Life takes its toll every once in a while

Been gone the entire month of August dealing with life.  You know that thing we do everyday--morning, noon, and night--that causes so much stress; so much negativity, that your best cure is to slam the door, pull down the shades, and crawl under the covers sleeping the blues away. Well, since that was unrealistic, I just did what I always do.  I dealt with it and tightened my belt.  But, I'm back and as my good friend Natasha says, "I'm ready to play."  September blogging, here I com.

Breakfast at Annie's Part 3

 When Bertie and Sophie walked through the front door, Annie was having a heart-to-heart conversation with her register. 

“Damn machine, Charlie promised me you’d be easy to work. Should have known better; an old woman like myself investing in a new cash register, what a foolish idea!”

“Having problems Annie,” asked Bertie. 

“Yeah, you could say that.  I can’t get this thing to work. There are too many buttons.  I’ve had it.” 

Frustrated, Annie stood back from the register and grabbed the kitchen towel from the counter.  Imagining it was the computer she was strangling, Annie twisted and pulled the towel until her hands were sweaty.  Tossing the towel back on the counter she said, “I’m calling Charlie and have him pick this monstrosity up before I drop kick it across the street.  I want my old machine back.”

“Want us to help,” said Sophie. 

“Would you? That would be great. I’ve been keeping written accounts since last night and don’t see the point of continuing when my old machine is in the back closet.  Let me show you where it is.  You know, I should never have allowed Charlie to poke his nose in my business.  I’m too old for this nonsense.”

“You’re not old Annie, just wise beyond your years,” said Sophie with a twinkle in her eye.  “I hate computers too.  Ask Bertie. If our computer at the bookstore goes nuts, I can’t do a thing with it.”

“She’s right Annie.  Sophie’s hopeless when it comes to computers.  She’s 30 years old and only knows how to turn it on. But that’s not surprising; she can’t work her T.V. remote either.”

“Shut up Bertie.”

With a quick twist of her torso, Sophie turned and flipped Bertie off.

“I saw that,” said Annie smiling.

Annie watched as the two girls worked to rid her of the new register.   Close since high school, Sophie and Bertie were more like sisters than best friends.  Without each other Bertie wouldn’t have made it through her mother’s passing, and now with Sophie in remission for cancer, the two were perfectly matched. 

Annie looked at the girls and said, “You two never plan on growing up, do you?”

“Nope,” said Bertie

“Never,” chimed Sophie.

“Hey Annie,” said Bertie as nonchalant as possible, “that guy who came in here earlier, what’s his story?” 

“Why, what’s it to you,” said Annie. 

Bertie and Sophie surprised by Annie’s response stuttered, “We were just wondering that's all.”

They turned around and focused on setting up Annie’s cash register when she said, “Just kidding girls.  A good looking man like that rolls into town, I’d ask too.  Well, I don’t know much but he’s renting my spare apartment upstairs.  He doesn’t talk about himself, and I do know he owns a dog.  Other than that, I think he mentioned opening some sort of security business.  I’m figuring he has a military background because he acts like my Arthur did--God rest his soul--when he came home from the Korean War and was stationed at Ft. Bragg.”

“Oh, well that’s something to go on. Do you mind if I ask one more question,” said Bertie.

“No, of course not my dear, just spit it out.”

“His name, what is it?”

Annie let the question hang in the air for a few seconds before responding and then said, “His name is Jack Ferguson.”

Breakfast at Annie's Part 2

“What the hell?  It’s too early to be making so much noise,” said Bertie.   You know I need quiet in the morning.”

“Just ignore it.  It’s probably just some obnoxious kid blasting through town.”

 

Bertie turned her head to see what the commotion was when Sophie heard her say, “Woe, who is that?”

Sophie saw a tall, well-built man in sexy, black leather sitting astride a Honda motorcycle.  “I don’t know, never seen him before, said Sophie.

“Well that body speaks for itself.  I wonder what’s hiding under that helmet,” said Bertie. 

“You’re such a dog Bertie.  Stop that before you embarrass yourself,” said Sophie.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you’re not a little bit curious.”

