If he could fling his arm negligently over her shoulder
(assuming he had an arm and she had a shoulder) in the style of teenage love
everywhere, I bet he’d do it.
The
non-stop gobbling is pretty impressive, too.
Earlier today when I was out gardening he and I almost had our own High Noon moment, staring each other down across the backyard.
I sat very still, thoughts of sharp turkey talons on my
mind, but he eventually took a left and cut past the garage.
I’m grateful to have grown up in a time period when tv was so new, parents didn’t worry about what it might be doing to their kids. Granted, for me it also helped that I was mildly neglected by my mom and so was pretty much left to my own devices.
First, to be clear – I have no, repeat, NO artistic ability.
Even my handwriting is so poor that I used to avoid writing on the blackboard
when I was a teacher.
But I
may have found my medium.
Just as
something for fun, a friend and I signed up for a pottery class. Outside of
those ashtrays (did teachers in the 1950s think that everyone’s family smoked?
Good thing mine did – like chimneys.) that we all made in elementary school, I
haven’t willingly put a pinky in mud for the past umpteen years.
But I’m
hooked.
Kind of daunting.
Then I rolled some of it between giant rollers remarkably like a big pasta machine.
But now what to do with it?
There was lots of guidance on technique, but we could make anything we wanted.
After they've been fired in the kiln.
Then dipping in the glazes.
And after another firing:
Now if I can just find a place for all the results.
The family had better watch out at Christmas.
Zoom call at 5:00 last night, as I kept repeating to myself all day, lest I forget.
I also kept checking email, because our organizer, Christine,
still hadn’t sent the link. By 4:00, what with packing to head back to
Massachusetts and cleaning and doing laundry, I’d forgotten. So at 4:45 I was
out in the garage sorting the car and gathering up the DampRid
(moisture-gathering bags to hang in closets) I’d stored there.
By the I’d wandered inside it was 5:15 and I had a text
reminding me to join the gang. I had of course just turned off my computer, so
I revved that up, checked its camera to see if I could be seen, and clicked “join
Zoom”.
It was another of the every-few-months-or-so gatherings of my
girl friends from Washington-Lee High School in Arlington, Va. No particular
agenda, just a chance to catch up. The players are pretty diverse.
We know
me – Massachusetts resident, visitor to Florida, retired teacher, writer,
grandma of 5.
Chris
– Maryland retired college prof and historian, so Irish her mom had had a faint
brogue, Catholic elementary school and then enthusiastic convert to Judaism
after marriage, Bat Mitzvah and all.
Sheila
– West Virginian resident in a small art-colony sort of town, stained glass
artist who has had one of her works on the White House Christmas tree, three
husbands in the rear view mirror, and now barely eking out a living and on
Medicare.
Andrea – Hawaii, resident of Lahaina, whose home thankfully sat above the August 2023 wildfires, former tv producer, and who looks very tired, likely from caring for a husband who recently turned 101.
The conversation ran through politics –
we’re all unabashedly liberal; travel – some of us can, some of us now can’t; watching
old musicals with granddaughters; health (inevitably); and oddly, no
reminiscences about the past.
There may be time for that yet,
because by the close of the call we’d vowed to each other to meet in person. We made plans to get together next fall, in California to simplify travel for Andrea, with the subtext that
Chris and I would do whatever it took to get Sheila there, too.
Exciting!!
I figured one last indulgence before we leave would be a shopping trip. Florida clothes are different, and with all their bejeweling and glitter not the sort of thing that a Northerner like me would usually wear. Except for the fabrics. At home the tee shirts are heavier, thicker, and when Massachusetts hits the 90s, as it often does, it would be good to have something to cover as much of me as possible without buckling under the heat.
One small benefit of a bum knee and being unable to play pickleball is that I now lounge in the mornings instead of bounding onto the court at 8:30 a.m.
When we bought our home here in Venice years ago, I knew it
wasn’t like Miami or any of the other party-central places on the east coast of
Florida. Thank heaven. But it’s also far less glitzy than the big city of
Sarasota just down the road.
Yes, even some of the Plain people are
snowbirds. I’ve even seen a few on the beach.
In fact, in February they held their 7th
annual Seniors Softball
Showdown between Amish and Mennonite players versus
non-Amish locals.
There were three competing teams, coming from Ohio, Pennsylvania,
and Indiana. And no real need for uniforms, since you can differentiate the
teams by who’s wearing suspenders.
There’s been an Amish and Mennonite community in Pinecraft since the 1920s. While there are a few year-round residents, many of the houses are rented out for short-term visits by the thousands of Amish that come from all over the country.
It’s a destination for older folks,
honeymooners, and some younger Amish come for seasonal work. Generally, though,
the visitors come from more business-oriented locations in the mid-west.
