One of my current favorite CDs is a collection of gospel songs performed by Larry Gatlin and his brothers. It includes everything from Sweet Hour of Prayer to Do Lord. I defy you to listen to it without (a) singing along and (b) tapping your foot. That is, if you were raised Southern Baptist like I was.
I used to love request night at church. It was usually a Sunday evening service and members of the congregation would call out the songs they wanted to sing. Two verses would be sung of every request. I learned a lot of old-time gospel songs during request nights, as the older folks took the opportunity to request old favorites that had been put on the shelf by the choir director. If it were not for those request nights, I would have missed out on a lot of songs that instead became my favorites.
I got to thinking this morning while I was listening to Larry, Steve and Rudy about a time in the early 70s, when the Baptist church of Westhoff was invited to the black Baptist church for a joint fellowship. My father pastored two churches in those days; the First Baptist Church of Smiley, which followed normal worship times, and the First Baptist Church of Westhoff, which held its services an hour or two earlier. FBC Westhoff was a very small congregation of mostly older folks. My father usually provided the music for their services, playing piano and leading the singing simultaneously.
During revivals, however, I would be drafted to be the pianist for Westhoff. This caused some interesting opportunities from time to time. For instance, I can remember one revival that was scheduled the same week as finals. I lugged my school books along to church with me, did my thing on the piano, and then retired to the back pew and studied for the next day's test during the sermon. Nobody minded. They were pleased to have a musician on board for the week under whatever circumstances they could get one.
FBC Westhoff used to put on some of the best potlucks. They would make homemade ice cream out back. For a little congregation, we had more than enough food and would leave stuffed full of goodies.
(As a meandering thought as I write this, one night we were headed back home after one of those potluck suppers. As we neared Smiley, we became aware of a huge fire somewhere ahead of us, lighting up the night sky. The closer we got to home, the more aware we became that the fire was mighty close to our house. It turned out to be at the feed store just across and down the road from us. We were very anxious up to the time we turned onto our street. Some of us, namely me, stayed anxious until the fire was out. The history of the Smiley Volunteer Fire Department did not exactly inspire confidence. Another story for another time.)
But I digress. One evening the white folks of FBC Westhoff headed across town to attend a worship service at the black church. For piano-thumping, hand-clapping, joyous gospel music, that was the place to be. It was an eye-opening experience for me to see folks singing with such enthusiasm. Quite different from the sedate music I was used to hearing in church. I was having a grand time. Until...
In a polite gesture to include their guests in the service, someone got the bright idea that I should take a turn on the piano for the last song. No way did I want to put my pallid piano expertise up against the lady who had just pounded the heck out of that old upright. I pretty nearly had to be dragged to the piano, where I timidly plunked out the most boring few minutes of music you can imagine. Bless their hearts, they all dutifully reined in their enthusiam and sang like the staid white folks I was accustomed to providing music for. I'm sure I was the embodiment of a truly colored person for the duration. As in bright red.
Well, as the saying goes, "nobody will remember it in 30 years". It's been roughly 40 years since then and I sure hope nobody remembers. But I remember the utter joy as those folks sang their hearts out. Nothing can beat gospel music sung with joy and gusto. Amen!
LSW
Monday, November 28, 2005
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Everything Old Is New Again
Back in the late 60s, a trend surfaced for colored trees (other than green) and for aluminum pom-pom trees. It was cool to have an artificial tree. It was cooler if your artificial tree was obviously artificial by virtue of its color. We had the aluminum pom-pom version, with a color wheel that cast a rotating sheen of colored light bouncing off the silver strands. First green, followed by red, then yellow and finally blue. Each limb came in its own paper sleeve. There were more than 100 limbs to remove from protective sleeves and then pushed into holes in the central pole.
I was fond of that tree and it was usually my job to remove the limbs and hand them to Mother to fit into the pole. I was sorry to see it stay behind when we moved from Smiley. My parents decided to donate it for the church's use rather than move the bulky box to our new home.
I was fond of that tree and it was usually my job to remove the limbs and hand them to Mother to fit into the pole. I was sorry to see it stay behind when we moved from Smiley. My parents decided to donate it for the church's use rather than move the bulky box to our new home.
The original tree, in the living room in Smiley
A couple of years back, I got to wishing I had one of those aluminum trees. I initially thought I would buy one from EBAY. That's before I learned that I wasn't the only one having nostalgic feelings for the things. Every time a vintage tree was posted that looked like the tree I remembered, the price would quickly escalate out of range.
Then last year I spotted a small aluminum tree at Hobby Lobby. Not a pom-pom tree, but it was silver and shiny and I wanted one. By the time I had made up my mind to get it, they were sold out.
So this year, when I saw them reappear, I grabbed one. It may not have the fluffy pom-poms and it may not be 6-1/2 feet tall, but it looks pretty good to me. I even found a color wheel light. So this year we are taking a trip back in time and having a silver Christmas.
The new tree
The tree and a few of the choice nativity sets from my collection are on display and, while I'm still having a hard time getting with the Christmas program, I'm enjoying sitting back and watching the fruits of today's labor. The two babies are completely mystified, but willing to sit and keep me company, wondering all the time what I'm up to.
LSW
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Memories Light the Corners of My Mind
I spent today in the company of my kinfolk. We always have a good time when we get together at Thanksgiving. We share a similar weird kind of humor. We've scared a few inlaws over the years with our sense of humor. We zing each other. We tell tacky stories over lunch that would squash the appetites of normal people. Not to brag, but we are all smart and well read and quick on the comeback. In short, you should be so lucky to have us for family. We keep you entertained from start to finish.
My uncle lives only a couple of miles past the place where my grandparents lived and farmed during my childhood. Driving out to his house takes me down roads that flood my mind with memories at every curve. I pass the sandy field where my grandfather planted peanuts and where one day I learned a valuable lesson. We stopped on the way to their house one day when we spied them in the fields. Daddy lifted me over the fence and set me down in a clump of bull nettle. While I screamed in pain and my aunt ran for the water jug, my grandfather dusted my feet with sand, which helped take away the sting until we could douse my feet with water. From then on I avoided anything that looked even remotely like bull nettle.
Back all those years ago, it seemed like my grandparents lived way, way out in the country. I believe it was about seven miles from downtown to their house. Most of the way was a narrow gravel road with several wooden plank bridges. One evening as we headed out to the house, we crossed one of those little bridges, and some loosened nails in the planks worked themselves into our tire. We also picked up the plank, so we didn't get very far off the bridge. There we were in the boonies, after dark, with a flat tire. As I recall, we weren't able to change the tire (probably the spare was as flat as the tire with the nails). Daddy had to walk back down the road and find help. For years afterward, I cringed each time we approached one of those little bridges.
The bridges are gone, and the road has been paved almost all the way to my uncle's house. The paving is a new improvement and I had mixed feelings as I made my way. I didn't miss the bone-rattling vibration of driving down the washboard road, but I missed the feeling of being in the real country. I was a little relieved to find that the pavement gave out just as I reached my destination and the road continued on in the single lane, sandy form that I remember.
My uncle lives only a couple of miles past the place where my grandparents lived and farmed during my childhood. Driving out to his house takes me down roads that flood my mind with memories at every curve. I pass the sandy field where my grandfather planted peanuts and where one day I learned a valuable lesson. We stopped on the way to their house one day when we spied them in the fields. Daddy lifted me over the fence and set me down in a clump of bull nettle. While I screamed in pain and my aunt ran for the water jug, my grandfather dusted my feet with sand, which helped take away the sting until we could douse my feet with water. From then on I avoided anything that looked even remotely like bull nettle.
Back all those years ago, it seemed like my grandparents lived way, way out in the country. I believe it was about seven miles from downtown to their house. Most of the way was a narrow gravel road with several wooden plank bridges. One evening as we headed out to the house, we crossed one of those little bridges, and some loosened nails in the planks worked themselves into our tire. We also picked up the plank, so we didn't get very far off the bridge. There we were in the boonies, after dark, with a flat tire. As I recall, we weren't able to change the tire (probably the spare was as flat as the tire with the nails). Daddy had to walk back down the road and find help. For years afterward, I cringed each time we approached one of those little bridges.
The bridges are gone, and the road has been paved almost all the way to my uncle's house. The paving is a new improvement and I had mixed feelings as I made my way. I didn't miss the bone-rattling vibration of driving down the washboard road, but I missed the feeling of being in the real country. I was a little relieved to find that the pavement gave out just as I reached my destination and the road continued on in the single lane, sandy form that I remember.
Lee County Road 302
It was this same country road where I would walk with my aunt, discovering large patches of "grandma's cornbread" (muddy areas where the mud would crack in large square chunks). It was this same country road that we drove down to escape a tornado when I was about 3 years old. It was this same country road where I almost tripped over a slow moving armadillo.
The old house where my grandparents lived and the barn are long gone. The land never belonged to my grandparents. I learned today that they had once had the opportunity to purchase the place and had decided against it because the mineral rights would not transfer. Awhile back I made inquiries when the land came on the market and would seriously have considered moving there if someone had not beaten me to signing a contract of sale. That patch of land holds many fond memories of past Christmases, summer vacations, horseback rides, digging for doodlebugs in the old garage, walking down to the cow barns and getting a lesson in milking, cutting watermelons under the big tree on a hot summer day, sitting before a roaring fireplace on cold mornings, huge suppers of chicken-fried steak and "round fries", baths in a wash tub in the kitchen, feeding the chickens down at the barn, and many, many more. It was one of the important places of my childhood.
