Doright Manor is set in the midst of a delightful forest in the Florida panhandle. From our screened in porch we enjoy the shade of oak trees, the majesty of pines, and the splendor of magnolias, along with all of the critters that call the forest home.
I’ve always thought it the ideal place to offer sanctuary to fairies if we provided a proper home for the wee folk. Studly Doright wasn’t convinced that we needed a fairy home, though, until he saw the one at Saint Helen’s home in Hereford, Texas, on our visit in May.
Studly’s brother, Shaggy Doright, built Saint Helen’s fairy house.
When we knew we’d be entertaining our Dallas grandkids for two weeks, Studly decided that constructing a fairy home would be the perfect activity.
And so it begins:
We each had our respective tasks:
Mine consisted of documenting the process and staying well out of the way.
We didn’t quite complete the project yesterday afternoon. Studly and I ran out of energy before reaching the finish line. But we made a good bit of headway.
I succesfully rendezvoused with our son Jason in Jackson, Mississippi, and brought our grandkids, Dominique (13), and Jackson (10), home with me to Havana, Florida. No sooner had we gotten unpacked than Dominique headed to the lake with her fishing pole, and Jackson suited up to ride his minibike.
I had a glass of wine and handed over supervisory duties to Studly Doright, aka Poppa.
Dominque caught a fish right off the bat.
Prompting Jackson to come join in the fun:
And then our resident gator made an appearance:
I believe I’ll go have another glass of wine within the safe confines of Doright Manor and pray that no one falls prey to our reptile friend.
Here’s a riddle: If a domestic goddess has spent the morning doing laundry and ends up with a load of towels, washcloths, undies, and socks to be folded and subsequently put away, how many trips will it take her to complete the job?
Answer: (choose one)
A) 4 (one to load the washer, one to transfer load to the dryer, one to carry the items to a place for folding, one to carry the items to their storage place)
B) 25+ (one to load the washer, one to transfer the load, one to carry the items to a place of folding, 21+ roundtrips to put away items by category and/ or purpose.)
If you picked A, you don’t know this domestic goddess very well. B is the proper response. Why, you might ask, would anyone be dumb enough to operate with B as the template?
My Fitbit made me do it. sorry for the blur, but the number shown is the number of steps I’ve taken today just doing laundry.
July in Tallahassee, Florida, is hot as blue blazes and humid, to boot. Exercising outside is best done early in the morning or late in the evening. Since I slept until 8 a.m., I missed out on the prime walking time.
Studly Doright feels slighted if I go walking during the evening (besides, that’s when the creepy crawlies are about), so I had to find a way to get my steps in without leaving Doright Manor. Thus, I’ve become an inefficiency expert.
As the day progresses, I’ll make multiple trips from the laundry room to the master bedroom to hang clothes one at a time. If I leave the house I’ll gather shopping bags separately for individual trips to and from the car. At the grocery store I’ll determine the route that is least efficient, often crisscrossing the store a dozen times.
For me, this exercise routine is second nature. I’ve always done every task possible in the most illogical way, so capitalizing on this tendency is a win-win. Now, with my Fitbit I have a witness. And it has yet to scoff at my methods. I can’t say the same for Studly Doright.
Tina Fey
Saturday evening Studly Doright and I stayed in to watch a movie on On Demand. He’d played golf all day in 100° heat, and couldn’t muster the energy to wade through noisy theater crowds to see the new Tarzan movie, but promised we could go on Sunday.
After perusing the On Demand offerings we quickly settled on Whisky Tango Foxtrot, starring Tina Fey. Based on a true story, WTF follows the exploits of war correspondent Kim Barker, played by Fey, who risks life and limb to get her stories on camera while embedded with Marines in Afghanistan. In the film Barker befriends fellow reporter and rival, Tanya Vanderpoel, played by Margot Robbie.
Studly and I enjoyed the movie which didn’t do terribly well at the box office. WTF was gritty fare, not Fey’s normal comedy genre, although there were amusing scenes. Billy Bob Thornton is good as the officer in charge of the Marines who comes to show grudging respect for Fey’s character.
On Sunday afternoon Studly kept his promise and took me into Tallahassee to see the newest rendition of the Tarzan saga, in 3D no less. I believe I’ve written about Tarzan’s influence on my young life. Having spent many a Sunday morning in front of a black and white TV watching Johnny Weismuller wrestle lions and alligators, I felt like I’d been raised by apes, as well. So I was eager to see how this version stacked up.
I already had a mad crush on the newest Tarzan, Alexander Skarsgård of True Blood fame, but could he pull off the role of Lord Greystoke/King of the Apes? Oh yes. Ohhhh yes. (Excuse me while I fan myself vigorously)
(Okay, I’m back) The rest of the cast was well chosen. Samuel L. Jackson and Cristoph Waltz were both major players. I didn’t know the young woman who played Jane; although, she looked so familiar. Where had I seen her before?
Throughout the film I pondered that question. Whoever she was her character was the perfect match for Tarzan. Strong-willed and witty, she held her own against the bad guys, led by Waltz’s character.