“No, I’m not,” Sophie said gruffly.

“Well girl you’ve just proven what I’ve thought all along.”

“And what is that, pray tell?”

“That you are numb from the neck down,” countered Bertie.

Sophie went back to her coffee choosing not to engage in their friendly repartee while Bertie changed the angle of her chair to get a better look at the stranger’s unveiling.  If anything, Bertie appreciated a good-looking man.

Sensing he was being watched, he stepped off his bike and put the kick stand in place.  Reaching for his chin strap, he unhooked his helmet and grabbed a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket.  Nodding at Sophie and Bertie, he walked into Annie’s Coffee Shop.

“Hello Gorgeous,” said Bertie.

Trying very hard to ignore Bertie, Sophie reverted to their previous conversation.  “So, other than the Mc Murphy book club is there anything else going on this week that we need to discuss?”

“Nothing special, but did you see that chin? Kirk Douglas’s, dimple and all.  And, those broad shoulders.  I wonder what color his eyes are,” said Bertie.

“Can you not let it go?  He’s just somebody passing through town.”

“Well, maybe not, but I’m sure Annie will find out.  You know how she gets people to talk about themselves.  Amazing.  The quietest suddenly spill their guts over a cup of Annie’s coffee and home-made pastry. 

Fifteen minutes later, Gorgeous steps out of Annie’s twirling a key.    Sunglasses resting low on the bridge of his nose, he smiles at Bertie but locks eyes with Sophie as if daring her to speak.  Wearing a mischievous grin, he raises one eyebrow and slowly pushes his sunglasses in place.  Walking towards his motorcycle, he gracefully sits astride, replaces his helmet, starts the engine, and rolls around the corner.

“What was that all about, Sophie? I get a smile, and you get a standoff.  Okay, spit it out.  Do you know that a guy?”

With her hands shaking, Sophie places her coffee cup on the table and begins to breathe again.  “I don’t believe it!  It can’t be. Oh, crap, that’s the guy I told you about last week when I went running. You remember the one with the big ass dog who scared the bejeebers out of me and then when his owner arrived, I couldn’t talk because I was too busy drooling over him like a school girl. ”

Unable to contain herself, Bertie started clapping her hands and laughing so loud that other people started starring.  "You've got to be kidding me.  That was him?  I don't know about  you, but I'm going inside to see what Annie learned and to find out this guy's name.  Come on Sophie, aren't you the tiniest bit interested?"

"Of course; I'd be lying if I said no.  Okay, let's go see what Annie has to say."

A Place to Call Home

Mama Cat wandered to and fro through back yards and broken fences until the time came to give birth.  Having watched the human female for weeks, she knew it was safe to stay and raise her children until the human female considered them a nuisance, and Mama Cat would have to move again.  It was inevitable; all cats knew humans didn’t like them, but for the time being, her and her unborn kits were safe.

Shunned at first by the older Wanderers, Mama Cat soon proved she had the right to remain just as much as they.  The older Wanderers were naturally distrustful.  With hunched backs, they'd hiss and bat sometimes making contact, but she was used to being struck.  Territorial and reluctant, the older Wanderers tried to get Mama Cat to leave, but she refused.  Her only concern was the kittens she carried within.  Standing her ground, they soon realized she was no threat.  The older Wanderers’ defenses melted daily for they understood the feelings of isolation and fear; she was alone and heavy with children.  Childhood memories flitted to the surface in their minds eye soft like a fair weathered breeze.  Never quite able to hold onto them nor reconcile who they were about, the Wanderers pressed closer to Mama Cat while indistinct glimpses of another female from long, long ago whispered soft purrings of love and life lessons in their ears.  The crotchety group of old Wanderers turned into an extended family butting heads, cleaning, purring and warming Mama Cat on cold nights. 

