug out an old game that I had not yet mastered - Westward. Being a fan of old Western TV, it's right down my alley. You settle a wilderness. You build housing for your settlers, set up timber camps to accumulate wood for building, dig wells for water, create farms and ranches to generate food, and set up mining camps to dig for gold to buy materials like dynamite for clearing boulders. Along the way you fight outlaws, try to keep your sheriff alive, repair buildings after tornadoes and fire, and suffer drought, famine and plague. Each level has tasks that must be accomplished to advance to the next level. It's a hoot and very addictive.

Needless to say, I am not getting much done this week except resting my brain from an overload of stress. No genealogy is getting done. No housework is getting done. No dogs are getting petted. My book isn't getting read. My bills aren't getting paid.

But my sheriff is still alive. Barely.

LSW

On the Campaign Trail

To be fair, it was little brother who found this link:

Vote Your Conscience

(When you get there, hit the forward button to start.)

LSW

P.S. This is for fun. Not trying to convert anybody to my candidate.

Early Lessons That Stick

Isn't it odd how some things you learn early on remain with you? I was reminded of that this morning as I was listening to an audio book. It was a second hand book that had formerly been part of a lending library. About half-way through the first CD, it started skipping around like crazy. When I examined the CD, I could see finger smudges everywhere. A little cleaning with the cloth I keep in my purse for cleaning my glasses, and all was well.

When we lived in Oak Hill I was 6 years old. My father somehow managed to acquire a very nice stereo console. It wasn't until I was writing this that I realized I have no idea where it came from or how it was paid for, but it stayed with us for many, many years. I believe we kept it until we moved from Smiley to Bastrop, at which time it went to live with my Grandmother Wilcoxen and kept on performing for several more years.

Shortly after the stereo arrived, Daddy took out a membership with Columbia House and started building a record library. It was probably his influence that formed my eclectic taste in music. He bought a lot of Marty Robbins, Andy Williams and Floyd Cramer. He would order sets put out by Reader's Digest that were full of easy listening instrumental and piano. We had a big set of classical pieces performed by the Longines Symphonette. We played the heck out of that stereo and I loved every record in our collection.

I had my own little portable record player that I played endlessly in the back room of that stone parsonage. The room had a bank of windows that looked out on a large back yard and, beyond that, a pasture full of cows and agarita bushes. I would spend hours out there playing my stash of 45s - some that had belonged to Daddy and some that were given to me by a church member. It was that stash that contained I Saw Esau (Sitting on a Seesaw) and Just Walkin' in the Rain, among others. (I can still see those 45s in my mind's eye, stored in their box that had once held a pair of boots. They were scuffed and some were cracked and they followed us as far as Smiley where they ended up in the attic. I think we moved off and left them up there, where they may be till yet.)

For the most part, my personal collection kept me satisfied. But eventually I wanted to listen to Marty and to Andy and to Floyd and to the big orchestral masterpieces.

Daddy gave me permission, but only if I learned to handle the records properly. For the privilege of listening to his records, I learned to pull the records out by the edge and never, never, never touch the grooves where the music lived. When I was finished, I would carefully remove them from the spindle, holding them by the edges, and carefully put them back into their paper sleeve and then into the cardboard outer sleever. I think I could safely swear on a stack of Bibles in court that I have never handled a record in any other way since making that promise so many years ago. I learned that lesson well. As a result, I have several boxes of vinyl LPs in the back of the closet that still play like new, including those original albums we acquired while living in Oak Hill in 1960.

I thought this was the way everybody did it, so I was surprised at the look of amazement on a visiting preacher's face one day when I followed Daddy's instructions to put on a specific record. I guess he was surprised that such a small child could have learned to use such care in handling LPs. Or he was surprised at how much care we took with our records. In any case, he complimented me on knowing what I was doing and it made me feel quite capable. I always did like to feel competent.

I treat my music CDs now with the same care. Awhile back when I bought an audio book at Half-Price Books, they went to get the CDs out of their files (only the empty box and sleeves are on the shelf) and I cringed as I watched the girl pull out each CD and smear her finger prints all over the playing side as she loaded the sleeves. I wanted to ask her if she had been raised in a barn. But I digress.