It's a funny feeling, these gatherings of kinfolk just up the road from that little patch of land. A part of me at 50+ years still feels like a youngster when I'm in that little corner of the world. But I'm older now than my parents were when we spent so much time there. I've crossed into the ranks of the family elders, albeit the younger edge of that group. And that stretch of road has witnessed every phase of my life. The buildings of my youth may be gone, but the land is still there, calling memories from musty, cobwebbed corners of my mind.
Brother David viewing the old homesite
LSW
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
No, He's Not Spoiled
The latest report from the Kingdom of Mojo has our hero somewhat befuddled by the change in the weather. The little boy was born at the end of April and until this morning did not realize that the world had any alternate temperature to hot. He was also put out with the wind blowing across his bow.
I played hooky from the office today and went to the outlet mall in San Marcos. When I returned home, I assumed the dogs would enjoy helping me bring in my packages. Xana and Coco pranced around the yard, enjoying the crisp, cool air. Mojo ran out to the middle of the yard, did a 180-degree turn and made a beeline for the warm house.
With the door standing wide open and his three gals in plain view, King Mojo proceeded to have a hissy fit. Standing well inside the door, he put on a howling demonstration that would have coyotes shouting "bravo!". I had to make three trips before I had everything in the house, and every time I left the house the howling re-commenced.
His Highness is scheduled for an overnight trip to the vet next week. I don't know who has the job of checking on the invalids through the night, but I sure hope they have earplugs. He has no hesitation at setting up a howl whenever he feels insulted or abandoned.
Of course, his Mommy may be doing some howling of her own. I'm not looking forward to the separation any more than he would if he had any idea what's coming.
LSW
I played hooky from the office today and went to the outlet mall in San Marcos. When I returned home, I assumed the dogs would enjoy helping me bring in my packages. Xana and Coco pranced around the yard, enjoying the crisp, cool air. Mojo ran out to the middle of the yard, did a 180-degree turn and made a beeline for the warm house.
With the door standing wide open and his three gals in plain view, King Mojo proceeded to have a hissy fit. Standing well inside the door, he put on a howling demonstration that would have coyotes shouting "bravo!". I had to make three trips before I had everything in the house, and every time I left the house the howling re-commenced.
His Highness is scheduled for an overnight trip to the vet next week. I don't know who has the job of checking on the invalids through the night, but I sure hope they have earplugs. He has no hesitation at setting up a howl whenever he feels insulted or abandoned.
Of course, his Mommy may be doing some howling of her own. I'm not looking forward to the separation any more than he would if he had any idea what's coming.
LSW
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Playing Nurse
My little Coco is a born nurturer. This morning I let the dogs and the Taz cat out on the deck and a few minutes later I became aware of an air of excitement. Any time the dogs show an air of excitement, I feel compelled to check it out. There are snakes out here, for one thing. For another, I had to herd them away from a red wasp last weekend. He was stolling idly around on the deck, just daring somebody to come check him out. So I figured whatever it was, it was cause for investigation.
What I found was a bird on his side. I first thought it was a cat kill, so my first move was to keep the dogs from eating any of it. Then I realized he was still alive, breathing heavily and unable to move. I scooped up dogs and Taz and shoved them back into the house, pondering what I was going to do next.
He didn't seem to be physically hurt. No ruffled feathers or crippled wings. No blood. My guess was that he had flown into the patio door and had knocked himself out. So I decided to leave him alone and see what happened. I kept watch on him, in case a neighbor cat should come visiting, but otherwise kept my distance.
Coco was in a flurry of concern, wanting me to go with her to help the little guy. She stayed at the patio door, watching him, whining softly every so often. About a half hour later, he had righted himself, but was still sitting there with heaving chest. Another hour and his breathing was more normal, but he was fluffed up and his eyes were closed.
Coco made every trip to the window with me, checking on the patient. Looking at me and looking back, as if asking, "is he going to be ok?". Another hour and he was still sitting there, but opening his eyes wide and turning his head from side to side.
About two hours after the initial sighting, he tested his wings by flying from the deck to the railing, where he sat for another half-hour before flying away. The little sparrow must have had one heck of a hangover, but I'm sure a few more hours sitting in a nearby tree will probably bring him back to full health.
Nothing like good nursing. Her first trip outside afterwards, Coco investigated the area thoroughly and seemed satisfied to find him gone.
She would have been a great mommy. That's no longer possible, but she has a little brother, a big sister, a mommy and a grandmom she watches over faithfully.
LSW
What I found was a bird on his side. I first thought it was a cat kill, so my first move was to keep the dogs from eating any of it. Then I realized he was still alive, breathing heavily and unable to move. I scooped up dogs and Taz and shoved them back into the house, pondering what I was going to do next.
He didn't seem to be physically hurt. No ruffled feathers or crippled wings. No blood. My guess was that he had flown into the patio door and had knocked himself out. So I decided to leave him alone and see what happened. I kept watch on him, in case a neighbor cat should come visiting, but otherwise kept my distance.
Coco was in a flurry of concern, wanting me to go with her to help the little guy. She stayed at the patio door, watching him, whining softly every so often. About a half hour later, he had righted himself, but was still sitting there with heaving chest. Another hour and his breathing was more normal, but he was fluffed up and his eyes were closed.
Coco made every trip to the window with me, checking on the patient. Looking at me and looking back, as if asking, "is he going to be ok?". Another hour and he was still sitting there, but opening his eyes wide and turning his head from side to side.
About two hours after the initial sighting, he tested his wings by flying from the deck to the railing, where he sat for another half-hour before flying away. The little sparrow must have had one heck of a hangover, but I'm sure a few more hours sitting in a nearby tree will probably bring him back to full health.
Nothing like good nursing. Her first trip outside afterwards, Coco investigated the area thoroughly and seemed satisfied to find him gone.
She would have been a great mommy. That's no longer possible, but she has a little brother, a big sister, a mommy and a grandmom she watches over faithfully.
LSW
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Dressing Up/Dressing Down
It's a good thing I'm not as modest as I used to be.
To digress a little, I've turned over a new leaf on office dress. I finally got tired of my docker style pants and mens' shirts. Watching so much of How Not to Look and How Do I Look? has taken its toll. I started feeling very out of style, not to mention dumpy.
In my younger days, I was accused of being a clothes horse on more than one occasion. I went through a few years there when I bought designer labels and dressed chez Liz, Pierre, Perry, Ralph and Christian. I had a lot of business dinners and meetings and client presentations and I enjoyed dressing to fit the scene. As I gradually moved out of the public aspect of our business and into the crawling on the floor finding the ethernet plug aspect, it made more sense to dress in a more casual style that allowed freedom of movement. I wore a lot of Bill Blass jeans in those days. I had a collection of designer jeans in every color imaginable.
Then the edict came down from the top, "No more jeans!". I had to find an alternative that was still comfortable, but that looked nice. Hence my conversion to twill pants. That's been my style for several years and until recently I thought I looked fine. Now I feel dowdy.
To add insult to injury, menopausal hormone shifts led to mood swings that led to borderline binge eating and I packed on a little more weight than I normally carry around. I'm still working on getting that issue corrected, but the bottom line is that I was depressed about my weight and didn't care much about how I looked.
Suddenly the hormones are shifting again, I feel better, and I'm getting that itch to dress nicely once more. On Sunday afternoon I skipped off to Beall's and decided I was going to buy myself some new clothes and lie to myself about what size I was buying. (Everybody knows that they are making clothes to fit snug these days, so if a gal wants to be comfortable she has to buy a size larger to compensate. Right? )
I found out I can still shop well. I located dress pants with matching jackets that were marked down in preparation for the incoming cold weather clothes. I found some Levi's that actually fit me. (A miracle in itself. When will the jeans manufacturers realize that most of us women have hips?) I left with 3 pair of dress pants, 4 jackets and 2 pair of jeans. A good start to a new wardrobe.
So today I wore my first pair of the pants to work. I paired them with a blouse that had been hanging in my closet unworn because I didn't have a good pair of navy pants. I looked nice in the mirror. I felt a little like my old self and began making plans for another shopping foray in the near future.
Pride goeth before a fall. I spent the lunch hour at Tuesday Morning, looking for some non-clothes bargains. I had been there about 5 minutes when a button suddenly popped off my blouse. Of course I had no pins or sewing repair kit on hand. But I was careful and managed to finish my shopping without embarrassing myself. I intended to do something about it when I got back to work.
An hour later, the missing button completely forgotten, I was sitting in my office chatting with the director of operations. I turned to get something behind me and button number two zinged across the room and landed at his feet. One missing button you may be able to do without, but two missing buttons? He handed me the button, pretended he had seen nothing, and left me clasping my blouse closed with my left hand and rooting around my desk for something, anything, that would hold the gap closed. A good samaritan co-worker coughed up two safety pins, thankfully.
So my first attempt to dress in a more appropriate manner has disintegrated into a look somewhat akin to Jed Clampett. I have a row of safety pins down my front, a red-faced boss, and a sense of gratitude that I wore my nice bra today. Somehow I think the world would have been better off if I had worn dockers and a man's shirt.
(By the way, the blouse was not too small. And my boobs are not big enough to put stress on the buttons. The thread holding the buttons on was just that rotten.)
Ah, well. The fashion world requires a certain amount of sacrifice of comfort to attain style. Not exactly the sacrifice of comfort that I was anticipating.
LSW
To digress a little, I've turned over a new leaf on office dress. I finally got tired of my docker style pants and mens' shirts. Watching so much of How Not to Look and How Do I Look? has taken its toll. I started feeling very out of style, not to mention dumpy.
