Bang the drum slowly
Follow the horse drawn carriage
Wearing dark colors
This mask of warm tears
Covering a mother’s face
Her child lost to war
This fake president
How easily he threatens
Others’ children’s lives
Tag: blog
Things I Didn’t Do This Weekend
Things I Didn’t Do This Weekend
By Leslie Noyes
This weekend I didn’t decorate my house for the holidays, but neither did I run naked through the neighborhood.
On Saturday I didn’t bake cookies, but neither did I shave my head and paint it berserker blue.
I don’t think I cried, but then I really don’t think I laughed, either.
I purposely did not attempt to slide down any banisters; although, I was tempted to throw myself down a staircase.
I’m trying hard to balance the good with the bad, you see. I’m still here. Wondering if that’s good. Or bad.
Barely Related Ponderables
What wine pairs best with a white nightshirt? 
A red blend of course. Somewhere between the table and my mouth my wine took a detour, landing in a splatter pattern on my chest.
I know I should have immediately applied Shout or some other brand name stain treatment, but I elected to wear it as is, pretending it’s a work of high end non-representational art.
For some reason this spillage caused me to ponder the music of Neil Young. I’ve been listening to Neil on my Alexa device quite a bit lately, and I have to wonder: Where are the Neil Youngs of today? Where are the singers who are raw and real, who wouldn’t have gotten past the audition stage of The Voice or American Idol, but who speak to the soul of the resistance?
Nowadays someone would try to clean Neil’s vocals up. They’d treat the stains and strains and commercialize the lyrics. Screw that. My nightshirt and Neil are gonna resist that shit.
Peace, people.
Here’s Neil’s Old Man. Enjoy.
A Drop in the Bucket
A Drop in the Bucket
by Leslie Noyes
One shard’s sharp clatter
Finally hitting bottom
Way down in the well
No splash forthcoming
Water dried up years ago
Does no good to cry
Keep shoveling dirt
Keep plowing those narrow rows
Keep harvesting naught
I grew up in the Texas panhandle, one of the areas hardest hit by the Dust Bowl. Although that was before my time, I heard many a tale from my grandparents about the dark days when the dirt blew non-stop, filling every nook and cranny and clogging lungs.
Several years ago, a book club I belonged to in Illinois, read the book, The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan. It’s a rather long book filled with firsthand accounts of the Dust Bowl Days, and while I don’t usually indulge in nonfiction, I found this book fascinating.
When the book club members met to discuss The Worst Hard Time I was excited to share my perspectives. One woman, a New Yorker transplanted to Illinois, couldn’t believe that people still live in the Texas and Oklahoma panhandles. I assured her that not only did people still live there, they thrived.
I highly recommend the book. If you read it, let me know what you think.
Peace, people.
Christmas Shopping Angst
Every January I pledge to begin my Christmas shopping in August, yet every December finds me scrambling to buy the perfect gifts for my grandchildren. I’m such a loser.
We’ve done the “something they want, something they need, something to wear, something to read” method of buying Christmas gifts for the grandchildren for the past few years, but I’ll be the first to admit that this system has its drawbacks.
For one thing, I’m woefully out of touch with the current styles. I’m happy wearing flip flops and capris every day. Why shouldn’t the grandkids be satisfied with the same attire? Sure, it’s 32° in Illinois, where three of the kids live, but maybe they should toughen up a bit.
And what if the line between a want and a need is blurry? Maybe they WANT new shoes, but they also NEED them. Then what?
I’ve already bought each of the five grands two books each whether they want them or not. I like books, so by golly, they’re getting books.
Two of the girls are easy to buy for. One is into American Girl dolls while the other likes Disney princesses. The other three kids, though, are nearly impossible to shop for. They don’t want clothes or toys. I’m thinking lumps of coal might be an option.
I’ve texted their parents, a.k.a. my children, to press the kids into declaring their wants and/or needs. Hopefully they’ll torture the kids into coming up with some affordable ideas. I know one of them wants a horse, but that’s not happening. Can’t we all just get along?
Peace, people.
Hostess with the Leastest
I used to fantasize endlessly about being the perfect hostess for a holiday soirée. As a young bride I immersed myself in the Christmas catalogs from major retailers like JC Penney, Sears, and Spiegel, picturing myself in the ideal hostess gown, serving cute petit fours from a silver tray, while guests milled about my tastefully decorated home with crystal tumblers filled with tasteful cocktails in their hands.