Every now and then I find myself doing something in a particular way and suddenly realize that I'm doing it that way because it was the way I was taught as a child. Those ingrained routines and procedures have stayed with me because they are the right way to do things.

Our formative years. The scary thing is - for all the good things that have been indelibly carved into our souls, how many of the bad things we do were started way back then as well?

LSW

Passing Through

This has been an exhausting week on several levels and my mind just isn't clicking along well enough to create understandable prose.

However, in the midst of gloom is one small ray of sunshine.

The Prius is almost here. The predicted arrival date of December has suddenly been changed to the early part of September. MY car, the one I ordered, is on the assembly line now. It should be in Texas sometime within the next two weeks.

Thank heavens for tiny silver linings in the storm clouds.

LSW

Diversions

Thanks to our health-worker's needing to make up a sick day, I had the opportunity to go off and putter this clear and pleasant Saturday morning. I decided to go to Elgin and explore my favorite Antique Mall. I got there a little early and so had an opportunity to study the bird nests that had been built in their sign.

The nests in the "e" and "s" look fairly normal, but I'm wondering who or what built the nest in the "q". There are things with teeth in there that look like some kind of big comb. That some little bird managed to wrestle those things into place is fairly amazing. That's a bird I would like to meet, but not in a dark alley at midnight.

It was nice to have a long uninterrupted morning to explore the mall at my leisure. I had promised myself that if I found a certain type of depression glasses, I could get two of them to match the two I already had. One of the ones I already had was the sole survivor of a set of glasses that had belonged to my grandparents. At some point they were put in boxes under the house they lived in out in the country and many of them broke. It's possible some of the other kinfolk have some of them, but we only had the one. The second one had been purchased in an antique store last year. It just recently occurred to me that they were a good match for my Old Country Roses china and I decided I would build a set to use on those rare occasions that the china comes out of the china closet.

I was surprised that I did not find any of the glasses in any of the usual booths that carry depression glass and had about decided I would not be able to add to my collection today, when I turned the corner and found a set of 6 glasses in perfect condition. It didn't take me long to decide to get the entire set. I am delighted, even knowing that my grandmother would probably gag at the price I paid. Knowing her, it's very possible these came free in soap or oatmeal or something and would have meant the same to her as Welch's grape jelly glasses mean to me.

I also found a Nancy Drew book to add to my vintage editions of that series and a True West magazine with an interesting article to add to my knowledge of Custer's activities in the west, which I find of interest since discovering my gg-grandfather fought in the Indian Wars under Custer. I also was able to price some antique oak bedsteads. All in all, a very satisfying morning.

I was back in Bastrop fairly early, so I decided it was a good time to visit the local museum, which is running a display of early local pottery through December. I was the only visitor to the museum for the entire hour I was there and therefore had an opportunity to study the exhibit without distraction, have a long discussion about Bastrop history with the museum custodian and pick up a few items they have for sale that I had not had a chance to acquire yet.

The exhibit was outstanding and I will cover it in more detail in a future installment over on Building Blocks. All of the different incarnations of McDade pottery were represented, including the first of the potters, Matthew Dunkin and his son. Matthew was the brother of my ggg-grandmother Lucretia Dunkin, so I feel a certain proprietory interest in the legacy of McDade pottery. I was also looking for some confirmation that one of the pieces I acquired from Aunt Fay's estate is a Dunkin piece, which is highly collectible. (I think it is.)

The Bastrop museum has come a long way in the past few years and I enjoy going there now. Now the Historical Society acts like true custodians of local history. When we first moved to Bastrop, the collection was a jumbled mess with no organization and very little concern for preservation. It hurt to go there and see the damage being done through ignorance and neglect. Now it's a museum to be proud of.

How lovely to be able to break routine for a few hours.

LSW

Vanity Thy Name is Dog

Anybody who says that dogs don't think has never had a dog. I actually read an article by somebody who claimed that dogs don't really know their names, but just learn to respond to a repetitive sound. What a dope.

My dogs know their own names, each other's names, the names of the cats, all the members in the family and who the squirrel is. (They are learning who the deer is.) When I tell them Uncle David is coming, they start watching at the window for his truck to head down the street.

Mojo has a game where he comes down the staircase to just the point where he can peek down into the family room and watch what's going on without any one knowing he's there. Dumb animal? I think not.