It can get iffy, though, because the more
traditional communities would frown upon the use of electricity in the homes
here, although apparently this is often allowed for temporary stays. And there does
seem to be a range of observances of tradition. One Saturday, when My Guy and I
were breakfasting on a patio next to a parking lot, I saw two women in long print
skirts arrive in an SUV, pop on their bonnets and go in for some pastry.
When we had friends over the other night, I brought out a bottle of a wine I’d enjoyed at someone else’s house and I bought a bottle of my own for that evening.
We
opened it up, poured a small taste, and then collectively reeled back.
It was awful. It smelled ghastly
and our one brave taste confirmed it. Something had gone horribly wrong with
it. So, I poured it out and put the bottle in the recycling.
We were having beef stew last night and I wanted to have
something more than just a bowl plonked down on the table. Not in the mood for
another salad (yes, I know, a healthier choice) and needing to use up the
flour, I made baking powder biscuits.
Kind of.
No shortening. Since anyone knows that
butter makes everything better, I substituted that. Like so many times before,
I mixed the dry ingredients, cut in the butter, and added the milk. Next step,
a quick knead and then roll it out.
No rolling pin. When outfitting your
place in the land of sun and fun, a rolling pin is rarely top of anyone’s list.
But wait.
A quick rifling through the seltzer
cans, tonic bottles, and wine discards and eureka! There it was, only needing a
good washing.
The bottler may have screwed up the
contents somehow but they designed a perfectly
shaped container.
We won’t be heading home till the end of the month, but my urge to be there is growing and it’s not just because of the impending 90 degree temps here.
I’ve been spending the past few days selectively deaf. My AirPods have become almost a permanent fixture in my head, and My Guy is getting used to waiting for me to tap my left ear twice (to pause the recording) until he can speak to me. There are a couple of reasons for this.
I remember being mortified as a child when my mother would strike up conversations with complete strangers. We’d be out somewhere shopping and the next thing I knew she’d be sharing observations or worse – some kind of comment about me.
Living as we do in western Massachusetts, an area packed with mountains and tall trees, spotting a sunset is a rare and magical thing. Here on the Gulf Coast, sunsets are easy to come by but everyone still appreciates them.
Many beaches are noted for their late afternoon gatherings, known as drum
circles, in which people dance and celebrate the end of the day. There could
just possibly be some beverages, too.
Another way to view the sunset is from a boat, and we were
on one recently to say farewell to a couple we’ve become friendly with but who –
darn it - are moving away.
We’ve gone out with this captain before and we enjoyed her
inside information on some of the fancy houses by the water and we also saw the
after effects that still remain from the two hurricanes of this past fall.
No deep thoughts here today.
Just some photo snippets of things around me.
Except when I cut the price tag off, I found this:
It makes you wonder how a cosmetic tote could be potentially responsible for reproductive harm, but at least we've all been warned.
Here's our resident eagle at his post, ever vigilant over our small lagoons.
Someone told me that eagles really aren't the best fishermen in the world so their strategy is often to wait around for an osprey to get lucky and then he swoops in to carry off dinner.
It’s officially been a month since I’ve put anything here.
Wish I could say that life has been so merrily madcap that I just didn’t have
time. Or that I’d been achieving something hugely important: curing athlete’s
foot or saving the economy from the impending recession. Nope. I’ve got
nothing.
Meanwhile,
after my perfectly ordinary trip to Goodwill today, I’m happy to be alive.
As usual, I took a right onto the road that takes me there. Goodwill is on the left, only about three blocks away so I – as usual – immediately popped into the left lane, the traffic in this stretch being challenging to get across at the last minute.
And just
as immediately, a woman in a boxy red (matching her mood) car was in my rear
view mirror. On my bumper. On my bumper. On my bumper.
So of
course I slowed down.
Long
hooooooonnnnnnnk. Followed by a long hoooooooonnnk.
Really,
I thought? My turn off was coming up.
Since there
was also a convenient truck on my right, I did what any small and petty person
would do – I stayed side-by-side with him so the idiot behind me couldn’t shift
lanes to pass.
More
hoooooooonnnnnk. Hoooooooooooooooonk.
The
truck and I were not dawdling, both of us traveling at or slightly above the
speed limit. And I don’t know if he was in cahoots with me, but we drove in
tandem until it was time for me to make my turn.
You
know, all of perhaps two blocks.
When I
made the turn I rolled down my window and gave her a big wave.
And to
my credit, I used all the digits on my hand.
