Nineteen days ’til spring.
Someone please tell the flowers
They have bloomed too soon
Four hundred plus hours
Winter’s hand stays in command
Do calendars lie?
We suffered our share
Of thirty degree days, at
Least three by my count.
Today though, sun reigns
Warding off the brisk chill of
Florida’s winter.
And those who survived
Are made stronger still by that
Which has not killed us.
A little sarcasm on this Tuesday. Forgive me for basking in this beautiful day.
Peace, people!
Each morning I wake up and think, “Today’s the day this cold virus is officially going to stop messing up my life.” So far I’ve been wrong, but since when has that stopped me?
My nights are marked by throat tickling coughs that I try my best to hold in until I almost explode, and my days are spent fighting the dizziness and nausea brought on by draining sinus passages. In other words, I’m a real hoot to be around right now.
I take one medication for this symptom, another for that. My bathroom counter looks like the inside of Walgreens. Let’s spin the wheel and see what works this time.
My favorite “medication” is spicy Mexican food, so I’m self-medicating at Tijuana Flats, a great little place near Florida State University, that carries its own line of salsas:
I’m desperately hoping my cure resides in one of these containers. They did load my meal up with extra jalapeños–they take great care of me here.
I stopped drinking my hot toddy mixture. The whisky was tasting just a little too good, if you know what I mean. Oh, who am I kidding? I ran out of the stuff and Studly won’t fetch me a new bottle.
If you have a favorite end of cold remedy please share. I need to get well.
Peace, people
Remember learning to square dance in third grade? I do. Vividly. I was always taller than my classmates, extremely skinny, and terribly awkward. Thank goodness the music teacher assigned partners, otherwise, none of the boys would have ever chosen me. As it was they made dour faces when my name was paired with theirs. Ah, the joys of youth. 😁The dancing itself was fun, though–bouncy and upbeat, and I wasn’t bad at following the steps.
Fast forward 49 years.
Studly and I recently had the opportunity to attend a contra dance with a dating couple we’ve come to know and whose company we enjoy. The lovely M is a tiny bundle of energy with an irrepressible enthusiasm for life. D is one of Studly’s golf buddies, and a lot like Studly.
Recently we learned that M is an aficionado of contra dancing, and that she and D had attended a dance at the Tallahassee senior center. M made it sound like a hoot, and with just a little coaxing Studly agreed to give contra a try. Before attending, I did a little research:
According to Wikipedia, “Contra dance (also contradance, contra-dance and other variant spellings) refers to several partnered folk dance styles in which couples dance in two facing lines or in a group of four. It has mixed origins from English country dance and French dance styles in the 17th century. Sometimes described as New England folk dance, contra dances can be found around the world and have some popularity in North America and the United Kingdom where weekly or monthly dances and annual dance weekends are common.”
Now to me, contra sounded a lot like square dancing. I couldn’t wait to get out on the floor and sharpen those long-dormant skills. I mean, how hard could it be? After all, they teach third graders to do it! And this time around, I’d have a partner who didn’t grimace every time we did a promenade.
At first glance, contra had a lot in common with square dance. Many of the terms were identical: do-si-do, promenade, alemande, chain, etc., but in square dance one stays within one’s square of four people, whereas in contra only heaven and the dance caller know where one will end up.
Now I enjoy dancing. There was a time in my life when I’d have burned up that dance floor, alas, my 58-year-old out of shape body did not adapt well to the rigors of contra. It was exhausting, not just physically, but mentally. If the caller said “do-si-do,” I “do-si-didn’t.” I crow hopped and ran from pillar to post in every permutation. By the end of the first dance I was fairly sure I was going to puke up the Mexican food I’d indulged in an hour earlier. And if I was struggling, poor Studly, an avowed non-dancer, was like a hog on ice.
At one point in the evening Studly and I gratefully found a place to rest and recuperate from being flung around the room like a couple of oversized pinballs when a nice looking older man approached me with hand out asking me to dance.
“I’m really awful at this,” I said, trying to soften his expectations.
“I know,” he smiled. “I’ve been watching.”
I laughed and relaxed, sort of. My new partner was quite accomplished at contra and offered words of advice as we progressed through the dance. I was still lost much of the time, but I ended up approximately where I should have at the end of the dance, and that was quite an accomplishment.
Even as difficult as I found contra I still had fun. A lively Irish group provided the music. I could have happily tapped my toes to the fiddle playing all night. Dancers representing a wide variety of age groups, from their early twenties to the geriatric crowd twirled, stomped, and hooted to the tunes.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to get Studly to return; although, the physical activity would be so good for both of us. The next dance is in two weeks, so just in case, I’m going to practice spinning in circles while trying not to puke.