In my younger days, I was accused of being a clothes horse on more than one occasion. I went through a few years there when I bought designer labels and dressed chez Liz, Pierre, Perry, Ralph and Christian. I had a lot of business dinners and meetings and client presentations and I enjoyed dressing to fit the scene. As I gradually moved out of the public aspect of our business and into the crawling on the floor finding the ethernet plug aspect, it made more sense to dress in a more casual style that allowed freedom of movement. I wore a lot of Bill Blass jeans in those days. I had a collection of designer jeans in every color imaginable.
Then the edict came down from the top, "No more jeans!". I had to find an alternative that was still comfortable, but that looked nice. Hence my conversion to twill pants. That's been my style for several years and until recently I thought I looked fine. Now I feel dowdy.
To add insult to injury, menopausal hormone shifts led to mood swings that led to borderline binge eating and I packed on a little more weight than I normally carry around. I'm still working on getting that issue corrected, but the bottom line is that I was depressed about my weight and didn't care much about how I looked.
Suddenly the hormones are shifting again, I feel better, and I'm getting that itch to dress nicely once more. On Sunday afternoon I skipped off to Beall's and decided I was going to buy myself some new clothes and lie to myself about what size I was buying. (Everybody knows that they are making clothes to fit snug these days, so if a gal wants to be comfortable she has to buy a size larger to compensate. Right? )
I found out I can still shop well. I located dress pants with matching jackets that were marked down in preparation for the incoming cold weather clothes. I found some Levi's that actually fit me. (A miracle in itself. When will the jeans manufacturers realize that most of us women have hips?) I left with 3 pair of dress pants, 4 jackets and 2 pair of jeans. A good start to a new wardrobe.
So today I wore my first pair of the pants to work. I paired them with a blouse that had been hanging in my closet unworn because I didn't have a good pair of navy pants. I looked nice in the mirror. I felt a little like my old self and began making plans for another shopping foray in the near future.
Pride goeth before a fall. I spent the lunch hour at Tuesday Morning, looking for some non-clothes bargains. I had been there about 5 minutes when a button suddenly popped off my blouse. Of course I had no pins or sewing repair kit on hand. But I was careful and managed to finish my shopping without embarrassing myself. I intended to do something about it when I got back to work.
An hour later, the missing button completely forgotten, I was sitting in my office chatting with the director of operations. I turned to get something behind me and button number two zinged across the room and landed at his feet. One missing button you may be able to do without, but two missing buttons? He handed me the button, pretended he had seen nothing, and left me clasping my blouse closed with my left hand and rooting around my desk for something, anything, that would hold the gap closed. A good samaritan co-worker coughed up two safety pins, thankfully.
So my first attempt to dress in a more appropriate manner has disintegrated into a look somewhat akin to Jed Clampett. I have a row of safety pins down my front, a red-faced boss, and a sense of gratitude that I wore my nice bra today. Somehow I think the world would have been better off if I had worn dockers and a man's shirt.
(By the way, the blouse was not too small. And my boobs are not big enough to put stress on the buttons. The thread holding the buttons on was just that rotten.)
Ah, well. The fashion world requires a certain amount of sacrifice of comfort to attain style. Not exactly the sacrifice of comfort that I was anticipating.
LSW
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Collections
They say if you have three of anything, you're building a collection. I have many, many collections and I invariably wonder at some point what got me started.
For instance, I have a large collection of cow items. At one point my kitchen was virtually covered in cows. And yet, I have no conscious memory of when I bought my first cow collectible. It seemed to mushroom overnight. And after friends and family found out about my propensity for black and white cows, the collection grew exponentially at every birthday and Christmas. I finally had to declare a moratorium on cows, took down all but the best and packed them away. But I still feel that itch when I happen across a unique cow. And I still buy an occasional cow that I just can't resist. Why cows? I have no idea.
I collect doll houses. I remember the start of that one. As a child, I always wanted a dollhouse and never had one. On a whim, Mother gave me several miniature furniture kits one Christmas. I very much enjoyed creating those tiny pieces of furniture and then I needed something to put them in. So I bought my first dollhouse kit. Then my second. I now have five dollhouses, numerous vignettes, and boxes full of furniture bought on sales at Hobby Lobby for future use when I get around to building the half-dozen dollhouse kits and dozen or so roombox kits that are still in boxes under my craft table. My guest bedroom has been dubbed the "house room", because the walls are lined with houses in all scales. I have more kits on hand than I will probably ever have time to build and yet I invariably drag in another kit whenever I happen across a good sale. (Maybe it's not only dollhouses I collect, but dollhouse kits?)
I have a very odd collection that I didn't even realize I was amassing until my sister-in-law pointed it out to me. I love desks. Full size. Dollhouse size. I just love desks. I have my antique birds-eye maple drop-leaf desk that my parents bought for me in Victoria about forty years ago. I have my antique oak desk in my study, purchased several years ago; a lucky find at the Round Top Antiques Fair. I have an oak student's desk that I use in my bedroom as a tv/dvd/dvr stand. I have a quaint oak drop leaf desk with built-in bookshelves that stands in the upstairs hall and holds my collection of turn of the century Amelia Barr books (that's another collection story for another time). I have custody of my mother's antique drop-leaf walnut desk. And I'm providing housing for my father's mahogany desk, which will eventually go to live with my brother. But for the moment it's desk number six in a single family home. No matter how you look at it, no house holding two people really needs six desks. But I can't help it. I love desks.
I'm currently working on a dollhouse vignette of a study with a genealogy flavor. I already had a mini computer desk for one corner and until last night was planning to use my mini oak rolltop desk in the same room. But it just didn't feel right. An idle search through a miniatures site last week gave me the answer. In yesterday's UPS delivery the perfect mini-desk for the project came along. A mission-style pecan desk with built-in bookshelves. My only regret is that I have not seen its full-size counterpart. I'm a goner if I happen across it.
What inspires collections? Something speaks to your inner self. My inner self could use a twelve-step program. I'm not out of control (from my viewpoint--others may disagree), but I have as many collections as Carter's used to have little pills. (Didn't they finally go out of business?) I have stores of books, yarn, glassware, family memorabilia, Christmas ornaments (that I haven't used in years, by the way, thanks to marauding cats and puppies), cats and puppies, and God knows what else. Within my miniatures, aside from the growing pile of kits, I have sub-collections of miniature pottery, mini hand-made sweaters, mini glassware, and the list goes on and on.
I guess at some point I will have to decide who will inherit my assorted treasures. Or maybe I am just setting myself up to have a supplmental retirement income in the distant future. I trust EBAY will still be there when the time comes. Or maybe I will just sit on my cloud with my harp and watch my poor heirs struggle to figure out what in the world the old lady was thinking.
LSW
For instance, I have a large collection of cow items. At one point my kitchen was virtually covered in cows. And yet, I have no conscious memory of when I bought my first cow collectible. It seemed to mushroom overnight. And after friends and family found out about my propensity for black and white cows, the collection grew exponentially at every birthday and Christmas. I finally had to declare a moratorium on cows, took down all but the best and packed them away. But I still feel that itch when I happen across a unique cow. And I still buy an occasional cow that I just can't resist. Why cows? I have no idea.
I collect doll houses. I remember the start of that one. As a child, I always wanted a dollhouse and never had one. On a whim, Mother gave me several miniature furniture kits one Christmas. I very much enjoyed creating those tiny pieces of furniture and then I needed something to put them in. So I bought my first dollhouse kit. Then my second. I now have five dollhouses, numerous vignettes, and boxes full of furniture bought on sales at Hobby Lobby for future use when I get around to building the half-dozen dollhouse kits and dozen or so roombox kits that are still in boxes under my craft table. My guest bedroom has been dubbed the "house room", because the walls are lined with houses in all scales. I have more kits on hand than I will probably ever have time to build and yet I invariably drag in another kit whenever I happen across a good sale. (Maybe it's not only dollhouses I collect, but dollhouse kits?)
I have a very odd collection that I didn't even realize I was amassing until my sister-in-law pointed it out to me. I love desks. Full size. Dollhouse size. I just love desks. I have my antique birds-eye maple drop-leaf desk that my parents bought for me in Victoria about forty years ago. I have my antique oak desk in my study, purchased several years ago; a lucky find at the Round Top Antiques Fair. I have an oak student's desk that I use in my bedroom as a tv/dvd/dvr stand. I have a quaint oak drop leaf desk with built-in bookshelves that stands in the upstairs hall and holds my collection of turn of the century Amelia Barr books (that's another collection story for another time). I have custody of my mother's antique drop-leaf walnut desk. And I'm providing housing for my father's mahogany desk, which will eventually go to live with my brother. But for the moment it's desk number six in a single family home. No matter how you look at it, no house holding two people really needs six desks. But I can't help it. I love desks.
I'm currently working on a dollhouse vignette of a study with a genealogy flavor. I already had a mini computer desk for one corner and until last night was planning to use my mini oak rolltop desk in the same room. But it just didn't feel right. An idle search through a miniatures site last week gave me the answer. In yesterday's UPS delivery the perfect mini-desk for the project came along. A mission-style pecan desk with built-in bookshelves. My only regret is that I have not seen its full-size counterpart. I'm a goner if I happen across it.
What inspires collections? Something speaks to your inner self. My inner self could use a twelve-step program. I'm not out of control (from my viewpoint--others may disagree), but I have as many collections as Carter's used to have little pills. (Didn't they finally go out of business?) I have stores of books, yarn, glassware, family memorabilia, Christmas ornaments (that I haven't used in years, by the way, thanks to marauding cats and puppies), cats and puppies, and God knows what else. Within my miniatures, aside from the growing pile of kits, I have sub-collections of miniature pottery, mini hand-made sweaters, mini glassware, and the list goes on and on.