Watching the human female became an obsession with Mama Cat.  She was an odd sort of human and very different.  Every morning she carried fresh food and water out to the shelter.  At night, she’d lay three or four plates of soft food for those who wanted it and checked to make sure the shelter was clean, and sweet smelling. It was no wonder word spread of the human female’s kindness.  Most cats came out of curiosity and rumbling stomachs; they ate and moved on, but others chose to stay, calling it home. 

When the human female came to where the cats rested, she’d talk softly never looking directly in the cat’s eye.  Not the least bit challenging, she appeared to be part cat.  Mama Cat pondered how this was even possible, but came up with no answer.  She’d purr, try to head butt the old Wanderers and bat at sticks in hopes that one of them would take interest and join in. Once on all fours, the human female even stretched out a hand in hopes of touching the oldest of the group.  The long haired gray got up slowly.  He was at least 14 winters and the alpha of the group.  He stretched his hind quarters and approached her extended hand sniffing and licking it.  The decision was made; the human female was accepted into the group.  One by one the other old Wanderers followed suit rubbing against her legs, purring, and some even head butting.   

Mama Cat was not as trusting, but the closer to the birthing she got, the more restless she became.  Mama Cat saw how content the old Wanderers were when the human female played and rubbed them.  She wanted that experience too.  So, one morning at feeding time, Mama Cat decided it was time.  She refused to be a scaredy cat any more.  If all the old Wanderers trusted her, she should too.  As the human female poured fresh water and laid out new food, Mama Cat began winding herself in and between the ankles purring as she went.  Surprised, the human female stopped what she was doing and sat down.  Reaching out one hand, she touched Mama Cat’s head and tickled behind her ears.  Speaking softly to sooth, Mama Cat tilted her head in response and purred.  Somewhere in Mama Cat’s heart, past hurts melted, and she knew she and her kits belonged.

By the next full moon, three beautiful kits--two black, one gray--were born under the Gardenia bush outside the human female's door.  Due to the fact the three were boys and would grow up to be little terrorists, Mama Cat decided to name them Alvin, Simon, and Theodore.

Thank God for Loving Husbands and Mimosas

“No! No! No,” I cried while reaching under the water in hopes of grabbing the silver wedding band that just slipped off my finger. “This can’t be happening. Shit.”

The world ceased to exist. All I could focus on was the fact that I just lost my wedding ring.  Submerging my face, I watched as the ring floated left and then right with the current getting closer and closer to the sea bottom.  I couldn’t move; I didn’t think.

“Russell” I cried.  “My wedding ring, it slipped off.”

He didn’t hear a word I said. Flapping my arms to get his attention, he turned and lifting his mask finned in my direction. “What’s the matter hun?” 

Nothing came out.  My mouth wouldn’t work. Russell noticed my lip quivering and asked more forcefully, “What’s the matter? What happened?”

Still unable to say much of anything I raised my left hand and it dawned on Russell why I was so upset, I’d lost my ring.

“Okay, where did it fall?  Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”  

The next twenty minutes were slow going.  Russell looked like a bouncing ball, diving and popping back up for air only to dive again.  While he was scouring the sandy bottom, I was in the midst of an anxiety attack and sitting on the edge of the boat.  

“Great Melissa,” I said to myself, “now’s not the time to panic; now’s the time to jump in and help your husband.” But I couldn’t.  

Before leaving the cruise ship, Russell said, “You’ll regret not taking the time to enjoy the crystal clear waters of the Caribbean.  Come on; let’s sign up for the snorkeling excursion. You’ll see stuff you’ve never seen before.  The water’s beautiful. I promise you’ll love it.”

So, I did, but Russell didn’t think my teenage experience with the school of jellyfish would have had such a hold on me as an adult.  He quickly changed his mind after seeing me bug eyed, panicked, and with a death grip on his forearm.   It wasn’t soon before he agreed I’d have more fun watching than participating.  

What felt like an eternity was but a few minutes.  Suddenly, Russell’s head bobbed on the surface, and finning towards the edge of the boat pressed my one-of-a-kind Native American wedding ring into the palm of my hand saying, “Until we get back on the cruise ship, wear it on your middle finger.”

 

Raising my head up and down, I tried to speak but all that came out was a squeaky “Thank you.”