I found this on YouTube:
I spotted this in north Tallahassee this afternoon.
I’m guessing they got it for peanuts. It probably isn’t worth a lot of cashew know.
Peace, People!
I’m trying to lose some weight before I go to Guatemala in April. Even before I scheduled my trip I’d managed to lose 12 pounds, but I’d reached a plateau and needed a bit of motivational energy.
The prospect of going to Central America fit the bill perfectly. And, there’s a wedding involved, so there’s twice as much motivational material.
I’m not much of an exerciser, even though it would be in my best interest to get involved in some type of physical activity. Like opening wine bottles, perhaps?
Occasionally I’ll get off my butt and walk around our beautiful neighborhood. Today the weather was just about perfect, so I dug out my tennis shoes, left Doright Manor and set out at a brisk pace.
My Pandora radio station was set on the Grease soundtrack, so I twirled my walking stick, bopped, danced, and sang along to the music playing through my earbuds as I walked. I’m sure any neighbors watching believed me to be possessed by some unseen presence as I danced my way around the block. I’d occasionally grow self-conscious and stop, but soon I’d forget I was in public and start dancing again.
Turning down the home stretch, I was singing to “Greased Lightning” when a large insect flew into my mouth and down my throat. I saw him coming, but couldn’t react in time to avoid contact. One second it was, “Go greased light…” the next second it was “ack ack ack!”
I couldn’t get the darned thing out and I could feel it scrambling around. “Ack!” I gagged, but I could still feel it in there. Tenacious little devil. My eyes were stinging and I stopped to cough and gag every few feet. When I got home I grabbed a banana. I don’t know why, but it seemed like maybe the banana would help the bug find its way to a better place. Like a raft of sorts. It didn’t.
Then I thought back to what my mom used to say about catching more flies with honey than with bananas, or something like that. Sure enough, honey did the trick. I’m not sure if this counts as a life hack or not, but my readers might want to bookmark this post just in case.
Peace, people!
My husband, Studly Doright, and I recently purchased a home, Doright Manor, on a small lake near Tallahassee, Florida. We are not lake people. We are Texas panhandle people, born and raised in the dry, dusty plains and ill-prepared to handle any body of water larger than the occasional rain puddle.
When we bought our lake home we both envisioned rowing hither and yon around our lake for hours on end, working those muscles that spend too many hours typing on a keyboard and too few doing actual labor. We were going to get in shape! To that end, Studly bought us a two-person kayak. Thank goodness he had the foresight to purchase a fishing kayak–broad on the bottom and damned near impossible to tip over.
Our first venture into the world of kayaking was tense. I yelled. He cried. Or maybe it was the other way around. At any rate, that was just the part where we tried to get into the vessel without getting wet. After several borderline pornographic physical manipulations, Studly and I found ourselves seated in the appropriate slots. To us it made sense that he take the front seat and I take the back. Him: Strong. Me: Weak. We: Wrong.
The back person does all the hard work. All of it. The front person is just there to look pretty and occasionally help steer. We discovered this at the halfway point. There was no way we could switch places without one of us getting drenched. I had to shoulder the load–the big load where the pretty one should be.
Slowly I rowed. Inch by painful inch I paddled and an hour later we found ourselves at our dock confronted with a final challenge. How the heck do we get out of this infernal thing? My arms were shot and Studly couldn’t get enough leverage to pull himself up onto the dock. You see, boats don’t stay still when you pull them into the dock. No. They continue to move in all sorts of ways. Back. Forth. Sideways. They rock and roll. They Zumba.
But, we are not quitters. Nossirree. Neither of us wanted to die out on that lake mere yards from our own back door. “Let’s back the boat away from the dock,” said Studly. “We’ll aim for that grassy area beside the dock, get a running start and shoot onto dry land.”
“Huh?”
“Yea,” he said. “Just help get us out into the inlet and I’ll power us onto the grass.”
“Sure.” Wearily, I pushed against the dock, and then stroke, stroke, stroked
out into our little inlet, giving my man plenty of room to make his final stand.
He instructed me to lift my paddle and be ready to spring out of the boat as soon as we hit the shore. Spring. Yep, he said that. I’ve never seen arms work so powerfully. Boom, boom, boom and we hit paydirt. My spring was sprung and I fell onto damp grass, almost, but not quite, touching my lips to the solid ground.
“Quick! Grab the boat!” Studly yelled. Just in time, I caught hold to prevent him from floating away. I steadied the vessel as he rolled out, sprawling in lake mud. I’d have laughed at the sight, but I couldn’t summon the energy.