I guess at some point I will have to decide who will inherit my assorted treasures. Or maybe I am just setting myself up to have a supplmental retirement income in the distant future. I trust EBAY will still be there when the time comes. Or maybe I will just sit on my cloud with my harp and watch my poor heirs struggle to figure out what in the world the old lady was thinking.
LSW
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Tuned in
My first experience with portable music was a small transistor radio that I received for Christmas. Way back when. Best guess would be 1966. It was a gas station promo item, a red radio in the shape of a Sinclair gas pump. AM only. I spent many happy hours listening to KTSA and KONO in San Antonio, getting a new exposure to popular music as opposed to the vinyl collection of country music favored by my parents.
I've long since become disgusted with the Top-40 and with commercial radio in general, and spent several years recording my favorite album cuts to cassette tapes so that I could listen to my favorite tunes as I drove back and forth to work. The transition to CDs was a happy period. I could easily carry two dozen or more entire albums along with me. This was a definite improvement since my musical taste can run from Hank Williams to Beethoven in the course of a day.
Yesterday I entered the newest portable music market. I have a bright, shiny Dell DJ Ditty (Dell's equivalent to the IPod Shuffle). A quick enrollment to MusicMatch and I began downloading songs to my Ditty. I've found songs I haven't heard in years, songs that were on old cassette tapes that have been relegated to a box in the garage. And in CD-quality sound. I'm having more fun with this little gizmo than I've had with any other musical option since I opened that Christmas present so many decades ago.
I really didn't think I would succumb to the temptation to walk around with wires hanging out of my ears. But scratch that. I may look dumb (an old lady with an mp3 player?!?), but I'm enjoying blocking out the traffic sounds and the constant surrounding chatter at the office with the sounds of music I've missed for such a long time. And I can download audiobooks, too. Whee!
Goodbye unwanted noise and distraction! Me and my Ditty are making our own kind of music these days. Geez, I'm even thinking I may need a bigger version...
LSW
I've long since become disgusted with the Top-40 and with commercial radio in general, and spent several years recording my favorite album cuts to cassette tapes so that I could listen to my favorite tunes as I drove back and forth to work. The transition to CDs was a happy period. I could easily carry two dozen or more entire albums along with me. This was a definite improvement since my musical taste can run from Hank Williams to Beethoven in the course of a day.
Yesterday I entered the newest portable music market. I have a bright, shiny Dell DJ Ditty (Dell's equivalent to the IPod Shuffle). A quick enrollment to MusicMatch and I began downloading songs to my Ditty. I've found songs I haven't heard in years, songs that were on old cassette tapes that have been relegated to a box in the garage. And in CD-quality sound. I'm having more fun with this little gizmo than I've had with any other musical option since I opened that Christmas present so many decades ago.
I really didn't think I would succumb to the temptation to walk around with wires hanging out of my ears. But scratch that. I may look dumb (an old lady with an mp3 player?!?), but I'm enjoying blocking out the traffic sounds and the constant surrounding chatter at the office with the sounds of music I've missed for such a long time. And I can download audiobooks, too. Whee!
Goodbye unwanted noise and distraction! Me and my Ditty are making our own kind of music these days. Geez, I'm even thinking I may need a bigger version...
LSW
Thursday, October 20, 2005
The Road Less Traveled
Some days you just have to climb out of the rut.
This morning, bright and early, I bundled Mother into the car for a trip to Austin and a visit with her doctor. This afternoon I bundled Mojo and the cats into the car for a trip to Elgin and their yearly vaccinations. Hard to explain why those two events have me plumb tuckered out. Just let me say that wrestling little old ladies and little old cats probably burns up more calories per hour than biking or swimming.
On the way back from Elgin, I gave into the impulse to explore a country road that I've never had a reason to use. I've always wondered what lies at the end of the Old Sayers Road. I'm still wondering, because a few miles down the gravel road, huge construction machinery was blocking my way, so I veered onto Old Waugh Way and wound myself slowly back toward Highway 95.
I love to drive, but I particularly love to drive along two lane blacktops in rural Texas. I love the curves, the rising and fall of gentle hills, the barbed wire fences on either side, the grasshoppers suddenly buzzing out of the ditch, the odd roadrunner indulging in a brief race against you. I love the green, grassy fields, the tilting mailboxes, the cattleguards leading to distant farmhouses. I love being the only car on the road for miles.
There are a few diversions that I reserve for days when I need a pick-me-up. If I get desperate for a tranquilizing activity during a work day, I head to a book or hobby store. They can be depended upon to get me back on an even keel in a jiffy.
But on days when I am not tied to a desk and I find myself at loose ends for a few minutes, nothing satisfies like a drive down a previously unexplored country road.
Take me home, country roads
to the place I belong...
LSW
This morning, bright and early, I bundled Mother into the car for a trip to Austin and a visit with her doctor. This afternoon I bundled Mojo and the cats into the car for a trip to Elgin and their yearly vaccinations. Hard to explain why those two events have me plumb tuckered out. Just let me say that wrestling little old ladies and little old cats probably burns up more calories per hour than biking or swimming.
On the way back from Elgin, I gave into the impulse to explore a country road that I've never had a reason to use. I've always wondered what lies at the end of the Old Sayers Road. I'm still wondering, because a few miles down the gravel road, huge construction machinery was blocking my way, so I veered onto Old Waugh Way and wound myself slowly back toward Highway 95.
I love to drive, but I particularly love to drive along two lane blacktops in rural Texas. I love the curves, the rising and fall of gentle hills, the barbed wire fences on either side, the grasshoppers suddenly buzzing out of the ditch, the odd roadrunner indulging in a brief race against you. I love the green, grassy fields, the tilting mailboxes, the cattleguards leading to distant farmhouses. I love being the only car on the road for miles.
There are a few diversions that I reserve for days when I need a pick-me-up. If I get desperate for a tranquilizing activity during a work day, I head to a book or hobby store. They can be depended upon to get me back on an even keel in a jiffy.
But on days when I am not tied to a desk and I find myself at loose ends for a few minutes, nothing satisfies like a drive down a previously unexplored country road.
Take me home, country roads
to the place I belong...
LSW
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Flickering Memories
We lived in little communities, surrounded by farm land. Many evenings we would be invited out for supper or fellowship with church members.
On the way home, I would be riding in the backseat. I was a pre-schooler, tired from playing and filled with good country cooking. Cars in those days had no air-conditioning, so the windows would be open, letting in the night air and the fresh country scent.
The headlights would cast an eerie glow on the trees ahead of us. To that little five-year-old, it seemed as if ghostly giants watched over us as we made our way home.
Fifty years later, I still feel the little girl inside when I make my way home after dark. My headlights flash on friendly ghosts, keeping me company as I drive.
LSW
On the way home, I would be riding in the backseat. I was a pre-schooler, tired from playing and filled with good country cooking. Cars in those days had no air-conditioning, so the windows would be open, letting in the night air and the fresh country scent.
The headlights would cast an eerie glow on the trees ahead of us. To that little five-year-old, it seemed as if ghostly giants watched over us as we made our way home.
Fifty years later, I still feel the little girl inside when I make my way home after dark. My headlights flash on friendly ghosts, keeping me company as I drive.
LSW
Monday, October 10, 2005
Saturday TV
Back in my early days, Saturday morning meant three things: 1) my parents slept late and didn't want to be disturbed; 2) I made myself cinnamon toast for breakfast; and 3) the morning would be spent watching cartoons and children's programming. I sometimes wax sentimental about those Saturday mornings. These days kids seem to be up and out playing soccer or trying to reach the next level of a computer game. The children's programming today seems dull and wooden. We had Chuck Jones, Tex Avery, Walter Lantz, Walt Disney, and other animation pioneers to entertain us. And no one was much worried about whether we were watching politically correct material.
I can remember piling up on the couch with my blanket and pillow and making my way through Mighty Mouse, Huckleberry Hound, Quick Draw McGraw, Deputy Dawg, Alvin & the Chipmunks, Mr. Magoo, Heckle & Jeckle, Yogi Bear and Woody Woodpecker. After a stretch of cartoons, the lineup would switch to Roy Rogers, Sky King, and Fury. About 11 AM, the kid programs would fade out, my parents would finally get up, and the weekend would commence.
Somewhere along the way I acquired a Mighty Mouse t-shirt, complete with a cape. I wore the tail off that shirt and then passed it down to David. Later on, when I started school, I carried a Deputy Dawg lunch box. I was such a fan of Fury that the horse became one of my numerous imaginary friends. Mother glanced out the window one day to see me passing by, remarking over my shoulder, "Fury, stop stepping on my feet!".
Who can think of Quick Draw McGraw and not remember the dog who went into paroxysms of joy over his dog treat? He would hug himself again and again until he shot upwards in ecstacy and then floated down with a satisfied "ahhhhh". Quick Draw's show also included the Snaglepuss character. Snagglepuss' "Exit, stage right" and "Heavens to Murgatroyd" became American catchphrases. You have to be a fifty-something to remember where those phrases started. Augie Doggie and Doggie Daddy also got their start on Quick Draw's show. And I think Pixie and Dixie were in that group as well.
Yogi actually started as a part of the Huckleberry Hound show, but moved on to his own show. I always had a fondness for Yogi, since his girlfriend was Cindy Bear. I've always resisted authority figures, probably a characteristic I developed watching the ranger being outwitted by a "smarter than the average bear".