Russell traded his snorkel for a tank and dove until he ran out of air while I sat soaking up the Caribbean sun with my eyes shut and a Mimosa at my lips.

1977... Arundel, Sussex, England

Just having started taking photos, I shot this one in my backyard not knowing what to expect. Normally, I shoot about 30-35 photos before I find one that stands out.  Needless to say when I saw this one, I was elated.   It brought back memories of an old village church I use to visit weekly while studying abroad in Sussex, England in 1977.

****

Raised Roman Catholic, I never enjoyed formal church service.  I preferred to sit among the iconic images and breathtaking stained glass windows alone.  It was a two mile walk from campus, down country roads and rolling pasture filled with grazing cows. It was my very own pilgrimage.  Every Wednesday morning about midday, I'd put my boots and hat on; grab a bottle of water and my sunglasses and leave to amble along at whatever pace I chose.  Once I rounded the forked bend in the road and spotted the rambling hedge grove, it was but a few more feet until I was welcomed by age old gravestones and the spirits of those buried there.   My pace quickened, but once I stepped onto the stone walkway, I was free to bask in the spring crocus and daffodils that bordered the path and the tall trees with their new green buds.  Miniature rose bushes grew on trellises lining the side wall.  Come summer, baby pink and yellow blooms would welcome both parishioner and stranger alike.

For now, I was the stranger who came to find peace in a church built out of stone in the 1500's.  The huge antique walnut door with cast iron hinges creaked as I entered the chapel; the pews were stained dark brown, old and worn.  I vacillated towards the middle of the chapel or to the right where the votive candles stood.  Before leaving I would light several and ask God to watch over me, but for now, I sat breathing in the cool air, admiring the chapel's beauty, and wondering who sat in this very pew four hundred years ago.  Everywhere I turned history abounded.  There was a sense of reverence that I felt nowhere else in the world.  Peering at the Stations of the Cross that littered the walls and statues of saints with notes left at their feet, I searched for words, but instead peered above the altar at God.  Mother always said that the eyes were windows to the soul.  I didn't have to say a word; He already knew what lay on my heart.

Sunday Dinners

Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I cried "Oh my god!"

"Wow Mom. You've got some serious bed head going on."

"Look who’s talking, kid. Have you even bothered to comb yours?"

"Yes, I have, but this," pointing to his head, "is not my fault.  It's yours," said Josiah.

"Don’t blame me; it's genetics; blame your Grandparents."

                                                                             ***

My father's parents came over on the boat from Sicily.  Grandpa's first job was making wine. He used to tell me as a little girl how he'd stand in huge wooden casks stomping grapes.  This was an odd image for me to comprehend at age seven. As I got older, I learned that Grandpa used the bathroom tub to mix his own recipe for sweet red wine.  Every other Friday, I'd spend the night with my grandparent's. When it was time to take a bath, I'd imagine soaking in a tub full of wine and think, Yuk, this can't be good.  But come Sunday dinner, gallon jugs of wine were carried upstairs from the basement, and it was wonderful.  Everyone had some; even the grandchildren were allowed a shot glass full.

Grandma was the matriarch of the family.  She had light olive skin, curly hair, a round figure and a mole above her top lip.  She was both controlling and demanding.  Not a very kind-hearted soul, she let you know in no uncertain terms when you were on the naughty list.  Grandpa Auggie was different. He was a small man, about 5'6" tall, fair skin, with white frizzy hair.  Contrary to my Grandma, he had a heart of gold.  I don't remember him ever raising his voice; he'd argue with Grandma wearing a smile, and he'd spoil the grandchildren by always having an extra coin in his pocket.

