Hand outstretched, waiting
One orange leaf wafting down
Crisp cascade follows
Spread wide your fine nets
Fingers splayed, arms extended
Raking the glory
Try catching autumn
Crunch and crackle, red and gold
Store Fall if you can
Tag: blogging
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.
All-American Costume
Explanation for non-Americans:
Spread peace, people!
Gutsy Potion
Don’t be skittish, dear
Brewing potions takes some guts
Among other things
(“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)
Stir in spider eggs
Black widow for best results
Simmer, chant, enjoy.
Meow?
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.
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.
Tales from the Salon
Remember the film, Steel Magnolias, and how life for a group of women in a small southern town revolved around the goings on in a beauty parlor? If you’ve never seen the movie or the play, I highly recommend it. Or you could just come visit me and I’ll take you to the salon I patronize in Blountstown, Florida. You’d get the gist of the movie pretty quickly. I love this salon and the women who work there.
Blountstown took a big hit from Hurricane Michael, and I wasn’t sure G, the owner, would be open for business yet. I called the salon on Tuesday and one of the stylists assured me they were operating as usual. I drove the 40-something miles down Florida’s backroads noting how much more damage was evident the further south and west I got from Tallahassee. Way more trees were down and many more roofs were damaged. Several buildings were completely gone with only foundations remaining.
The salon was hopping when I arrived and I waited as G finished blow drying a customer’s hair. G is something of an artist and I love to watch her work. Of course most of the talk centered on what folks had experienced during the storms. One of the stylists, B, lost her home in the hurricane, while another, R, had very little damage to hers. G’s came through the storm fine, but there were some near misses at the salon.
All three of the ladies came back to work at the salon as soon as they could after Michael, shampooing hair for free for those who had no electricity at their homes. Now, that’s pure southern comfort.
When it was my turn in the chair we talked about the new version of “A Star is Born.” None of them had seen it, so I gave them my take on the movie. Actually we discussed Bradley Cooper and which of us were meant to be with him. I’m pretty sure I won that argument simply because I’m writing this post, and I get to be the heroine of my own story.
B said she’d prefer country singer Chris Stapleton anyway, because in her words, “He looks like he’d smell like diesel and dirt.” That should be the title of a country song, right?
Talk came back around to the storm and a day when the ladies were doing their free shampoos. R said, “There was a woman in here who said things had gotten so bad at her house during the hurricane that she’d sat in a corner with her Bible and her beads.”
B said, “And when my client heard that she whispered, ‘Does she mean anal beads?'”
I guffawed. B continued, “We don’t get a lot of Catholics ’round here!” Obviously not.
After G worked her magic, I paid, leaving feeling lighter than I had in days. And not just because of my haircut.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 