If you're a baby boomer and would like to spend a little time remembering the good old days, you can visit Toontracker (be sure to visit the old theme songs page); Toonpedia; and The Fifties Web. You will be reminded of the good old days, back when you had 2 or 3 channels to choose from on Saturday morning. In black and white. And the quality of those black and white cartoons, in my humble opinion, was far superior to what is available to the kids today in full color and chosen from 200 cable options.
This little stroll down memory lane was prompted by a recent Ebay purchase. I got to thinking about that Mickey Mouse tshirt and did an impulsive scan to see what was out there for sale. I ended up with a nice little patch to add to my jacket. A mouse in flight, wearing a yellow suit and red shorts and boots.
"Here I come to save the day!"
That means that Mighty Mouse is on the way...
I can remember piling up on the couch with my blanket and pillow and making my way through Mighty Mouse, Huckleberry Hound, Quick Draw McGraw, Deputy Dawg, Alvin & the Chipmunks, Mr. Magoo, Heckle & Jeckle, Yogi Bear and Woody Woodpecker. After a stretch of cartoons, the lineup would switch to Roy Rogers, Sky King, and Fury. About 11 AM, the kid programs would fade out, my parents would finally get up, and the weekend would commence.
Somewhere along the way I acquired a Mighty Mouse t-shirt, complete with a cape. I wore the tail off that shirt and then passed it down to David. Later on, when I started school, I carried a Deputy Dawg lunch box. I was such a fan of Fury that the horse became one of my numerous imaginary friends. Mother glanced out the window one day to see me passing by, remarking over my shoulder, "Fury, stop stepping on my feet!".
Who can think of Quick Draw McGraw and not remember the dog who went into paroxysms of joy over his dog treat? He would hug himself again and again until he shot upwards in ecstacy and then floated down with a satisfied "ahhhhh". Quick Draw's show also included the Snaglepuss character. Snagglepuss' "Exit, stage right" and "Heavens to Murgatroyd" became American catchphrases. You have to be a fifty-something to remember where those phrases started. Augie Doggie and Doggie Daddy also got their start on Quick Draw's show. And I think Pixie and Dixie were in that group as well.
Yogi actually started as a part of the Huckleberry Hound show, but moved on to his own show. I always had a fondness for Yogi, since his girlfriend was Cindy Bear. I've always resisted authority figures, probably a characteristic I developed watching the ranger being outwitted by a "smarter than the average bear".
If you're a baby boomer and would like to spend a little time remembering the good old days, you can visit Toontracker (be sure to visit the old theme songs page); Toonpedia; and The Fifties Web. You will be reminded of the good old days, back when you had 2 or 3 channels to choose from on Saturday morning. In black and white. And the quality of those black and white cartoons, in my humble opinion, was far superior to what is available to the kids today in full color and chosen from 200 cable options.
This little stroll down memory lane was prompted by a recent Ebay purchase. I got to thinking about that Mickey Mouse tshirt and did an impulsive scan to see what was out there for sale. I ended up with a nice little patch to add to my jacket. A mouse in flight, wearing a yellow suit and red shorts and boots.
"Here I come to save the day!"
That means that Mighty Mouse is on the way...
LSW
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Feelings Alliterative
I believe it was Dorothy Parker who made the memorable comment about Katherine Hepburn's performance in a Broadway play to the effect that "Miss Hepburn ran the gamut of emotions from A to B". That put me in mind of the gamut of emotions I've run into this week. I decided to see how many of these emotions could be expressed by words beginning with the letter "A".
Agoraphobic - For a short period of time, Central Texas seemed as crowded as the New York subway. I certainly am glad that our area extended welcoming arms to the folks fleeing Hurricane Rita. It was just surprising how quickly you felt the effect of so many additional folks sharing your space.
Anxious - For all the pets who suffered along with their humans and the wild animals who had no way to escape.
Annoyed & Aggravated - Just when you think the world has made remarkable strides in the past thirty years, you run into a good old boy who can't stand it when an intelligent woman dares to consider herself his equal. When will they learn that they aren't hurting us smart girls nearly as much as they would like to think. To the contrary, they hurt themselves by destroying all respect they might have had before they opened their mouths. I still think it boils down to an insecurity and resentment that certain women are figuratively better endowed in the cojones department, let alone the mental department.
Argumentative - See the previous paragraph. I don't take that kind of treatment lying down.
Amenable & Agreeable - I'm really not that hard to get along with. Just treat me fairly and with respect.
Amused - It's really funny after you've slept on it. How pathetic they are.
Appreciative - Of the men in my life who have never tried to make me feel like I'm second class.
Amiable - There's nothing like getting together with a couple of old girl friends for lunch.
Affectionate - There's nothing like the greeting you get from a trio of adoring puppies when you arrive home in the evening.
Avid - The new seasons of my favorite television shows have finally begun. Something new to watch!
Anal - It drives me crazy when someone else gets in my kitchen and puts something in a different place than it belongs.
Apathetic - The only word for how you feel after a 30-minute reflexology session and a 60-minute massage. The rest of the world can go hang.
Aquisitive - Ebay, here I come.
I guess old Dorothy's assessment of Kate's acting might not have been as cutting as she intended. You can cover a lot of emotional ground without ever getting to the "B"s.
LSW
Agoraphobic - For a short period of time, Central Texas seemed as crowded as the New York subway. I certainly am glad that our area extended welcoming arms to the folks fleeing Hurricane Rita. It was just surprising how quickly you felt the effect of so many additional folks sharing your space.
Anxious - For all the pets who suffered along with their humans and the wild animals who had no way to escape.
Annoyed & Aggravated - Just when you think the world has made remarkable strides in the past thirty years, you run into a good old boy who can't stand it when an intelligent woman dares to consider herself his equal. When will they learn that they aren't hurting us smart girls nearly as much as they would like to think. To the contrary, they hurt themselves by destroying all respect they might have had before they opened their mouths. I still think it boils down to an insecurity and resentment that certain women are figuratively better endowed in the cojones department, let alone the mental department.
Argumentative - See the previous paragraph. I don't take that kind of treatment lying down.
Amenable & Agreeable - I'm really not that hard to get along with. Just treat me fairly and with respect.
Amused - It's really funny after you've slept on it. How pathetic they are.
Appreciative - Of the men in my life who have never tried to make me feel like I'm second class.
Amiable - There's nothing like getting together with a couple of old girl friends for lunch.
Affectionate - There's nothing like the greeting you get from a trio of adoring puppies when you arrive home in the evening.
Avid - The new seasons of my favorite television shows have finally begun. Something new to watch!
Anal - It drives me crazy when someone else gets in my kitchen and puts something in a different place than it belongs.
Apathetic - The only word for how you feel after a 30-minute reflexology session and a 60-minute massage. The rest of the world can go hang.
Aquisitive - Ebay, here I come.
I guess old Dorothy's assessment of Kate's acting might not have been as cutting as she intended. You can cover a lot of emotional ground without ever getting to the "B"s.
LSW
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Along the Road
The constant flow of traffic westward on Highway 71 is steady and presented several interesting views on the way home today.
Every convenience store, every service station, every fast food joint, every campground and every hotel along the way was filled to capacity. At a service station about half way between Austin and Bastrop, where a small MacDonald's shares a portion of the building, about 8 bright yellow school buses from Wharton ISD were pulled into the edge of the parking lot. My first thought was "potty time!". Everybody knows that you can find an acceptable potty at MacDonald's when you're on a long drive.
I'll bet there's not a sack of ice at any place between Houston and Austin. There's probably a world record being set for the number of coolers simultaneously travelling west.
Every few miles you would see a group of two, three or four cars pulled over, their occupants conferring. A caravan of friends or family stopping to stretch their legs, or grab a drink out of the cooler, or walk the dogs.
The traffic was so thick through Bastrop that the State Police were out, over-ruling the lights and getting people on their way. The highway, the access roads, the back way through town - all were full of vehicles headed west.
This last issue caused me to change my mind about picking up prescriptions on the way home. No way was I getting off the highway and attempting to cross the road to get to the other side. So tomorrow morning I have to get out early and see if I can slip off to the pharmacy by taking the back way through town. I rather expect that conditions will be the same or worse.
I can't help comparing the Texas evacuation with that of Louisiana three weeks ago. For all that I have criticized Rick Perry as governor, the man has done well getting the State's resources pulled together. I also was impressed with the health care agency that handles my mother's care. They called all of their clients today, making sure that everyone would have someone staying with them and that they had sufficient supplies, including prescriptions, on hand.
It is a day of unusual sights and sounds and stories.
LSW
Every convenience store, every service station, every fast food joint, every campground and every hotel along the way was filled to capacity. At a service station about half way between Austin and Bastrop, where a small MacDonald's shares a portion of the building, about 8 bright yellow school buses from Wharton ISD were pulled into the edge of the parking lot. My first thought was "potty time!". Everybody knows that you can find an acceptable potty at MacDonald's when you're on a long drive.
I'll bet there's not a sack of ice at any place between Houston and Austin. There's probably a world record being set for the number of coolers simultaneously travelling west.
Every few miles you would see a group of two, three or four cars pulled over, their occupants conferring. A caravan of friends or family stopping to stretch their legs, or grab a drink out of the cooler, or walk the dogs.
The traffic was so thick through Bastrop that the State Police were out, over-ruling the lights and getting people on their way. The highway, the access roads, the back way through town - all were full of vehicles headed west.
This last issue caused me to change my mind about picking up prescriptions on the way home. No way was I getting off the highway and attempting to cross the road to get to the other side. So tomorrow morning I have to get out early and see if I can slip off to the pharmacy by taking the back way through town. I rather expect that conditions will be the same or worse.