Grandma Jean didn't work. She and my Great Grandma Nana Rose, who only spoke Italian and dressed in black with a gold crucifix around her neck, spent hours cooking, cleaning, sewing, and praying.  Being good Catholics from the old country, I became used to their quiet mutterings and making the sign of the cross.  But come Saturday, both women were found in the kitchen preparing Sunday dinner. They'd make antipasto, homemade ravioli, meatballs, and various other meat dishes, homemade breads, cannolis and cheesecake for dessert.  Espresso and Anisette, an after dinner liqueur, was served to help with digestion. Once dinner was finished and the table cleared, the men went outside to smoke while the women sat on plastic covered living room furniture and chatted. The grandchildren slipped away, one-by-one, to a quiet corner and napped.

The meal was always loud.  If you were a stranger looking in, you'd think everyone was angry, but that wasn't the case.  Conversations were just boisterous with family members jockeying for position, but there was also love and laughter, lots of it.  Having buried Grandma and Grandpa over 20+ years ago, the closest I get to sharing with Josiah the likes of my childhood Sunday dinners is by watching Everyone Loves Raymond.  We sit and in short exchanges, I say, “I remember Grandma hitting me over the head.  And did you see what Raymond just did?  My cousin tried that very same thing and couldn’t sit for a week.”    Apart from not having that crazy Italian family around, I’ve been able to instill in my son the passion for family and food.

Summer Pleasures

Summer is bright colored flip-flops, shorts and tees, swinging hammocks, and ice cold tea.  Nothing else matters when you find yourself encased in a cotton hammock freely swinging under a canopy of trees.   Come July and August, the south swelters.  Perspiration rolls down your neck as you eagerly reach for an ice cold drink.  Pressing it against your forehead, you sigh with pleasure.  Next, you press it against your mouth, allowing it to linger for but a second before taking a gulp.  The heat makes you feel lazy and reminiscent of times when air condition didn't exist and the only breeze you felt was the one carried on the wind...

                                                                      ******

"Ah. That's good. Want a sip hun," I ask.

"Yeah, thanks. Um, not bad!  Would you like the radio on?"

"Sure, sounds great.  Can we get Sirius on your hand held?"

"No, we'll have to deal with the local station 102.5."

"That's fine.  Anything will do."

Reaching for the radio, Russ tunes in the station and Glenn Frey's voice leaps from the speakers singing Hotel California. I relax against the pillow reaching for Russ' hand and pull him back against me.

"I love that song.  Can you believe we danced to that almost 35 years ago. Unbelievable. Where has the time gone?"

"Don't know," he says. "I ask myself the same question each morning when I look in the mirror and see an old man staring back."

"You're not old.  Just a little broken," I say giggling. "But that's your fault, jumping out of perfectly good airplanes and all that other nonsense.  And look at you, the only gray you've got is in your beard.  Mine covers my entire head."

"I think it's sexy," he says kissing the top of my head.  "Gray hair is a crown of glory."

"You can have the crown; I'm keeping my out-of-the-box red!"

Comfortable in Russ' arms, I close my eyes and hum along with the radio.

Beach Reads Year Round

The closer to summer it gets, more and more I'm asked, "What's the latest beach read? You know, something I can read without thinking too much." I respond with a smile and say, "You've got to think with all books". This gets me a perplexed look with a "Huh?"

Summer brings the literary fiction reader to their knees.  Suddenly shackle free, they have 8 weeks to enjoy what they consider light and fluffy.  It's my job as a bookseller to open a new door, to introduce them to the sub-genres, such as chic lit, romance, sci-fi, fantasy, mystery, and YA.  I also attempt to show them all that they are missing.  The sub-genre reader understands this and appreciates the differing plots and archetypal characters, time shifts and paranormal beings, riotous laughter and cleansing tears, murder and mayhem, and aliens and spacemen.  Sub-genre literature is a reader's delight where an escape from everyday stress is only a page turn away.

I read all genre, fiction and non-fiction, but most of all I enjoy a good laugh.  That's why when grabbing a mystery, I stick with cozies, like Victoria Laurie whose main character Abby is an intuitive who works with FBI boyfriend Dutch, Donna Andrews with her crazy feathered friends titles, Elaine Viets and her dead end jobs, and Janet Evanovich whose main character Stephanie Plum is laugh-out-loud funny.  If grabbing a romance, I look for Sandra Hill and her Viking bad boys, Johanna Lindsey with her Malory men to-die-for, or Jill Shalvis' Lucky Harbor series whose characters have great chemistry, smart dialogue, and real life issues to overcome.These are but a few of what's available.

