My experiences as a fisherman have all been lacking in excitement. And that’s fine with me. I have no desire to actually catch a fish; although, I do enjoy sitting in the shade by a peaceful lake with a fishing pole in one hand and a good beer in the other.
If any fish come to pay a call I just say, “No thanks, I’m a vegan.”
For those horrified that I might actually harm an innocent fish, please don’t fret. It seems one needs a hook and bait in order to land a fish. The pole alone isn’t sufficient to the task.
I do like songs about fishing, though. Well, one song anyway. I was out driving around this afternoon, listening to the Garth Brooks channel on SiriusXM, when my favorite Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song was played. The song, “Fishing in the Dark,” might not even be about fishing. Wink, wink. I have a feeling it’s a little tongue in cheek, and that makes me love it even more.
July 1st! Or as I like to call it, “another day in purgatory”; although, it’s been hotter than hell here in the Florida panhandle, so maybe I’ve skipped purgatory and just don’t know it yet.
Masks are mandatory here in Gadsden and Leon counties, yet the mandate doesn’t seem to be consistently enforced. I feel for business owners and mangers who are tasked with policing their own customers. Many can’t, or won’t, do it.
I’m certainly not going to confront a maskless person. That’s liable to get one shot in these parts. I do give great dirty looks—but I’m afraid the effect is lost since all the offenders can see are my eyes. I am good at squinting though.
We’re having new carpet installed this week, so all weekend I prepared by spending my time sorting through the large collection of oddities that take up space atop dressers and cabinets. Things the carpet installers won’t move for me. I also moved a few larger items. Things the carpet installers might not handle gently.
Some items I plan to discard; others will be dusted and returned to their old, or perhaps new locations. I like seeing how old stuff can take on a different look in a new place.
I do fairly well when given a task that’s straightforward. Abandon this. Keep that. Sell this. Toss that. Seldom do I spend much time agonizing over possessions.
But heaven help me if I come across old photographs. I never throw those away. Even if I’m sure I don’t know a single person in the photo I cannot throw it out. And if I make the mistake of opening a photo album, whole hours can go by without my notice.
That might’ve happened a time or two this weekend. Maybe three or four. I can’t recall.
On Saturday afternoon Studly Doright and I drove out to the Tallahassee RV Park to meet up with my brother and sister-in-law who were spending the night there before moving on with their big adventure.
They’d stopped by on Monday on their way to Fort Myers, Florida, where they’d pick up their new Airstream trailer. After several days of orientation and practice with their new trailer they were ready to hit the road. First, though, they needed to collect a few things they’d left at our house. Rather than have them drive all the way to Doright Manor and back to the RV park, we loaded their stuff into Studly’s pickup and met them at the park.
Their new trailer is beautiful—very posh and spacious. We enjoyed wine and cheese with them and their adorable dog, Gus.
We had a wonderful dinner with Kelly and Susan before bidding them goodbye and safe travels. Kelly says he’ll start a blog about their journey. If he does, I’ll share it with you all. It’s bound to be good.
Not too long ago I was visiting via FaceTime with my British friends and advisers, Shirley and Michael. At one point the discussion turned to country music. As a native Texan, albeit one who moved away from the Lone Star State to accompany my husband through many job transfers, I am somewhat knowledgeable about country music.
As a child and teenager I detested the genre. It seemed torture to be made to listen to whiny country western in the car when the Beatles might be playing on another radio station, just a turn of the dial away.
Remember, I’m 63.75 years old, so in my youth we didn’t have a way to listen to anything other than what the person in control of the radio, nearly always a parent or other stodgy adult, deemed suitable. Kids today have no idea how good they’ve got it.
But somehow, those songs and artists stuck with me. Patsy Cline, George Jones, Tammy Wynette, Johnny Cash—all are part of my history, and now their old songs are some of my favorites. My parents would be proud.
Back to my conversation with Michael and Shirley, though. I mentioned to them a country song I thought they, and their son, might get a kick out of—“You Never Even Called Me by My Name,” performed by the great David Allan Coe. Also known as “The Perfect Country Song,” this is a piece that must be listened to in its entirety to get the meaning. I’ll share it here. Enjoy.
Lately my life has been one weird event after another. I hope it’s just the isolation that’s getting to me. I am nearly 64 years old, so a bit of cognitive decline might not be too far-fetched.
This morning the heating and air technician came for the bi-annual checkup of our HVAC equipment at Doright Manor. I set my alarm so I wouldn’t forget, and ended up being up and about a good two hours before he arrived. I used that time wisely.
No, I didn’t. I spent a fair amount of the time playing Words with Friends on my iPhone. But I did think to call my optometrist’s office to enquire about the new eyewear I’d selected and paid for more than a month ago. I looked up the number in my contacts and thought I dialed correctly, but the phone made an odd beeping noise while I waited for someone to pick up. When no one answered I tried a second number.
This time there was an immediate answer, “Hello?”
Obviously not an office number. “Dr. S?” I asked.
“This is she.”
“Did I just call your personal number?”
She laughed. “Yes. First you tried to FaceTime with me. I figured you were having an emergency.”
I apologized profusely, told her I was trying to call the office, that I was fine. We said goodbye and disconnected. All I could think was, my eye doctor rocks. I’d forgotten she’d given me her personal number last year when I began seeing “floaters”. As I was writing this it occurred to me that I never did call her office about my glasses. Sheesh.
Then, at lunch I saw a woman’s naked breasts. I was sitting outside waiting for my to-go order when this buxom woman emerged from the restroom. Her one-piece romper had slipped down below her breasts. With practiced ease she hoisted the romper back into place and went in to order her meal, never missing a beat. I’m telling you, I was impressed.
I’m not sure anything else that happened today is going to top that.
Studly Doright and I, after finally learning how to use Netflix, have gone a little nuts. We’ve watched “Orange is the New Black,” “Schitt’s Creek,” “The Ranch,” and “Grace and Frankie” along with several others. We started “Longmire,” but it didn’t really tickle our respective fancies, so we went looking for something else. That’s how we stumbled onto “Shameless.”
If you’re a parent and wondering if you’re doing an adequate job, watch “Shameless.” I guarantee your faith in your own abilities and common sense will be restored.
The story follows Frank, played by William H. Macy and his many offspring. As a father, Frank really sucks. He’s a grifter and a conman who shirks his responsibilities at every opportunity.
His eldest child, Fiona, runs the household, and that’s no easy task. She’s barely an adult herself and sometimes she isn’t quite up to the task. But she’s resourceful, as are her siblings. They borrow and sometimes steal in order to stay afloat, always one step ahead of the bill collectors.
“Shameless” is great fun. It’s sexy and sweet and often hilarious. And after watching even one episode, you’ll never doubt your parenting skills again. I promise.
You all likely thought you’d heard the last about my completed manuscript. Bwahaha! I couldn’t let you off the hook that easily.
One of my beta readers survived the task of reading, suggesting, and editing. (That Oxford comma drives the lovely Shirley crazy, so I find excuses to use it). She’s given my book a couple of thumbs up, and as one might expect I toasted myself with a glass of wine.
Now, I’m contemplating my next steps as I await another beta reader’s thoughts.
The characters from the novel are still in my head. Sometimes I hear them begging me for another adventure. To that I retort, “You’re not even published yet! Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” or some such phrase.