You wouldn’t expect there to be any benefit from having been relentlessly attacked by fraudsters. A month ago, we stood at the gates of our small financial world, fending off incursions against what seemed like every possible angle – phone service, bank accounts, broker.
 |
| (Not his - example from the show) |
While My Guy has been painting in oils over the past several years (and we're running out of space on the walls) it all started with another medium.
In the first excited flush of outfitting this place in Florida it was easy to get swept up by the novelty of it all.
In the Now I’ve Seen It All category, the following is a bit
of Florida news:
‘My
sweet angel’: 7-year-old junior drag racer dies after crash on racetrack
Published: Feb. 9, 2025 at 12:19 AM EST
ORLANDO, Fla. (WESH) - A Florida racing family is in mourning after a 7-year-old junior drag racer died following a crash at the Orlando Speed World Dragway.
Junior
drag racer Elienisse Diaz Rodriguez, 7, was critically injured in a crash at
the Orlando Speed World Dragway on Sunday and died of her injuries Tuesday
night. She was part of a racing family well-known throughout Florida.
Elienisse’s
devastated mother posted to social media, writing, “My sweet angel! Mommy will
always love you forever!”
Copyright 2025 WESH via
CNN Newsource. All rights reserved.
Apparently it was part of a “Funday Sunday” event. She lost control of her vehicle (not surprising in a 7 year-old, but that’s just me) and hit a workman on the track and then a concrete wall.
She was in the first grade at Eastland Christian School in Orlando. Still, since the Florida Highway Patrol saw no need to investigate further, Orlando Speed World was able to continue with the scheduled racing events.
Sunday – my day to change the bed. Which set me to thinking –
We were with friends of ours and they happened to mention that their daughter’s job involved travel. Thinking it was probably visiting branches of a company or clients of some kind, I asked what it was that she did for a living.
For someone who hates to pay full price for anything, our little town in Florida can be a breath of fresh air. Not only is there a TJ Max/Homegoods right up the road, the place is blanketed in consignment shops.
After scanning the huge selection at the also huge YMCA here, I thought I might have found a yoga class. It wasn’t as though there weren’t several to choose from, but at this point in life my yoga abilities aren’t what they used to be, although I’m not at the chair yoga stage.
In a movie or television show when a fatherly type sits knee to knee with a younger character and imparts words to live by. Not my family. They had plenty to say, but I can’t remember anyone sharing their philosophy of life or offering any thoughts to steer me on the right path.
This year we decided to try the auto train, in which our car, loaded to the
gills with My Guy’s paints, computer, and tax documents (yes, he’s been a
finance guy all his life but it would be more restful to pay someone else to do
our taxes) would be shipped along with the other 144 autos doing the same thing.
There is some irony here in that we still had to drive the first portion down to Lorton, Virginia since the northern infrastructure
has bridges too low to accommodate the taller car transport trains. And the
first day is often the most traffic-heavy, bringing us through New York state,
Baltimore, and around Washington D.C.
Still, aside from the possibility of
horrific death on the highway from a tire blowout at top speed, it all went
well and we loved the hotel. It even had a spectacular breakfast for free, with
omelets on demand.
We were glad we’d booked our own
little cabin, especially when we saw these poor souls clutching pillows and
blankets in the terminal. I assume they were going to spend the night sleeping
upright in standard seats.
We finally boarded, and bumped our suitcases up the teensy stair to our cabin. We stood in the doorway, a little aghast at the size of it. At least there was a nice long couch and we presumed the slab against the ceiling would come down to form a bunk.
And yes, we had our
own bathroom, but flashes of the night before’s hotel room with its roomy tub
and huge sink area passed cruelly through my mind. We both immediately resolved
to continue the rest of the trip dirty, rather than shower by sitting on the
commode while waving a hand-held sprayer about.
Being a complete newbie to all of
this, I panicked a bit over the sleeping portion. Where were the pillows, the
blankets? Maybe that family covered in bedding knew more than we did. I eyed
the towels in the eensy bathroom as possibilities for make-shift pillows.
I thanked my December return to yoga
when it was time to climb the ladder into the top bunk. I was the chosen one - there was no way we
were going to get all 6 ft 2 inches and hefty build of My Guy up there.
Up was no problem, and I learned I could
manage down pretty easily if I put one foot on the sink. The scary harness
to keep me from plunging to my death in the night was a little off-putting. But it
was the coffin-like environment up there that got to me, without the ability to
sit up, since the ceiling was literally no more than 10 inches above my face.
Dinner was quite good, although it was
two long cars away and involved grabbing hand-holds to pass from one car to
another as the track roared on beneath us. Especially tricky for My Guy, for whom a
sidewalk can sometimes offer a challenge.
And surprisingly, we slept fairly well, but we were happy to be reunited with our car the next day. Summary? Never again. It was more expensive than driving and still took three days to reach our destination.