Summer's around the corner. Take a moment and smell the sub-genre section of your bookstore and find that rose of a read that will remain strong all year long.

Sex in the City Southern Style...a purely fictional piece

It was a Sunday evening and all five of us from work were going out for drinks, dinner, and down-home gossip. Being the most reserve, I was never prepared for the evening’s outcome, but I always knew it would be entertaining.  

“Who do you have to blow, to get some food around here,” said Monique, as she looked me straight in the eye, a tilted grin on her face, and her fingers drumming the table top. 

Without thinking, I leaned over and shushed loudly. “Shush! Be patient, the waitress is coming. Don’t you know another word that’s less vulgar?”  

“Sure I do, but its fun yanking your chain,” said Monique.

I smiled my I don’t give a damn smile and said, “Thanks, I appreciate that.  And you wonder why people react the way they do.”

Giving me the cold shoulder, Monique started talking to Caroline about the guys one table over.

“Don’t mind her Lizzy,” said Bertie.  “She’s just being stupid.”

“If she says something like that again, I’m going to smack her right upside the head.”

“Don’t worry.  Ignore her; I do.”

“I’ll try, Bertie, but she’s so obnoxious.”

As the girls talked, I sat back and watched. Across the table was Brianna, a cute little blonde with long straight hair. You never knew what was going on in that pretty little head of hers or worse, what would come out of her mouth.  She had no finesse and often experienced foot-in-mouth disease.  Having turned 21 a few days ago, Brianna was determined to try as many different mixed drinks as possible.  While at Chi Chi’s, she had Margaritas.  Now at the English Pub around the corner from the store, Brianna was drinking a kiwi flavored candy drink.

I looked at Bertie, and nodded my head towards Brianna. "If that doesn't make her sick, I'm going to be surprised."

"Be happy, you're not working in the morning.  Bri's on with me," said Bertie smiling.  "Well at least she's having a good time."

All I could think of when peering at Caroline was a blonde Scarlet O'Hara.  Not quite 5’2” tall, she was dressed in an antique gold off the shoulder blouse and slim black skirt.  Caroline's southern accent rolled off her tongue like sugar water mesmerizing all who listened.  She was a strong, self-made woman who had a love’em, leave’em attitude when it came to men. Somewhere in her past was a tale waiting to be told.

Monique hovered on the edge of 40.  She worked two jobs; one paid the bills while the other was for fun.  She had cafe-au-lait skin, tight milk chocolate curls, and an enchanting smile.  Monique was known for her crazy stunts and outrageous mouth.  People either loved her or hated her, but she didn’t care. Life was too short to worry about differing opinions.

Bertie was our anchor. Strong and robust, she brought balance to the group.  Without her mothering advice, there was no telling what kind of mischief the girls would get into.  She had a dry sense of humor, a laugh all her own, a huge heart, and a not so subtle nature.

And then there was me, Lizzy Donaldson. Oldest of the group and the only one married, I’m the quiet bystander. Considered by the group to be too nice and understanding, I often shake my head in comical despair wondering how I ever got mixed up in all this.  But then I remember, plain and simple, the girls are like family. So every three or four months and with my husband's blessing, I get dressed up and head out with the girls for an evenings X-rated gossip, high jinx, and laughter.

Metamorphed Shakespeare

I bet that if Hamlet had been a middle aged woman, her monologue would have started off with:

     "To dye or not to dye that is the question,
      whether tis nobler in the hearts of women
      to accept streaks of gray with contentious sighs
      or take to the store and from a rainbow pick.
      To dye, to not--No more--a castigated heartache,
      a thousand stares, perchance to envy those young and supple
      eliminate the threat, dye and sleep soundly."

