Nary a Trick-or-Treater

This is either our fifth or sixth Halloween at Doright Manor. Every year I buy candy. Every year I leave the porch lights and walk way lights on. Still not a single trick-or-treater has graced our door in all the time we’ve lived here. I can’t imagine why.

Nice home:

Friendly neighbors:

Upscale neighborhood:

Studly:

And me:

What’s not to love? C’mon over. It’ll be our pleasure to entrail-tain you.

Pieces, people.

Gutsy Potion

Don’t be skittish, dear

Brewing potions takes some guts

Among other things

“The Witches Brew” by Adrian Higgins

(“The Witches Brew” by Adrian Higgins)

Tongue of toad, fileted

Eyes of newt, plucked one by one

Rattle of snake, sliced

“Witch’s Brew” by Angus McBride

(“Witch’s Brew” by Angus McBride)

Stir in spider eggs

Black widow for best results

Simmer, chant, enjoy.

S.D. Phone Home

Yesterday was interesting. I’d had a good night’s sleep, albeit with a somewhat frustrating dream, detailed here https://nananoyz5forme.com/2018/10/29/library-dream/ to top it off.

Studly Doright called from work mid-morning to tell me he was going to Panama City after noon to look at a motorcycle, and that he’d need me to accompany him in case he decided to buy the bike. I happened to be at the mall when he called, so I finished shopping and hurried back to Doright Manor, where I waited, and waited, and waited. In retrospect, I guess I should have had him clarify what he’d meant by “after noon.” Unbeknownst to me Studly had a dental appointment to attend to before he could get away for the day.

When he was finally on his way home Studly called telling me to be ready, that he’d just run in and grab his riding gear to put in the back of my car. I’d already filled the car with gas, so we could head to Panama City without that worry. His goal was to look the bike over, pay the seller if he liked the bike, and get on the road in a timely fashion in order to avoid riding too far in darkness. My goal was to leave him with the bike and drive home, keeping my phone near in case I needed to double back to offer aid.

I know, to non-motorcyclists that sounds odd, but a car following a motorcycle at night can be a dangerous annoyance. I never want to be that, and Studly certainly doesn’t want me driving behind him. The system has worked for us for many years. He’s only needed me to come back for him once, and that was a long time ago in a galaxy far away.

On our separate ways home I took the interstate while he traveled backroads. The new bike didn’t have a windshield, and he didn’t want to drive in 70 mph traffic without that protection. I stopped at a McDonalds for a sandwich, and somehow Studly arrived home minutes before I did.

He looked a little sheepish when I came through the door. “What happened?” I asked.

“I think I might’ve left my phone in my back pocket….”

“And it might be somewhere between here and Panama City?”

“Yep.”

We went out to check the interior of my car, and found the phone stashed in the storage area of my car next to the shoes he’d exchanged for riding boots. So much for our plans of staying in touch. Thank goodness he didn’t need to call me.

I was too lazy to walk the 75 yards to his shop this morning to take a photo of the new bike, but this one is almost identical. It’s his first Harley, something I never even knew he wanted.

Peace, people.

Library Dream

Last night I dreamt about a vast library. Oddly enough the dream was set in New Salem, North Dakota, a town Studly Doright and I, along with our two children, lived in briefly during the early 90’s. I don’t remember the town of fewer than 1,000 souls having a library other than the ones at the town’s public schools; although, a quick google search shows there is a small one.

In my dream, the New Salem library was housed in a modern log cabin with soaring beamed ceilings and shelves that required ladders at least 20 feet tall to reach the top rows. The aisles extended so far in every direction that one could not see the far walls from the library’s center.

During my dream visit, members of the library guild were hosting a membership drive. In every nook and cranny of the building there was some vignette set up–a play or live music or just a visual display–enticing visitors to join. For some reason oversized boxes of Kleenex tissues were stacked decoratively in key places, as an overarching theme for the event.

I desperately wanted to become a member of the library guild. I wanted to be part of this grand building with boxes of tissues stacked in the shape of the Eiffel Tower and the Empire State Building. But when I finally found a guild member and completed the necessary paperwork I realized I didn’t have the amount of cash on hand to pay the $94.00 joining fee, and the guild didn’t accept credit cards.