I can't help comparing the Texas evacuation with that of Louisiana three weeks ago. For all that I have criticized Rick Perry as governor, the man has done well getting the State's resources pulled together. I also was impressed with the health care agency that handles my mother's care. They called all of their clients today, making sure that everyone would have someone staying with them and that they had sufficient supplies, including prescriptions, on hand.
It is a day of unusual sights and sounds and stories.
LSW
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Battening Down
Today was my day to work at home. About 2:00, I decided to run to the grocery store for a few items. The impending hurricane, bearing down on the Texas coast, had everyone out buying supplies. To have a category 5 hurricane aiming for Texas so soon after Hurricane Katrina decimated southern Louisiana made even those of us who have experienced inland hurricane fallout a little nervous. My logical self knows that Bastrop will probably experience little more than some wind gusts and a lot of rain. My illogical self said to lay in a supply of non-perishable food and batteries.
I was not the only one reacting to those uneasy feelings. The long row of shelves that normally groan under the weight of bottled water were empty. Several people were carting those 5 lb. bottles that you can fill with filtered water at the machine outside the store. (Do those things really work?) People were loading up on canned goods and bread. It looked like HEB had been hit by a herd of locusts. The clerks said it had been crazy all day.
On the way back home, I was facing the traffic headed to Austin from the Houston direction. Two days before the predicted landfall, the road is already packed with people moving out of the storm's path. If there is anything good that came out of Katrina's destruction, people are paying attention to the evacuation orders and hitting the road in plenty of time to get to safety.
My first experience with hurricane weather was in 1961, when I was 7 years old. We were living in Oak Hill when the eye of Carla passed over Austin, and my primary memories of the event consist of driving rain and whipping wind. Many of my Frankum relatives lived in Texas City, Brazoria and Wharton at the time and they headed inland for safety. I guess that's the first Frankum family reunion that I remember; everybody ended up at Aunt O's and Uncle Shorty's in Central Austin. I remember lots of people, dominoes and music. I didn't understand the gravity of the weather situation and for years I associated hurricanes with a big old family party.
We were living in Smiley when Celia and Beulah visited Texas. I don't remember much about Celia, but Beulah dumped an enormous amount of rain in Gonzales County. Something like 22 inches in two days. Smiley was cut off from the rest of the world on three sides due to swollen creeks.
So I know to expect lots of rain and wind. I know there will be the possibility of tornadoes. But my relatives living in Texas City, Brazoria, Wharton and Bay City face much worse odds. They may return to find extensive damage to their homes. I would never be able to live under the spectre of hurricanes that is part of life on the Gulf Coast.
But in any event, we are ready to hibernate this weekend and avoid the weather. I have dog food, cat food, sandwich material, peanut butter, fruit and veggies. My pantry is full of canned food. I have shifted plants and lawn furniture into protected areas. We won't need to brave the wind and rain for days, if necessary.
But let's hope it's all done and gone by Sunday afternoon. I have an expensive ticket in my purse for the Sunday matinee of Chicago. Rain or not, I'm going.
Thursday postscript:
The exodus continues. Highway 71 is bumper to bumper while traffic makes its way slowly through Bastrop headed to Austin. Rita continues to slide inexorably toward Houston. This may be the one that becomes the new hallmark for hurricanes in Texas. Next year we may be saying, "Carla who?"
LSW
I was not the only one reacting to those uneasy feelings. The long row of shelves that normally groan under the weight of bottled water were empty. Several people were carting those 5 lb. bottles that you can fill with filtered water at the machine outside the store. (Do those things really work?) People were loading up on canned goods and bread. It looked like HEB had been hit by a herd of locusts. The clerks said it had been crazy all day.
On the way back home, I was facing the traffic headed to Austin from the Houston direction. Two days before the predicted landfall, the road is already packed with people moving out of the storm's path. If there is anything good that came out of Katrina's destruction, people are paying attention to the evacuation orders and hitting the road in plenty of time to get to safety.
My first experience with hurricane weather was in 1961, when I was 7 years old. We were living in Oak Hill when the eye of Carla passed over Austin, and my primary memories of the event consist of driving rain and whipping wind. Many of my Frankum relatives lived in Texas City, Brazoria and Wharton at the time and they headed inland for safety. I guess that's the first Frankum family reunion that I remember; everybody ended up at Aunt O's and Uncle Shorty's in Central Austin. I remember lots of people, dominoes and music. I didn't understand the gravity of the weather situation and for years I associated hurricanes with a big old family party.
We were living in Smiley when Celia and Beulah visited Texas. I don't remember much about Celia, but Beulah dumped an enormous amount of rain in Gonzales County. Something like 22 inches in two days. Smiley was cut off from the rest of the world on three sides due to swollen creeks.
So I know to expect lots of rain and wind. I know there will be the possibility of tornadoes. But my relatives living in Texas City, Brazoria, Wharton and Bay City face much worse odds. They may return to find extensive damage to their homes. I would never be able to live under the spectre of hurricanes that is part of life on the Gulf Coast.
But in any event, we are ready to hibernate this weekend and avoid the weather. I have dog food, cat food, sandwich material, peanut butter, fruit and veggies. My pantry is full of canned food. I have shifted plants and lawn furniture into protected areas. We won't need to brave the wind and rain for days, if necessary.
But let's hope it's all done and gone by Sunday afternoon. I have an expensive ticket in my purse for the Sunday matinee of Chicago. Rain or not, I'm going.
Thursday postscript:
The exodus continues. Highway 71 is bumper to bumper while traffic makes its way slowly through Bastrop headed to Austin. Rita continues to slide inexorably toward Houston. This may be the one that becomes the new hallmark for hurricanes in Texas. Next year we may be saying, "Carla who?"
LSW
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Fine Print
I read an article in the past week concerning the inserts in CDs. Those of us who grew up in the age of vinyl considered cover art and liner notes to be part of the whole listening experience. According to the article, the liner notes are getting little respect from the current crop of CD purchasers. Some shop owners report that buyers will open the package and discard everything but the CD before they even leave the store. And the rise of online purchase of just the songs you want, rather than the entire CD, is another blow to the folks who produce the cover art and liner notes for the inserts.
I can't understand this trend. I read all the liner notes for just about every CD I purchase. I like to know who wrote the songs. I want to know the name of the fabulous pianist on the third track. I want to be able to look and see what that stringed instrument is that I can't quite identify. I want to read the little anecdotes behind the songs. If a lyric moves me, I want to pull out the liner notes and follow along with the words.
I've always paid attention to the credits. Not just for the albums/CDs I've purchased. I read credits at the end of TV programs and at the end of movies. It annoys me no end that cable stations have started scrunching up the credits at the bottom or side of the screen in order to run ads for upcoming programs. They are robbing me of the right to read the fine print.
You get some surprises when you read the fine print. Do you remember the character of Adam Kendall in Little House on the Prairie? He was the young, blind man who married the older daughter Mary Ingalls. He was played by actor Linwood Boomer, who moved behind the camera after that series came to an end. I next caught his name as a producer on Night Court and he is currently the mastermind behind Malcolm in the Middle. I know all that because I read the credits. And he's not the only former actor who has "disappeared" behind the camera. Remember Tony Dow? He played Wally Beaver and later became a director. You have to be my age or older to remember the name Leigh French, a ditsy flower child character on the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour. She now does voice casting, a fact I learned from reading the credits. You just never know who you are going to run into when you start reading that fine print.
I know I'm not the only one that does this, but it sometimes feels like I am. Awhile back I went to the theater in Bastrop to see a movie and waited to read the credits to the end. For one thing, the music was pretty good and I wanted to get some information on that. But I would have read the credits regardless. By the time the film quit rolling, I was the only patron left in the auditorium and the cleaning crew was making their way up and down the aisles and giving me sidelong glances.
I've followed backup musicians from band to band by reading that fine print. Not long ago I was surprised to discover that Jon Carroll, a great pianist who backs Mary Chapin-Carpenter, was once a member of the Starlight Vocal Band. (I'm really not that old. I just have a good memory.)
People who don't read the credits miss a lot. I sure would hate to see the demise of liner notes. It would reduce my enjoyment considerably. There's a lot of good stuff buried in that fine print. Give credit where credit is due. Those folks in the credits deserve to be noticed for the good work they do.
LSW
I can't understand this trend. I read all the liner notes for just about every CD I purchase. I like to know who wrote the songs. I want to know the name of the fabulous pianist on the third track. I want to be able to look and see what that stringed instrument is that I can't quite identify. I want to read the little anecdotes behind the songs. If a lyric moves me, I want to pull out the liner notes and follow along with the words.
I've always paid attention to the credits. Not just for the albums/CDs I've purchased. I read credits at the end of TV programs and at the end of movies. It annoys me no end that cable stations have started scrunching up the credits at the bottom or side of the screen in order to run ads for upcoming programs. They are robbing me of the right to read the fine print.
You get some surprises when you read the fine print. Do you remember the character of Adam Kendall in Little House on the Prairie? He was the young, blind man who married the older daughter Mary Ingalls. He was played by actor Linwood Boomer, who moved behind the camera after that series came to an end. I next caught his name as a producer on Night Court and he is currently the mastermind behind Malcolm in the Middle. I know all that because I read the credits. And he's not the only former actor who has "disappeared" behind the camera. Remember Tony Dow? He played Wally Beaver and later became a director. You have to be my age or older to remember the name Leigh French, a ditsy flower child character on the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour. She now does voice casting, a fact I learned from reading the credits. You just never know who you are going to run into when you start reading that fine print.