Indeed, I hadn’t a clue about hosting any kind of elegant gathering. My knowledge of the social graces was limited to what I’d watched on the silver screen: Extended pinkie, napkin on lap. Besides, Studly Doright and I had barely two cents to rub together, and the resources we did have would certainly not have been spent on something as frivolous as a party. But I did a lot of dreaming.
The Hickory Farms catalog was an important part of the fantasy, as well. I received one in the mail today, and that triggered this post. 
As a terrible cook, I reasoned that all I’d need to do to insure a picture perfect party was to order the right combination of sausages, cheeses, and spreads from Hickory Farms in order to impress my guests.
Everything they offer looks so festive.
Now that I’m much older and can afford to throw a really elegant event I find I don’t want to; although, part of me still wants to order from Hickory Farms and wear a vintage hostess dress. May I interest you in some hors d’oeuvres?
Am I the only one who did this kind of thing? Please tell me I’m not alone.
Peace, people.
Forest Photo
I had nothing to publish on this Wednesday morning. Sitting in my favorite chair with a cup of peppermint tea in hand, I was stymied. As is the norm these days, the television news was depressing, so I turned off the tv and looked out the windows onto our back yard that slopes down to a small lake.
Seemingly overnight the leaves had overwhelmed the green grass resulting in a carpet of fall colors. Now I’m thinking about putting on a hoody and some boots for some serious leaf crunching. I’m sure Studly Doright would appreciate it if I did some raking while I’m out there, too.
Saving the World
We spent Thanksgiving with Studly Doright’s family in Hereford, Texas. Studly’s mom, Saint Helen, lives on the outskirts of town in a pleasant home with a generously sized backyard. The yard is decorated with a variety of cute gnomes and small plaster animals that have always delighted her great grandchildren.
Our youngest granddaughter, Harper, invited me into her world of make believe in this backyard paradise, telling me that a bad villain had taken over the world and turned all the real gnomes and animals into statues. Only by defeating this villain could we bring the statues back to life.
Five-year-old Harper launched an impressive attack on the villain using a mix of martial arts and boxing, admonishing me to stay out of the fight unless things looked really dark. At one point she staggered back and urged me to enter the fray.
I must say I was something of a whirling dervish, kicking and clawing at this imaginary bad guy. I threw in a few impressive head butts and Harper said, “Nana, you can stop. You won several minutes ago.”
“Harper!” I exclaimed. “We did it! We saved the world!”
In her most serious, matter of fact voice, Harper replied, “Of course we did.”
We then went around the yard waking up all of the animals and watching them reanimate.
“They’re all alive now,” she smiled. “Well, except this one. He’s still headless.”
I guess we didn’t save everyone, but we came so close.
Peace, people.
Tumbling Tumbleweed
I’d forgotten how huge tumbleweeds can be. The one pictured above tumbled into my mother-in-law’s front yard on Thursday morning much to the delight of my grandchildren.
Imagine hitting one of these beauties while navigating the lonely two lane roads in the Texas panhandle. It’s an experience you won’t soon forget.
The tumbleweed is the dried form of Russian thistle, a plant common to the plains states and immortalized in a song by the Sons of the Pioneers. I added a link to the song, below. Enjoy!
Tumbling Tumbleweeds
LYRICS
See them tumbling down
Pledging their love to the ground!
Lonely, but free, I’ll be found
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds
Cares of the past are behind
Nowhere to go, but I’ll find
Just where the trail will wind
Drifting along with the tumblin’ tumbleweeds
I know when night has gone
That a new world’s born at dawn!
I’ll keep rolling along
Deep in my heart is a song
Here on the range I belong
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds
I know when night has gone
That a new world’s born at dawn!
I’ll keep rolling along
Deep in my heart is a song
Here on the range I belong
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds
In Today’s News…
I slept an (almost) uninterrupted twelve hours on Saturday night. Only my cats and my bladder kept me from reaching a state of perfection, but perfect people are so boring.
Studly Doright and I arrived home from our Thanksgiving/birthday celebration late yesterday evening. We’d flown from Amarillo to Orlando, and should have been safely back at Doright Manor around 5 p.m., but staggering holiday traffic and the resulting accidents on I-75 convinced us to travel backroads.
We stopped at a German bakery/delicatessen in Yalaha, Florida, for lunch and then meandered along two lane roads for much of the afternoon. After a couple of hours of aimless driving we declared ourselves lost, so we found a Walmart and purchased a gps.
The cats, Scout and Patches, welcomed us home around eight p.m. with meows and kisses. After quick showers we all snuggled into our bed and went immediately to sleep. There really is no place like home.
Praying for Eyebrowz 