Today I bought the two of them new collars. Normally they are very touchy when I remove their collars because they think it's a prelude to a bath. Tonight they caught on immediately that I was transferring their tags to new collars. You should have seen the preening and cavorting that went on when they were re-dressed. It was obvious they thought they were hot stuff.

Dumb? No. Spoiled? Yes.

And smart.

LSW

What a Mess

From my previous posts, you might assume that I can find my way around the kitchen fairly well. Sometimes yes, sometimes no.

I love soup. Periodically I will make a great big pot of soup or stew and eat on it for a week. Sometimes it's tortilla soup, made from the kits you find at H.E.B. Sometimes it's the family stew recipe. Sometimes it's to try a recipe from one of the Peach Tree Tearoom cookbooks. (Just for the record, the recipes in those cookbooks are completely reliable. I've never tried a recipe I didn't like.) Last night I made my bean soup that is adapted from the 15-Bean Cajun Soup mix available in the grocery store. It made a GREAT big pot of soup. I had two bowls for supper.

I normally divide leftover bean soup from the first night into freezer ziploc bags and freeze them to have on hand for nights when I don't feel like cooking. Last night I was too sleepy to deal with that, so I transferred the soup to a big storage bowl to refrigerate overnight. So far, so good.

As I finished up ladling the soup from pan to bowl, there was a little in the bottom of the pan I could not catch with the ladle, so I upended the pan to pour the dregs into the bowl. And I dropped the pan. Into the brimful bowl. With a plop.

You would be amazed at how far bean soup can travel under those circumstances. I was drenched with bean soup from head to toe. Bean soup was dripping off the stove, the nearby cabinets, the wall behind the stove, the door into the utility room and the dogs who had been hovering under my feet. Bean soup was splattered all over the kitchen floor. Even after cleaning up last night, cursing steadily all the while, I still found crusted bean soup everywhere this morning.

Despite all that, I still have a fairly full bowl of bean soup in the fridge. The recipe makes a lot. I'm almost afraid to tackle transferring it to the freezer bags tonight, because it does not do well as a decorative accent in your kitchen. Take my word for it. I know what I'm talking about.

LSW

The Rest of the Story

My Aunt Bettye has filled me in on the history of Dirty Potatoes. It turns out that this recipe also originated with Grandmother Lucy. I'm guessing it was Mother who came up with the name.

When the crop of new potatoes would come in, this was a way to use them for fried potatoes. Normally new potatoes will not fry well because of their higher water content. Coating them with cornmeal and then frying would solve the problem and lend a bit more versatility to their use.

Lucy Hodge was not a fancy cook, but man could she feed a big bunch of folks and have them all leave the table completely satisfied. Even during the depression the family ate well, thanks to her ability to can and preserve what they grew themselves. She always had a wall of shelves full of canned vegetables, preserves and relishes. And she accomplished that over a wood cook stove in the hottest part of the summer every year in a house with no air-conditioning.

I would give up my air-conditioning for the month of August if I could get a supply of her home-made curd once more. No commercial cottage cheese will ever come close to the same taste. You just can't duplicate the flavor that results from milking your own cow, separating the milk and cream yourself, and going through the long and involved process that results in home-made curd.

I'm probably the only grandchild who had the opportunity to churn butter. I may be the only one of her grandchildren that had the opportunity to milk a cow. In both cases, I did not produce much, but I did have the experience. I dare say there aren't many of my age and younger who had that privilege.

I regret that I did not write down the recipe for her okra gumbo. My dad loved her gumbo and when I got older I was pretty fond of it myself. Mother and I learned to make it, but we got out of the habit and now I can't remember much about the process. Maybe one of my aunts can come up with the recipe (hint, hint).

Quite often when we would arrive at their house for an extended visit, we would be greeted with a big roasting pan full of home-made cake doughnuts. Half would be cinnamon sugared and half would be iced. The icing is another recipe lost. It had its own unique flavor that I've never been able to reproduce, even though I'm sure that it consisted of flavorings that would be found in your cabinet at any time, because she kept the basics on hand. Fancy flavorings would have been outside the budget. Those doughnuts were better than anything you can get from Krispy Kreme today.