I know I'm not the only one that does this, but it sometimes feels like I am. Awhile back I went to the theater in Bastrop to see a movie and waited to read the credits to the end. For one thing, the music was pretty good and I wanted to get some information on that. But I would have read the credits regardless. By the time the film quit rolling, I was the only patron left in the auditorium and the cleaning crew was making their way up and down the aisles and giving me sidelong glances.
I've followed backup musicians from band to band by reading that fine print. Not long ago I was surprised to discover that Jon Carroll, a great pianist who backs Mary Chapin-Carpenter, was once a member of the Starlight Vocal Band. (I'm really not that old. I just have a good memory.)
People who don't read the credits miss a lot. I sure would hate to see the demise of liner notes. It would reduce my enjoyment considerably. There's a lot of good stuff buried in that fine print. Give credit where credit is due. Those folks in the credits deserve to be noticed for the good work they do.
LSW
Monday, September 19, 2005
Meanderings
I'm in post-vacation silly mode. Should be over by tomorrow. But for now, I'm indulging my silly side by reading the second in the Sweet Potato Queens' books. If you're a middle aged wild woman, these are your kinda gals. The books are a hoot to read. Apart from their rules for managing the men in their lives, these are Southern chicks who speak Southern with an unapologetic Southern drawl. I thoroughly enjoy reading true Southern dialect. Sort of puts me in mind of listening to the Designing Women when they really got going. There's a lot of Southern in my soul that likes listening to the no-bullshit style of Southern women in private conversation.
The Red Hat Societies are in full swing right now, which is much the same I suspect. Except the Red Hat folks are more generally American. The Sweet Potato Queens are definitely regional. All I can say is, if you want to laugh and you don't get your panties in a wad over chapter titles like "Men Who Need Killing", check them out.
The Emmy Awards were given out last night and I sat in front of the TV and missed most of them. They never give those things to the people I'm rooting for, so it really wasn't that big a deal that I zoned out during the proceedings. I did thoroughly enjoy seeing Donald Trump dressed in overalls, carrying a pitchfork and warbling "Green Acres". People either like Trump or hate him. I didn't care much for him prior to The Apprentice, but I think the man knows how to take a joke and that makes him ok by my standards. He was definitely having fun at his own expense last night.
I'm always amazed prior to an awards show how many articles appear in magazines and newspapers itemizing "Who Will Win" and "Who Should Win". What a waste of time. They are never right. I happened to have the TV Guide handy where they ran their version and I think they missed nearly every one. TV Guide has reached the point where their content is so worthless it doesn't even make good liner for the birdcage.
But LOST won for best dramatic series and the voters definitely got that one right. Score one for a bit of originality and actual writing of good fiction. Even though they frustrate me with the dangling carrot of mystery, I'll be right there on Wednesday night to see how season 2 starts.
One more plug for HOUSE. It's good. And the show before it, a new series called BONES has promise. I'll have to DVR that one, since it's opposite NCIS. How nice to have something besides reality drivel to look forward to.
Well enough about this and that. Back to the next chapter, "Sex, Fritos and the Talking Vagina". Really.
LSW
The Red Hat Societies are in full swing right now, which is much the same I suspect. Except the Red Hat folks are more generally American. The Sweet Potato Queens are definitely regional. All I can say is, if you want to laugh and you don't get your panties in a wad over chapter titles like "Men Who Need Killing", check them out.
The Emmy Awards were given out last night and I sat in front of the TV and missed most of them. They never give those things to the people I'm rooting for, so it really wasn't that big a deal that I zoned out during the proceedings. I did thoroughly enjoy seeing Donald Trump dressed in overalls, carrying a pitchfork and warbling "Green Acres". People either like Trump or hate him. I didn't care much for him prior to The Apprentice, but I think the man knows how to take a joke and that makes him ok by my standards. He was definitely having fun at his own expense last night.
I'm always amazed prior to an awards show how many articles appear in magazines and newspapers itemizing "Who Will Win" and "Who Should Win". What a waste of time. They are never right. I happened to have the TV Guide handy where they ran their version and I think they missed nearly every one. TV Guide has reached the point where their content is so worthless it doesn't even make good liner for the birdcage.
But LOST won for best dramatic series and the voters definitely got that one right. Score one for a bit of originality and actual writing of good fiction. Even though they frustrate me with the dangling carrot of mystery, I'll be right there on Wednesday night to see how season 2 starts.
One more plug for HOUSE. It's good. And the show before it, a new series called BONES has promise. I'll have to DVR that one, since it's opposite NCIS. How nice to have something besides reality drivel to look forward to.
Well enough about this and that. Back to the next chapter, "Sex, Fritos and the Talking Vagina". Really.
LSW
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Sunday Mornin' Coming Down
Well, not really. More like Sunday Mornin' Coming Home. Just back from 2-1/2 days in Houston. It's been a long time since I've driven in Houston and I was somewhat surprised to find that it was not quite as traumatic as previous trips. That probably means that Austin traffic has worsened to the point that it is good practice for driving in Houston. A sad commentary on the state of traffic in Austin.
We got lost several times, thanks to the rapid-transit rails and the one-way streets, but we've come to expect to get lost and actually get a kind of enjoyment in finding our way out of the maze. We stayed at a lovely B&B just a block or so from the Clayton Library. I finally got to explore a few of the resources of Clayton. Cousin Maxine Alcorn, who was once the head honcho at Clayton, has long told me of the many resources to be found there and at long last I know what she was talking about. We barely scratched the surface in the few hours we were there, but I now know where I can go when I need a genealogy quick fix.
This was the first time I had left the babies overnight. They weathered my absence with appalling nonchalance, content to snuggle up against Uncle David at night. They were happy to see me, though, and I slept much better with the scent of doggy breath in the air.
On the way back we hit a miniatures shop, Crickets & Caterpillars, located in a strip center of antique and hobby sh0ps. After two hours of carefully searching and selecting miniatures for our dollhouse projects, we wandered into a little antique/junk shop. I picked up several antique photos in my ongoing rescued ancestors project and a sample of something I had never seen before. In one corner of a cabinet were a small pile of war ration books. I've heard of ration books all my life and I am aware that my Great Aunt Fay worked for the ration board, but I had never seen an example. Last on the itinerary was a stop for kolaches in LaGrange.
Once in awhile you just need a break in routine and this was a successful one. Three days away from work isn't enough, but three days away from my babies is almost too long. Wallowing in shelf after shelf of state and county histories and aisles of miniatures is my idea of a good time. We also met some interesting folks around the breakfast table and had some mighty fine food at Damian's. I also discovered that I love amaretto and Sprite. Yum.
I still hate driving in Houston, but I think I can take it from time to time. The benefits outweigh the negatives. Next time I need a break, I know another place to find stress relief. After you get through the traffic, that is.
LSW
We got lost several times, thanks to the rapid-transit rails and the one-way streets, but we've come to expect to get lost and actually get a kind of enjoyment in finding our way out of the maze. We stayed at a lovely B&B just a block or so from the Clayton Library. I finally got to explore a few of the resources of Clayton. Cousin Maxine Alcorn, who was once the head honcho at Clayton, has long told me of the many resources to be found there and at long last I know what she was talking about. We barely scratched the surface in the few hours we were there, but I now know where I can go when I need a genealogy quick fix.
This was the first time I had left the babies overnight. They weathered my absence with appalling nonchalance, content to snuggle up against Uncle David at night. They were happy to see me, though, and I slept much better with the scent of doggy breath in the air.
On the way back we hit a miniatures shop, Crickets & Caterpillars, located in a strip center of antique and hobby sh0ps. After two hours of carefully searching and selecting miniatures for our dollhouse projects, we wandered into a little antique/junk shop. I picked up several antique photos in my ongoing rescued ancestors project and a sample of something I had never seen before. In one corner of a cabinet were a small pile of war ration books. I've heard of ration books all my life and I am aware that my Great Aunt Fay worked for the ration board, but I had never seen an example. Last on the itinerary was a stop for kolaches in LaGrange.
Once in awhile you just need a break in routine and this was a successful one. Three days away from work isn't enough, but three days away from my babies is almost too long. Wallowing in shelf after shelf of state and county histories and aisles of miniatures is my idea of a good time. We also met some interesting folks around the breakfast table and had some mighty fine food at Damian's. I also discovered that I love amaretto and Sprite. Yum.
I still hate driving in Houston, but I think I can take it from time to time. The benefits outweigh the negatives. Next time I need a break, I know another place to find stress relief. After you get through the traffic, that is.
LSW
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Fingers in My Ears
Lord have mercy.
It is my misfortune that I am too polite to tell people to shut up. Most of the time, anyway. Usually I can "uh-huh" at appropriate intervals, while my mind wanders far away from the conversation. But sometimes I just want to scream.
There is a lady of my acquaintance who knows full well that I read the newspaper and watch the morning news. Be that as it may, if there is a murder or tragedy in the news, she feels compelled to review the details with me as if I am incapable of "getting it" without her help. Usually the worst, most gruesome details. I've already mentioned in this blog that I don't care to know the gruesome details. I have perfected a method of scanning to get the gist of things without wallowing in the blood and gore. It helps me sleep at night. So I really resent being forcefed that information.
Yeah, I know. It's her way of processing the information for her own understanding. That doesn't make it any easier for me. I learned a long time ago that it is too easy for me to mentally put myself in someone's shoes. And from there develops a depression that hangs over me like a cloud for weeks at a time. So I try my best to maintain a mental distance to keep myself from sliding down into that black hole.
I've faced this barrage of unwanted details many times at work. Some people just have to replay and replay tragic stories. At this point, I seldom mingle at break or lunch times for that reason. It gets me a reputation for being stand-offish, but it's the best way for me. Some exorcise their feelings with these recitations, but folks like me internalize all those feelings of despair and then end up with irritable bowel syndrome.