We both recovered. Slowly. And we’ve been out in our kayak many times since that first one. Every time we learn something new, but getting out never gets easier. I keep intending to google the topic. “How do I get out of my kayak without inflicting mortal wounds on my partner?” The good news? I think I’m developing an arm muscle. But it might be a mosquito bite. Time will tell.
Peace, People.
Above is glimpse of our lake.
Irish cream coffee
Sun shining on Yvette Lake
Silvery fish surfaces.
I believe Whole Foods has a new marketing approach. It works like this: Station a really good looking younger man in front of the beer cooler section. Have him look slightly perplexed. Unsuspecting older women will be sure to ask if he needs a hand. 😜 Then he’ll say, “Oh there it is! You really should try this. It’s an ale aged in Kentucky bourbon barrels.”
Let’s face it, the guy might’ve said, “You really should try this. It’s a monkey’s butt aged in peanut butter,” and I’d have purchased it.
Yes, I bought an exorbitantly priced four pack of this stuff because the guy was ridiculously cute. Thank goodness, it’s really quite good.
Well done, Whole Foods, well done.
Peace, People!
Ok, this wasn’t him, but I’d buy whatever he’s selling, too.
The weather this week in Tallahassee has been just beautiful. Temperatures have been in the low 70s with no wind, so I’ve been walking every day, which happens to be real exercise, or so I’ve been told.
Most days I just stroll around the neighborhood, but yesterday afternoon I left the crockpot on low to cook Studly’s much-anticipated dinner and drove into town so I could walk around Lake Ella.
Just about a mile from the Florida capital building sits this scenic little lake surrounded by gigantic oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Lake Ella is a popular destination for walkers and bird watchers.
Above is pictured my favorite feature of Lake Ella, a huge oak tree that spreads its generous branches near the ground for children to climb on and around. Such a sweet tree!
Little parks like Lake Ella are just a part of what makes Tallahassee so appealing to a girl from the arid southwest plains of The Texas panhandle. When I die, don’t bury my heart on the lone prairie, just spread my ashes somewhere near a lake. The little fish will love feasting on me!
Peace, people!
Some weird hunting season must be in full swing here in the Florida panhandle. My friend Lee Ann, visiting from Indiana, and I discovered this on our return from Apalachicola on Saturday afternoon.
We’d driven down to eat lunch at a little restaurant called The Owl (I highly recommend this charming place where the waitress said she’d be back to ‘water us’ before taking our order). After our wonderful meal–Lee Ann had a grouper sandwich; I had a crab and shrimp salad–we wandered around the quaint downtown area spending money and making witty repartee.
No trip to the Gulf would be complete without a visit to St. George Island, so even though the temps were in the mid-40’s Lee Ann and I walked on the beach for a bit before heading home.
Instead of taking my well-worn path back to Tallahassee through Sopchoppy and Crawfordville, I turned towards the tiny burgs of Sumatra, Wilma, and Clio. All three are one-blink towns: blink once and you’ll miss them. This road is almost completely enveloped in pine forest, with occasional glimpses of swampland.
Just past Sumatra we noticed a trio of 4-wheel drive pickup trucks being driven erratically on the grassy area beside the main road. Lee Ann and I both wondered aloud just what was wrong with those um, knot heads. A little further along we realized what was wrong: Hunting Fever.
Hound dogs, armed camouflage clad men, and pickup trucks abounded. The testosterone glimmered all around us, like hairy legged fairy dust. We even spotted one hunter standing on the tool box of his truck, rifle at the ready. Instinctively I ducked thinking we would feel a bullet whiz past at any minute. It was madness, I tell you, madness!
After stopping for a bathroom break in Hosford we turned north towards Tallahassee. Not far beyond the Hosford city limits sign we came up on a group of pickup trucks parked next to a bridge. A man wearing a bright orange hunting vest over the requisite camouflage ensemble stepped into the road and began gesticulating wildly. Even though his intended message wasn’t clear we slowed down just in case he was attempting to warn us about a large herd of elephants on the highway.
A reduction in our speed must have been his goal since we received a cheerful thumbs up from Mr. Orange Vest. We soon saw a hunting hound apparently hot on the trail of some prey, nose to the ground heading off the road and into the brush. Had we not slowed down we might have hit the little guy. Thanks Mr. Orange Vest!
Lee Ann and I never did figure out what was being hunted so exuberantly yesterday. We did see deer placidly grazing along our route, so that didn’t seem likely. Whatever it was I hope most of them successfully evaded the hunters, and that no dogs or hunters were injured in the process.
Peace, People!
Praying for Eyebrowz 