Pictures Can Say A Thousand Words

I love you, Doctor Jake!

Proper Mowing Attire

I'm pretty sure that most of you don't even think about the outfit you wear while mowing the yard- but, hey- I didn't either-until my sister Linda described her "mowing outfit" to me in great detail. It seems that somewhere along the line- in her many yard sale adventures or junking escapades- she happened upon a tube top.

Yes. I said tube top. And a pink striped one at that.

Now, I've been known to make my share of fashion mistakes, but it's pretty much a fact in better circles of society that tube tops are just not acceptable. If you're thin, they make you boobless. If you're shapely, they make you saggy. If you're fat, they make you look like the Epcot ball in a tube sock.

Linda says that she resembles a beach ball. A beach ball riding a lawnmower. And probably smoking a cigarette and chugging a beer at the same time. It's the National Inquirer's dream photo, for sure.

So, today is my day to mow and I've spent the last hour trying to select a tasteful outfit to mow the yard in. Usually it's old jeans and a too-big tee shirt- worn Nikes and a pony tail. But now Linda has me second-guessing my choices in mowing attire.

Being that it will get near 100 degrees today, I've opted out on the long jeans, but am considering a faded pair of Capris. Except that they are a little snug and cause a double muffin top that cannot even be hidden beneath a boy scout tent. Swim suit tops, halters- and yes- even tube tops are out of the question. Why? Because I'm 55, lily white, and have age spots the size of Australia on my shoulders. Not to mention the elbow wings that catch the breeze like a para sail once in awhile...

I do believe it's about time for some fashionista to design a special line of mowing clothes. Something attractive, but sensible- conservative, but breathable- loose, but not like a parachute. Something like a tube top.
But not.

And footwear? We need a light weight airy shoe that will be safe if we have to step off the mower to move the patio furniture- and something that will cover our toes so they won't still be green at the family reunion in July.

I'm stressing here. Because apparently I do not own a suitable "mowing outfit". I'm almost sick and jealous of Linda and her beach ball blouse... as she putters along in the hot sun... getting waves and honks from strangers...developing absolute zero tan lines...taking the age factor and simply tossing it from the equation...getting the job done with not one iota of concern about her fashion choices...

Hummmmm...You know- I think I saw I really cute tube top at Goodwill yesterday. I just might have time to run there before the day starts heating up!

The Coat Closet

The other night I was watching an old black and white movie and there was a scene where a woman was wearing a long fur coat. I was suddenly transported to another time and place.

The place was the hall closet of my childhood home. A small,dark space with a naked bulb and a floor carpeted with musty shoes. And I was seven or eight years old again.

The clothes that hung in that closet smelled of time and mothballs and most were rarely worn. The closet was actually a hideaway for Mom's canister vacuum- a greenish metal cylinder that sounded like a freight train. I can still see her pulling on the long hose and rolling it out for an afternoon of domestic chores.

And even though she hadn't worn it in years, there on the wooden pole hung my mother's fur coat. A shiny, brown, once-elegant and expensive mink that Mom wore in her younger days. A coat that I saw her wear in old photos- (her smile happier than any I had witnessed while she mopped or washed dishes.)

Sometimes I would open the little wooden door to the hall closet and pet Mom's coat. Slightly balding and a bit dusty, it still held that magic of a beautiful mother whose life was different before giving birth to nine children. The coat symbolized dreams that were now faded- days that were now gone- years that hung forgotten in the closet of her heart.
I would stretch my arm up into the coat- and rub the red satin lining that stayed cool and smooth in the darkness. It was a peaceful and soothing feeling to pretend that I was my mother and that coat belonged to me.

Inside that hallway also hung my dad's navy uniform, a black wool set of itchy pants and pull over top that once held medals and pins- awards that had long ago been plucked off and put away for safe keeping. The bell bottom pants had two rows of a dozen buttons and it stretched our imagination to the limits wondering how Dad could possibly have worn something so small.