I could never get a pot roast to come out right until she told me a simple recipe that always succeeded. Season a shoulder roast with salt and pepper (I nowadays sometimes use a packet of dry onion soup mix), put the roast in a deep dish, add water up to about an inch, cover and cook slow. Never fails.

I have a few of her recipes, written in her own hand, but most of what she cooked was in her head and never written down. How I wish I had made it a point to sit down with her and have her dictate those recipes. Who knew how much we would miss them?

LSW

Bonus Recipe

Lucy Hodge's Corn Relish

6 green tomatoes, 18 ears of corn (roasting ears), 6 small cabbage heads, 6 onions, 6 green peppers, ½ cup salt. Chop all of the above and cut corn from cob. Put in a large pan. Add 5 cups sugar, 3 cups vinegar, 2 tablespoons mustard, 1 tablespoon celery powder. Combine all and cook at a slow boil for 30 minutes, or until thick. Put in hot jars and seal. Does not have to be pressured in cooker.

Soul Food, Part 2

Another recipe for fried potatoes that seems to exist only within the family is what we refer to as "Dirty Potatoes" and I believe it was my mother who invented it. If you put a plate of Dirty Potatoes in front of my brother and me, we will eat until we can't move.

First you cut your potatoes into rectangular cubes, about 1/2-inch thick by 3/4-inch long. Next you mix up some cornmeal (white or yellow, but yellow is best) and salt and pepper to taste. Wet down your potatoes with a little milk and then toss with the cornmeal mixture. Fry until golden brown.

Messy as all get out to cook. Larrupin' good and well worth the effort. Nowadays we avoid Dirty Potatoes because we have developed a tendency to middle-aged spread. If I'm ever told I have only a few weeks to live, I shall eat chicken-fried steak, dirty potatoes and apple pie ala mode until the end comes.

LSW

Soul Food

I was bad tonight. Earlier today while at the grocery store, I saw a beautiful, tenderized round steak. I decided that tonight I would damn the carbs and enjoy some soul food - chicken-fried steak and cottage fries the way Grandmother Lucy made them. Well, with one exception. I used Crisco instead of lard. But otherwise it's the same meal I ate hundreds of times on the first night of a visit to her house.

Nobody else I know outside of the family makes fries this way. Thin, round cut, and fried to a golden crispy brown. Salted and peppered and served with a little ketchup. Ah, bliss. An heirloom recipe of great sentimental value.

LSW

Once a Fan Always a Fan

On the way home Thursday, I did not feel like starting a new audiobook, so I decided to listen to Fresh Air on the public radio station. I was surprised and pleased to find that half the show was devoted to an interview with Glen Campbell, who has just released a new album.

I can remember well when I discovered Glen Campbell. I guess I had heard Gentle On My Mind, but I wasn't yet a real fan. One afternoon we were all sitting on the gym floor waiting for the P.E. class to start when a friend, Melanie, started rhapsodizing about the newcomer to country/pop music charts. She had his album and was so enthused that I decided to check him out for myself. From that point for a period of several years, I was probably in old Glen's top 10 fans. I loved his singing and I loved his guitar playing and I loved his down home good old boy persona. At that time, he wasn't so bad to look at either.

My parents tolerated his presence in my record collection, even though he wasn't country enough to suit them. They watched the Glen Campbell Good Time Hour with me every week. Daddy would always bring home a little something for us when he had been away for a week on a revival visit and one time he brought me a 5x7 print of a drawing of Glen that hung on my bedroom wall for quite some time. I ran across that drawing the other day during one of my closet purges and I still could not let it go, so it's still with me. (True confession time - during my teen period of poster art, my walls were covered with Glen Campbell and Clint Eastwood and a still from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.)

I have a clear memory of one week when Daddy and I were traveling back and forth from Smiley to a revival in Kingsbury. He was commuting nightly for that revival and was hauling me along as his personal pianist. Daddy would skate around the radio dial on the late night trips back home, sometimes listening to country music, sometimes the news, sometimes a Pentecostal preacher (man, I hated those). Even though he was thoroughly sick and tired of Glen's latest, Dreams of the Everyday Housewife, if he should happen to hit a station where it was playing, he would stop and let me listen. I guess he figured it was the least he could do in return for my willingly tagging along all week.