Frantically I began working odd jobs within the library itself in order to raise the money. I carried patrons’ books for a quarter. I shined shoes and moved the card catalogues. I stacked tissue boxes. After what seemed like many hours had passed I realized that I had raised $93.95, and I had one nickel in my pocket. I eagerly handed over the money to the nearest guild member, and abruptly awakened to the sounds of Studly Doright brushing his teeth.

Since I didn’t receive my receipt am I a member of the New Salem Public Library Guild or not? Seriously.

Peace, people.

Grave Matters

Photography by Julie Powell

If in death I succumb to the depths of a cold, dark grave, my dear,

Heart stalled permanently; no sights to see, nor sounds to hear,

Then why waste time on costly coffin accoutrement?

My nakedness will not offend worms in search of nutrients.

Why sing songs, most mournful dirges to send me on my way?

Just close the lid and lock it tight against the light of day.

Better still to light a pyre, or set adrift in Viking ship

Burning boldly through the night, ashes sifting, soul adrift.

Note: Look for more of Julie Powell’s photography at juliepowell2014.wordpress.com

Stumped

We had a lovely and dear friend from Virginia spend the night with us at Doright Manor on Friday. She and I stayed up late drinking wine and solving all the world’s problems, and I have to admit I had no time to ponder, let alone write, a blog post.

After our visitor left for further adventures along the coast on Saturday morning, I took a nap thinking perhaps a blog idea would come to my subconscious. Nope. When I awakened I noticed that Studly was out in his shop working on one of his motorcycles. I joined him, still hoping for some inspiration, but came up blank.

As I walked around the house, skirting hurricane debris, fallen leaves, and upended trees, trying my best to latch onto an idea, I finally came to the conclusion that I was stumped.

Completely and

utterly

stumped. Oh well. I’ll try again tomorrow.

Peace, people.

When We Know Better

Many years ago, when I was in my mid-20’s I dressed as Aunt Jemima for a Halloween party. I donned a red gingham dress and crisp white apron, tied a kerchief around my head and sallied forth for an evening of revelry.

Oh, and as much as I’d love to forget this part, I also painted my face and arms black. Yes, I went to a party wearing black face.

I had no idea what a horrible stereotype I was perpetuating. I didn’t know the history of white actors portraying black characters as lazy and bumbling. No one at the party found my costume offensive, but then again, they were all white, just like me. We didn’t know any better; although, we probably should have. Ignorance really was no excuse.

Fast forward a few years to a conversation with an African American colleague. Halloween was approaching and the school kids we taught were giggling on the playground about their planned costumes. I told my friend that I’d once dressed as Aunt Jemima, thinking she’d find it funny. She did not find it remotely funny. This wonderful woman who I admired so much quickly and firmly set me straight. If we hadn’t ended the interaction with a hug I’d have worried that our friendship was over.

I called her that night and thanked her for enlightening me. She said, “Now that you know better, make sure you do better.”

I’ve never forgotten that, and have done my level best since then to do better in all things. I don’t always succeed, I know. I was raised with many tired, racist tropes that I didn’t even recognize as such until they were brought to my attention.

When NBC talk show host, Megyn Kelly claimed on her morning show this week that she didn’t think wearing black face was racist, I thought, “Honey, you’re about to know better. Now, will you do better? We shall see.

Peace, people.

99 New: Satisfaction

If any post deserves to go viral today, this piece by Jan Wilberg most certainly does. Go read the original at http://redswrap.wordpress.com and share it from her site. You can tell I don’t understand all the workings of reblogging, just make it so. Thanks.

Red's Wrap

Trump likes it that this bomb stuff is happening. He’s like a teenage arsonist sitting in a grove of trees watching the neighbor’s barn burn down. He’s not sorry, not for a single second, he wants to see it burn. That’s why he went there with gasoline and matches.

The barn burning makes him feel happy and powerful. After all, other people don’t have the nerve to douse a hay-filled barn with gasoline and strike a dozen matches. They’d chicken out, just talk about it, brag in advance and threaten but never actually set something like that in motion. A real fire? Real destruction? No, that’s too much.

For them, maybe, but not for the teenage arsonist.

So Trump comes to Wisconsin tonight, starts his speech reading something John Kelly wrote for him about how his job as President is to keep the country safe and how the federal government…

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