I've dyed my hair for years, and have tried every conceivable shade and type--permanent and non-permanent.  It used to be simple; there was always the basic Nice-n-Easy browns, reds, and blondes. But these days, when facing the wall of color not only do you lose count of the different shades, you break into a sweat and wonder if your hairs on the menu.  Worse, flamboyant is now the "New You". 

The simple dark, medium, and light categories are now Mahogany, Misty Mocha, Chestnut, Brazenly Brunette, Caramel, Strawberry, Sangria, Raspberry Red, Ginger, Fox Red, Copper Red, Irish Red, Wheat, Buttered Toast, Honey, Chardonnay, Champagne, and even  Butterscotch.  Even the color swatch on the top of the box isn't much help.  About 8 weeks ago, I did my hair with Raspberry Red  hoping for a pink red tint. It was a non-permanent color, but 8 minutes into the dying process, I had a bad feeling.  I jumped into the shower and rinsed my hair.  Peering in the mirror, I shrieked.   "Crap, crap, crap!"  Four shampoos later, I wasn't a carrot top anymore- more like "Whore of Babylon Red."  Oh well,  there was nothing else I could do, so I shut up, dried my hair, smiled and swiped my lips with a new shade of red.  Only 24 more shampoos to go.

Home...

Old homes are so very different than new ones. Floors creak, doors close on their own, pipes squeal, daylight sneaks through once mitered corners, and mysterious presence linger.  Our 1898 home has no ghost, but there is an odd feeling of sorts, a familial tie to those who walked these halls before.  From the stylistic choice in turn-of-the-century wall paper, hidden bead-board closets, hollowed baseboards, blue, green, and brown medicinal bottles to even the old license plate left behind, the previous owners established a permanent residence even after death. I don't mind for their house is our home.  With it comes a sense of welcome and even thanks when repairs are made or the house is repainted returning it to its former glory.

The rooms ramble one to another. The floors are uneven and you may experience vertigo.  There are doors everywhere; some rooms even have three.  As the family grew, so did the size of the house.  There's no rhyme or reason, but it adds character.

When we first toured the home, it was furnished with antiques.  The tie to yesteryear was evident, and it was hard not to feel as if we were invading someone's privacy. The original home had a parlor, master bedroom with bay window, a second smaller room, kitchen and front and back porches.  The house was sturdy; it's heart the kitchen where family gathered to talk, play, eat, and pray. Now, it has over 2,700 sq. ft.  Huge magnolias, some pre-Civil War, still line the front lawn. Flowering Camillas in red, white, and pink, also original plantings--bloom each season brightening the dreariest of days with colorful blossoms.  There are wild roses, Oxalis--a hybrid species of the four leaf clover with its tiny pink buds, and patches of violets playing in the shade.

The local history is colorful with the Raleigh August Railroad coming through town in 1876.  Travel weary passengers riding the train from north to Florida stopped to rest in Southern Pines.  Soon it became known as a resort area with its grand hotels. Annie Oakley was a seasonal visitor, novelist and publisher James Boyd made his home here, and health enthusiasts took advantage of the hot springs.

What a wonderful place to call home, and so we do.  It's been almost 20 years, and yet my favorite time of day is still the same--the evening hours just before dark.  Russell and I sit under cover, him with a cigar, myself a cup of coffee or glass of wine.  The sun sets, and above the tree tops the moon rises hand-in-hand with a canopy of  flickering stars.

"A pleasure is not full grown until it is remembered" C.S. Lewis

Yesterday morning, I drove down May Street in hopes of catching the sunrise.  Bordered by horse farms, May Street is littered with red painted paddocks. Multicolored horses: browns, golds, whites, and blacks roam among the many fenced sections. There are huge sycamore trees everywhere. Pulling off the road, I quietly open the car door.  The air is heavy. Dew sparkles off the grass. A soft fog rolls across the land and embraces the beams of light that dance between the clouds. Rays of yellow paint the morning sky, while pink and orange hues tie-dye the horizon.  I recall my Mother's words, "Red sky at night sailors delight: Red sky at morning, sailors warning," and I wonder, is it going to rain?