Too bad there's no innoculation to protect you against these folks. Even with my pathologic fear of needles, I would be at the front of the line. I sympathize with the victims and with the feelings of horror that compel people to dissect the stories with their friends. But I'll gather my own information, thank you, so I can avoid walking through the valley of the shadow of another's death.
Add to my Christmas list a pair of earplugs.
LSW
It is my misfortune that I am too polite to tell people to shut up. Most of the time, anyway. Usually I can "uh-huh" at appropriate intervals, while my mind wanders far away from the conversation. But sometimes I just want to scream.
There is a lady of my acquaintance who knows full well that I read the newspaper and watch the morning news. Be that as it may, if there is a murder or tragedy in the news, she feels compelled to review the details with me as if I am incapable of "getting it" without her help. Usually the worst, most gruesome details. I've already mentioned in this blog that I don't care to know the gruesome details. I have perfected a method of scanning to get the gist of things without wallowing in the blood and gore. It helps me sleep at night. So I really resent being forcefed that information.
Yeah, I know. It's her way of processing the information for her own understanding. That doesn't make it any easier for me. I learned a long time ago that it is too easy for me to mentally put myself in someone's shoes. And from there develops a depression that hangs over me like a cloud for weeks at a time. So I try my best to maintain a mental distance to keep myself from sliding down into that black hole.
I've faced this barrage of unwanted details many times at work. Some people just have to replay and replay tragic stories. At this point, I seldom mingle at break or lunch times for that reason. It gets me a reputation for being stand-offish, but it's the best way for me. Some exorcise their feelings with these recitations, but folks like me internalize all those feelings of despair and then end up with irritable bowel syndrome.
Too bad there's no innoculation to protect you against these folks. Even with my pathologic fear of needles, I would be at the front of the line. I sympathize with the victims and with the feelings of horror that compel people to dissect the stories with their friends. But I'll gather my own information, thank you, so I can avoid walking through the valley of the shadow of another's death.
Add to my Christmas list a pair of earplugs.
LSW
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Cowboys
I was sifting through my unheard audio books this morning and decided I would listen to Sackett's Land, by Louis L'Amour. When times are tough and the going is difficult, I feel drawn to cowboys. If you have a cowboy handy, you can get almost anything done.
At least that's what I grew up believing, thanks to 1950s/1960s television. Back in those days, westerns ruled the air waves. My favorites were Wagon Train, Rawhide, Sky King, Fury, Roy Rogers, Bonanza, Maverick and some whose names I don't recall. In the late 60s and early 70s came along Wild, Wild West, High Chaparral, Lancer and Cimarron Strip. Their stories were simple. Bad guy wears black hat. Good guy wears white hat, stops bad guy and gets girl. Moral conflicts were clear. Do good. Stand for what is right. Go to church. Treat your womenfolk with respect. Damn, I wish life were that simple.
Living in Texas gives you opportunities to know real cowboys. Not the drugstore cowboys, but the ones who really get up close and personal with the cattle and know how to sit a horse. And how to dig a post hole and run barbed wire. You run into an old cowboy and you still get treated like a lady and something worth respect. You hear "ma'am" a lot.
I spent many an hour following the exploits of my cowboy heroes. I would lose myself to daydreams where I was travelling west on a wagon train and being rescued by Flint McCullough. Or maybe Joe Cartwright or Rowdy Yates. They were some fine cowboys who could be counted on to always do the right thing, with unyielding bravery. They weren't afraid to get their hands dirty when there was work to be done. And they sure cleaned up nice for the Saturday night social.
I enjoy my current status as an emancipated woman, but there are times when I wouldn't mind being transported back to the 1880s and the company of cowboys. I would make a great schoolmarm. Of course, I know the romance of the period is mostly in my imagination and in the stories I watched unfold on television. I'm sure the real picture was hardship and danger, and that the cowboys were dirty and ill-educated. But the concept of cowboy will always bring to mind the guy you want around when there's trouble or there's work to be done. Or a Virginia Reel to be danced.
I guess I still look for a little bit of cowboy in the men I'm drawn to. Education and refinement are fine and desirable qualities, but I still want a touch of Flint McCullough, Rowdy Yates, Johnny Lancer, Sheriff Jim Crown, or James T. West. I want an intelligent conversation and good table manners, sure. But I really want a man who can stand tough and fight the bad guys. A man who will provide for his family and help his neighbors, instead of focusing on the size of his bank account.
Maybe it's time we turned our government over to cowboys. (And being from Texas and owning a ranch doesn't make you one.) Then we could get things done, done quickly, done honestly, and done with an eye towards making the world a better place to be for everybody. In short, a cowboy does the right thing, without the regard for personal gain.
LSW
At least that's what I grew up believing, thanks to 1950s/1960s television. Back in those days, westerns ruled the air waves. My favorites were Wagon Train, Rawhide, Sky King, Fury, Roy Rogers, Bonanza, Maverick and some whose names I don't recall. In the late 60s and early 70s came along Wild, Wild West, High Chaparral, Lancer and Cimarron Strip. Their stories were simple. Bad guy wears black hat. Good guy wears white hat, stops bad guy and gets girl. Moral conflicts were clear. Do good. Stand for what is right. Go to church. Treat your womenfolk with respect. Damn, I wish life were that simple.
Living in Texas gives you opportunities to know real cowboys. Not the drugstore cowboys, but the ones who really get up close and personal with the cattle and know how to sit a horse. And how to dig a post hole and run barbed wire. You run into an old cowboy and you still get treated like a lady and something worth respect. You hear "ma'am" a lot.
I spent many an hour following the exploits of my cowboy heroes. I would lose myself to daydreams where I was travelling west on a wagon train and being rescued by Flint McCullough. Or maybe Joe Cartwright or Rowdy Yates. They were some fine cowboys who could be counted on to always do the right thing, with unyielding bravery. They weren't afraid to get their hands dirty when there was work to be done. And they sure cleaned up nice for the Saturday night social.
I enjoy my current status as an emancipated woman, but there are times when I wouldn't mind being transported back to the 1880s and the company of cowboys. I would make a great schoolmarm. Of course, I know the romance of the period is mostly in my imagination and in the stories I watched unfold on television. I'm sure the real picture was hardship and danger, and that the cowboys were dirty and ill-educated. But the concept of cowboy will always bring to mind the guy you want around when there's trouble or there's work to be done. Or a Virginia Reel to be danced.
I guess I still look for a little bit of cowboy in the men I'm drawn to. Education and refinement are fine and desirable qualities, but I still want a touch of Flint McCullough, Rowdy Yates, Johnny Lancer, Sheriff Jim Crown, or James T. West. I want an intelligent conversation and good table manners, sure. But I really want a man who can stand tough and fight the bad guys. A man who will provide for his family and help his neighbors, instead of focusing on the size of his bank account.
Maybe it's time we turned our government over to cowboys. (And being from Texas and owning a ranch doesn't make you one.) Then we could get things done, done quickly, done honestly, and done with an eye towards making the world a better place to be for everybody. In short, a cowboy does the right thing, without the regard for personal gain.
LSW
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Climbing the Family Trees
First things first. On the left are the two bosses.Their official registrations came in today from the Universal Kennel Club. Being a genealogist, I couldn't resist ordering a 3-generation chart along with their registration. Their certificate of pedigree looks just like mine, printed in tree format on parchment. Mojo has great-grandmothers named "Breakfast at Tiffany's" and "Pocket of Freckles". Coco's include "Tuck 'Um Up" and "Hi Beam Dixie". She also has a military ancestor, "General George".
Today was the day for family trees in more areas than one. At long last I received a Hodge genealogy book that has been in development for about two years. This is the second Hodge genealogy to be published this year and I had the satisfaction of straightening out a long standing mis-interpretation of facts that had appeared in earlier versions of these books. So nice to be able to share photos and information from the long lost Texas branch of the family, and to be thanked in print. Makes me feel like I know what I'm doing.
Earlier this week I subscribed to a new service that includes many old newspapers and I unearthed one of those tiny family scandals that hit the Dallas paper. This situation involved a very distant relative, but I had him in my charts so I found it interesting back story for my records.
And Lana and I started planning next year's family research trip, which should send us on a road trip through Indiana and Illinois and allow us to visit more ancestral resting places. Only a genealogist could get excited about a trip focused on visiting cemeteries. Can't wait for April to get here so we can get started.
So the focus is on family this week. Including the extended branches that are of the furry persuasion. I've been thinking of all the family memorabilia and photos that are in my possession and thinking how devastating it would be to lose them.
I cannot fathom the losses of property and family members that have been suffered by the poor folks in New Orleans. And I mourn all the pets that were lost. I spent a lot of time over the past two years researching the disaster in Texas City in 1947. During the course of my research, I also studied some of the history of the great hurricane that hit Galveston in 1900. One day life is normal, the next day life is forever changed. It really puts into perspective what is important. What if it was all gone tomorrow? What would be the greatest loss?
To that end, I'm beginning to consider what should be done with my collection of family data and memorabilia. Maybe it's time to ponder publishing my own family histories. One flood, one tornado, one fire, and 30 years of work could be lost, not to mention generations of photos and heirlooms.
It's time to ponder. Where do I go from here? First I'm going to go hug my furry children and be thankful they are safe and sound. Then I'm going to write a check to the Red Cross and/or an animal rescue organization to help the Katrina victims. And then I'm going to get back to work and figure out a way to share my family's history. Because tomorrow may be too late.
LSW
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