When we returned to Doright Manor I googled the cast for Tarzan and realized why Jane looked so familiar. We’d just watched her in Whisky Tango Foxtrot the night before. The lovely and spunky Margot Robbie was Tarzan’s Jane.
Tarzan, the film, was fun. Tarzan, the man, was hot. And Margot Robbie, it seems, is everywhere. See WTF. See Tarzan.
When I get bored I start thinking about making something. Unfortunately, I’m not very adept at making anything other than a mess.
For example a couple of summers ago I decided that I could paint. These resulted from my delusions:
I call the first one “A Brace of Fairies” while the second one is called “Pinterest Fail.”
I do have them on display at Doright Manor. There’s no charge for viewing them. By that I mean I won’t pay you for your waste of time should you happen to stop by.
One summer I found a jewelry making kit at a yard sale, and for six weeks I made the ugliest jewelry imaginable: Earrings that didn’t dangle evenly, anemic looking bracelets, necklaces that appeared capable of attracting the evil eye.
Another summer, at the urging of our daughter, I decided to create family scrapbooks. After several weeks of sorting through stacks and stacks of pictures I created one page. At least one batch of photos got organized for a brief time as a result.
Yesterday I told Studly I was thinking of creating something artistic. He told the cats to hide and he’s secluded himself in a guest bedroom. I think he might have heard me say I was going to attempt nude drawings next. Good thing he didn’t notice my fresh stash of glitter.
Doright Manor is nestled on a small lake in a wooded area just outside of Tallahassee, Florida. Our nights are filled with the sounds of frogs exerting dominance over their domain and the occasional hoot of an owl.
Occasionally, though, the sounds of lake life are accompanied by the sounds of muffled gunfire from a nearby gun range. Tonight the gun reports are seemingly non-stop, and even though they’re far enough away as to be non-threatening, I cannot help but imagine what the victims of gun violence in Orlando experienced upon hearing that pop pop pop up close.
Was that one meant for me?
Dear God, my friend’s been killed.
Oh Mother, I loved you so!
Every National Rifle Association member should be required to visit with the family of someone murdered by a gun. Wayne LaPierre, president of the NRA, should be required to walk through a site devastated by gun violence. He should have to face the families affected and explain to them why the AK 47 is necessary to their security and health.
But cowardice is the hallmark of the NRA. They hide behind their beloved guns and talk the big talk. Only a good guy with a gun…show me those good guys for I have yet to see a single one.
I have a fondness for wildlife, especially when I’m safely tucked inside my home or car or indeed anywhere that the wildlife cannot possibly physically impact me. Sometimes, though, these man-made barriers don’t hold up their end of the bargain and I find myself face to face, or as the case might be, butt to face with a denizen of the Florida fauna.
In the middle of the night I awoke with the urgent need to tinkle. As usual, both cats had to accompany me. Peeing alone doesn’t happen in a household of felines. Scout Kitty was her usual business minded self: “C’mon mom, get it over with and go back to bed.”
But Patches was hyper attentive, jumping up on the back of the toilet and meowing frantically. I felt a ping of moisture on my exposed derrière, and thought she had drooled on me. Ew. Still, something felt off. I finished my business and upon turning to flush realized that it hadn’t been cat drool on my hind end, but this:
Now, I didn’t shriek, but I did giggle as I imagined this little guy pinging off of my butt and onto the toilet.
I carefully helped the little stranger climb into an empty trash can and carried him outside where he could rejoin the league of frogs serenading the night.
“Run free little guy!” I called after him.
You might wonder what Studly Doright was doing during all of this excitement. Snoring. He was snoring. At least Patches had my butt, I mean my back.
How about a little Sinatra? Appropriate in this situation.
I went out to fetch our mail last Thursday afternoon enjoying the brief walk up our driveway. We had one catalog and a bit of junk mail in the mailbox. No bills were in the mix, and that’s always a good thing.
The melodies of dozens of birds mingled on the breeze, and I spoke to a squirrel. They seldom speak back, yet I never give up hope.
As I headed back to the house I noted a curious clicking noise, perhaps one squirrel scolding another. Instead of going in through our garage I walked around the back of the house, hoping to surprise whatever critter was click clicking.
The instant I turned the corner I realized what was going on. A big, fat black snake slid away from me, and the birds had been warning one another. I should learn to speak Bird.
For the first time in my life I did not jump or squeal at the sight of the snake. Shouldn’t there be a medal for such an impressive show of bravery? Or at least a round of applause. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
Oddly enough I’d had Emily Dickinson’s poem, Snake on my mind this morning, so I snapped a photo of it from the website online-literature.com.
I will never be Ms. Dickinson’s equal in the art of poetry, but I calmly faced a snake. Take that, Emily!
The visitor looked much like this guy. I believe he is a Black Pine snake. Handsome, isn’t he? And quite polite.
Peace, people!
Mine consisted of documenting the process and staying well out of the way.
Praying for Eyebrowz 