The only movement is that of a crow flying by while being chased by starlings. "Dumb crow," I think.  "Serves you right for getting too close to their nest."  Nearby, lay a mother and her foal.  Both rest side-by-side, their legs curled beneath.  Gently, the mother tilts her head and brushes her nose against her child's as if to say, "Mommy loves you, don't forget." Touched by the exchange, I raise my camera in hopes of getting it on film but change my mind.  Moments like these are best left private.

Storm brewing

8:00 and I can’t get my butt out of bed.  The alarm’s been going off every 5 minutes since 7:30. My hand is slap happy, and if I don’t hit the right button this time, the alarm clock’s getting ripped out of the wall.

Stretching, I decide there’s no time like the present.  The weather’s crappy, and my mood is too.  Even the cats think twice before saying good morning.  “Wow, I must be giving off some rabid vibes.”

Outside the wind howls and chairs are tossed banging against the privacy fence.  There’s a loud boom about half a block away.  “Damn. The transformer blew.” The fans come to an abrupt halt; the lit clock face flickers and fades.  “Crap, crap, crap.” I say.  

“Josiah,” I scream hoping he hears me three rooms over. “Transformer blew. Turn off all the fans and computers before we get another surge and have some real problems.”

Josiah answers my scream with a “Yes, mam.” And then out of nowhere, he appears poking his head around the doorjamb.  Smiling he says, “So what’s for breakfast Mah?”

I cock my head, as if to say, “You’ve got to be kidding me? Don’t you think of anything else besides food, boy?” In my mind’s eye, Russell’s comment jumps front and center, “Hun, he’s 15 with an eating disorder. He’s always hungry.”

Knowing what Josiah’s answer will be, I put my hand up in a “stop--never mind” response and say, “Give me a minute. We’ll go to Frankie’s for breakfast.”

“Thanks Mom. I’ll start feeding the inside cats so we can get going. It looks pretty crappy out there.”

Remembering the amount of work I need to do on the computer today, I growl in frustration.  “Great, all my notes are bookmarked for JP’s article and the computers are down. Wouldn’t you know it! Hopefully, Frankie’s Wi-Fi is working.”

But, thirty minutes later with nothing but Word at my fingertips, I’m no longer in a bad mood.  Sitting back, I enjoy a bagel with cream cheese, a double-shot iced latte, and quality time with my son as he begins his school work and I my writing.

Josiah looks up from his math and asks,” You okay?”

“Yep, I’m fine sweetheart, just enjoying the moment.”

Cloudy with a chance of rain…

One day, I’m going to own a little cottage on the beach, so when the weather is perfect or the mood suits me, I can wander to my heart’s content like I did long ago.

As a child, I’d disappear for hours and walk along the beach as if on pilgrimage seeking answers.  The beach was my refuge but mom understood.  I’d get up early most weekends, and with her permission, I’d traipse down the steep hill on Terra Mar Drive, pass homes that were still asleep, and step onto a shell littered beach.  Mom believed in safety, so I was required to carry a backpack filled with necessities: sunglasses, sunscreen, hat, water, and snacks.  In my eyes the most important item not to forget was a pal and shovel to carry home the shells and beach glass I would collect.

Overcast days were my favorite because I didn’t have to wear sunglasses.  They distorted nature’s beauty with false tints of green and amber.  At the bottom of our hill was a cul-de-sac which led to a path bordered with six foot tall box-woods. These were purposely planted to help deflect the fierce winds and flying sand.  With each stride I grew closer. Soon I was at the threshold where grass met beach and the rush of the ocean greeted me. Arms wide, I ran to the water’s edge and dug my feet into the warm, slick sand. It oozed from between my toes and I smiled.  

The visits were reverent.  I’d close my eyes, take a deep breath, and suddenly the beach came alive.  The scent of salt and seaweed flowed through my nostrils—pungent and stinging; a cool spray baptized me in the ways of Poseidon, and waves, tipped in white foam, crested out of arms reach. I was alone except for the seagulls.  They sang like sirens diving onto the water’s surface in hopes of mesmerizing a fish or two.