There was one time during my infatuation with Glen that Daddy let me down. We were on holiday in Arkansas and came very close to Delight, where Glen's family lived. Daddy was having one of his grumpy road days and, though he grudgingly asked if I really needed him to go to Delight, I could tell he was not in the mood. I was having a grumpy day myself and was annoyed he didn't realize how much I had been looking forward to that detour and decided to cut off my nose to spite my face. I told him to forget it and then resented the loss of that treat for days. A couple of years ago, when I myself was driving through that area of Arkansas, I came to the approximate same place where a short detour would have taken me to Delight. I balanced that old regret against my desire to get somewhere else and decided that, no, I really did not need to go to Delight. Delight will just have to get along without me.

I stayed a Glen fan even through his dismal attempts at acting in True Grit and Norwood. I may well be the only person alive who remembers Norwood. It wasn't such a bad little movie and I would buy a copy if it came out on DVD, but I'm not holding my breath. I remember choosing to see True Grit over shopping on a Saturday at North Star Mall in San Antonio. David and I went to the cinema while our parents went off on their own for a couple of hours. Norwood I saw at the little theater in Nixon on a Sunday afternoon.

Glen lost favor with me when he started reading his own press, stopped choosing quality over sellability in his song selection, discovered recreational drugs and took up with the wife of Mac Davis. I can forgive a lot, but I adored Mac Davis and it seemed a real betrayal of friendship and of fanship. I began to drift away. The day Glen hooked up with Tanya Tucker, that was it. Our relationship was over.

It's a shame he strayed off his original path. Glen's talent was and still is impressive. As I listened to the interview, they played snatches from his new album and his voice is still pure and clear and his guitar playing just as fine as ever. But I was struck at how old he seemed. He's 72 now and his age is showing. In his defense, the interviewer was somewhat inept in his questioning, but, even so, Glen seemed to miss the point of some of the questions and wander off on his own musings that didn't always pertain to what had been asked. But at the end, when he picked up his guitar, you couldn't spot any degradation of his pickin' ability. He's still one of the best pickers I've ever heard.

And I'm still a fan.

LSW

Perspective

In my childhood I wore a lot of hand-me-downs and was glad to get them. Finances were tight. Preachers (Daddy) and teachers (Mother) did not make a lot of money and store bought clothes were rare. I was better off than some, however, owing to Mother's sewing ability. There was at least a small, steady trickle of new items in my wardrobe thanks to her. In my early, early childhood, she made most of my clothes. In later years, we would make regular trips to the mill store in New Braunfels, buy a pile of new material, and she would spend the summer at the sewing machine so we could start off the new school year with a few new skirts and blouses to supplement the few store bought basics we could squeeze out of the budget.

I can remember one year when I was blessed with a big bunch of hand me downs from one of the ladies in our church. Her daughter was a sweet girl who was a high school senior when I was in 5th grade. Wanda was a cheerleader, which made her a thing of awe to us girls in grade school. Grades 4 through 12 shared the same building and we would hang around her during class changes and lunch breaks, just glad to be in her presence. Bless her heart, she was patience itself and never once indicated she would rather we stayed on the far side of the campus.

To be honored with the clothes that had hung on Wanda's back was almost more than I could ask for. I wore the tail off those dresses and remember them fondly, particularly a pale pink dress of the softest material that gracefully floated around my body.

I am headed somewhere with this, believe it or not.

I am in the market for a headboard for my bed or a complete bedstead. It's been a very long time since I have had one and I'm undecided about just what it is I'm looking for. I would like to upgrade from a full to a queen-sized bed. But, on the other hand, I would like an antique oak bedstead and if I go the antique route I would need to stick with a full-sized bed. I got to thinking yesterday about second-hand furniture. Which put me in mind of hand-me-down clothes.

While I still don't mind wearing clothes that have been handed down from relatives or well-liked friends, I have an aversion to buying clothes in the thrift or consignment stores. I want to know who wore them before I commit to wearing them myself. Likewise, I am not interested in second-hand furniture from unknown sources, even though I know that many people find wonderful pieces in the thrift stores.

