Tag: blog

Oh, So Young!

This photo of Studly Doright and me literally fell into my lap on Thursday night. I opened a binder and out it tumbled, crudely cropped and slightly faded.

I love this picture so much. It was taken in the spring of 1975 on the night of our junior-senior prom. My mother made the dress, and I felt so pretty in it. Puffy sleeves had that effect on me. Plus, I was so in love I could hardly stand it.

Studly had better hair than I did. At least nowadays I’m ahead of him in that category. You see, I still have hair. I hope I didn’t just say that out loud—he’s sitting right here!

Note the harvest gold pole lamp that almost appears as an appendage on my back. The lamp is an indication that the photo was taken inside my family’s home because Mom was really into harvest gold. Our fridge, stove, washer and dryer were all of the same hue.

I wish I could relive that night one more time, to feel that young and pretty and carefree again. Guess I’ll settle for the next best thing, and kiss this bald guy goodnight. Puffy sleeves might help, too.

Peace, people!

Then and Now

After I posted this photo of my daughter, her middle daughter, and me taking in Les Misérables in Chicago this past weekend,

I discovered this photo from our first group trip to Chicago:

We’d just purchased McKayla’s first American Girl doll and celebrated by taking a carriage ride. A good many of my best memories surround Chicago.

I’m still under the weather, but these made me smile. Peace, people!

Short and Something

I haven’t felt well for the past couple of days, so I thought I’d just post something short and sweet this morning. Then, when I couldn’t think of anything sweet, I started typing any little thing that popped into my head.

Yay Astros!

Finally a World Series title for Houston. I guess that’s pretty sweet after all.

We went to bed after the third inning. It’s too hard to stay awake for a west coast game when you live on the east coast, but I must’ve dreamed baseball all night because I feel like I’ve done nothing but run bases, sliding head first into home plate again and again.

Peace, people!

Shots from Chicago and a Few Hundred Bras

My whirlwind trip to see my daughter and middle granddaughter last weekend in Chicago was wonderfully exhausting. We did a bit of shopping and a lot of dining in addition to taking in a production of Les Misérables at the Cadillac Palace theatre in downtown Chicago.

I didn’t take many photos, but thought I’d share a few with you all.

The pizza was every bit as good as I’d hoped it would be. We ate at my son-in-law’s favorite pizza place, Giordano’s, and since he wasn’t there we had to send him “take that!” photos of our meal.

We used Uber to get from our hotel out by Midway to the theatre downtown. Chicago is so beautiful.

I wanted to get a picture of the theatre’s exterior, but it was a really cold afternoon, and I’m a wimp, so the inside is all you’re getting!

That’s my lovely daughter, Ashley, on the right and granddaughter, McKayla beside me.

My awful attempt at a selfie, above. Thank goodness McKayla’s pretty face balances out my smirk.

The production of Les Misérables was wonderful. I sobbed at the end. Partly because my butt was tired and I hadn’t slept at all the night before, but mostly because I was so moved by the performance.

Below is a totally irrelevant photo of bras decorating a bridge between Blountstown, Florida, and Bristol, Florida. I didn’t stop to count these pieces of lingerie, but they went on and on and on, spanning the length of a very long bridge. Impressive show of support….

The Queen of Worry

Throw a sash around my neck,

I’ll parade across the stage

As the crowd cheers frantically

I’ll smile brilliantly and wave

My speech will thank the people

Who’ve made me who I am today

All the ones within my care

Who’ve caused my hair to gray

I know I’m not the fun one

Keeping order is my chore

The Queen of Worry ‘til my death

And then I’ll worry no more

Packed Away

Once I was the new dress, swirls of dark blue on pure white cotton, crisp and suited for summer soirées.

The favorite, I found delight in being washed by hand and then pinned to the clothesline to dry under the warm sun.

I drew compliments from strangers and friends, alike, and I relaxed in the pleasure of being worn, washed, and dried,

Until the day my colors faded and the white no longer looked sharp. I was assessed and found wanting before being

Packed away and relegated to a cardboard box marked for donation. My hopes now lie in resurrection from a thrift bin.

Infield Fly

I understand the infield fly rule, though I doubt my knowledge will ever come into play at a cocktail hour or any other

Social event. Hey, I’d say, Did you know that if there are fewer than two outs, and runners on first and second, or first,

Second, and third, and a fly ball is hit that can easily be fielded by any member of the infield, the batter is out even

If the ball is not caught? What kind of nonsense is that? My partner in conversation will ask. Exactly, I’ll say!

Furthermore, runners advance at their own risk! With age I’ve come to realize that the rule protects the team on offense,

Even though it results in one out. What genius devised the infield fly rule? Surely he deserves a statue or a drink in his honor.

Try as I might I cannot figure a way to make this rule pertinent to my life, as I swing and miss one more time.

Things Remembered

The things she recalled

His eyes, kind smile, gentle touch,

But never his voice

With scant reminder

She remembered his cologne

Subtle sandalwood

She’d give anything

To hear him speak one more time

Though words might wound her

Chicago, Here I Come!

I’m flying to Chicago out of Panama City Beach on Friday afternoon. Once in the Windy City I’ll meet up with my daughter and our middle granddaughter for a weekend of shopping, dining, and Les Misérables-ing.

In preparation for the trip I’ve been listening to the Les Misérables soundtrack, because one never knows when they’ll need someone to fill in for a cast member. I probably don’t look much like Jean Valjean, but I could sing his part in a pinch. And Cosette’s role? I’m ready to don her dress and belt out her lyrics. Just in case.

My tastebuds are already anticipating a Chicago-style pizza, as I recall the ghosts of pizzas past. There’s simply nothing better than a deep dish pepperoni. Mmmmm. Can you smell it? I can. Now all I have to do is convince my daughter and her daughter that we need to head downtown for dinner Friday night!

Of course, Friday will be my daughter’s thirty-somethingth birthday. I’ll let her choose dinner on Friday, but Saturday is pizza for sure. Am I excited? Duh!!! And the best part? Getting to see my family! I’m packed and ready. Let the party begin.

Granddaddy’s Gas Station

I grew up in a Fina gas station owned by my granddaddy. My days smelled of petroleum and cigars,

No wonder I’m a little on edge all of my days. When the world is combustible with the errant flick of an ash,

Everything becomes precious to a precocious five year old. Grandaddy kept candy and red fuses in a glass counter display.

I had the run of the place, but was cautioned about dashing about and around the old pumps, lest someone

Run me over. Pretty heady stuff for a little girl who only wanted to ask, “Premium or Ethyl?” as she washed grimy windshields.

My heart is all tied up in that place. Bound by diligence and the smell of Grandaddy’s Old Spice. The strength of his hugs.