A Moment in Time

I believe I’m happiest in that brief moment when I’m removing my makeup at day’s end. My face glows and I wear a triumphant smile. 

“Here I am, world! I survived yet another day!”

It’s too bad that some famous photographer isn’t around to capture me in that ephemeral moment between being made up and being bare faced. Truly, I’m a thing of beauty.

I’m experimenting with this new thing called self acceptance. Be kind.

An Uncommon Memorial

When we toured the Ring of Kerry in County Kerry, Ireland, our bus driver pointed out a lovely church and told us it was the only Catholic Church in all of Ireland to bear the name of a person who was neither Saint, nor deity. 

This church in Cahersiveen, was named with special papal permission, after the statesman Daniel O’Connell, a lay person, who worked for Catholic emancipation in Ireland in the 17th and 18th century.

According to Wikipedia, “Daniel O’Connell (Irish: Dónall Ó Conaill; 6 August 1775 – 15 May 1847), often referred to as The Liberator[1] or The Emancipator,[2] was an Irish political leader in the first half of the 19th century. He campaigned for Catholic emancipation—including the right for Catholics to sit in the Westminster Parliament, denied for over 100 years—and repeal of the Act of Union which combined Great Britain and Ireland.”

Unfortunately, we only were able to drive by the church without going inside. More and more I’m realizing how much I need to return to Ireland. It’s almost as if I only purchased postcards without savoring the experience. 

Peace, people. 


by Leslie Noyes

She liked to think she could leave if the need arose, if the weighted words and angry posturing turned into closed fists,

But the time never seemed right; he always apologized for the stinging insults and delusional declarations.

In the end, she finally left. The ambulance arrived and carted her away, bloodied and bruised. Still, he said he was sorry.

I Failed Cheerleading

In Texas every little girl dreams of being a cheerleader, queen of the school, envy of all. Even I aspired to that loftiest of positions and at the end of sixth grade I signed up to compete in the junior high tryouts. 

Now, picture me at age twelve. At 5’6″, I was easily the tallest girl in my class, and at 90 pounds, one of the skinniest. I was all elbows and knees, and not very attractive, and that’s putting it mildly. 

Perhaps if I’d had even a modicum of grace, my geekiness might’ve been endearing, but I walked like a long-legged baby bird. In fact, one of my nicknames back then was Ostrich. Nevertheless I had the gumption to place my name in the cheerleading competition, along with most of the other girls in my sixth grade class.

For several weeks my friends and I met after school every day to work on learning the cheers and the movements that went with them. The reigning junior high cheerleaders provided coaching and inspiration, and for one very brief and shining moment I thought that maybe, just maybe I had a shot at earning a spot on the squad.

Then on the eve of competition I overheard our sixth grade teachers bemoaning our chances. “They’re just all so uncoordinated,” laughed one. 

“Well, crap,” I remember thinking. I didn’t tell any of my friends what I’d heard, and I still practiced my moves, but with little hope. 

Tryouts were a big deal. It wasn’t a popularity contest back then, and as I recall, cheerleaders from Wayland Baptist College in Plainview, Texas, came to judge our competition. This was the big time! 

Our teachers reminded us to smile as we went before the team of judges. I’m pretty sure my smile looked as if rigor mortis had set in. I was petrified. In my mind I can picture my awkward skinny ass trying to execute a perfect cheer followed by the mandatory celebratory jump, and I know I most likely looked like a baby stork trying to leave the nest for the first time and failing miserably. 

When the results were read, only one girl from my elementary school made the team, and we all half heartedly celebrated her rise to stardom. I never tried out again, and I don’t regret that decision. Now, if I had to do it all over again, I’d go for it. And my sassy ass might not get picked, but they’d never forget me either. Oh, to be young again for one brief and shining moment!

Rah, rah, and peace, people.

Oldie #9: Do You Want Fries With That?

As I searched through the posts from my first year of blogging I found this piece of commentary on the advent of the drive through funeral home. 

I know more about blogging now, granted, not a whole lot more, but I figured out how to add YouTube videos, so now you can have a visual to go along with the text. Gee, ain’t technology grand?

Here’s the video:


And here’s my take on the whole weird business:


Snapshot #198

Four years ago when our group of intrepid golfers and their spouses visited Scotland several of us became enamored of a dessert called Sticky Toffee Pudding. I remember enjoying it after almost every meal, then promptly forgetting about it once we were back stateside.

To our delight, sticky toffee pudding was served at many restaurants in Ireland, and I quickly renewed my acquaintance with this fabulous food. I thought I’d left it far behind after our vacation, but while shopping at Whole Foods in Tallahassee today, I came across a surprise in the beer aisle.

I’m calling this picture, “I Haven’t Tried This Brew, but Some Flavors Shouldn’t be Found in Ale Form.” If any of you have tried this ale and lived to tell about it, let me know.