But I caught myself up short yesterday while mulling this over. I have no problem whatsoever snatching up a piece of antique oak furniture and feeling great glee as I do so. I would replace every stick of furniture in my house with antique oak pieces that would be treasured for so long as I had custody of them, if I could afford to do so. Likewise, I would gladly wear a vintage item of clothing purchased in an antique store. So what makes the difference between buying at an antique store and buying at a thrift store?

Age and distance from the original owner. That's all I could come up with. At some point an item stops being second-hand or used and starts being an antique and acquires a patina of desirability. All it takes to change the perspective is a few decades.

They say that an item can be considered an antique when it reaches 50 years of age, which means I am now an antique. I must say, however, that it is still somewhat of a shock to wander around an antique store and spot the very toys that were played to death in my house, with outrageous prices attached to them because they managed to survive to the present.

It almost makes me want to think twice about a few pieces of furniture from my childhood that I am intending to cart to the thrift store in the near future. Almost. But, I guess familiarity breeding contempt is another form of perspective. What I have come to hate, someone else may see the beauty that resides therein. It's all a matter of perspective.

LSW

Live and Learn

I have two old lamps that I am intending to refurbish with new lampshades. Both of the old shades have a metal "spider" stretching across the top of the shade, just below the edge, that is intended to screw onto the socket that holds the bulb. Both of these lamps have bulbs that hang down, as opposed to pointing upward, from the socket.



Not so difficult, eh? You would be wrong. Nobody carries this style of shade. I can find clip on shades, but only for upward bulb sockets. I can find shades that have the right kind of fitting, but only for upward bulb sockets. I can find shades that require harps and finials. I cannot find the kind of shade I need for these two lamps.

So, I told myself, this is a job for the Internet. You can find anything on the Internet, right?

Well, yes. But first you have to figure out what to call this particular kind of lampshade. There are only about a half-million websites that sell lampshades and very few of them are any better than going to your local Wal-Mart and finding out that all you can find are shades for upward bulb sockets or for lamps with harps and finials.

So I tried Google on the phrase "custom lampshade". Finally I found what I was looking for. One very helpful website included diagrams of the various styles of lampshades you might need. The style I'm seeking is called an UNO lampshade. I have no idea why, but that's what it is. And, apparently, they are out of style. I could find no place to buy an UNO lampshade that wasn't stark white and the wrong size.

Except on those "custom lampshade" websites where you can pay a very pretty penny to have one built especially for you with the fabric of your choice.

The project has been tabled for now, because I have a theory that everything comes back around if you wait a year or so and I'm sure that UNO lampshades for downward bulb sockets will be all the rage in a few more seasons.

I'm no better off in the lampshade department, but now you and I share a little piece of esoteric knowledge to amaze our friends at the next dinner party when you spot an old lamp with an UNO lampshade. I'll bet you are the only one present who will know what to call it.

LSW

Pleasant Literary Surprises

You know those books that you've always intended to read and never quite got around to doing so? One of the ones on my list is Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson. I had a copy in my possession for a long time, but it's long since disappeared and I never got around to reading it. I always figured it would be like any other classic - good, but terrible work to read.

Awhile back I found a copy in the discount audiobooks and picked it up, figuring that someday I would work up the want to to give it a try. This was the week and I'm about half-way through. I am completely enthralled to the point of wishing the commute was a little longer. I should have read the thing back when I was a kid.

If you've ever pondered reading Treasure Island or are a fan of the Pirates of the Carribbean movie franchise, get thee a copy posthaste. It's a keeper.

A second book I've thoroughly enjoyed recently was an impulse audiobook buy, I Feel Bad About My Neck, by Nora Ephron. Ephron was the creative juice behind the movies You've Got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle, and When Harry Met Sally. I know, they are chick flicks, and I personally despise the second one but I love the other two. Anyway, the book consists of essays about her life, about being a woman, and about aging. The woman is funny and truthful. She passes along a journalistic observation from her mother, "everything is copy". Which is definitely something I can attest to. When you begin focusing on keeping a journal/blog, you begin to see stories in even the most mundane events around you. Blogging has helped me stop seeing everything around me as boring or aggravating and helped me find the spark of interest or humor in even the dullest situation.

The rest of the week was a dreary series of chores and work frustrations, but the commutes have been a complete enjoyment thanks to two very different and very good books.

LSW