I don't know what else was in that closet because nothing mattered except the past of my parents- of that odd, bittersweet twinge of loving sadness that crept through my veins as I stood with one arm in Mom's mink coat.

I can still feel that worn brass door knob in my hand- hear the sound of the pull chain light- smell the dampness of old leather shoes twisted in mildewed corners.

And I can still see my mom and dad- him as a dashing and handsome sailor- her as a blushing young bride... in a very special coat.

Hole In One

 

 

Today is National Donut Day!!!!

It's very difficult for me to avoid celebrating today. Because today is donut day!

 

It's a day long tribute to those delicious calorie-laden breakfast bombs that make you want to lick your fingers and collapse into a food coma until the sugar rush wears off.

It's a day to honor sweet glazes, rainbow sprinkles, jelly fillings, Bavarian creams, whipped up fluff, and pudding perfection.

It's a day to be thankful to all those bakers who rise at the crack of dawn to knead that yeasty dough into works of culinary art, not to mention terrific tummy treats.

I believe that a road trip is not complete without a stiff white box of a dozen assorted donuts, a cup of hot coffee, a cardboard carton of cold milk, and a handful of napkins. Easy to eat, filling, and right within most budgets. What's not to love?

What other food would we accept with a giant hole in the middle? If we were served hamburgers, steaks or chicken with the center missing, I know massive riots would occur. We would demand that the hole be filled!

But donuts are so delectable and so sweet that we accept their faults- we adore them with their finger-holding holes and their stuffed insides- with no questions asked. We love their quirky missing middle !

I've had my share of donuts, and believe me, I've never met one I didn't like. From homemade to gourmet, donuts are universally well-loved and millions are consumed each year. And approximately 111,000 by policemen alone!

 

So, as you start your morning, please honor the beloved favorite for dunkin' and devouring! Celebrate Donut Day!

And So It Begins...

I could hardly let the month of June arrive without somehow placing words on paper that portray my pleasure over summer's arrival. It has been a cool and rainy spring, scattered with storms and floods, so I treasure even more these soft mornings that smell like sweet air and buzz with the sounds of birds. I have finally shed that winter cloak, unveiled my sleeping heart, and risen to feel the wonder of this season. Thank you, God.

I had a wonderful time with the family over the holiday weekend. Two of my sister-in-laws and a brother-in-law, plus my kids and two grand kids, (and four dogs)- all gathered at the cabin for rustic relaxation and a time of laughter and good food.They say that a crowded cabin is worth more than an empty castle- and I agree. What we lacked for privacy and elbow room, we gained in bonding and making new memories.

The air was thick with honeysuckle and pine, a constant fire in the rock pit gave off smokey perfume, and stars hung heavy in the night sky like a shroud of jewels. There was the clang of horseshoes being tossed, the muffled pop of croquet balls being sent across the lawn, and the gentle music of a guitar strumming. It was the first song of summer- and what an orchestra it was!

The kids took turns blackening marshmallows over the flames, eating bags of salty chips, and riding on the four-wheeler to explore the woods. We did tick checks, bug spraying, and even chased a large black snake from the whiffle ball field.
By days end, we were hot, tired, but full of exuberance for another day ahead. Time usually passes slowly down there, but this weekend it sped so fast that I hardly had time to catch my breath.

Home again, I spend hours washing damp towels, muddy shoes, and luggage full of campfire smells. I stored away uneaten hotdogs, crumbles of stale chips, and hauled three trash bags to the dumpster. I took a long hot bath, conditioned my hair, and sat in a comfortable chair in front of the TV. I sighed with relief that the weekend was over, but somewhere in my heart, I yearned to go back.

So, summer begins.
Pulls us along on this mighty train of humid days and firefly nights, of pink perfumes and
turquoise skies. Blackberries ripen in the sun, farmers mow their hay, hummingbirds tweet among the scarlet flowers...it's time for bare feet, iced tea, a good book and a head of dreams...

Welcome, Summer.
I have always loved you.